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Hermione Granger had always been a very bright child. No, she wasn’t go-to-university-at-age-ten material like those kids she saw on the news every so often, but she had skipped a year in primary with no trouble, although she had a September birthday anyway, so it hadn’t been that big an adjustment.

Ah, but maths, that was where she excelled. Oh, she loved books and all kinds of learning, else she could never have skipped a year, but numbers were her first love. She lived and breathed them from the time she first learnt to count, and her obsession had only grown with the passing years.

Multiplying large numbers in her head was trivial. Anyone could learn that if only they would bother to take the time. No, being able to do anything that a four-function calculator could do, and often as fast, only made her a curiosity, not a prodigy. But that was just the start. As the years went by, private tutors began pulling her aside each day during maths lessons to teach her long division, then probability, then algebra, then trigonometry. She knew by the time she turned six that she was on a different plane entirely from her year-mates when it came to numbers, and for all the trouble it caused for her, a part of her enjoyed the stares she got when people saw her happily working problems in GCSE and A-level maths while all the other children were learning their fractions.

Actually, this past year hadn’t been so bad. Since she had skipped Year Four, she had advanced to secondary school a year early, and the kids there were at least a little more dedicated to their schoolwork than in primary school, where she had never really fit in and spent more time reading and doing sums than playing tag or, heaven forbid, dodge-ball. She’d even found a couple of girls at secondary school who shared her love of epic fantasy and science fiction, although she had to go all the way up to the sixth-formers to find anyone who could keep up with her in maths. Still, after some rough years in primary school, things were really looking up.

Then, Hermione’s world was turned upside-down when a woman who was dressed like she had stepped out of a 1930s film showed up at the Grangers’ door. Their hotel room door.

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger?”

“Yes…” Daniel Granger answered warily.

“How do you do? My name is Minerva McGonagall.” She offered her hand to shake. “Is your daughter here with you?”

Dan only lightly shook her hand. “Yes, she is. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all, Mr. Granger. You see, I represent an exclusive school in Scotland for gifted children, and we would like to extend an invitation to a Miss Hermione Granger to attend.”

“Really?” Minerva caught a glimpse of a head of bushy brown hair as the girl in question leapt from her seat and ran to the door, only to be blocked by her parents.

“Now hold on there, Hermione,” her father said, then to their visitor, “So you tracked us down on our holiday out of the country just to invite her?”

Minerva had been wondering about that herself. She was still a bit queasy from the international portkey she’d had to take to get to Italy, when she could surely have waited a week and caught them in Britain. Still, procedure was procedure. This was the hardest part, though: convincing them to let her come in and that she wasn’t a—what had that Dame Finch-Fletchley called her? “A wandering lunatic,” she believed it was.

“My apologies for interrupting your holiday,” she continued, “but it is our standard practice to contact all of our scholarship recipients in the final week of July, regardless of where they are staying at the time. Here is my card.” She handed over a muggle business card that said “Hogwarts School. Minerva McGonagall: Deputy Headmistress’ and showed a muggle post address while in public. “If it is inconvenient, I can come back another time.”

“No, no,” Dan said quickly. The card at least looked somewhat verifiable. If it was true, they might as well listen to her, and if there was any funny business, it was best to get it out of the way quickly. “Please do come in.” He turned around and subtly motioned for Emma and Hermione to stay back from the strange woman and offered her a seat. He sat in between them and McGonagall—and by the room phone—just in case the strange woman tried anything.

“Ms. McGonagall, my name is Daniel Granger, this is my wife, Emma, and you seem to know our daughter, Hermione,” he said. “I’m sure you can appreciate how unusual this seems to us, but I suppose we might as well hear you out.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Granger.”

Emma examined the business card. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a…Hogwarts School, Ms. McGonagall,” she said. “Do you have any actual documentation with you?”

“I do, Mrs. Granger,” Minerva answered. “You would not have heard of it before because the full name of the school is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Dan’s and Emma’s mouths hung open, but Hermione spoke up for the first time: “Witchcraft and wizardry? Do you mean like magic—real magic?”

“Yes, Miss Granger, magic. I am a witch, and our spells have told us that you are as well.”

Hermione’s eye grew wide at the revelation, but her father’s narrowed. “Ms. McGonagall, I think you’ve said enough.”

“Please, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I know this sounds difficult to believe, but if you’ll permit me to give you a demonstration…”

The strange woman pulled a small stick from the sleeve of her dress.

“A magic wand?” Dan said sceptically. His sense that this was a prank or a scam rose even higher. He knew enough about supposed psychics and paranormal practitioners to know the usual tricks.

“Quite so. Perhaps a simple Levitation Charm?”

No doubt to be performed with an invisible thread, Dan thought. But there was one thing that didn’t add up. Just where was this McGonagall woman planning to go with this. She couldn’t fake an entire school. If it was a school for stage magicians or something like that, why try to recruit Hermione, who had never shown any interest in the art? And if it was a prank, who and why? And if it wasn’t either of those…well, Daniel Granger was nothing if not curious. Hermione hadn’t got it all from her mother, after all. In the unlikely event that McGonagall could do anything besides make a playing card spin in midair or turn her wand into a bouquet of flowers, it really would be worth hearing. “Alright, then, let’s see it,” he said.

McGonagall waved her stick and muttered something in what sounded like Dog Latin, and then the coffee table in middle of them rose into the air.

“Holy…!” Dan fell right out of his chair. That was a lot more than a playing card. Emma paled at the sight, and Hermione gasped in surprise. He ran his hands all around the table, over and under, looking for wires or invisible supports. “But how…?”

“As I said, Mr. Granger, magic.” The table spun around twice in the air and then settled back down to the floor.

“Wow…” Hermione said.

“Magic…” Emma stammered. “Magic…So…Hogwarts School of…Witchcraft and Wizardry, you said?” Emma stammered.

“That’s right,” McGonagall answered. “I am Deputy Headmistress of the school as well as Professor of Transfiguration.”

“Transfiguration?” Hermione asked.

“Spells to change one thing into another. For example…” She touched her wand to the coffee table and muttered another incantation. The table turned into a large tortoise.

Dan very nearly fell off his chair again. That was definitely no trick. He pinched himself. Not dreaming, either. Hermione actually applauded the sight.

Once McGonagall restored the coffee table, Emma said, “So you’re saying Hermione can do those things, too?”

“She will be able to—with appropriate training, of course. That was a very advanced spell.”

“But how could you possibly know that she’s a…a witch?” The word sounded insulting, but it was hardly the strangest part about this whole thing.

“We have very ancient spells in operation at Hogwarts that automatically detect all magical births within the shores of Britain, Mrs. Granger, but surely you have noticed yourselves…unusual things happening around your daughter—what we call ‘accidental magic.’”

Dan and Emma looked at each other, and they both instantly knew the answer. It certainly explained a few things, including one particularly nasty temper tantrum in which a whole room full of books had come flying off their shelves. They just nodded, but Dan started up again: “Well, if that’s the case, why wait until this school of yours starts—I assume it starts at eleven or twelve? Why not contact us earlier?”

That was another issue that always seemed to come up. McGonagall tried to explain it gently and hoped the conversation wouldn’t devolve into a political argument: “Hogwarts accepts all magical children who have reached the age of eleven and makes its first contact with them the summer before their first year because children rarely have much ability to control their magic before age eleven. Because of this, for children with no magical relatives, then, there is very little reason for them to have contact with the magical world. I admit there are drawbacks to our system, but as you can probably guess, the magical world values its secrecy, so we choose not to make contact until later.”

This seemed to placate the parents for the moment. But as she watched her parents digest this information, Hermione was just getting started. She held out her hand towards McGonagall and said, “Please, ma’am, may I try a spell?”

McGonagall chuckled at the girl. That particular question was surprisingly rare, even from muggle-borns. “No, I’m afraid not, Miss Granger,” she said. “A wand must be specifically suited to your own innate magic, or you will find it very difficult to use, especially at your age. You will need to purchase your own wand before the term begins. However, I can give you your official Hogwarts acceptance letter.” She pulled an envelope out of her handbag and levitated it over to the girl.

Hermione was almost entranced by the old-fashioned envelope. It was made of parchment, she noted, and addressed with flowing script in emerald-green ink. She took it in hand gingerly and read the front aloud:

Miss H. Granger

The Smaller Bedroom

Suite 405

Hotel San Zulian

Venice, Italy

Dan shot to his feet. “How did you know what room our daughter was sleeping in?”

Minerva sighed. This was happening more and more every year. Perhaps it was time to change the addressing spells. “I did not know, Mr. Granger,” she said. “The letters are addressed automatically.”

“So you can just automatically find anyone wherever they are?”

“For the most part, yes. There are ways of concealing one’s movements when they are called for, but that’s hardly the concern of a student. In any case, tracking charms like that are strictly regulated.”

Grumbling, but mollified for the moment, Dan sat back down. Hermione broke the ornate wax seal and slid the letter out of the envelope. She read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. There will be an orientation for incoming students of non-magical parents held at 9:00 AM on 27 July at Platform 10, King ’s Cross Station, London, at which time you will be able to submit your enrolment forms.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

“Your orientation is in a train station?” Emma asked.

“That is the beginning of the orientation, Mrs. Granger. The itinerary will include a tour of important magical sites in London, as well as time to purchase school supplies.” McGonagall dug into her handbag again, raising eyebrows when her hand dove in deeper than the size of the bag, and pulled out a large brochure. “I have some basic literature on Hogwarts here for you: classes offered, extracurricular activities, profiles of the professors, and so forth.”

“That’s very helpful, thank you.”

“Do witches actually wear pointed hats?” Hermione exclaimed as she read the lists of school supplies.

“I admit they are falling out of favour, but they are still part of the uniform, yes.”

“Um, we may have a problem,” Dan said as he reread Hermione’s acceptance letter for himself. “We were planning on flying home on the 27th. Is it possible to do the orientation later?”

McGonagall blinked and adjusted her spectacles. It had been a while since something like this had happened. She considered her schedule and said, “If you like, I can meet with you personally on the following weekend. Or, if you prefer, I can arrange to have your flight changed to a day earlier at no cost to yourselves.”

“You can ar…arrange…? What do you mean? It’s pretty hard to change flights at the last minute.”

With a barely-discernible hmph, the witch answered, “Well, I suppose it might be considered bending the rules a bit by muggle—that is non-magical standards, but I assure you that we can do it quite easily—and above board.”

Emma wore a resigned look: “Well, then…I suppose we won’t have any trouble going back a day early. And I doubt we’ll be able to keep Hermione from trying to get a hold of these magical textbooks for another week.”

Mr. Granger smirked at that remark, and a gleam flittered through Hermione’s eyes. McGonagall couldn’t help but think, Ravenclaw for sure, this one.

But her thoughts were interrupted when the girl spoke up again: “Excuse me, ma’am, but none of these look like books for non-magical classes at all.”

“Hmm, she’s right,” Emma said, thumbing through the brochure again. “There’s no English classes, no—what did you call it? Muggle history? And not any kind of sciences or maths that I’ve heard of, unless it’s this Muggle Studies thing.”

“You’ve just got to have maths classes,” Hermione insisted.

“Yes, just for starters,” Emma agreed, although Hermione was sure to need maths instruction far beyond what any secondary school could provide. “How is Hermione supposed to get a well-rounded education with classes so heavily biased toward magic?” She wondered to herself how she had got to the point of stringing those words together.

McGonagall held up a hand to stem the tide of questions. This was a common question, though not one to which she had an ideal answer: “Now, then, it’s not quite as bad as it may look just from the course listings. Most of our classes have an essay component that is graded on language as well as content, so English is certainly not neglected. For maths, we offer an elective Arithmancy class beginning in third year that covers much of the same maths as muggle secondary school. I will admit that our curriculum is light on muggle sciences and history. We must cater to the needs of our students, and nearly all of our students, including muggle-borns—those from non-magical families—choose to live in our world. Our curriculum is designed to help our students succeed there.” She held up her hand again for the obvious next question. “You can of course, hire tutors to cover the remaining subjects, and magical education is only compulsory up through the fifth year. Very rarely, we do have students leave after their fifth year to take an early apprenticeship or prepare for a muggle university. If you like, I can put you in contact with some former students who have done so.”

Both Granger parents leaned back, digesting this information, though Hermione was still looking over the brochure and frowning.

“Well, I suppose all that does make a kind of sense,” Emma said. “At least she would keep her options open. What do you think, Dan?”

Dan stared at the ceiling. “I think I’m having the strangest dream of my life, and I’d like to wake up, now, please,” he mumbled. “But on the off chance this is real, I can’t see why it would hurt to go home early and go to the orientation. Hermione, what’s wrong?” he added when he saw his daughter’s face.

“You don’t have any maths the first two years?” she said. “Do you think I could I test into the Arithmancy class, Professor?”

“Wha…? Test into…?” McGonagall sputtered. “Well, that would be highly irregular. And I’m afraid that few students could do well in that class at your age, even clearly gifted ones like yourself.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen our Hermione around numbers, yet, Professor McGonagall,” Emma defended her daughter.

“I could show you what I’ve been working on,” the girl said, and before McGonagall could protest, she had disappeared in a flurry of brown hair and soon returned with a large book that she opened to a spot a little ways in and presented to her. “This is what Mr. Andrews has been teaching me this summer. I haven’t got that far yet, though. I’ve only got up through differentiation of rational functions.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then slowly grew to the size of saucers as she began to thumb through the book. It was a muggle textbook, yes, but this was the kind of maths used in N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy, and in much more detail. McGonagall had forgotten most of it, and she wondered if even Professor Vector knew all of it. “My goodness, you can really do this kind of work?”

“Of course.” Hermione started to explain how to do one of the problems, but McGonagall cut her off.

“That’s quite alright, Miss Granger, I believe you. Irregular it may be, but with maths skills like these, you could teach the non-magical part of the class. I’ll ask Professor Vector if she is willing to interview you for a possible Arithmancy placement before you come to Hogwarts.”

Hermione giggled at the name Vector. “Thank you, Professor.”

With that crisis settled, McGonagall answered a few more of the family’s questions about the school and gave them a brief overview of the magical world. She was sure they would need time to fully understand everything that had happened, just like all the muggle-born families, but she confirmed that they would be at the orientation and promised to contact them through the hotel with their new travel arrangements.

After she left the hotel room, she waited until she was out of earshot before allowing herself a heavy sigh and wondering why it was always the most studious children who caused her the most trouble on these visits.

Minerva McGonagall returned to Hogwarts after a long two days of visiting muggle-born families. As always, she was glad to be out of that muggle dress and back in proper witch’s robes. But it was too late that night to bother reporting in that night, so she didn’t head up to the Headmaster’s office until after breakfast the next morning.

As usual, she didn’t have to knock on Albus’s door before he called out a hearty “Ah, do come in, Minerva.” She entered the office and sat down among the many twittering contraptions (she had long suspected that most of them were completely useless, but Albus simply ignored any such comments about them).

“Sherbet lemon?” the Headmaster asked before popping one in his mouth himself.

“No, thank you.”

“So, the visits with the muggle-born students took longer than usual I see.”

“Yes, Albus. One of them turned out to be on holiday in Italy. I had to register an international portkey and rearrange a muggle aeroplane schedule to deal with her. Muggles travel so much these days, I’m beginning to think we should change our orientation procedures.”

“Hmm, perhaps a consideration for next year. No other troubles, then?”

“No more than usual, although I’ll need to talk to Septima about that one as well.”

Albus’s bushy eyebrows rose at that. “Septima? For a first-year student? Why would her involvement be needed?”

Minerva allowed herself a small smile. “Because if Miss Granger is as good as I think she is, Septima will want her for an apprentice before she’s through with her.”

Albus stroked his beard. “How intriguing,” he mused. “Good arithmancers are hard to find.”

“Indeed. So no problems here, then, Albus?”

“Only a spot of difficulty in contacting Harry Potter.” At that moment, one of the devices on the walls chimed six times. Albus rose to inspect it. “Oh dear, it appears that all six letters I sent to Mr. Potter this morning just triggered as lost.”

“Six!”

“Yes, this is the third day in a row. I’ll have to arrange another post to him for tomorrow.”

“Albus, if six letters couldn’t get through to the boy today, I can’t see how sending more will help. If I had to guess, I’d wager those awful relatives of his are keeping them from him.”

“Now, now, Minerva, I left specific instructions with them…”

“Specific instructions my foot, Albus,” Minerva cut him off. “I told you how awful those muggles were ten years ago. Perhaps I should visit the boy in person.”

“No, Minerva, you’re doing quite enough this week with the muggle-borns…I think that if Mr. Potter does not read his letter before his birthday, I’ll send Hagrid to deliver it,” Albus said with that characteristic twinkle in his eye. (Minerva had long ago decided that must be some kind of spell, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was.) “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see the boy again.”

Minerva thought about those prim and proper muggles’ likely reaction to the half-giant barging in on them and smiled in spite of herself. “Well, I suppose Hagrid is up to the task,” she said.

The last month of summer was a whirlwind for Hermione. First, there was the orientation at King’s Cross, where she met Sally-Anne Perks, Sophie Roper, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, Kevin Entwhistle, and the last-minute addition, Dean Thomas. Then, there was the wonder of Diagon Alley, buying her robes, her supplies, her wand (at her insistence, Mr. Ollivander had let her try a few simple spells in his shop), and of course, her textbooks.

All of the books were fascinating, of course. She was surprised to find that several of the textbooks covered multiple years, making them even more useful. She bought the Arithmancy textbooks all the way up through seventh year, and even in the first one, she was amazed at how something as smooth and organic as magic could be broken down mathematically. She devoured the history books, too, trying to learn as much as she could about her new world. Her respect for Albus Dumbledore shot up several notches when she learnt that he single-handedly defeated Hitler’s dark wizard ally in World War II, but she was a little unnerved when Modern Magical History described a terrorist who sounded like a comic book supervillain who was defeated by a boy named Harry Potter only a decade ago. There had been a civil war in Magical Britain back then—against the muggle-borns. She was certainly glad that she didn’t have to deal with that now.

In the meantime, Professor Vector had been nice enough to arrange a visit to her house to meet her a week after the orientation. At the appointed time, Emma Granger opened the front door to find a middle-aged woman with long black hair who was dressed in a flowing burgundy robe and a matching pointed hat, much like the strange dress of many of the people they had seen in Diagon Alley. Emma looked the woman up and down once before saying, “You must be Professor Vector.”

Vector turned up her nose slightly and she answered haughtily, “And you must be Mrs. Granger. How do you do? I’m here for the interview with your daughter.”

Emma felt vaguely annoyed by the woman’s demeanour, but quickly invited her in and started some tea.

“Mr. Granger?” Vector shook Dan’s hand.

“How do you do?”

“And you must be Hermione.”

“Pleased to meet you, Professor Vector. Thank you for coming,” the girl said politely.

Vector shook her hand stiffly. The child didn’t look like much—all teeth and curls, not that appearances mattered. She was quite polite, though, and plainly excited, but to be honest, Vector wasn’t expecting much. She was only doing this as a favour to Minerva. Despite what her colleague said, she found it hard to believe that an eleven-year-old could qualify that highly in Arithmancy.

They retired to the living room, where the family sat down, and Vector cautiously took a chair, eyeing the electric lights and the switched-off television curiously. Unlike far too many of her fellow Slytherins, she had no quarrel with muggles, and she recognised how often muggle-borns outperformed their peers academically (there was something to be said for muggle primary school), but she didn’t think she would ever get over the culture shock each time she entered their world.

“Thank you for the tea,” she told Emma. “Now, Miss Granger, I, of course, am Septima Vector, Professor of Arithmancy at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall informed me that you are interested in testing into my third year Arithmancy class as a first year.”

Hermione looked nervous as Vector gave her a stern look, but she tried to answer calmly. “Yes, ma’am. It sounds terribly interesting—and useful because it deals with spellcrafting, according to Numerology and Grammatica. And I really wouldn’t want to go two years without a maths course. I want to keep it fresh in my memory.”

Well, she was certainly dedicated, Vector thought, especially to have started Numerology and Grammatica already. “You should know that I have never before considered early placement for my classes,” she said. “Arithmancy is a very rigorous subject—in my opinion, the most rigorous taught at Hogwarts, and I expect a full effort from all of my students, regardless of their age.” Hermione started frowning. “However, Professor McGonagall informed me that your mathematical prowess is the finest she has ever seen from a first year, and she insisted that I take a look. So if you could show me what kind of maths you have been taught, it would give me an idea of your possible placement.”

“Of course, ma’am. I’ve got my calculus book right here.” Hermione jumped up and grabbed the thick textbook from one of the stacks on the side table. She didn’t see Professor Vector twitch in surprise at the word “calculus.” She opened the book to the right section and said, “My lesson this week is differentiation of compound functions. In principle, it’s a very simple application of the Chain Rule. You just treat the inner function as a variable when taking the derivative of the outer function, then multiply it by the derivative of the inner function. Of course, with more complex functions, it can be very complicated—”

“Miss Granger,” Vector cut off the enthusiastic child, “may I see that book?”

“Of course, ma’am.” She handed it over, and Vector looked over the open pages. The description of the Chain Rule was correct, of course, and as she flipped to the previous pages, she was amazed to see the elements of calculus explained in such detail. The N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy book was smaller than this one, and the maths parts only took up half of it. And the child certainly acted like she understood it, which would be astounding if true. Vector needed to see this for herself.

“Miss Granger, if I gave you an equation based on this material, would you be able to solve it for me?”

“Yes ma’am,” she nodded emphatically.

“Very well, do you have any parchment?”

Emma rolled her eyes. The fact that the magical world seemed to be stuck in the nineteenth century had not escaped her. “No, but we have a pen and paper right here.”

“Of course.” Vector took the unfamiliar muggle writing implements. Holding a pen should have been the same as holding a quill, but it still felt a little awkward. She began writing a formula for the Granger girl to differentiate. Just to be sure, she made it a fiendishly complicated formula, one that seventh-years would struggle with, which required her to apply the Chain Rule twice, and on a rational function at that. A good student would try and probably get a mostly-correct answer. A fake would be forced to give up at once. “Mm-hmm. Very good,” she said, handing the paper over. “Perhaps this one, then?”

Hermione paled when she saw the complex formula, but she set her face with a determined expression and got to work, leaning over the coffee table as she began figuring. Even watching it upside-down, Vector could see that the girl was serious, much to her surprise. She was definitely doing real algebra and what looked like real calculus. It took ten minutes of figuring, including checking her work twice and handing it back with a nervous look, but she finished it.

Vector looked over the paper. In neatly-written letters, Hermione had shown her work in great detail. The professor worked through each step herself, growing more and more excited as she found no mistakes. As she reached the end, she felt faint as her haughty, sceptical facade crumbled, and she was forced to conclude that the answer was correct. “Miss Granger,” she said, “do you realise that the majority of my seventh-year students could not solve this equation correctly as quickly as you have just done?”

Hermione smiled nervously, unsure what to say, but her father jumped in and said, “That’s our Hermione. She’s been doing secondary-level maths for years, now.”

“I should certainly say so,” Vector said, any hint of superiority in her voice gone. “That is without a doubt the most extraordinary display of mathematical prowess I have ever seen from a first-year student.” Hermione’s smile grew broader. “Of course, arithmancy is more than just calculus. For example, have you learnt multiplication of matrices, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, ma’am. That was in my Algebra II class.”

Vector didn’t particularly know was “Algebra II” meant, but she took another sheet of paper and wrote down two grids of nine numbers side by side. “I see. So perhaps you could multiply these matrices together, then?”

“Yes ma’am.” Hermione took the paper and started figuring.

Vector hadn’t thought she could be more impressed with this child after the calculus display, but she was wrong. She knew full well that the problem she had given her required forty-five arithmetic operations, and as she watched, Hermione worked it out, entirely in her head, in forty-five seconds. It actually took Vector longer to check the answer than it had taken her to compute it.

“I don’t know how you did that so fast, Miss Granger, but you are again correct…Well, then, I assume you have also learnt geometry and trigonometry?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent.” Vector drew up a complex geometric figure for which some of the distances and angles had to be solved. It required the use of both trigonometry and the geometry of circles, but Hermione made short work of it, giving the exact answers in terms of square roots.

“Well, Miss Granger, I think your mathematical skills are above reproach.” Vector was conversational now, although she was not about to compromise on quality. “However, if you place in my class, you will need to be adequately versed in the theory of magic as well. So, can you tell me why the wand motion is important when casting a charm?”

It was an easy question from Magical Theory, which Hermione had, of course, already read, and she repeated the book’s explanation almost word-for-word: “The movement of the wand aligns the ambient magical energies with those embodied by the charm’s intended effects. This alignment of energies makes the charm much easier to cast, especially for beginning magic users.”

“Mm-hmm, very good…Something a little more difficult, then. What are the principle magical properties of the number seven?” That was straight out of chapter one of Numerology and Grammatica.

“Well, seven is the most magically powerful number. More spells include an arithmantic factor of seven than any other number, and in magical fields that include instances of sevenfold symmetry, the resonant energies often cause the magical effects to be more powerful and more stable. Numerologically, arranging objects in groups of seven can—”

“That’s enough, Miss Granger, thank you. It’s clear that you have read the course books very thoroughly. The important thing is that you can apply what you have learnt. For example, what is the geometric structure that describes the magical fields of the Lumos Charm?” That was one of the homework questions for chapter three.

“A sphere, ma’am.”

“And why is that?”

“The Lumos Charm produces light by confining the uncontrolled magical energies that produce sparks around the tip of the wand. The most efficient shape of the confining field is a sphere.”

Now that was the kind of magical intuition Vector was looking for. And she surprised herself that she really was hoping to find it. Here was one of the most extraordinary minds she had ever seen, and she really wanted to see what the girl could do. She asked a few more questions along these lines and then decided to see just how far the she had got in her studies. “Alright, one last question,” she said. “What is the arithmantic difference between a jinx and a hex?”

Hermione paled, and she looked down at her feet. “I…I don’t know, ma’am. I thought that jinxes were spells that were just irritating, and hexes were spells that were actually harmful…”

“That’s quite alright, Miss Granger, this is actually a fifth-year topic. The answer is that while the definitions you will learn in Defence Class are roughly correct, jinxes are described using algebraic equations, while hexes, which are more powerful spells, are described using transcendental equations.”

Hermione’s analytical mind started spinning at the implications of this, but she filed them away for future reference as the professor smiled and continued speaking.

“I must say, Miss Granger, in my twenty years of teaching, I have never seen a child with a greater aptitude for arithmancy at your age. I will inform Professor McGonagall to add third-year Arithmancy to your schedule when you arrive at Hogwarts.”

“Yes!” Hermione leapt to her feet and nearly tripped when she narrowly prevented herself from hugging the professor. Instead, she managed to restrain herself to shaking the witch’s hand vigorously. “Thank you! Thank you, so much, Professor Vector. I won’t let you down.”

“No, Miss Granger, I’m sure you won’t.” Vector looked back to the girl’s parents. Her father was beaming with pride, and her mother looked more than a little smug. She probably deserved that, she admitted. She gave the family a brief outline of the full five-year curriculum and answered a few more questions about Hogwarts and the wizarding world in general. She noted that Emma was quick to ask about career prospects, but of course she could say they were quite diverse for a skilled arithmancer.

As a bit of a courtesy (and a suddenly renewed curiosity), Vector asked a few questions about the muggle world, and in particular, what they used their advanced maths for. While she only understood about half of their answers, that half was impressive. The applications to muggle sciences were amazing, like that mission of sending people to the Moon that Professor Sinistra always raved about. Equally impressive was Hermione’s knowledge of these endeavours, even if they weren’t up to her level in pure maths.

When she finally took her leave, Vector shook her head and thought, That girl’s going to have my job by the time she graduates.

Chapter Text

With her last reservations about Hogwarts dispelled, Hermione eagerly awaited the 1st of September. Her parents weren’t as enthusiastic about sending her off to boarding school as she was about going (not to mention they were still trying to wrap their heads around the whole magic thing), but she could tell they were genuinely happy for her. They assured her that her calculus book would be enough to get her through Christmas when she asked for differential equations, though, and they made her promise to try to make some friends. Before she knew it, she was saying goodbye to them and boarding the Hogwarts Express.

“Have fun at school,” her mother told after her. “Be sure to write us.” Her father lifted her heavy trunk onto the train.

“Yes, Mum,” she said as she climbed on board. “I love you.”

She waved to her parents and then walked down the train a ways, looking into the various compartments. She felt a little like the older students kept looking down on her, but she wasn’t too worried yet; secondary school hadn’t been too different the first day.

She found an empty compartment and went ahead and changed into her Hogwarts robes to get that out of the way. Then, she sat down and pulled out her copy of Hogwarts, A History, one of the books she hadn’t got around to finishing yet. She’d read through all the course books, naturally, and even memorised the spell lists. She’d met a girl with a photographic memory at secondary school last year who once encouraged her to memorise whole books, but while Hermione’s own memory was very good, it wasn’t that good. With as much background reading as she was doing, it wasn’t worth the time to read through everything three times to learn it by heart.

A pair of first year girls who looked to be close friends entered her compartment and introduced themselves as Susan and Hannah as the train got underway. They were both pureblood witches, but they were nice enough. She asked them about the houses at Hogwarts. Both Susan’s and Hannah’s families usually went to Hufflepuff, but Hermione couldn’t decide whether Gryffindor of Ravenclaw sounded the best to her. They chatted for a little while about the differences between their two worlds, but Hermione felt as if she were speaking a foreign language when she tried to explain electricity to them.

She was about to give up and return to her book when a pudgy first-year boy showed up at their door with tears in his eyes. “Sorry…have any of you seen a toad?” he whimpered. “I can’t find him.”

Susan and Hannah just shook their heads, but Hermione stood up and said, “No, there haven’t been any toads in here. Where did you last see him?”

“Back at the end of the train,” the boy said.

“Well, let’s look back there, then. I’ll help you. He’s not that fast, is he?”

“I don’t know…I never see Trevor move very fast, but he keeps disappearing.” He seemed to suppress another whimper.

They looked in the first couple of compartments and didn’t see anything. This would be easier with some kind of detection or summoning spell, but there weren’t any of those that would be useful in the first year books.

“I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,” she said remembering her promise to make some friends. “What’s your name?”

“Neville,” he said, and then, as if as an afterthought, “Neville Longbottom.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

The next compartment they checked contained two first-year boys, a taller one with flaming red hair, and a small, skinny one with messy black hair. He should really try to comb it, Hermione thought. “Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said, but she didn’t even hear the redheaded boy’s reply when she noticed that he held his wand in his hand. Maybe she could finally see some serious magic firsthand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. The boy looked taken aback.

“Er—all right.”

He cleared his throat.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow. ”

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. The rat stayed grey and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said Hermione. “Well, it’s not very good is it. I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice, and it’s all worked for me. And Numerology and Grammatica says that most spells aren’t even in English because the syllable structure has to match up with the wand movements, and English has fewer syllables than most Western languages.”

“The syllable what, now?” the redhead said, but Hermione was still talking.

“Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter. But I was ever so pleased when Professor Vector said I could take Arithmancy to continue my maths studies. I’ve read all the other course books too, of course—I just hope it will be enough—I’m Hermione Granger by the way, who are you?” She stopped short as she realised that she had been talking over the two boys at a mile a minute, and they were now staring at each other in surprise.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” the redhead muttered.

“Harry Potter, the other boy said.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Of course, she had added up the numbers and figured out that Harry Potter would be starting at Hogwarts this year, but the scrawny boy in ill-fitting clothes in front of her was not at all what she had expected. All the books painted him as some great and powerful hero.

“Are you really?” she said. “I know all about you, of course—I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.” Although come to think of it, now, how could they know anything about him if he really had been raised by muggles like they said, and no one had seen him for the last ten years?

“Am I?” said Harry, looking dazed.

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,” she said. Harry just shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you really taking Arithmancy?” Neville finally broke his silence. “That’s a third year class.”

“Oh yes, Professor Vector came and tested me and she said I could start it right away as an extra class.”

“Blimey,” Ron interrupted. “Why would you want to take an extra class?”

Well, that settled her opinion of Ron Weasley. “Because it’s ever so interesting. I’ve been taking extra maths classes all through primary school, and Arithmancy uses a lot of maths. And in the fifth year class, we even get to invent our own spells. Anyway, we’d better try to find Neville’s toad before we arrive. I expect we’ll be there soon.”

The two of them went on to the next compartment. “Do you know what house you’ll be in, Neville?” she asked.

“Probably Hufflepuff,” he said sadly. “But my Gran wants me to be in Gryffindor like my Dad.”

A couple of compartments later, they finally found his toad, and the boy shook her hand and thanked her profusely. That problem solved, Hermione began wonder how much longer it would be. It was getting dark outside. Well, nothing for it, she thought. She worked her way to the very front of the train, past the first car that held the prefects who were not on patrol (she made sure to memorise as many of their faces as she could in case she needed help later), until she reached the conductor.

“Excuse me, sir,” she called to him. “Could you tell me when we’ll arrive?”

“Aye, we’re almost there, lass,” the conductor said. “About twenty more minutes, we’ll be at Hogsmeade Station.”

“Thank you.” She hurried back to her compartment to get her luggage, but as she approached, she heard a commotion. There was shouting coming from a few cabins down. As she approached the cabin, the one she recognised as containing Harry Potter, a prefect came from the other direction, and suddenly the door burst open. A smarmy-looking blond boy and two larger, tough boys came storming out towards her down the hall. The pushed past her roughly with the prefect following close behind, shouting at them. How childish! she thought.

She ducked into the cabin to escape the chaos only to find it again on the inside. The two boys’ piles of sweets were scattered all over the floor, and Ron Weasley was picking up his pet rat by the tail.

“What has been going on?” she said. “And why are you hurting your poor rat?”

“He won’t feel it. Those gits knocked him out,” Ron said, examining the rat closely. “No, wait—I don’t believe it! He’s gone to sleep again!” He set the rat back on the seat. “So you’ve met Malfoy before?” he said to Harry.

“Malfoy?” Hermione said. “Is he one of those boys that—”

“Yeah, the little blond ponce,” Harry said with surprising annoyance. “I ran into him when I was getting my robes in Diagon Alley. He was all about how he wanted to be in Slytherin, and he kept making fun of Hufflepuff House and Hagrid and muggle-born wizards.”

Hermione made a mental note to stay far away from Malfoy.

“Everyone’s heard about his family,” Ron said darkly. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been under Imperius—that’s the mind control curse—but a lot of people don’t believe them. My Dad says the Malfoys have been dark all the way back to the Conquest.”

“Who was You-Know-Who, anyway?” Hermione asked. “None of the books I read would even print his name.”

“Hagrid told me,” Harry said, glancing at Ron, who seemed to brace himself. “It’s Voldemort, but no one likes to say it.”

“But why? It’s just a bad French pun.”

“It’s…huh…” Ron said, surprised. “I never noticed that…But still, you just don’t say it. You’re muggle-born—no offence, but you haven’t heard the stories.”

“I’ve read the books,” Hermione defended herself.

The five-minute warning sounded through the train, informing them all to be ready to go and to leave their luggage to be handled separately.

“Sorry, would you mind leaving while we change?” Ron said.

“Alright. Oh, and did you know you’ve got dirt on your nose?” She was trying to be helpful, but Ron scoffed at her as she left.

Since she didn’t need to get her luggage, she decided to line up by the doors. She was glad she did, as a crowd was rapidly forming. The train slowed to a stop and everyone pushed out onto a small dark platform.

A single lantern bobbed along the platform. It looked as if someone was holding it over their head, but when it approached the middle of the crowd, it amazingly rose up even higher, and Hermione found herself looking up into the face of the largest man she had ever seen.

He was somewhere between eleven and twelve feet tall, she estimated. He must not be fully human. Not giant, though. She’d read about them, and they were even bigger—maybe half and half, though, if it were possible. He wore a huge, black, bushy beard and seemingly-uncombed hair, and he boomed out in a rough-sounding voice, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there Harry?” This must be the Hagrid that Harry was talking about. “C’mon follow me—any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

Hagrid led them down a steep, narrow path that appeared to be cut through a forest. Hermione thought they ought to put in hand rails or stairs or something to navigate it in this darkness. She couldn’t see any of the grounds from here, but then the path opened onto the edge of a loch, the water blacker than pitch under the starry sky. Beyond the loch was a high mountain atop which sat Hogwarts Castle, its windows glittering against the backdrop of stars.

Even Hermione couldn’t help oooooh-ing at the beauty of the castle with the other students. She had read all about it on the train, and it was not too different from how she had pictured it, with its many turrets and towers, but it was huge: seven stories tall, and the highest towers had to be over two hundred feet, taller than any muggle castle she’d ever heard of. Some of the architectural features she was certain could only be supported with magic.

She barely noticed as she found herself in a little boat with Neville, Ron, and Harry, being entirely focused on the castle as it loomed higher and higher and drew closer and closer. The lake was as smooth as glass. The many boats barely made the slightest ripple. That must be part of the magic, too, she realised, and her mind blossomed with the possibilities for using magic to enhance the beauty of nature on such a grand scale.

“Trevor? Trevor! Where’s he gone, now?” Neville cried, looking around the boat for his toad.

“Heads down!” Hagrid ordered. They all ducked as they reached the entrance to a cave and passed through a curtain of ivy. They were in a long dark tunnel, but Hermione thought she saw glints of light off the wall. She let her eyes adjust and saw angular shapes. Crystals! They were in a crystal cave that would have to be incomparably stunning if it were lit properly, but the wizards seemed to be all but ignoring it. They sailed far enough in that they must be underneath the castle when they reached a small underground harbour.

The harbour was lit by a few torches, but they still only gave a haunting hint of the splendour of the walls of quartz surrounding them—though she supposed that, lit as if by starlight in the flickering flames, it had a kind of subdued beauty all its own. She saw a large staircase rising from one side of the harbour and another dark tunnel extending directly forward.

The first years clambered out of the boats onto rocks and pebbles and little bits of quartz. Hermione discreetly picked up a few of them and put them in her pocket to look at later. She had an odd feeling about them. Hagrid, she noted, found Neville’s toad again, not in their own boat, but in a different one. Hagrid was about to lead them up the stairway, when Hermione stepped forward and pointed down the dark tunnel: “Please, Mr. Hagrid, where does that go?”

“That? Oh, that goes to the Foundation Stones of the Castle, of course,” the huge man said, as if that explained everything. She added it to her mental list of things to look up in the library when she had the time.

Hermione estimated the stairway to be about two hundred feet high based on what she had seen of the cliff outside, winding up through another dark passage that slowly morphed from quartz to granite as they climbed upwards. Hagrid took the steps three at a time like they were nothing, but the group of eleven-year-olds behind him quickly began to tire. Luckily, there was a landing about halfway up where the stairs doubled back that was large enough for them to rest for a few minutes. Hermione was very glad now that she didn’t have to carry her own trunk. It was hard enough with these heavy woollen robes.

The stairs came out in a small, grassy courtyard just at the edge of the cliff. If Hermione’s sense of direction hadn’t failed her, the dark tunnel to the Foundation Stones must have ended up under the largest tower. The students staggered out into the open and up to the great oaken front doors. Even Hagrid looked small against those doors, but he still made plenty of noise when he raised a fist the size of a bowling ball and pounded on them three times.

The doors swung open in a rush, revealing…Professor McGonagall. Hermione sighed with relief when she saw the familiar witch standing in the entranceway wearing an elegant emerald green robe. The first years followed her inside, their footsteps echoing in the enormous entrance hall. The sheer scale of the place was incredible. The marble staircase that rose up to her right was probably the broadest she had ever seen after the Spanish Steps in Rome. She could hear a drone of hundreds of voices somewhere up ahead, but Professor McGonagall first led them into a small annex near the doors in order to explain the Sorting, the Houses, and the House Cup. This was probably a review for most people whose parents had gone to Hogwarts or who had read the brochures, but it was good to remember.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” Harry asked Ron.

“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

A test? Hermione thought. That seemed unlikely since they all knew little-to-no magic. And it didn’t seem like the houses were ranked like a test would do. And they certainly wouldn’t hurt the students to sort them…would they? All the other first years looked very nervous, and Herimone was finding it was contagious. She guessed it was some kind of tradition not to tell the first-years how the Sorting was done—a tradition she was approving of less with each passing moment. She whispered the spell lists she had memorised to herself to calm her nerves, but this only made the others around her more nervous.

Then she screamed.

She felt embarrassed at once, as she had read about the Hogwarts Ghosts that afternoon, but it was still jarring to see pale, transparent spirits floating out of the wall and gliding on toward the feast. Dead people! That was going to be hard to get used to. At least she wasn’t the only one who screamed. Harry had leapt about a foot in the air.

And yet, what a wealth of knowledge! Some of them had lived centuries ago. Between the ghosts and the magical portraits she had read about, there was probably more history to be told than was contained in the library.

McGonagall soon returned and led them out of the annex and across to the double doors of the Great Hall. Hermione had been waiting to see this most of all, and she wasn’t disappointed. It was easily the most magical place she had yet seen, and her anxiety at the impending Sorting was momentarily forgotten as she took in its splendour. The long wooden tables were impossibly luxurious, with golden (or at least gold-plated) plates and goblets. The professors were lined up at another long table at the head of the Hall, and at the centre, the most powerful wizard in the world, Albus Dumbledore himself, sat on a golden throne. Above the tables, floating candles filled the hall from just over the students’ heads to the ceiling—a little over nine thousand, at a quick estimate—filling the Hall with a warm, homey sort of light. They flickered as the ghosts floated through them, seemingly oblivious.

The ceiling itself was velvety black and dotted with stars just visible through the candles. It was so well camouflaged that it looked as if the Hall were simply open to the heavens. Astronomy class would be wonderful here so far from any cities or towns, or, indeed, anyone who used electricity.

The girl behind her elbowed her, and she looked forward again to see Professor McGonagall placing a wooden stool and and old, patched-up, dirty witch’s hat at the front of the Hall. There was complete silence, and she wondered how a hat could be part of the Sorting when a seam on the hat ripped open and it began to sing.

The “Hogwarts Sorting Hat’s’ musical skills left much to be desired. Hermione actually winced at the loyal-toil rhyme. But when the song ended, the Hall burst into applause. She politely clapped along.

Then McGonagall called the roll. Hannah and Susan went first, back to back. Sure enough, they both went to “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Hermione admired the brilliant simplicity of the Sorting process, even if she was a little unnerved by the idea that a hat could read her mind. Seriously, “There’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see,” sounded kind of creepy.

Seamus Finnigan went to “GRYFFINDOR!” after the hat sat on his head for nearly a minute, and Hermione’s apprehension grew again. What if the hat couldn’t sort her? What if the hat threw her into Slytherin where all the unsavoury characters seemed to be going? She barely noticed as Anthony Goldstein went to “RAVENCLAW!” and Gregory Goyle was almost instantly sent to “SLYTHERIN!”

“Granger, Hermione,” McGonagall called.

She ran to the podium, mainly because she was so tense that her only other option was to turn on her heels and run away. She jammed the hat on her head, and it immediately shouted out “RAV—” then stopped. “No, perhaps not…” the hat murmured in a voice only she could her.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hat,” she whispered, or perhaps she only thought it. “What’s wrong with Ravenclaw?”

A little to her surprise, the hat answered: “Oh, you would be great in Ravenclaw, no doubt about it. I haven’t had the pleasure of sorting a mind like yours in over fifty years. But I do not send students to the house where they would excel with ease, but to the house that they need to realise their full potential. And there is more than raw brainpower in your head. There is a spark of something greater—a spark that must be cultivated, and for that job, you’d better be…GRYFFINDOR!”

Hermione smiled with relief to be sorted into one of her two preferred houses, even as she began to ponder what the Sorting Hat had said. The students applauded, especially the Gryffindor Table, but as she placed the hat back on the stool, she was sure she saw a faint look of surprise on Professor McGonagall’s face. Unbeknownst to her, at the High Table, Professors Vector and Flitwick also wore looks of surprise, while Dumbledore appeared thoughtful.

Hermione all but skipped to the table and sat down next to the tallest of the redheaded boys, whom she recognised as the prefect who was chasing Malfoy on the train. A set of redheaded twins were sitting opposite him, and a ghost with a nasty cut across his throat was a little further down.

“Congratulations on making Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” the prefect said quietly, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Percy Weasley, fifth year prefect.”

“Pleased to meet you, Percy,” Hermione said in between sortings. “I met your brother, Ron, on the train.”

“Oh yes, ickle Ronniekins,” one of the twins said.

“Do hope he makes Gryffindor,” the other twin said.

“Can’t imagine what would happen—”

“—if he were in Slytherin.”

“The green would clash horribly with his hair.”

“Not to mention Mum would kill him.”

“Fred. George. Cool it,” Percy scolded. They paused as the Hall applauded for another student.

“But congrats on Gryffindor,” the one she thought was Fred said.

“Yes, haven’t seen the hat change its mind like that before,” George added.

“Classes haven’t even started, and she’s already shaking things up, brother.”

“Indeed, a woman after our own hearts.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Granger,” the twins said in unison with a small bow of their heads.

“Pleasure,” Hermione replied uncomfortably. Seriously, were these two reading each other’s minds?

At the front of the Hall, McGonagall said, “Potter, Harry.”

Silence descended, only to be broken by a rising wave of whispers as the skinny, messy-haired boy slowly walked up to the stool and put on the hat. The hat’s seam was undulating strangely, and, watching closely, she could see Harry’s lips moving. He must be having a conversation with the hat, too. She wondered what he was saying.

After about half a minute, the hat screamed out, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hall erupted with shouts and cheers far louder than anyone else had got. The whole Gryffindor table shot to its feet, and Hermione was caught up with them, applauding for the extremely relieved looking boy who was now making his way toward them. Fred and George started loudly chanting, “We got Potter! We got Potter!,” and Percy reached out and shook his hand vigorously before Harry finally sat down next to her.

The last few students were sorted. Hermione clapped loudly when Ron was sorted into Gryffindor and sat on Harry’s other side after being congratulated by his brothers. And finally, Blaise Zabini went to “SLYTHERIN!”

It was then that Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, smiling broadly, his arms spread wide like Moses, his long hair and beard shining silver as if they had been charmed to glow in the candlelight. “Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

Hermione sat still, her eyes wide. This was the greatest wizard alive? The Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, and defeater of Grindelwald?

“Is he—a bit mad?” Harry asked Percy uncertainly.

“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?”

Hermione looked down at the table to find a marvellous feast had appeared in the blink of an eye: seven kinds of meat, piles of vegetables, ketchup, gravy, and…peppermint humbugs? Not her first choice, but still, the rest of it looked delicious, and it most certainly was…until she took a sip out of her goblet.

“Ugh,” she said, screwing up her face. “What is this stuff?”

“Pumpkin juice,” Percy said lightly.

“Pumpkin juice?”

“You’ll get used to it.”

She was about to respond when she witnessed something even more disgusting: the ghost across the table “nearly” removed his head from his body. Hermione raised her napkin to her nose and mouth and took a deep breath to prevent herself from losing her dinner when she’d barely started it. Hermione had seen pictures of dissections in her parent’s medical textbooks, but she definitely didn’t need to see it in person.

Desperate to change the subject back to something, well, living, she turned to Harry. The boy barely seemed disgusted at all by the blood-stained ghosts. In fact, he was scarfing his food. It made her wonder a little, since he was so small—not unhealthy, as far as she could tell—but definitely small.

“So what did the Sorting Hat say to you?” she whispered to him.

“Huh?” he looked at her nervously.

“I saw your lips moving. I was wondering what you talked about…I’m sorry, it’s alright if you don’t want to say.”

Harry swallowed and took a swig of pumpkin juice, grimacing only a little at the strange drink. “Um…did it…did it talk to you?” he said.

“Uh huh. It said I’d do well in Ravenclaw, but it wasn’t what I ‘needed.’”

Harry looked surprised at that, and he cautiously whispered so that no one else could hear, “It…it said I’d do well in Slytherin, but I asked it not to put me there.”

“You can do that? Well…I think if you didn’t want to go there, it probably wasn’t right for you, anyway.” Harry seemed to accept this and went back to his steak.

As soon as everyone was done eating the dinner, desert appeared on the table in amazing variety. Finally away from her parents’ watchful eyes, Hermione helped herself to ice cream, apple pie, and a chocolate eclair.

“So, Miss Granger,” Percy said, perhaps a little patronisingly. “Are you excited for classes to start?”

“Oh, yes! I do hope they start right away. Professor Vector’s letting me start Arithmancy this year, but I’m interested in Transfiguration, too.”

“Arithmancy?” Percy said in surprise. “I’ve never heard of someone taking an elective early. You must be really good to have convinced Professor Vector. She’s quite strict.”

“Oh, you take Arithmancy?”

“Of course. It’s a very useful class if you’re willing to put in the effort. You’ll be starting small, though—predictions and probability tables, that sort of thing—What is it?” Percy asked Harry, who seemed to have come down with a sudden headache.

“N-nothing,” Harry said, although Hermione thought it was strange that he immediately asked about Professor Snape, the potions master, afterwards. She filed it away for future reference.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. “Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start of term notices to give you.

“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.”

Hermione decided that she should definitely be careful around those two.

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.”

Good to know, she thought.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

What? Hermione thought. What kind of warning was that? Wasn’t that just inviting people to go up there? And why would they have something that could cause a “very painful death” in a school in the first place?

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. He gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

“Everyone pick their favourite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”

After that “performance,” it was easy to see where the Sorting Hat got its musical tastes. Hermione had done some music, and there were musical clubs at Hogwarts she had been interested in, but she now had to wonder about the quality of those clubs.

They were dismissed, and Percy led the first years up to the Gryffindor dormitories, along the “quickest route.” Unfortunately, the quickest route involved going up staircases that “liked to change” or had a vanishing step, walking through sliding panels and behind tapestries, and evading the castle poltergeist. Giving a password to the portrait of the Fat Lady was one thing, but the rest of it was just asking to get lost for days. Hermione resolved to try to get a map of the castle from someone, and if she couldn’t find one, she would step off the corridors and start making one herself next weekend.

Hermione was sure that she would get plenty of exercise at Hogwarts just climbing up to her dormitory. It was seven flights up from the Great Hall to the Common Room and another seven to her bedroom.

“Just our luck first years get the top floor this year,” said a girl with curly, dirty-blond hair in front of her.

“I know, I can’t believe they expect us to climb up and down these things every day,” said one of the Patil twins—Parvati, she was pretty sure. “I’ve heard Slytherin and Hufflepuff have all their rooms on the same floor…I’ll bet Padma’s got the same problem as us, though.”

“Augh, finally!” the blond-haired girl said. Hermione nearly ran into her as she reached the door. “Oh, hi, I’m Lavender Brown,” the girl said, turning around.

“Hermione Granger.”

“Parvati Patil,” the other girl said in as they opened the door.

Their bedroom was nearly semi-circular, with five four-poster beds lining the outside wall, alternating with windows. A small lavatory was visible through a door at the far end. A trunk had been placed at the foot of each bed, along with a calico cat sleeping on one of the beds. Hermione saw her own trunk at the spot nearest the door.

“It looks like the beds are assigned,” she said.

“We can switch them if you want,” Lavender offered.

“No, thanks. I think I’m good—”

They stopped as they heard a huffing and puffing sound, and a moment later, two more dishevelled-looking girls came staggering into the room supporting each other.

“Sally-Anne, are you okay?” Hermione rushed to help the ethereal, dark-haired girl she had met at the orientation.

“I’d like to file a complaint with whoever designed this place,” Sally-Anne said weakly, spotting her trunk and making her way to her bed.

The other girl, who wore light blond hair in multiple, asymmetric braids leaned against the door and explained, “That boy, Neville, tried to come up our stairs by mistake, and they turned into a slide, and we fell on top of him.”

“Oh, no,” the other three girls groaned.

“My name’s Lily Moon, by the way,” she added. The other girls all introduced themselves.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sally-Anne told them wearily. “I’m gonna go to sleep, now.” She flopped down onto her bed and was out like a light.

They watched her queerly for a moment, then turned their attention back to Lily.

“Is that you cat?” Lavender asked, pointing at the calico.

“Yes, that’s Wendelin.”

“Aw, she’s so adorable.”

“Yeah, just watch out when she wakes up. She’ll steal your socks.” The other girls giggled.

Hermione considered doing some more reading, but she found that she was so tired after the train ride and that big feast that it wasn’t worth the trouble. She settled on organising her books for the week’s classes on her bedside table before going to sleep, wishing the professors would hand out the schedules more than an hour before classes started.

Chapter Text

Breakfast the next morning was served Scottish style with black pudding, lorne sausage, and tattie scones alongside the bacon, eggs, and toast. The floating candles from the feast the night before were gone, and the Hall was brightly lit by the sunlight streaming through the windows and the blue sky on the enchanted ceiling above. Overhead, a whole parliament of owls came winging its way into the Hall, delivering letters and the occasional parcel to students and professors alike. Hermione hadn’t quite believed (or wanted to believe) that owls were the main component of the post system in the magical world, but she couldn’t deny it now.

Hermione sat near Percy again. The other Weasleys were scattered around a few seats away. Percy fielded a few questions from the other first years until Professor McGonagall approached him.

“Mr. Weasley, the first years’ class schedules,” she told him.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, rising to pass them out.

McGonagall then touched Hermione on the shoulder and told her, “Miss Granger, your first class will be Transfiguration with me in Classroom 1B on the first floor. Please come early. I will need to discuss your schedule with you personally.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, wondering if there had been a problem with the scheduling. She hoped there wouldn’t be anything to disrupt her plans.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by one of the second years across from her whispering, “There look, next to the other Weasley.”

“Wearing the glasses?” the boy’s friend said. They were obviously talking about Harry Potter.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I can’t see a scar from here. Did you see it?”

“Yeah, like a lightning bolt, just like everyone says.”

“That’s not very polite, you know,” Hermione interrupted them. They stared at her in surprise. “Talking about him behind his back like that.”

“It’s Harry Potter,” the first boy said, as if that made it alright.

“So? He’s just here to learn, like the rest of us.”

The second boy rolled his eyes. “You must be muggle-born.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing!” the first boy said quickly. “It’s just that you wouldn’t know how important Harry Potter is to the rest of us.”

“Well, he doesn’t know it either. I met him on the train yesterday, and he said he was muggle-raised—”

But there was a clatter as the two boys dropped their silverware and leaned toward her over the table, wide-eyed. “You met him?” the second boy said. “What’s he like?”

She groaned to herself. “You know, you could just talk to him like a normal person.” She finished her breakfast quickly after that, trying to avoid being asked any more such questions, and trudged up to her dormitory for her Transfiguration book. She considered taking the whole stack, but she decided she’d never be able to haul them back up the stairs that afternoon. Most of those books were pretty big.

She made it to Classroom 1B at a quarter to nine, easily the first student in the room, despite the difficulty of finding her way. There was only one fully enclosed connection between the residential and academic wings of the Castle, and it was down on the ground floor. Professor McGonagall was waiting for her when she arrived.

“Miss Granger. Good,” McGonagall said. “I have your class schedule here. There was only one small difficulty. The third-year Arithmancy class conflicts with the first year Gryffindor-Ravenclaw History of Magic class. Now, I was able to remedy this by placing you in the Hufflepuff-Slytherin section, if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh—of, course, Professor,” Hermione said quickly once she realised she’d been asked a question.

“Good. I’ve placed your name on Professor Binns’s roster for that section. However, as Professor Binns’s memory for anything that’s happened since 1954 is questionable on the best of days, it is possible that he may fail to recognise you or call on you. Please see me if you have any problems with him.”

Well, that was reassuring. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Here is your schedule Miss Granger. I’ll also write you a pass for Professor Quirrell’s class so you have time to get your other books after this.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Hermione took her seat and looked over the slip of parchment. She had Defence, Herbology, and History today—she would need her gloves as well as her books—and Charms and Arithmancy tomorrow. She balked when she saw Thursday: Astronomy ended at two in the morning, and she had to be up in time for Charms at ten-thirty. Then Potions only met on Friday for some reason, though the word on Professor Snape didn’t exactly have her looking forward to that one.

The other students began to file in, her fellow Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs. Hannah and Susan waved to her as they took their seats. Ron and Harry were the last to arrive, running in and just barely beating the first bell.

Then Professor McGonagall stood and addressed the class: “Excellent. Five points to Gryffindor and five points to Hufflepuff for everyone getting to their first class on time.” She must have a very good memory to rely on a head count and skip calling the roll after having only seen most of them at the Sorting, Hermione thought.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.

“It is extremely important that you understand the fundamental rules governing transfiguration because it is easier here than in most branches of magic for something to go wrong. I want you all to write this clearly at the top of your notes and memorise it.” She wrote in large letters on the blackboard: Some transfiguration is permanent, and some is not.

“Some transfiguration is permanent, and some is not,” she repeated aloud.

Hermione nodded to herself as she wrote the words at the top of her notes. This had been explained in graphic detail in the first chapter of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, but it was serious enough to require a strong reminder.

“For example,” McGonagall said, “this is not a permanent transfiguration.” She waved her wand over her desk, and the desk changed into a pig. The class cheered and some of them laughed, but McGonagall held up her hand. They instantly fell silent again. “This is not a permanent transfiguration,” she repeated. “Left alone, it would change back into a desk within a few hours. Nor is it, in strictest terms, a pig, but only a magical construct that looks and behaves like a pig—and that only as well as my own knowledge of pigs allows. For any transfiguration, permanent or not, the result is only as good as the image in your mind.”

She changed the pig-construct back to a desk and picked up the chalk again, writing a number one under the first line. “Now, under this line, you will write the most important safety rules of transfiguration. First, transfigured food is not edible. Say that with me, please…Transfigured food is not edible. You are not attempt to transfigure any food in this class or outside of it. We will not be covering that topic.

“In most cases, it will be obvious that transfigured food is not edible from the taste and smell, which is why this is not an even more dire rule than it is already. But transfigured food may look right; it may smell right; and if it is done extremely well, it may even taste right, but it is not edible. It won’t kill you unless it was transfigured from something poisonous, but it will make you quite ill, and we don’t want to have any of that.

“Second,” she continued, writing the next line on the blackboard, “transfigured clothing will change back at the worst possible time.” This prompted some giggles from the class, but McGonagall remained stern. “It may sound funny now, but the risk is much greater than mere embarrassment. You don’t want to have to worry about your robes untransfiguring themselves when the worst possible time is in a dark alley, or in the middle of a snowstorm.” That sobered the class up. “You are not to attempt to mend or modify any clothing using transfiguration in this class unless you are specifically instructed to do so,” she concluded.

“Third, transfiguring money is illegal and will rarely fool anyone. I shouldn’t even have to tell you that one. Most people can’t make transfigured gold or silver last long enough to fool anyone anyway, but there always seems to be one person in Professor Dumbledore’s Alchemy class who doesn’t get the message. It is illegal, and the goblins in particular do not take kindly to it.” Some members of the class shuddered, having seen the goblins in action at Gringotts.

“Fourth, and most importantly, human transfiguration should never be attempted below N.E.W.T. level. Again, human transfiguration should never be attempted below N.E.W.T. level. Transfiguring any living subject is more difficult than normal, and human transfiguration is particularly dangerous when it goes wrong, although it is usually reversible. You will not attempt to transfigure any living subject unless specifically instructed, and you will not attempt human transfiguration on yourself or anyone else, even if instructed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor.” To their credit, every student answered. Minerva McGonagall’s presence was that commanding, especially when she was talking about things that were usually reversible.

“We will revise these rules several times over the course of the year, and we will study in depth the consequences should they be broken. I expect all of you to keep them most scrupulously. I have not had any students permanently injured by transfiguration during my tenure at Hogwarts, and I do not intend to break that streak.

“Today, then, we will begin with the free transfiguration of a matchstick into a needle. This is not the easiest transfiguration, even with its small scale, because any kind of metal is difficult, but I believe in laying the groundwork early for the more conceptually challenging forms of transfiguration later on…”

Professor McGonagall spent most of the period explaining in great detail exactly how transfiguration worked on a fundamental magical level, the silent incantation for free transfiguration and how it related to the actual transformation, and the mental concepts of changing form and substance that were required to be held in mind to make it work. Most of the class seemed disappointed and impatient to get to the actual wandwork, but Hermione found it fascinating. It seemed to mesh together bits of Arithmancy, a dash of muggle chemistry, a surprisingly large dose of Platonic philosophy, and practical magical instruction. Granted, most of it was in Magical Theory, but she thought Professor McGonagall did a better job of explaining it.

With about half an hour left in the class, she finally handed out the matches. Free transfiguration was indeed very difficult, not like the simple charms Hermione had tried. She worked very hard, applying the silent incantation while focusing on the mental forms, just as McGonagall had said. By the end of class, she was dismayed to see she was only halfway there; she had succeeded in transfiguring her match into a metal toothpick, but not a needle. But she swelled with pride when McGonagall actually smiled at her and showed her results to the class. It was only then that she noticed that the other nineteen students all still had nothing but matches.

Hermione rushed down to the ground floor to get back to the West Wing and then up the fourteen flights of stairs to her dorm to grab the rest of her books and got to Defence class only a few minutes late. Her legs felt like lead by the end of it, though, and she was panting like she’d just run about a mile. She could tell it was going to be a long year. At this rate, she was worried might need to see Madam Pomfrey for muscle strain before the week was out, if there was even anything that could be done for that. She could see it was wearing on some of her classmates, too.

Meanwhile, Defence class itself meant sitting in a sickeningly thick odour of garlic while listening to Professor Quirrell stutter his way through basic principles of jinxes. Hermione had a very hard time giving him his due respect as a professor, since it looked like he wouldn’t be able to defend himself from so much as a swarm of pixies if he had to.

After lunch was Herbology. Hermione had been dreading Herbology more than any of her other classes since she was decidedly not the outdoorsy type. But she soon found there were advantages to a more hands-on class. Professor Sprout believed in taking fewer notes, since One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi was about as good a reference as anyone could hope for, and instead focusing on the practical side of growing and working with plants. First year would mainly teach identification of common plants and the basic principles of gardening, primarily with non-magical plants—or at least plants that were known to muggles—since an awful lot of them tended to find their way into potions. Hermione quickly learnt that being able to get some fresh air and work with her hands gave her a chance to relax and partially disengage her overactive, analytical mind. It wasn’t what she was used to, but she enjoyed it much more than she expected.

History of Magic, on the other hand, was no better than Defence. Professor Binns successfully called her name once on the role and then called her “Miss Grant” every other time he addressed her, presumably after someone he had taught in 1954. She’d have to keep an eye out to make sure her grades got in correctly. He began lecturing at the very beginning—the earliest known evidence of magic: stone circles unearthed in Turkey that were estimated to be ten thousand years old, twice as old as Stonehenge. Hermione had enjoyed A History of Magic, but Professor Binns was so mind-numbingly dull that she could barely stay awake. The Hufflepuffs in the class could barely stay awake, too, and the Slytherins were too hypnotised to make any trouble, for which she was grateful. She was a little disappointed in the castle ghosts in general. It seemed like only Sir Nicholas and the Fat Friar were the only ones who were really talkative.

She spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the library, partly for its own sake and partly so she wouldn’t have to go all the way back up to Gryffindor Tower. The library was certainly impressive, and why not? Since there didn’t seem to be any public libraries in the magical world, and the largest collection of scholars was right here, why shouldn’t Hogwarts have the most books, too? But even so, there were thousands of them! She did some quick figuring and decided that the Hogwarts library must have a majority of all the books on magic ever written in Britain, and there was quite a selection from Canada, the United States, and Australia, as well a substantial foreign language section. She was pleased to see there were also extra copies of all the textbooks for all seven years.

Hermione ate diner mostly in silence that night. Percy Weasley was already engrossed in his O.W.L. classes. He boasted about taking twelve O.W.L.s this year, which surprised Hermione since she thought one could only take ten courses. Percy was suspiciously evasive when she asked him how he could schedule that. Fred and George also said hello to her, but she was trying to keep her distance from them, having heard of their reputation by now. Her fellow first years made small talk about their classes and complained about how much homework they had already. That was a lot like her secondary school all over again. She’d have to try to find some studious Ravenclaws to hang out with if she wanted to converse with people more on her level.

In the evening, she sat in the Common Room and read up for the next day for a while before going to bed. She tried to talk to her roommates some, but Sally-Anne was already falling asleep, Lily was busy doing her hair, and Parvati and Lavender, easily the chattiest girls in the room, were far more preoccupied with things like clothes, gossip, and Quidditch than schoolwork, so she gave up on that pretty quickly.

“Parvati Patil?”

“Present.”

“Padma Patil?”

“Present.”

“Sally-Anne Perks?”

“Present.”

“Harry Pot—EEK!”

Professor Flitwick dropped the class roster and swung his arms in little circles as he lost his balance and toppled off the pile of books he was standing on with a thud. A few people laughed, but Hermione, among others, was concerned until she saw his hands appear on top of the desk and he climbed back to his feet.

“Ah, terribly sorry about that, class,” he squeaked. “Now, then, Mr. Potter?”

“Uh, present, sir,” said the shy, dark-haired boy.

Professor Flitwick was obviously part goblin with his wrinkly bald head and bushy white beard. And at about three-foot-six, he was small even by goblin standards, but he was definitely very knowledgeable about his subject—the rumour was he had been a world-class duelling champion back in the day and had earned a Doctor of Wizardry in Charms.

Much like Professor McGonagall, he began with a long lecture on the theory of Charms. Transfiguration may have been difficult and dangerous, but Charms wasn’t exactly easy either. You had to say exactly the right words with the right inflection and rhythm, with the correct wand movement and a clear picture of the spell in your mind. The slightest slip of the tongue could produce disastrous and unpredictable results, although the magic became more forgiving with experience.

Unlike Professor McGonagall, however, Professor Flitwick believed in starting with the very simplest spells and elements of wand handling. When it came time to start the practical lesson, he told the class to get out their wands and simply wave them to produce uncontrolled sparks. That was a lot of fun. Everyone’s sparks were different colours, and sparks were flying all over the classroom. Some were only one colour, while some were more than one, like Harry’s red and gold, and Morag MacDougal produced an entire rainbow. Neville Longbottom seemed to need to use a lot of effort to produce any sparks. He didn’t get very many, and the ones he did were a horribly clashing purple and orange.

Professor Flitwick then taught them the incantation to force their wands to produce white sparks, Argentious. This, Hermione deduced, was to help learn how to control their raw magical energy to cast the Lumos charm, which was the first spell taught in The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1). Hermione’s sparks were pretty close to white to start with, so the charm came easily to her. Professor Flitwick praised her work to the class and said that her natural colour showed a high degree of magical control.

After lunch, though, came the class she had most been waiting for: Arithmancy. She wasn’t intimidated by going to a class with students two years older than her; she had sat in on the trigonometry class for a while last year, although the pace had wound up being too slow for her. But she did turn some heads as she walked confidently into the classroom.

Professor Vector was already seated at her desk, and a few students from all four houses sat around the room. A tall and, if she did say so, handsome boy in Hufflepuff robes sitting near the door turned toward her as she entered. “Can I help you?” he asked. “What classroom are you looking for?”

“This one,” Hermione answered. The boy’s eyebrows shot up, as did some others.

“Miss Granger will be joining our class this year, Mr…Diggory, is it,” Vector explained, checking her roster for his name.

“What?” spat a black-haired boy in Slytherin robes. “She can’t be in this class, she’s just a m—firstie.”

“Mr. Montague, I have interviewed Miss Granger personally, and I am confident that she can handle the material,” Vector defended her. “And you will show appropriate respect.”

Montague settled in, grumbling, and Hermione smiled a little. With only Professors Snape and Vector and Madam Hooch from Slytherin among the staff, that house really didn’t get as much internal control as it needed. Professor Vector, it seemed, made sure to do her part.

Hermione sat down next to Alicia Spinnet, the reserve Quidditch chaser she had met at breakfast. About a minute later, a Ravenclaw wearing his hair long came in and sat on her other side. He looked past her and gave Alicia a questioning look.

“Hermione Granger,” Alicia whispered. “She tested in. Hermione, this is Roger Davies. He’s on the Ravenclaw team.” They nodded in acknowledgement to each other just before Professor Vector stood to call the role. The class was nearly half Ravenclaws, with only three Gryffindors besides herself. With a few notable exceptions, most Gryffindors didn’t seem to be the analytic type.

“Welcome to Arithmancy class,” she told them. “Arithmancy is perhaps the most analytical and challenging branch of magic. It is not for those who are looking for an easy O. But it is also useful in ways that other forms of magic cannot hope to match. Most modern spellcrafting and even some potions innovations are done by arithmancy. It forms the foundation for curse-breaking, magic reversal, spell detection, and spell analysis. It is an integral part of alchemy and advanced astronomy, and an excellent aid to improve rune-based magic and wards. It is also used for statistical prognostication, which, in my humble opinion, is far more reliable than any other form of divination because it can be backed up with hard numbers, although I’m sure Professor Trelawney would disagree.” Everyone but Hermione laughed.

“We will mainly focus on arithmantic prognostication this year, since that requires the least complex mathematics, but we will also cover the mathematical and magical foundations of spell analysis and spellcrafting. These things can be quite tricky and must be done with great care, so I expect a full and focused effort from each of you. In particular, there is to be no fooling around with untested spells. Doing that is far more likely to land you in the hospital wing than anything else.” Everyone nodded. Professor Vector’s reputation regarding fooling around was similar to Professor McGonagall’s.

“I would like to begin the class with a short quiz,” Professor Vector continued. She began to hand out pieces of parchment. “You will not be graded on it, and, indeed, most of you will probably not be able to finish it. It is merely to ascertain your level of mathematical instruction. I do this because students often come into this class with very different backgrounds in the subject. In fact, I’ve noticed that maths is the one area in which muggle schooling consistently outstrips our own,” she added, looking pointedly at the Montague boy who had called Hermione out. “Please begin. You have ten minutes.”

Hermione looked down at the parchment and saw that the quiz, unsurprisingly, was just arithmetic and basic algebra. She could do this in her sleep—literally. She’d had dreams about more complex maths than this. Even checking her answers, she was the first to put her quill down after less than five minutes. There were some snickers from people behind her who thought the little firstie had given up, but Alicia and Roger weren’t laughing. They could see that she’d at least written something.

Professor Vector collected the quizzes and gave them a quick glance over, clearly just seeing how far people had got on them. She paused over one of them and scanned it from top to bottom, checking it against an answer sheet. Then she smiled at Hermione knowingly before continuing on, prompting some surprised and confused looks from the rest of the class.

“Good. It looks like you all have a solid foundation in arithmetic, so we can advance straight into numerology and probability. Later, we’ll get into algebra and geometry. The O.W.L. exam in Arithmancy requires proficiency in these topics as components of basic spellcrafting and spell reversal. In fact, the maths portion of the exam is remarkably similar to muggle O-levels, or whatever they’re called now. Should you choose to continue at N.E.W.T. level, we will study more advanced spellcrafting, an introduction to curse-breaking, and the equivalent of muggle A-level maths, that is, trigonometry and calculus.

“For a first look today, we will study the magical properties of the number seven and the ways in which sevens appear more often in magic than you would otherwise expect…”

Hermione found the first lecture not to be very interesting, but sitting through a couple weeks of tossing numbers around would be worth it when they got to the actual magic. She quickly concluded that Professor Vector was more subtle than any of her other professors in the way she interacted with her students, but they seemed to be on the same wavelength. She never mentioned her score on the quiz, but Hermione was certain that if it had been anything less than perfect, she would have received a slightly sadder smile.

“No, really, Cedric, she wrote the answers in like two minutes,” she heard Roger Davies say to the Diggory boy on their way out. “Wait, there she is. Hey, Granger, when did you learn to do maths like that?” he asked.

Hermione blushed slightly as she tried to think back to her chaotic lesson schedules. “Um…that maths in particular? It must have been…two and a half years ago.”

Cedric, Roger, and Alicia, who was standing nearby, were gobsmacked. Cedric recovered first: “I can see why Professor Vector let you in the class…Miss Granger, would you like to join our study group? You’ll probably need some help with the magic, since there will be third year spells, and you could help us with the maths.”

Hermione was tempted to point out that she wasn’t going to do their homework for them, but Roger and Cedric, at least, seemed pretty bright about that sort of thing from the way they’d answered Professor Vector’s questions in the lecture. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you,” she said.

“Great. We were planning on meeting in the library on Mondays and Wednesdays after classes end—oh, but when do your Flying Lessons start?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t mentioned them.” Hermione was not looking forward to that class.

“They’ll be Thursdays for Gryffindors, unless they’ve changed it,” Alicia said.

“Well, that’s fine then,” Cedric said. “So, tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Hey, Hermione,” Parvati said when they made it up to their dorm that night. “Why weren’t you in History class today?”

“Oh, I’m taking History with the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. I have Arithmancy Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Arithmancy? I didn’t know you could take that in first year.”

“Well, I met Professor Vector this summer and tested into third year.”

“Wow, that’s great. I was a little worried. I didn’t think you’d be one to skip class.”

“Ooh, did you meet Cedric Diggory? I think he’s in that class,” Lavender interrupted.

“Yeah…he asked me to join his study group.”

Parvati and Lavender both squealed loudly.

“Oh my God, what’s he like?”

“Is he really cute?”

“Uh—yeah, I guess. But he’s really nice, too, and he seemed pretty smart.”

“Hermione, that’s awesome,” Lavender gushed. “Do you know if he’s single?”

“I don’t know! We only talked about maths!” Hermione said quickly.

“Padma said she thinks he’s got his eye on Cho Chang in second year,” Parvati replied.

“Ooh, tell me everything!”

The two of them soon devolved into a conversation about who was allegedly dating whom. Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her books. Some girls, she thought.

Chapter Text

“Professor McGonagall,” Hermione asked the next morning after barely finding her way to the Transfiguration classroom on the moving staircases. “Is it possible to get a map of the school somewhere?”

“A map? No, I’m afraid not, Miss Granger,” McGonagall answered. “The castle changes too much for any maps to be useful.”

“But couldn’t you just mark where all the moving staircases go, ma’am? That would make it easier.”

“No, it’s a little more complicated than that. Everything moves around a bit over time in a place with as much magic as Hogwarts Castle. But not to worry, the classrooms hardly ever change, and I’m sure you’ll find your way around in a few days.”

Hermione wanted to say that she was interested in a map for more than just finding her way around, and just how could a thousand-year-old stone structure move around even with magic, anyway? But class was starting, so she held her tongue and took her seat. It didn’t look like the professors would be that much help with this task. Maybe her fellow Arithmancy students would be able to help at their study session.

“What’s a hundred and forty-six times eighty-seven?” Alicia Spinnet said.

“Twelve thousand seven hundred and two.” Hermione didn’t even hesitate.

Alicia checked the answer. “That’s right.”

“Wow,” said Cedric Diggory.

“I told you she was that fast,” Roger Davies replied smugly.

“Well, okay, but can you do bigger numbers?” Cedric asked Hermione.

“Uh huh.”

“Alright, then…how about 6,843 times 9,572?” He scribbled down the numbers for himself.

Hermione still didn’t hesitate, exactly, but she did have to slow down and sound out answer a bit: “65 million…501 thousand…196.”

It took Cedric nearly a minute to check the answer, but he was amazed to find that was also correct. The three third years kept at it, interspersing a few addition and division problems to mix it up. But multiplying large numbers seemed to be the main focus of the questions they were giving her, which wasn’t too different than at her secondary school. Wizards, of course, didn’t know about other common challenges like finding the thirteenth root of a thirty-nine digit number (which was, in fact, quite easy) because, working with only quill and ink, it would have been nearly impossible for them to find a thirty-nine digit number that was a perfect thirteenth power in the first place.

A small crowd, mostly composed of Ravenclaws, started to gather around as Hermione solved every problem correctly (no easy feat even for her), most of them in her head.

“Hey, I saw somebody do this once in a play,” Alicia said. “What day of the week was 14 September, 1194.”

It took her only a couple seconds. “Wednesday.”

Alicia paused for a moment, then picked up her copy of A History of Magic. After flipping around for a couple minutes and thinking about it, she said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Whoa,” several of the spectators said.

“24 March 1603,” one of them threw out.

“Which calendar?” Hermione shot back.

“What?”

But she already had the answer: “It was a Thursday on the Julian Calendar, which was in use in Britain at the time, but a Monday on the Gregorian Calendar, which was in use on the Continent.” The spectators all looked at each other, having not even thought of that problem.

“Alright, Granger,” Roger said with an evil grin. “Try this one.” He slid across a piece of parchment to her on which she was expected to multiply two ten-digit numbers. He had been silent and carefully hiding what he was writing for the past five minutes, clearly needing the time to work out the problem for himself.

“Ooh…” several people said.

Hermione got right to work. The bystanders gasped when she started writing out the digits of the answer directly, two by two, without getting into those messy rows of addition that normal people used. It took her a little over a minute, but she put her quill down and confidently crossed her arms.

“There’s no way that’s right,” one of the bystanders said.

“Check it!” said another.

“That’s what I’m doing.” Roger took the parchment back and checked it against his own work. “No, you got that wrong,” he said. There were some murmurs from around the table.

That was possible, but unlikely, Hermione thought. She slid the parchment back over to her side and looked over Roger’s work. It took her only a few seconds to spot the problem. “No, you made mistakes here and here,” she pointed out.

Roger quickly snatched the parchment back and looked where she had pointed. “Dammit! You’re right.”

A few people cheered and others mocked Roger for being shown up by a first year, until Madam Pince shushed them all and forced the gathering to disperse.

“Hermione, that was incredible,” Alicia whispered. “How did you do all that?”

“Just a lot of practice,” she answered with a shy smile, coming down from her revelry.

“No, there has to be more to it than that,” Cedric said. “I’ve never even heard of anyone that good.”

“Not really. It’s not…” She smirked a little. “It’s not magic or anything like that. I mean, there’s some tricks I could teach you, but, honestly, it’s probably not worth the trouble for you to learn it. It’s mostly for fun, and it doesn’t help you all that much on more advanced maths.”

“Yeah, but still, how did you get that good?” Alicia pressed.

“Well, a lot of it’s just common sense things, like I memorised the multiplication table up to 100 times 100. And that wasn’t even from trying so much. I just practised enough that I remembered it. You have to memorise a lot of things: logarithm tables, prime numbers, and there’s a bunch of seemingly random multiplications. Like—do you know what thirty-seven times twenty-seven is?”

“Ha, no! You’re the human slide rule,” Roger said.

“It’s nine hundred ninety-nine. And that makes it really easy to multiply things by 37 because it’s close to a round number. I’ve memorised a lot of those kinds of factorisations. Like 499,999 is 3,937 times 127.”

“Okay, I can kind of see what you’re saying,” Cedric said, “but even knowing all that, I don’t get how you can do bigger numbers that fast.”

“Well, it’s a little hard to explain. I can just kind of…see it.”

“But…how?”

“It’s…uh…well, look, you’re all Quidditch players, right?”

“Yeah,” they all said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about sports, but I assume you have formations and plays, and there are some that are probably standard to the game.”

“Of course,” said Roger.

“And when you first start playing, it’s got to be hard to keep track of fourteen players on the pitch, right?”

“Well, sure, if you’re a beginner,” Alicia said. “But if you practice, you start to understand the formations.”

Cedric and Roger nodded as they started to get the picture.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “If you practice enough, you stop seeing individual players and start seeing formations, and you can react faster. Well, with me, if it’s something like…multiplying four-digit numbers, say, after I practised enough, I stopped seeing multiplying the digits and started just seeing the answer.”

“That…that is amazing,” Alicia exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could that with numbers.”

“Mm-hmm, I’ve read that you can do that with almost anything…But we should probably get started on the homework.”

“Right,” Cedric said, taking out the assignment that reportedly was already mystifying much of the class. “What are the chances that a random pair of socks from this drawer will match…? What does this have to do with making predictions?”

“Oh, you have to think of choosing the two socks as two separate events,” Hermione said. “Making predictions is all about tying chains of events together.”

“Okay, but what’s this probability matrix? I mean, I read about it, but I don’t really follow it.”

“That just shows what all the different possible outcomes are—it’s messier, but it might be easier to start off drawing a probability tree…”

With Hermione helping them to get on their feet mathematically, Alicia, Cedric, and Roger started to make sense of the basic elements of probability and statistics. Meanwhile, Cedric helped Hermione out with the more esoteric and magical aspects of numerology, although she was a very quick study, herself. By dinner time, they had all made great progress on the homework, and the third years were all very glad they had invited the “little firstie witch.”

“By the way,” Hermione said as they were packing up, “do any of you know if there’s anywhere I can find a map of the castle?”

“A map?” Cedric said, confused. “No, the castle changes too much to make a map. Why? You haven’t been getting lost, have you?”

“Some. I took a wrong turn on the way to Transfiguration this morning and almost got detention from Mr. Filch because I wound up near the forbidden corridor.”

“Ooh, that’s not good,” Alicia said. “Glad you slipped out of it. But don’t worry. You’ll get used to this place in a few days.”

“Yes, that’s what Professor McGonagall said…But it would be nice if I had a map and some pictures so I could show my parents what the castle’s like. They’ll never get to see it themselves.”

The others paused and digested that. They clearly weren’t used to thinking the way muggle-borns did. “Well, that would be nice,” Cedric said, “but I’m afraid you won’t find much. You can probably ask Madam Pince to copy some pictures of the castle, though.”

“Oh—I guess I can do that, then.” But silently, Hermione vowed that she would correct the oversight of the school of failing to produce a map. Seriously, what kind of excuse was “the castle changes too much’?

Hermione succeeded getting in a nap in before trudging up to the top of the Astronomy tower at midnight—more than two hundred feet above the Middle Courtyard and more than four hundred above the Black Lake. The top of the tower was open to the full dome of the heavens, and a clear, moonless sky sparkled with thousands of stars. Hermione was moved to tears by the sight, and she was happy to see she wasn’t the only one. She had never got far enough from the cities and towns to see a sky this dark, nor had many of the other students who lived near London.

Professor Sinistra graciously gave them a few minutes to admire the view. Then they viewed the rings of Saturn through their telescopes as it set. (Hermione had always thought Saturn looked a little too perfect through a telescope and was very amused when Ron Weasley insisted his brothers had pranked him and painted it on his lens.) Then, the professor gave them a basic lecture on how to navigate on the sky: the North Star, the Ecliptic, the Milky Way, and how positions were measured on the sky. She was surprisingly knowledgeable about advances in muggle astronomy and even space travel, and she expressed great hopes for the Americans’ Hubble Space Telescope, even though it would apparently be two more years before they got the thing working properly. “Imagine a telescope the size of a train car, flying around and around the Earth like the Moon!” she had said. Many of the purebloods refused to believe it, even when Hermione and Sally-Anne insisted it was true.

They climbed back down just after the old crescent Moon peaked over the hills in the east. Hermione managed to wake up in time for breakfast on Thursday and got through the day without incident, aside from getting a bit lost again. Then, she spent that evening reading up for Potions. According to Alicia, she would need to be especially prepared.

She had no idea.

Hermione could tell within the first five minutes of Potions class that Professor Snape would probably be a most unpleasant teacher. It started with singling out Harry Potter during the roll call—and not in a nice way—to the sniggers of the Slytherin students. Then, he raised the bar by calling off of his students a “bunch of dunderheads.” You would think a teacher would be above openly insulting his students. Hermione was on the edge of her seat with nervousness. This class might be harder than she thought.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Seeing as she hadn’t actually bothered to completely memorise One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, even Hermione’s prodigious memory couldn’t supply the answer with certainty. She was pretty sure the answer was Draught of the Living Death, just as she was pretty sure that it wasn’t anywhere near a first year potion, but she kept her hand down. She wasn’t about to give Professor Snape any ammunition to call her a dunderhead.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.

Snape ’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything. Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

That one was pretty obvious to most, Hermione thought. Malfoy and even Crabbe and Goyle (who did look like dunderheads, to be honest) were laughing at how easy it was. She could bet that a boy from an old, rich family like Malfoy would know all about poisons and their cures. But Harry was muggle-raised, she recalled. Sure, she had read far enough ahead to know about bezoars, but it wasn’t fair of Professor Snape to assume Harry had. She tentatively raised her hand, partly to try to deflect attention away from the boy, but Professor Snape ignored her.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter? What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

To his credit, Harry was still staring straight into Professor Snape’s eyes. Hermione raised her hand firmly this time, although she might not have remembered that one, either, except that she had seen references to wolfsbane here and there in other books.

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?”

A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus ’s eye, and Seamus winked.

Hermione blushed. That wasn’t exactly the kind of attention she had been going for, and it only got worse when Professor Snape snapped at her, “Put your hand down, you silly girl,” before explaining the answers to his questions and taking a point from Harry for his “cheek.”

Well, that settled it, Hermione thought. Professor Snape was officially the worst teacher she had ever had. She didn’t even have to wait to see how unhelpful he was in the actual lesson (which was very). In the muggle world, any teacher that openly rude and unfair would be sacked in a year. Professor Snape had been here for at least seven, according to the upper year students. She would have to remember to look up if there was a formal complaint process available.

As it happened, Snape—Hermione mentally stopped adding the “Professor” part about halfway through—wasn’t much of a lecturer. One could charitably say that he believed in learning by doing, like Professor Sprout, except that Professor Sprout demonstrated most of the things she taught to them first, not to mention that she was actually nice. Snape just told them to brew the Potion to Cure Boils from Chapter 1 of Magical Drafts and Potions and then wandered around the classroom, inspecting their methods. His long, black cloak billowed out behind him as he walked, as if blown by a light breeze, even though the air in the dungeon was stagnant—far more stagnant, in fact, than it had any business being given the fumes they were producing. Hermione suspected there was a spell in play on the first point and could only hope there was a spell for the second as well.

Snape offered both compliments and helpful advice to the Slytherins, especially Malfoy. She was careful to write this down—advice was good any way she could get it—but he seemed to have only condescension for the Gryffindors in general and Harry Potter in particular.

Hermione had been paired with Dean Thomas, who wasn’t too bad at potions himself, even though he was also muggle-raised, unlike the unfortunate duo of Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan.

The Potion to Cure Boils wasn’t the simplest potion, or the easiest to make (though it scored better than most on both). But it was included in Chapter 1 of Magical Drafts and Potions because it was one of the few potions that required no wand work at all. In principle, even a muggle could brew it if they had the ingredients.

Most potions required at least one spell, and often several, but many of the first-years would not be good enough with a wand to cast them reliably for a few weeks. The most common spell in potion-making was the charm to make the ingredients dissolve properly. After all, snake fangs and porcupine quills would not dissolve very well under any normal circumstances. But here, the Dissolving Charm would not interact well with the ingredients, so it was not used. Instead, concentrated bundimun secretion was added to the water to take care of that. Another common spell was the Sealing Charm that prevented any further dissolution of the ingredients once the potion was finished. Instead, this potion used mashed blueberries to counteract the corrosive effects of the bundimun secretion.

There were other spells, too, used for more advanced potions: spells to add magical energy directly to the mixture, spells to protect any living matter that got into the cauldron, reducing the need for gloves, spells to only dissolve certain ingredients, or to speed up or prevent certain reactions between them. Unfortunately, there were trade-offs in everything, and this potion that required no wand work turned out to be temperamental in other ways, as Neville learnt painfully when he melted down Seamus’s cauldron, giving himself severe boils instead of curing them.

Since Snape was so unhelpful, just sending the two of them to the Hospital wing without explanation (or sympathy), it took Hermione a while flipping back and forth through the course books later to figure out what had happened. And to do it, she had to forget almost everything she knew about chemistry, or even cooking for that matter, and start thinking—she couldn’t think of any better analogy—like a poet. The bundimun secretion was corrosive and also caused decay. The porcupine quills were barbed and thus scratched things badly (much more than the snake fangs). The fire weakened the soft pewter. The three different types of damage shouldn’t have particularly amplified one another, but they did. Any two of them the magically-reinforced cauldron could withstand, but all three together were too much for it. When Neville added the porcupine quills without taking it off the flame, the cauldron melted.

Unfortunately, every ingredient had interactions with every other ingredient that had to be kept track of, which was the most important thing that governed the order they were to be added. No wonder inventing new potions was supposed to be so difficult.

But it all made sense in a poetic, medieval sort of way if you thought about how you might expect things to work if you’d never been taught actual science. Some of the ingredients were used the way you would expect anyway: bundimun secretion was a solvent; nettles had known medicinal properties; horned slugs were a thickening agent. Yet on another level, the ingredients seemed to be almost metaphorical: live horned slugs didn’t do much; therefore stewed ones didn’t interact much with other ingredients. Porcupine quills and snake fangs were best known for penetrating the skin; therefore, even crushed, they would help the skin absorb the final product. Blueberries grew in acidic soil; therefore they could counteract the corrosive effects of the bundimun secretion. This metaphorical dimension also probably had something to do with why some ingredients had to be prepared at a certain time of year or phase of the Moon in more advanced potions.

Hermione thought that Magical Drafts and Potions did a really poor job at explaining all of this because it treated all the ingredient properties and interactions the same. That would be fine for a catalogue or reference book, but to teach the conceptual principles on potion demanded more discussion on the multiple ways in which one needed to think about the same ingredients.

One other good thing about the Potion to Cure Boils, setting it apart even from the other recipes in Chapter 1, was that it was easy to see how well it turned out from the final colour. Brewed properly, it was supposed to be a soft, soothing light blue. This allowed Snape to grade the potions on the spot when they turned in samples at the end of class—a nice touch for the the first class, Hermione thought, although she suspected Snape really did it so he could get in a few more digs at them. Sure enough, Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle (whom Malfoy didn’t allow to do any difficult work) got an Outstanding grade. Harry and Ron were graded Poor. Hermione and Dean received (grudgingly, she thought) an Exceeds Expectations, while poor Neville and Seamus got a zero for the day.

Hermione woke on Saturday morning to the excited chatter of her roommates who were happy to have a free day. “Free” was a relative term, of course, since they still had homework, but Lavender and Parvati seemed to be in the mood to put that off until tomorrow. Hermione, on the other hand, had got as much as she could done in the free period yesterday afternoon and last evening. She was looking to take a break from schoolwork herself today, but for a different reason.

“What about you, Hermione, what are you doing today?” Parvati asked her.

“Me? Oh, I just thought I’d explore the castle for a while,” she said innocently.

“Oh, well be careful with that. You don’t want to get lost,” Lavender said. “I heard the unused parts of the castle can shift around and trap you so you can’t find your way out.”

“What? Where did you hear that?” Hermione said.

“The Weasley Twins told me. I mean, sure they might have made it up, but I’m not about to risk it.”

Parvati rolled her eyes at Lavender. “Anyway, we were going to check out the grounds this afternoon. You should come along.”

“Well, maybe,” Hermione said noncommittally. “I’ll see how the morning goes.”

Later, when she came back up from breakfast, Hermione dug out her small drafting kit and a book of graph paper. She didn’t use them all that much, but they were great for geometry and would be even better for map-making. She would show everyone who said she couldn’t make a map of the castle. She would just need to measure everything out.

“Sally-Anne, I was going to try to map out the castle. Do you want to, you know, come along?” she asked, before getting started.

“No, sorry, I’ve got a lot of homework,” her fellow muggle-born said. “I don’t know how you get through it so fast. It’s hard not having the magical background.”

“Oh…okay,” she said, a little disappointed. But she wrote it off and got to work. Starting with her own dormitory, she stepped off the bedroom, the lavatory, and the spiral staircase outside the door. She was pretty sure the boys’ dorm was a mirror image and that the other floors were the same, so a small, quick sketch was sufficient to describe the eighth through fourteenth floors of Gryffindor Tower. She followed this up by heading down and stepping off the Common Room, prompting a few funny looks, but she quickly got that done, too, and climbed through the portrait hole into the corridor, her graph paper in hand.

The first order of business was to step off the West Wing. She looked down the long corridor that led to Ravenclaw Tower, picked one of the seams between the stones on the floor and walked along it, stepping it off heel to toe from one end to the other. It took her about five minutes to cover the whole length, but she got the measurement she wanted. Hermione’s size two and a half trainers were nine and three-quarters inches long, so the one hundred seventy-two steps she marked in the corridor equalled one hundred forty feet. (Okay, a hundred thirty-nine feet and nine inches.) The second corridor, from Ravenclaw Tower to the Grand Staircase, was one hundred thirty-eight steps, or about one hundred twelve feet. So far so good.

Just to check her results, she paced off the other two corridors, up to the North Tower and back to Gryffindor Tower. But as she grew nearer to the North Tower, she grew more and more uneasy. Something didn’t look right, and as she crossed the last few feet, it was obvious. This corridor was only a hundred and fifty-nine steps long. She tried the fourth corridor. One hundred forty-seven. Clearly, the West Wing wasn’t a perfect rectangle.

It sure did look like it, though. She looked down at the stone floors of the corridors. The seams between the stones were perfectly straight. She took her protractor to a few of them. All the corners were right angles, or at least close enough that the lengths wouldn’t be off by that much. It looked like a rectangle, but the lengths of the opposite sides were about ten feet different.

She tried measuring the entire floor again, this time pressing as close as she could to against the outer wall, all the way around the seventh floor of the West Wing. She was extra careful now to place her feet exactly in front of each other in a straight line. She got all the same numbers to within three steps.

She tried a third time, this time along the inner walls of the corridors. With the extra care she took on the last two measurements, she got the same numbers again to within one step.

It took only a few seconds of mental math to figure out that that was physically impossible. If the castle weren’t a perfect rectangle, there should have been a larger difference than that between one side of the corridors and the other, no matter what the angles were. The only explanation—and because she had dabbled in the works of Lovecraft, she shuddered a little as she thought it—was that Hogwarts Castle was not built on Euclidean geometry.

Hermione Granger wasn’t about to give up, though. That would certainly make mapping the castle a pain, but the differences were only about ten percent. She could just take an average length to draw it as a rectangle and then write in the actual measurements. At least she wouldn’t have to be quite so careful about doing it exactly right. Within a couple feet would be good enough since the castle didn’t seem to want to cooperate on exact measurements anyway.

By now, almost two hours had gone by, but she figured she might as well keep on going until lunch time. She went down to the sixth floor to pace that off as well and see if it was any different. And it was a good thing she did because when she got to the south corridor, the one that had been one hundred thirty-eight steps long on the seventh floor, she found it was one hundred forty-five steps on the sixth floor. This was going to be harder than she thought.

She was pacing off the north corridor on the sixth floor when she heard more footsteps behind her.

“Well, what have we here, Fred?”

“A little firstie wandering off by herself, George. I do hope she’s not lost. Good morning, Miss Granger,” Fred said, as both Weasley twins stepped in front of her and started walking backwards to face her.

Hermione looked up from her feet to glance at each of them. “Hello, Fred, George,” she said, trying to hide her discomfort around the notorious pranksters.

“And what are you up to on this fine morning?” George asked.

“Well…” Oh, what could it hurt? “I was trying to make a map of the castle. I’m trying to measure the corridors.” She considered asking what they were up to, but quickly decided she didn’t want to know.

“A map of the castle, Fred.” The twins shared a knowing look and started laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing,” said Fred. “It’s just we’ve never heard of anyone making a map while we’ve been here.”

“And measuring the corridors with your feet,” George added. “I’d say that takes quite some dedication, wouldn’t you, Fred?”

“That I would, George.”

“Are you even counting your steps, Miss Granger?”

“Of course,” she said. “One-twenty-one, one-twenty-two, one-twenty-three—”

“Through this entire conversation?” George asked.

“Yes.”

“Without losing count?” Fred added.

She smirked in spite of herself. This proved to be a bad idea, since they took it as a challenge.

“Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if we called out random numbers like—”

“One-sixty-two!”

“One-oh-five!”

“One-thirty-nine!”

“Seventy-seven!”

But she didn’t even slow her pace. Hermione Granger did not lose count. “One-thirty-five, one-thirty-six, one-thirty-seven…”

“I think we’ve been had, Gred.”

“Well, Forge, we did hear Alicia talking about this one. We’ll have to keep on our toes around her.”

“She’s certainly a clever one…”

“One hundred forty-seven,” she said, reaching the end of the corridor. “Hmm…that one was the same,” she mused as she marked the measurement on her map.

“The same as what?” one the twins asked—she’d lost track of which now.

“The seventh floor.”

They stared at her in confusion.

“The south and west corridors are different lengths on the seventh floor,” she explained.

“What?” the twins said at once.

“And all four sides are different from each other, even though the Quad is a rectangle.”

“Is that even possible?” One of them snatched her map out of her hand and started looking over her measurements. “This can’t be right. We would have noticed it on—” He stopped as the other twin coughed. “Now I really think we’re being set up, George.”

“Indeed, Fred,” George said with an evil grin. “If you’re looking for a prank war, Miss Granger, we’d be happy to oblige.”

“I-i-it’s not a prank,” Hermione said nervously, taking a step back. “Y-you can step it off for yourselves.”

Fred and George looked at each other, no longer mischievously, but with genuine curiosity.

“I think this calls for investigation, brother,” said Fred.

“I quite agree. If Miss Granger can discover something about the castle in a week that we haven’t in two years—”

“She could be a valuable ally.”

“Well, I’m not looking to prank anyone, if that’s what you mean.” Fred and George looked unconvinced. “May I have my map back, please? I want to try to pace off a couple more floors before lunch.”

“Of course.” Fred handed back her graph book.

“And good luck with your…mapping.”

“Thanks…” Hermione backed away, not wanting take her eyes off the pair until she reached the staircase to go down to the fifth floor. She kept working.

The small windows that lined the Quad had no sills to speak of. She was able to poke her head out one of them and run her eye down the sheer wall. It was perfectly straight. She tied an eraser from her drafting kit to a string to make a plumb bob to check the walls. She tried it on both the fifth floor and back up on the seventh floor. All the walls were vertical. From those two facts, every floor of the West Wing should have been exactly the same shape and size. And yet, not only were the measurements different on each floor, but the perimeter of each floor she paced off was about ten feet larger than the floor above.

It was while she was stepping off the fourth floor, trying to get around it quickly to avoid going too far into the lunch hour, that another unwanted attendant spotted her. Hermione tried to ignore the scraggly-looking tabby as it meowed menacingly at her. She momentarily thought she had dodged a bullet when Mrs. Norris ran away, but, somehow, just a few seconds later, Argus Filch came around the corner. Hermione’s only direct run-in with the Caretaker, at the third-floor corridor on Wednesday, had not been pleasant, and most of what she’d heard from the other students was worse.

“You, there, what are you doing?” Filch wheezed.

The direct approach was probably best here. “I’m measuring the corridors, sir.”

“I can see that. What are you up to? Aiming fireworks? Spreading Slipping Solution? Planting those infernal Ricochet Balls?”

“N-no, sir, I’m just trying to map the castle.” And she held up her graph paper to show him.

“Mapping the castle? Mapping the castle?” Filch said suspiciously. “Oh no you don’t. I found the Weasley Twins doing the same thing up on the sixth floor. You’re definitely up to something. What is it? Searching for more secret passages? I won’t allow it.”

“Please, Mr. Filch, I’m not breaking any rules. I’m just trying to learn to find my way around. I only told Fred and George that the measurements are different on every floor. I didn’t ask what they were doing.”

“Measurements are different—” Filch’s mind apparently needed a moment to switch gears on that one. “Well of course they are!” he complained. “What did you expect with as much magic as there is around this place?”

“Please, sir, I’ve only known about magic for a few weeks.”

“Well, best learn to stay away from those two,” Filch said. “Nothing but trouble from the start. Deserve a few days strung up by their ankles if you ask me…Well, then, go on. Finish what you’re doing and get on to lunch,” he said, apparently conceding that he had nothing on her.

“Um…yes, sir.”

Filch walked away, muttering to himself, “Students wandering about like they own the place. Ought to stay in their Common Rooms where they belong…”

Hermione finished pacing off the fourth floor as quickly as she could and dashed down the stairs to the Great Hall, barely remembering to jump the vanishing step. That was a health and safety hazard, alright. She didn’t understand why they couldn’t patch it up. In any case, Filch may have had nothing on her, but he certainly wasn’t nice to talk to. She felt much better when she was out of his sight.

Chapter Text

Hermione wandered around the grounds with her roommates for a little while that afternoon, but she was distracted the entire time. She had a hard time focusing on her work that evening, too. She looked around at the castle walls and started questioning everything, started trying to measure everything in her head.

The thing that everyone kept telling her kept echoing in her mind: “The castle changes too much to make a map.”

She waited till the next morning to test it. She guessed it would need at least that long. But she awoke early on Sunday, unable to wait any longer, and started repeating the work she had done the day before.

She started by pacing off her dorm room again and was relieved to find it was the same to within her margin of error, but that was the last reassuring bit of information she would get. She had only first bothered to count the steps up from the Common Room to her dorm until last night. There didn’t seem to be any need before. But now, she counted them again going back down, and found that if she’d counted correctly (and when didn’t she?), the spiral staircase was two steps taller.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Hermione left through the portrait hole and began pacing off the east corridor, the one from Gryffindor Tower to Ravenclaw Tower. It was supposed to be one hundred seventy-two steps long. She had measured it three times yesterday; it was one hundred seventy-two steps long.

Today, it was one hundred sixty-six.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Well, that did it. She as well and truly through the looking-glass. Hogwarts Castle not only changed shape and size from floor to floor, but also from day to day. No map of the castle would ever be more accurate than about ten percent, because it wouldn’t stay put like any sensible building, and she had a sneaking suspicion that her dorm room would eventually change, too, when she wasn’t looking. She supposed she could try to measure the outer dimensions of the castle, but she doubted that would work any better.

The one good thing about it was that she wouldn’t have to measure the place more accurately than ten percent either. She took a couple minutes to step off the corridor at her normal walking pace to figure out the conversion. That would easily be accurate enough, and it was about four times faster. Even so, it was with an exasperated sigh that she finally sat down in the Great Hall for breakfast.

It didn’t help that she had barely started eating when a pair of redheads sat down on either side of her.

“We commend you, Miss Granger,” they said in unison.

“Huh?” Hermione answered lamely.

“Your measurements of the castle,” the one on her left said.

“You were quite right.” the one on her right continued.

“The floors don’t line up at all.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” she said in annoyance.

“We didn’t think anyone knew the castle better than us, did we, George?”

“No, indeed, Fred. Not even Filch. How ever did you do it, Miss Granger?”

“I just asked a question that nobody else bothered with,” Hermione said, hoping she could get rid of the two troublemakers quickly. “Everyone else said the castle kept changing, so they never tried—Unfortunately, they were right. The measurements were different this morning.”

The twins stared at each other to digest this information.

“Learn something new every day, don’t we?”

“It seems we do. So, if you don’t mind our asking, how do you intend to complete your map?”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to draw it approximately. I don’t have time to measure everything three times and take an average. It won’t be an architectural drawing, but I’ll at least be able to find my way around.”

Fred and George grinned to hear that she would be keeping up her exploration efforts. “Well, best of luck to you then,” Fred said.

“Please let us know if you make any more discoveries,” George added.

“And if you should find yourself in need of a favour—”

“Such as if a certain Slytherin git needs a good pranking—”

“We would be delighted to assist you.”

“Of course, we might do that anyway.”

“Thanks, I’ll…keep that in mind,” she said nervously.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” they replied together. Unfortunately for her, they stayed right where they were and got back to eating, but thankfully their brother, Ron, showed up and got them into a conversation about Quidditch. Hermione just tuned them out. She had some Transfiguration to finish and a letter home to worry about. She also wanted to finish some sketches she had started. She wasn’t much of an artist, but geometrically defined architectural features she could handle. She decided she’d had enough of the exploring bit for one weekend.

Well, she did step off that east corridor on the seventh floor one more time that afternoon. Sure enough, it was about a foot and a half different. That meant that the corridors apparently changed smoothly over the course of the day rather than just overnight or at midnight or something. That was some good news. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about the floors suddenly shifting under her feet. In some ways, it seemed like the castle was breathing. It would just be nice if it could breathe in Euclidean spacetime.

Dear Hermione,

Thank you so much for the sketches of your dorm room and common room. It looks like you have a very nice place to live. Be sure to send us some of the rest of the castle when you get the time. That sounds pretty strange about the castle having non-Euclidean geometry. Your father didn ’t think even magic could do that. He says to try not to fall into any obtuse angles.

We ’re very glad you’ve found a good study group and got to know some of your classmates. We were worried your letters would wind up being all about classes. If you’ve found some people who are really willing to share the work like that, be sure to stick with them. Friends like that are hard to find. That Harry Potter boy sounds nice, too, and he was raised in our world, so you have something in common.

About Professor Snape, it sounds like he ’s a pretty lousy teacher from what you wrote us. He shouldn’t be allowed to behave like that. In our world, he would be sacked if he was like that all the time, even if he had tenure. Unfortunately, we don’t think there’s much we can do to help. The magical world seems to be pretty self-contained. The best chance you have is to talk to Professor McGonagall, and if she won’t do anything, Professor Dumbledore. In the meantime, just keep trying your best. It sounds like you’re learning the subject better than the book taught it, at least, and doing well enough that he has to give you a good grade, so you should be okay for now.

Keep up the good work, and stay out of trouble.

Love,

Mum and Dad

She settled into her routine better in the second week. The classes were challenging in ways she had never imagined either school or magic could be, but she was doing well in them. She could find her way to all her classes now, too, though that in no way reduced her desire to map out the rest of the castle.

But she groaned when she saw the notice posted in the Gryffindor Common Room that night: Flying Lessons start on Thursday…with the Slytherins. Hermione was not athletic or even all that coordinated. She could calculate angles in her head faster than anyone, but that never seemed to translate into prowess with a tennis racket or a billiards cue. And doing anything athletic in the air would only make things worse. She was okay on a bicycle, but roller coasters always made her a bit queasy, and those even had seat belts.

She made a beeline for the library before curfew and found a book called Quidditch Through the Ages. She skimmed over the bulk of the material on Quidditch itself (not the best-designed game, she thought) and focused on a rather well-written section containing basic flying tips. With a few exceptions, most kids who were raised in the magical world had been on a broom at least a couple times, so Hermione had some catching up to do. On Thursday morning, she shared the tips she had learnt with Sally-Anne and Neville Longbottom, both of whom had also never been on a broom. Neville was even more frightened of flying than she was—unsurprisingly, given his unfortunate clumsiness. However, everyone else at the table seemed to be tuning her out.

Madam Hooch, Hermione saw as they lined up that afternoon, had yellow eyes like a hawk. That was not a normal human eye colour, and she wondered if Madam Hooch also had some non-human blood in her. Or maybe it was just magic.

She supposed it was a nice day for flying, but not knowing how to fly and having to learn with the Slytherins really put a damper on her spirits. The state of the brooms didn’t help, either. Hermione had seen photographs and illustrations of broomsticks in Quidditch Through the Ages and looked at the school brooms with dismay. She had heard the Weasley Twins complain about how these brooms never flew straight, and she wasn’t surprised. The school brooms weren’t even standardised. There were forty-year-old Cleansweeps and Comets, Shooting Stars, and some that were clearly off-brands. They all had bent twigs and scratched handles, neither of which boded well for their performance, but she supposed they would be safe enough for the low-intensity lessons they would be having—almost like training wheels, she thought.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madam Hooch at the front, “and say “Up!’”

“UP!” everyone shouted.

Hermione’s broom twitched and rolled over. On her left, Neville’s hadn’t moved at all, but on her right, Harry Potter’s broom leapt directly into his hand, as had a couple of others, including Draco Malfoy’s. Evidently, most magical children didn’t learn that part of broom handling early.

Hermione was sure she could do better than that. This was like casting a spell, wasn’t it? Except the broom had a rather more limited repertoire than a wand. She focused on the feeling of flowing energy that she always felt with her wand and tried to reach out to the broom with it.

“UP!” she shouted again. The broom leapt off the ground, though she had to scramble to catch it. Most of the students got their brooms to rise after a few tries, but Neville had to pick his up by hand.

“Now,” said Madam Hooch, “hold your broom up on your right, like so, and put your right leg over it—near the back, right in front of the bristles. You’ll be able to feel the Cushioning Charm. Don’t sit any farther forward, or you’ll slide off the end.”

That made sense, Hermione thought. It was just like mounting a bicycle. The Cushioning Charm even felt like a bicycle seat. And she could tell at once that its position just in front of the bristles was at the broom’s centre of gravity—the only place one would be able to stay balanced on it.

“Good, good,” Madam Hooch continued. “Grip the middle of the handle, right hand in front, thumbs pointed down—no, Mr. Malfoy, thumbs pointed down.”

“Madam Hooch, I’ve been riding a broom for years—”

“Then you’ve been riding it wrong for years. Thumbs pointed down,” she repeated. Some of the others snickered at the arrogant boy.

Hermione twisted her wrists to point her thumbs toward the ground. Her first instinct had been to hold the broom with her thumbs on top of the handle, like Malfoy did, but she immediately realised that the correct grip gave her better control of where the broom was pointed and would help her to lean with it. It was little uncomfortable having to lean forward to hold it properly, but broomsticks at least didn’t seem like a completely unreasonable way to fly anymore.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—”

And that’s where the sensible part of the lesson ended. Neville was far too jumpy and kicked off the ground before the whistle, shooting up in the air and then falling off his broom and falling to the ground with a horrific thud. Hermione sighed with relief when Madam Hooch said he only had a broken wrist. She was sure it would have been worse after seeing that fall. She had heard before of people falling from high buildings and bridges and walking away when they shouldn’t have—when they should have died, even—but they were the rare exception. Oddly, many of those people tended to be drunk. Perhaps it was that they couldn’t brace themselves properly in that state and just let their limbs absorb the impact. She also knew that witches and wizards were built a bit tougher than muggles, but even so, Neville was extremely lucky to walk away from that landing.

And then that awful git Malfoy and his goons had to go and make fun of him and take his gift from his grandmother. Honestly, what kind of people thought falling three stories and breaking a wrist was funny for anyone?

But that was just the start. Harry decided he didn’t like Malfoy’s behaviour either, which quickly escalated into an airborne dogfight between the two boys, not five minutes after Madam Hooch specifically told them all to stay on the ground, which ended with Harry very nearly crashing and possibly dying in order to catch Neville’s Remembrall, after which Professor McGonagall stormed out and dragged Harry into the castle.

Hermione stood frozen in terror when it was over, her hands trembling, unable to speak. Raised by muggles or not, that was still the famous Boy-Who-Lived who had just very nearly died and was now sure to be expelled from Hogwarts—and rather deserved it, for that matter. Just what kind of place was the magical world after all? Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looked triumphant, smugly lording their victory over the Gryffindors. A couple of the Slytherins looked uneasy about this development, but most of them went along with the trio.

The Gryffindors got the last laugh, though, when Madam Hooch came back out, glaring at Malfoy. She benched him for the rest of the lesson, gave him a detention, and took ten points from Slytherin. Hermione was a little disappointed that he wasn’t out of Hogwarts faster than he could say “Quidditch,” as she had threatened, but it was still worth it to see the git wilt under those hawkish eyes.

“Now that’s settled, we still have some time for the lesson,” she told the rest of the class. When I blow my whistle, kick off from the ground, hard. Hover at a few feet, and then lean forward slightly to descend. Ready? Three—two—one—”

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and Hermione kicked off the ground and rose into the air. She was wobbly, like when she’d first learnt to ride a bike, but she was hovering successfully. Some of the others laughed or whooped with joy to be in the air, but she was less enthusiastic. When she nervously tilted the handle forward, the broom gently settled back down to the ground.

Madam Hooch led them through the basics of manoeuvring: speed up, slow down, left, right, up, and down, all at very low speeds. Hermione was competent, despite the substandard broom, but she knew she would never be able to match the native skill Harry had shown. Indeed, most the class could fly circles around her. She would be happy if she could just share their joy at flying with the birds by the end of the term.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or angry when she saw Harry was still there at dinner, but when she learnt from the whispered rumours that he had been made Seeker on the house Quidditch team, she decided to go with angry. How could that boy break the rules so blatantly and be rewarded for it? A part of her wanted to blame his fame, but she’d seen well enough that Harry Potter didn’t really care about his fame, and, apparently, he really was that good at flying.

And then, of course, Malfoy had to come around and get in a few more digs at him. Hermione honestly wasn’t sure who to be angrier with as she watched the pair from the corner of her eye over her dinner as Malfoy challenged Harry to an after-hours duel, and Ron accepted for him. Trust a Weasley to make things worse. Harry had barely got out of being expelled once today. Now he was going to try and break curfew, too?

She tried to talk Harry out of the whole thing after Malfoy left. Unfortunately, her argument that he would lose Gryffindor a bunch of points probably wasn’t her most persuasive one, but she couldn’t think of any better hold to use on the pair just now. A duel would be dangerous, of course, and she suspected Malfoy knew more curses than Ron and Harry put together—could probably cast more curses than Hermione herself, if the rumours were true, but after seeing Harry risk his life on that broom, she didn’t think that would convince him any better. And it seemed he just couldn’t resist showing up Malfoy.

Well, there was more than one way to handle this, though. She loaded up on her homework that evening and stayed up late in the Common Room, resolving to work until midnight so she could stop those two before they caused any trouble. She strongly considered telling Percy, who seemed to be the lone responsible brother in the Weasley family, but going the tattle-tale route wouldn’t win her any favours, and she felt like she would be on thin ice with Fred and George if she stepped too far out of whatever passed for their line.

Well, that hadn’t been her best idea.

Trying to stop Harry and Ron leaving had only served to get herself locked out of the Tower with them. The Fat Lady must have gone visiting, which she would have admitted was completely within her rights since no one was supposed to be out in the corridors at this hour, but at the moment, she was preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Like the fact that she was locked out of Gryffindor Tower.

After curfew!

With a couple of self-centred idiots!

(And Neville, who had forgotten the password.)

With Filch chasing them!

With no other recourse, she had followed the boys to the Trophy Room. After all, they were the closest thing she had to an alibi: the only reason she was out after curfew was because she was trying to stop them. They had made there without incident, but Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet—and didn’t show up by what Hermione was sure was well past midnight. Of course she realised, it was an obvious trap to get Harry in trouble (which she should have seen from the start), and that was when Filch had shown up.

From there, one thing led to another, running down one corridor and then another and then a hidden passage that let out onto an open air bridge that she hadn’t had cause to use before, then into the corridors of the West Wing into Peeves, the poltergeist, and then down yet another corridor—straight into a locked door.

Ron was sure this was the end. (Gee, where was that attitude earlier?) But Hermione wasn’t panicking quite yet, though. She was pretty sure from the whispers of the older students that most of the locked doors in the castle would open with a simple Unlocking Charm like the one the rest of the class would catch up with in the spring. At this point she’d take breaking another rule or two to keep out of Filch’s clutches. (God, what was happening to her?) But, no, she’d forgotten her wand in the tower! How could she get in now?

Wait a minute—Harry was coming here for a duel, wasn’t he? Using someone else’s wand was tricky, but if she could put enough power through it—

“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, “Alohomora!”

The lock clicked and the door swung open—they piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.

But Hermione didn’t hear what was being said. She didn’t hear anything just now, since she saw movement in the corner of her eye, and when she turned to look, she promptly froze stiff.

She’d got turned around with all that running. (Oh, why hadn’t she spent more time on her map?) But when she looked now, she instantly knew where they were, and why no one had been using the Stone Bridge on the third floor.

They were in the forbidden third floor corridor. The one that contained “a very painful death,” and Hermione knew now that Dumbledore hadn’t been exaggerating.

There was a dog in the corridor.

It was ten feet tall.

It had three heads.

It had three heads!

The sight of those three heads would haunt her dreams forever if she lived through this: three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

The dog came to its senses upon seeing them in its corridor and started growling at them. They were all going to die, she thought. They were at the gates of the Underworld—it was right through that trap door under the feet of Cerberus, the dreaded hell-hound of Hades—and they were all going to die.

And then—thank Zeus or Jehovah or Merlin or whoever, she didn’t much care right now—she fell backwards.

Harry had opened the door.

They ran again, not even looking to see if Filch was chasing them. They ran and didn’t stop, even while climbing up four flights of stairs, until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and dove into the Gryffindor Common Room, where they lay on the couches and the floor a while until they could speak again.

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”

Could he really be that thick? Hermione wondered. She’d sunk into a mythology-fuelled hysteria, and she’d still spotted it right away. “You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on.”

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its feet; I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s obviously guarding something.”

She stood up, glaring at them.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

She trudged up the seven flights to her bedroom, not waiting around to see if any of the boys had any bright ideas about what the dog was guarding, or worse, going back to find out. While she could agree with Ron about the madness of keeping that monstrosity in a school, that was about the only intelligent thing that any of those three had said all night.

She was all the way into bed before it hit her: “Or worse, expelled?” she whispered. “Good Lord, I really am losing it!”

Chapter Text

Hermione went down to breakfast the next morning tired and, if she were honest, more than a little cranky. How could she sleep after coming face to faces with that dog? The only good thing about the whole ordeal was the look on Draco Malfoy’s face when he saw that Harry and Ron were still there, and even that was tempered by the fact that those two now seemed to think it had been a great adventure.

Harry tried to tell Hermione about a little package that Hagrid had moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts and that he thought that’s what the dog was guarding, but she didn’t want to hear it. In fact, she picked up her plate and moved a few seats down. She was going to stay far away from those two nutters from now on, as they were sure to cause more trouble sooner or later.

At least Dean Thomas was more or less normal. He even liked normal sports, like football. They had Potions again this morning, and Hermione hoped she could still keep her head in that class after last night.

Today’s Potions “lesson” was to brew the simplest of the various kinds of Awakening Potions, something she could use some of herself to start with. She was a little distracted, and she knew it, which didn’t bode well either. She wanted to keep an eye on Neville and Seamus in case they blew something up again, and keep an eye on Harry and Ron in case they tried something, all while doing a good job with her own potion.

“Awakening Potion, huh?” Dean said as Hermione started the burner. “I thought we already had that. It’s called coffee.” Fortunately, Snape either didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore it.

“Boil one small, greened potato for fifteen minutes,” Lavender read the first instruction. (Because the greened potato had sprouted eyes, of course.) “Why are we cooking lunch here?”

“Because greened potatoes are poisonous, and the heat neutralises the poison,” Hermione explained, happy to see there were a few things muggles knew better than wizards about potioning.

Potions wasn’t all that difficult in practical terms, Hermione decided, but she was quickly finding that it was her most conceptually challenging class, and the essays Snape assigned for homework bore that out. She had a pretty good idea of why each ingredient was included and some idea of the reasons for the order and the manner of preparation, but most of the stirring patterns still mystified her.

There were a few obvious reasons for the stirring patterns. In practical terms, stirring the potion more would result in more even heating of the liquid. Alternating clockwise and anticlockwise stirs would create turbulence and mix the ingredients faster, while keeping in the same direction would mix them slower. The number of stirs was harder, although there were clear numerological elements to it: many of the instructions said to stir seven times, or for seven minutes, or a multiple of seven. She could even understand the general principle of clockwise versus anticlockwise. In the old days, anticlockwise—that is, anti-sun-wise—was considered “unlucky.” So it made sense that one usually needed to stir clockwise for “positive” effects and anticlockwise for “negative” effects.

But that didn’t explain all of the switching off between the two, like alternating three times clockwise with once anticlockwise. Or the straight back-and-forth stirs that they needed to do at one step. Or some of the more advanced potions in the book that required stirring in more complicated figure-eights or trefoils or star shapes. Hermione didn’t have a clue what the arithmantic foundations of those were, if they were arithmantic at all, though she wondered whether even fancier patterns like Lissajous curves and hypotrochoids would have any interesting effects.

Still, just following the instructions shouldn’t be that hard. They had just got done adding the sunflower petals (which, predictably, made the potion briefly glow the colour of sunlight) and moved on to the dwarf bamboo leaves when they started to notice their potion was a little off.

“Hold on, is that supposed to happen?” Hermione said after adding the leaves. The potion was much more faintly, but distinctly, glowing like sunlight.

Dean checked the book. “It doesn’t say anything about glowing at this step.”

“Then I wonder why—”

She was interrupted by a blinding flash followed by the sounds of people stumbling and a lot of cursing. She looked around for the source of the trouble, but she could only see spots in front of her eyes. When she could see again, she looked around to find Neville and Seamus, looking very embarrassed in front of a cauldron whose contents seemed to have caught fire.

“Imbeciles!” Snape snapped at them as he drew his wand and dispelled the flames. “The instructions clearly state to add two preparations of sunflower petals, not three. You could have blinded someone with a stunt like that. Two points from Gryffindor.”

“The sunflower petals!” Hermione whispered to Dean. “But we only added two preparations, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, just the two. What do you think happened?”

“I’m not sure. Just a moment…” Hermione pulled out One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi to look up the ingredients. She hummed to herself as she found the correct page. “There. Dwarf bamboo can grow in very low light and is extremely sensitive to sunlight. Of course, did you see how bright that flash was? The potion must be a lot more sensitive to the sunflower petals after adding the dwarf bamboo leaves. And that means…” She grabbed a scraper from the preparation kit and scraped it across the cutting board. Sure enough, when she pulled it away, there was a bit of yellow residue on the blade.

“Oh,” Dean made the connection. “The leaves were contaminated with residue from the sunflowers.”

“Exactly. We saw it doesn’t take much. We should have cleaned off the cutting board,” she said with annoyance. “Now, we’ll only get an E at best.”

“Is there any way to fix it?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. She was sure there would be—another dash of dwarf bamboo or an extra stir somewhere—but even the simplest modifications to potions were third year material, and most were higher than that. She wasn’t about to risk trying to guess it. “Not that we could do now. We’ll have to finish it as is and be more careful about cleaning everything next time.” And she wrote in her notes to do just that. They added the blueberries to seal the potion and turned in their sample along with the rest of the class.

The weekend passed quickly for Hermione. She started expanding her map, with her first priority being to pace off the whole non-forbidden part of the third floor so that she could be sure not to run into that awful dog again. She also took the time to pace off some of the classrooms and was annoyed, though unsurprised, to find that their combined length was slightly longer than the length of the corridor they ran alongside.

Between that, working on her homework, trying to avoid Harry Potter and all of the Weasleys, and venting her frustrations in a letter to her parents (mostly definitely not mentioning that dog—she’d rather not deliberately keep it from them, but you couldn’t just go and say something like that), it took up most of her time that weekend, and before she knew it, she was back in her Monday classes—not that she minded, of course. She was Hermione Granger, after all.

The following Thursday was her birthday, but she wasn’t expecting any special recognition, mostly because she hadn’t got around to telling anybody about it. It seemed like a terribly awkward thing to slip into a conversation if one wasn’t directly asked. It didn’t improve her mood when she saw a team of six owls drop a large, suspiciously-broomstick-shaped package in front of Harry Potter, but, of course, she was happy to see an owl head toward her that morning with a package from her parents.

“Oh, today’s your birthday?” Parvati said when she saw the colourfully-wrapped parcel. Hermione had been trying to stick close to Parvati and Lavender to avoid the boys, even though they rarely had much to talk about.

“Uh huh.”

“Hermione, why didn’t you tell us? Happy birthday!”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Thanks—It just never came up.” She unwrapped her package to find it was actually two presents. The first was a surprisingly large box of biscuits, and the second was a round, thick piece of plastic marked over with constellations. “Oh, wow, that’s a really nice planisphere,” she said.

“A what?” asked Lavender.

“A plainsphere. Muggle astronomers use it. It’s like a cross between an astrolabe and a star chart—for Astronomy Class,” Hermione answered. “You see, you set the time and date like this…and it shows you the right star chart.”

“Wow, that’s really cool. I didn’t know they’d come up with something like that.”

Hermione nodded and opened the attached letter:

Happy Birthday Hermione,

We don ’t know if this will get to you on Monday or Thursday. We addressed it to be delivered on Thursday, but we don’t know if Hogwarts will hold packages like that. Either way, have a great birthday. We thought your classmates might like to try a sample of our muggle desserts, so we sent enough biscuits for you to share, and we know you were complaining about having to use astrolabes, so your father found a nice planisphere to help with your studies.

We ’re sorry to hear some of your classmates are causing trouble. We’re a little surprised about that Harry Potter. You wrote before that he didn’t seem to let his fame go to his head. Anyway, it’s probably best if you avoid those two when you can. And we’re glad you didn’t get in trouble, but you need to be more careful about getting locked out of your dorm.

We hope your study group and your roommates will make better friends, though. You haven ’t told us much about them. Can you tell us what they’re like? How they grew up? You probably know a lot more than we do about wizard families by now.

Most everything ’s the same as always down here. We miss you, of course. Everyone asks us what you’re up to, and we have to get a little creative with the answers. But we’re so proud that you’re doing just as well at magic as in muggle classes. Keep up the good work.

Love,

Mum and Dad

She put the letter down, a little ashamed that she hadn’t got to know the people around her better. Between schoolwork and trying to avoid certain people, she hadn’t put much effort into getting close to any others. Plus, small talk had never been her strong suit, and being raised in a different culture didn’t make things any easier. Although for that day, she learnt, sharing the muggle biscuits did help some.

The following Saturday, she went back to pacing off the West Wing, spending the morning heading down from the part she had explored before: third floor, second floor, first floor, ground floor. She paced off the Great Hall and the Entrance Hall before finding the door that lead down to the dungeons. And that’s when the trouble started.

The above-ground part of the castle was straightforward enough, if a bit peculiar, but the below-ground part was a labyrinth. Dark, old corridors cut through the cold stone seemingly at random, lined with storage rooms and unused classrooms and apartments and actual dungeon cells that probably hadn’t been occupied in centuries. The place seemed to be constantly lit as if it were late at night and carried such a heavy air of creepiness that she wondered if it might have been intended to scare off non-Slytherins.

She wasn’t too worried about the labyrinth itself. She was making a map, after all. And if she did get lost, she could always brute force it by only turning right until she got back to where she came in. No, the corridors weren’t the problem. It was the people. She knew the dungeons were mostly the Slytherins’ domain. She had been hoping to not meet any more people on her explorations so that she wouldn’t have to explain what she was doing—again—but it was not to be. As she went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the school, she heard a voice call out behind her—quite possibly the voice she was least hoping to hear.

“Granger! What are you doing here?” It was Draco Malfoy. She kept pacing. “I know it’s you! I’d know that ridiculous bushy hair anywhere. Look at me when I’m talking to you, Granger.”

Hermione slowly turned around, clutching her sketchbook tight to her chest, trying to reach for her wand without being too conspicuous about it. She hadn’t forgotten the rumours about Malfoy being practised with a few choice curses. He was not someone she wanted to meet in a dark corridor—which was exactly what she was doing.

“So that’s what you’re up to,” he said triumphantly. “Snooping around trying to find our Common Room?”

She tried to keep her voice even: “No, Malfoy, I was just—”

“Oh, I know what you say you’re doing,” he sneered. “Everyone’s laughing about it. The little buck-toothed muggle-born girl thinks she’s going to make a map of the castle. As if anyone can do that.”

“I c-can,” she defended herself. “It’s not quite to scale, b-but—” Everyone was laughing about it?

Malfoy slowly stalked closer to her. She started backing away. “You’d better learn your place, Granger. Bad things happen to people who don’t.”

“P-please,” she stammered. “This is a p-public area. I’m just trying to learn m-my way around.”

He came right up to her, now. “Well, then, let’s see what you’ve been working on, if you’re not causing any trouble.” He grabbed the top of her notebook and tried to pry it from her grasp.

“No!” She pulled it back affording him only a glimpse of the map she was making of the dungeon. He grabbed it again.

“Give—it—here!” Malfoy spat. He yanked it out of her hands and inspected it. “A-ha!” he gloated. “I think I’ll just take care of this for you.” He ripped the map of the dungeon off the pad and started to crumple it up in one hand.

“No!” she yelled again, lunging to try to get it back. There was a flurry of swinging arms as Malfoy tried to smack her away and Hermione tried to block him. By accident, she happened to land a decent slap on his face, which distracted him long enough for her to grab both her notebook and the loose page and run away.

Unfortunately, Malfoy didn’t take kindly to that. “You’ll pay for that, mudblood!” he shouted. “Locomotor Wibbly!”

At instant later, Hermione felt her legs collapse out from under her, and she went sprawling painfully on the floor.

Malfoy strolled up to her, smirking to himself, undoubtedly with his wand at the ready. Hermione Granger wasn’t a fighter. She’d dealt with a few bullies in her time, but it was mostly by ignoring them. She certainly wasn’t used to them hexing her in the back. She wasn’t one to break rules in general, much less get into an actual fight, but the sound of the boy standing over her, laughing almost leeringly at her prone form, awoke something new in her—a visceral anger mingled with a desperate need for escape. If this boy was going to start breaking the rules and hexing her in the corridor, then maybe it was time she fought back. She didn’t know many strong spells yet that she was certain she could cast just now, but she could at least shoot sparks at him. She got hold of her wand and clutched it tight in her hand. She’d only get one shot, but if she could hit him in the face…

“Hey! What’s going on down here?”

Hermione looked up to see an older boy heading toward them from around the corner ahead, and thanked God when she saw he wore yellow-trimmed robes and a prefect’s badge. Her thoughts of hexing Malfoy back were completely forgotten.

Malfoy stopped. “What are you doing here, Truman?” he said with unmasked annoyance.

“Hufflepuffs use this level, too,” the prefect said. “Now what’s going on here, Mr. Malfoy?”

The younger boy grumbled a bit and then answered, “Miss Granger tripped. I was just helping her.”

She staggered to her feet and spun around to face him. “You were not! You—” But she stopped when she saw the hatred in his eyes. And she remembered her mother’s advice: “Just ignore them, and they’ll move on.” She hung her head and turned around. “Thank you,” she muttered to the prefect.

“I’ll help you find your way out of here, Miss Granger,” Truman said. “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Malfoy.”

The prefect led her out by way of the corridors near the Hufflepuff dorms, eventually coming out at the below-ground part of the Grand Staircase. Even in her dejected state, Hermione kept count of her footsteps so that she could recreate this path on her map afterwards. She would consider whether to risk the dungeons again some other time. She wished things wouldn’t be so divisive around here, especially around lines of blood status, but she supposed there were prejudices and rivalries in every school.

The one thing that confused her in this, though, was what Malfoy had called her—“mudblood.” She’d heard people talking about purebloods and half-bloods, so it wasn’t hard to guess the meaning, but she’d never heard that word before. And somehow, it didn’t seem like the kind of thing to bring up just now with the prefect. She filed it away to look up in the library later. It was bad enough that Malfoy had just taken her down like that. She at least wanted to know how offended she should be.

To round out the morning (and to get her mind off the dungeons), she decided to start in on the other towers in the West Wing. She couldn’t get into Ravenclaw Tower, and the Grand Staircase would be a whole morning to try to navigate by itself, so she found herself climbing up higher and higher in the North Tower, wondering what was even up there if it wasn’t dorms, since most of the staff apartments were either in the main part of the West Wing or off the Grand Staircase.

She was glad she’d already mapped out the rest of the West Wing. Even in something as simple as a rectangle, all the hidden doors and moving staircases made it tricky to find her way to the North Tower, and the tower itself climbed all backwards-like, like Cirith Ungol, with no real rhyme or reason. And then a painting of a little knight who couldn’t swing a sword straight started shouting challenges at her until she explained that she was on a “quest” to explore the entire castle.

Finally, she came to a landing that from the count of the stairs was probably two floors below the top of the tower, and the staircase ended. At first, she thought there was nothing up here, but she happened to look at the ceiling. There was a circular trapdoor there with a brass plaque on it like the ones the rest of the professors had on their office doors. It read, “Sybill Trelawney, Divination teacher.”

“This is an office?” Hermione mused. “I wonder how you get up there.”

The trapdoor swung open, and a silver ladder descended to the floor.

“You ask it. Of course you do.” She shrugged her shoulders, tucked her sketchbook under her arm, and climbed up the ladder.

She arrived at the top and found not an office, but what had to be a classroom, though it looked more like an abandoned tea shop. It was stiflingly hot, the air was thick with perfume and incense, and the entire room was dim and lit with red. Twenty-three little tables were squeezed into the room with twice as many chintz armchairs and matching pouf ottomans, so that there was barely room to turn around.

“Oh my…hello, what are you doing up here,” said a soft, ethereal-sounding, thickly-accented voice. A tall, spindly woman climbed down another ladder from above. Hermione thought the woman looked and sounded like a stereotypical eastern European fortune teller—crossed with a dressed-up praying mantis. She had frizzy dirty-blond hair that stuck out everywhere even more than Hermione’s own. She wore a spangled shawl and excessive amounts of costume jewelry and glasses so thick that you could start a fire with them. She smelled distinctly of sherry under all the perfume.

“Um, I was just exploring the castle,” she said nervously. “Are—are you Professor Trelawney?”

“Yes, dear, I am. And who might you be?”

“I’m Hermione Granger…” She couldn’t resist. She’d heard some about this teacher from Alicia. “If you teach Divination, didn’t you see me coming?”

“I see many things,” Trelawney said, with an eerie wave of her hands, “but not all may be interpreted. But come in, now. Let me see…precocious and inquisitive of mind, a wanderer far from the common path—were you perhaps born under Mercury?”

“Erm, I don’t know, Professor. My birthday was on Thursday.”

“Yes, Virgo, a child of Mercury, indeed.” The off-kilter way Trelawney stared at her through those magnifying glasses made Hermione rather uncomfortable.

“Do—do you live up here, Professor?”

“But of course, my apartment is just upstairs. Like you, I find that descending into the crowds of the main school clouds the Inner Eye.”

“I’m…not sure I have the “Inner Eye’…” Hermione started.

“But you keep to yourself, and you are separate from all others,” Trelawney continued.

“Not really…” Hermione said self-consciously.

But the Divination teacher kept going: “Oh, I sense great changes coming for you, dear. You will find the prize you are seeking in November—”

“What? I’m not seeking a prize—”

“But in the spring, one of your number will be sacrificed—”

“What number? I don’t have a “number.” I…I think you must be mistaken, Professor.” She said nervously, backing toward the ladder.

“Oh, those who have the Sight will know it.” Trelawney said.

“Yeah, uh…I think I’ll stick with arithmantic projections, ma’am.”

“Numbers cannot convey the full experience of the Inner Eye, child.”

“Well…maybe not, but…um, at least we know what we’re talking about—Goodbye, professor, I have to go.” Hermione reached the trap door and scrambled down the silver ladder, her heart pounding, Had she really just talked back to a teacher like that? Yes, yes she had. Professor Trelawney did not seem like the kind of teacher she would get along with, and she didn’t need the Sight to see that. She barely noticed that she hadn’t had a chance to pace off the classroom. Then again, it was too crowded with furniture to do it, anyway.

Still, she was a bit troubled as she returned to the more travelled parts of the castle. The woman may have been little better than a muggle fortune teller, but her words, “you are separate from all others’ hit a little too close to home. It wasn’t just maths that set her apart around here. The culture gap alone put her in a small minority, and she was more of a natural loner than she really liked to admit. It was so hard to relate to most of the people in the castle.

She decided to call it a day after that and head back to the Common Room. She started wondering what she was going to write to her parents tomorrow. As much as it pained her, she felt like most of today’s events were once again things that were probably best left out of her letters. Getting hexed in the back by a rich, privileged bigot wouldn’t play too well with her parents, and Professor Trelawney was just too weird to bring up.

Her roommates’ advice—just stay away from the Slytherins—was decidedly unhelpful. It certainly didn’t address the root problem. But she had to admit she didn’t have anything better to work with at the moment.

Chapter Text

The equation on the board read x = a/b - (b-c)/b.

“Now, given the rules of symbol manipulation, what is the simplest way to express the value of x?” Professor Vector asked. “Mr. Montague?”

The Slytherin boy thought for a moment. He was pretty bright, but like a majority of the the class, he had been mystified when the numbers vanished from the equations entirely. “A minus c divided by b?” he said uncertainly.

“No, Mr. Montague. Mr. Diggory?”

Cedric didn’t look much better off. He scratched a few symbols on his parchment and said, “A minus b minus c divided by b.”

“No, that’s not it either…Miss Granger!”

“Huh? Oh—a minus b plus c over b,” she said quickly, snapping out of her daze.

“Correct,” Vector said. “Miss Granger, I’m aware you had Astronomy last night, but I do expect you to stay awake in my class.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said sheepishly. A few people snickered behind her, and even the other members of her study group looked torn between being amused at her embarrassment and amazed that she could correctly answer a question the rest of them could barely understand without missing a beat, even while she was half asleep.

Hermione had stopped bothering to raise her hand in Arithmancy class pretty quickly, at least when it came to the maths lessons. Sometimes, Professor Vector would call on her after a couple of her classmates had got a question wrong, and sometimes she would just work it out on the board. The trouble was that this wasn’t how Hermione was used to doing things, and on Thursdays, it could be difficult to stay awake if she wasn’t adequately engaged. The worst part, though, was it wasn’t just Thursdays anymore. While the weekly two o’clock jaunts for Astronomy Class affected her worst, she was having trouble sleeping in general, staying up much later than she ought to reading every other night. It had started as an effort to try to learn more about the magical world so she could relate better, but it was fast turning into just a plain old bad habit.

While she was all but lost in thought, Professor Vector worked through the steps of simplifying the equation on the board to demonstrate her answer and then called on Alicia: “Miss Spinnet, would you care to solve this equation for b?”

“Um…” Alicia quickly, but very carefully, scribbled out the steps on her parchment, muttering to herself. “Um, a plus c divided by x plus 1?”

“Correct.” Alicia looked quite pleased with herself, as did Hermione, seeing that that she had got the point across to at least one member of her study group. She had to stifle a laugh a moment later when someone asked if it was magic that made the numbers appear and disappear from the equations like that. It was odd the way some people thought about magic when they were raised with it.

It was a chilly, foggy autumn day, the kind of day that made one glad of the thick, woollen Hogwarts robes. Sitting out here in the Viaduct Courtyard, everything was quiet and still. Even the birds were eerily silent in the fog. The loudest sounds were the whisper of autumn leaves and the scratching of her mechanical pencil. Hermione gazed up at the exterior of the castle and carefully sketched what she saw. This would be her first sketch of the outside of the castle to send to her parents, and she could see a fair bit from here: the Entrance Hall, the Great Tower, the whole face of the West Wing, and several of the towers of the East Wing. But she paid particular attention to the Great Tower, the huge column that housed the Grand Staircase.

She had finished breakfast quickly that morning to get an early start exploring the space around largest and most complicated of Hogwarts’s one hundred forty-two staircases. She started from the lowest part she could get to, the dungeon level, and worked her way up. There was a large set of doors on the dungeon level that indicated the staircase went lower, but they were locked. She hesitated there, about to head back up, but something stopped her. It wasn’t like anyone else followed the rules around here. She approached the doors, checked to make sure no one was around, then discretely drew her wand and whispered, “Alohomora.” The doors didn’t budge. Oh well, it was worth a try, though it did make her wonder why the third-floor corridor wasn’t protected by something stronger. Maybe someone had to feed the dog? She shuddered at the thought.

With three large, interlocking squares of rises and landings, there were lots of different ways for the stairs to go, and some part or other of the Grand Staircase was always in constant motion. She had to stop at one point when the flight she was on changed to connect to the forbidden corridor on the third floor and wait for it to change back. That wasn’t a mistake she was going to make again.

She counted the steps going up, making note of each room around the staircase, but as soon as she hit the eighth floor, above the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, things started to turn strange. First, the complex interlocking and changing staircases shrank down to a single square. It was still twenty steps on a side, but it later narrowed to fifteen, then ten as she ascended. The rooms off the staircase were also smaller here, and most of them seemed to be unused, while the few that were seemed to be either storage for specialised items or contained unusual experiments, presumably of Dumbledore’s, unless any of the other professors worked on such oddities as inside-out clocks and upside-down fountains up here.

On the seventeenth floor, the portraits started to look off. They looked fuzzy and distorted, as if they were copies of copies. The figures no longer spoke to her, and they moved in strange, jerky ways. Around the same time, the neat, cut stones of the walls became more and more irregular until they were little more than a rubble of rocks held together by mortar. A few floors later, the square staircase changed into a tighter spiral staircase, but the steps were crooked, and from counting the steps, she was sure she ought to be about fifty feet above the top of the tower by now. She couldn’t see how much higher the stairs went because of how the tower tapered, but she kept seeing a floor or two above her, so she kept going.

There were still rooms up here, if one could call them that. They were all about eight feet wide and between eight and sixteen feet long. She made careful note of each one in her notebook, but she could barely describe them. They looked like random fragments of rooms from elsewhere in the castle: a classroom with only three desks in it, a bedroom with barely enough room for a single bed. Some rooms had copies of the odd experiments she had seen below, but they were broken copies. They might have gears that would jam or pipes that just circled and never attached to anything.

There were little windows, too, windows that appeared to look out from the correct height, well above the roof of the castle. But later, looking up at the tower from the courtyard, she saw something she had never noticed before—row upon row of little windows that grew ever smaller and closer together until she couldn’t see them from this distance. It looked as if no matter how strange the castle became, its topology stayed the same: a window on the inside always matched up with a window on the outside. There was something comforting in that thought. At least the castle obeyed some rules.

Oh, but it was strange. As Hermione had climbed even higher, things became even more twisted. The portraits soon looked like moving modern art, and many of them weren’t rectangular and were missing parts of their frames. Things started not to be made of the right materials: one stair step might be wood and another steel, and they were sometimes so crooked that she could barely climb them. A few were missing all together. The ever-lit torches that lit the stairs might be made of copper or clay instead of wood, but they still burned, at least the ones that didn’t have their heads embedded in the wall. She even passed a suit of armour made of porcelain that had four arms. And there were doors made of glass, doors installed sideways, and doors so oddly shaped that it would be almost impossible to crawl through them. She started avoiding the shadowy corners, since she more than once found them home to overgrown spiders and other bugs, and in one case, a very large bat that thankfully flew down and away.

The tower continued to narrow so that the rooms became only about four feet wide, and by now they were filled with things that made no sense. Here there would be half of a desk, balancing impossibly on two legs; there, a chair with its legs installed upside-down, making it unusable; there again, a whole bed, but made entirely of leather and attached sideways to the wall because it was the only way it would fit. All three might be in the same room if it was long enough, and she was sure that the rooms had taken to changing whenever she turned her back.

Eventually, everything just seemed to melt together. She could feel the magic twisting around her. The stairs were still more or less usable, but everything else—wall, door, room, window, and furniture—all looked like a hodge podge, as if someone had taken bits of everything in the castle and thrown it all in a blender. To the extent that there were rooms, they looked more like closets.

She tried one door that looked like the door to a kitchen cupboard and inside a little cubby-hole found a small window and what she realised was supposed to be a bed. The mattress was the right thickness, but it was the size of an ottoman and had sheets made of very thin layers of stone. In place of a headboard was a fragment of a chair, correctly made of wood, but with its two legs tied into knots. One of the legs ended in a working hot water tap from which the water fell upwards and the other supported a bit of disembodied gear-work that appeared to be cut from portrait canvas and had splashes of colour flickering across it.

From the view out the window, it looked like she was well over four hundred feet in the air, twice the height of the entire castle. There weren’t any torches at that height, thankfully. Who knew what would happen if they got thrown in the magical blender? The only light came from windows that cut past the “rooms” directly into the staircase

After looking at the odd bed-thing, she heard a noise up ahead, a high-pitched chirping like a bird song. She moved up toward the noise, but when she did, a mouse the size of an Irish terrier leapt out of one of the cubby-holes, took one look at her, squealed like a pig, and bolted up the stairs.

Hermione ran screaming all the way back down the tower. It was only by a miracle that she didn’t trip on any crooked or missing stairs. She was done. There was no top of the tower; she was sure about it now. It just kept climbing higher and higher and got smaller and smaller until it dissolved into atoms and pure magic, and she was sure she would be eaten by a giant cockroach long before then. She didn’t stop until she had run down the three hundred feet of steps back to the seventh floor—where she very nearly collided with Albus Dumbledore as he was exiting his office.

She hadn’t had cause to meet the headmaster in person, yet, and this was not the way she wanted to do it. This was the Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, and Defeater of Grindelwald for Pete’s sake, and here she was, sweating, unkempt, scared out of her wits, and so out of breath that she found herself slumping against the wall to keep her feet.

But Albus Dumbledore only looked concerned at the state of his young student. “Miss Granger?” he asked. “What ever is the matter?”

“I—I was…up there…and there was a…” Hermione tried to articulate between breaths, pointing upward.

The Headmaster’s face became more worried. “Up in the tower? How high up did you go?”

“Way—way above the top—sir,” she stammered. “There was a…big mouse—big mouse!” She held her hands a couple of feet apart to indicate the size.

“Oh dear, that high? Miss Granger, I think you’d better go see Madam Pomfrey for a Calming Draught. And in the future, you should not venture any higher than the top of the tower ought to be without the help of a professor.”

She nodded profusely. “Yes, sir.”

“However,” Dumbledore said with a smile, “it is rare to see such curiosity about the castle from the students.” His eyes twinkled a bit as he continued, “Five points to Gryffindor for your initiative.”

Hermione’s mouth hung open for a minute until she came to her senses and squeaked, “Thank you, Professor,” before dashing off toward the Hospital Wing.

That hadn’t exactly been the best way to start the day.

After Madam Pomfrey had given her a Calming Draught—and some lunch, given the time, she headed out to the relative safety of the outside of the castle for a nice, normal afternoon alone sketching whatever she could see. That seemed to be the way things ended up on the weekends. Hermione wasn’t ashamed of liking her peace and quiet, but it did feel a bit isolating at times. No one was likely to be out here on a Saturday—out on the Training Grounds, maybe, but not here, overlooking the lake.

“Hermione?”

Her head snapped in the direction of the sound. “Dean? What are you doing out here?”

Dean Thomas was strolling toward her across the courtyard. “I was gonna draw some pictures of the castle for my folks,” he said.

“Really? That’s what I’m doing.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were an artist, too.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I just know enough geometry to manage with buildings.”

He sat down on the bench next to her. “Alright, then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

She slowly turned over her sketchbook to show him, nervous about having her work analysed by an actual artist.

“Hmm…it’s not bad,” Dean said. “Shading needs some work, and I don’t know if you were really going for the fine detail like the ivy and stuff.” He flipped back to the previous pages. “What’s this?”

Hermione snatched the sketchbook back defensively. “I was trying to map out the Grand Staircase,” she said. “It…didn’t go well.”

“Oh, sorry.”

The two of them sat mostly in silence as they sketched, neither one wanting to say much after that, although Dean gave her a few drawing tips. She felt uncomfortable about snapping at him, but she wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about her little adventure just yet. When she thought she was more or less done, she gave him a somewhat awkward goodbye and headed back inside.

“Today, we will begin our first unit on untransfiguration,” Professor McGonagall began. “Because transfiguration can be quite error-prone, it is vital to know how to reverse a transformation. This is a complex art in itself, which requires a mastery of a number of different spell tools, depending on whether the transfiguration is permanent or not, how much you know about the original form, and whether there are any other spells applied, especially form-locking spells.

“Now, for many temporary transfigurations, like most of what you’ve been doing so far, a simple Finite Incantatem will suffice, but this will not work on stronger or more permanent transfigurations, and at the same time, it will cancel many other charms and spells that you may not want to. So we will begin with the most general untransfiguration spell for when the original form of the object is known, Reparifarge, so that you will be able to reverse your own work if you make a mistake.”

Professor McGonagall looked pointedly at Hermione at the next part, as she often did when explaining the more esoteric points of her subject. “Reparifarge is approximately the arithmantic inverse of the general free transfiguration spell, which makes it effective at reversing a wide range of transfigurations, but not as powerful. And just as free transfiguration requires one to hold the target form clearly in mind, the inverse spell, Reparifarge, requires one to hold the original form clearly in mind.”

Hermione was surprised to find she didn’t know that bit. Numerology and Grammatica spoke much more about charms and jinxes than about transfiguration, something she considered a bit of an oversight. She knew the principle, of course, even if she didn’t know the breakdown for that particular spell: take a reciprocal of the arithmantic elements and build the spell from the first few algebraic terms—probably just the first two terms. She suspected that a spell this low level would only be a first order approximation.

She eagerly wrote down in her notes Professor McGonagall’s explanation and a few of her own speculations and questions based on it. As usual, she was the first to get the new spell to work, successfully untransfiguring her oak leaf back into a quill. She tried to help Harry Potter with his spell, since she’d wound up sitting next to him, but she didn’t think he seemed too interested in her help.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall called to her after class was over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“The Headmaster informed me about your little excursion in the Upper Levels.”

“Oh…” she said nervously.

“While I admire your perseverance in exploring the castle, I agree with him that you should be more careful. Magic can be unpredictable at times. If things start to turn strange…well, stranger than usual, it’s best to turn back sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said, slightly downcast, and left the room.

Hermione wandered the grounds for a while to find a good vantage point from which to sketch the back side of the West Wing. Heading out from the Clock Tower, past the little practice stone circle that the advanced students used once in a while, she headed down the path toward the groundskeeper’s hut. It was down at a lower elevation than she would have liked, but it would do.

She was nearly there when the huge groundskeeper himself stepped out from behind a pile of pumpkins that were somehow as super-sized as he was.

“Well, hello, there,” he called out jovially. “I weren’t expectin’ company today.”

“Hello, Mr. Hagrid,” Hermione replied timidly.

“Aw, yeh can jus’ call me Hagrid…”Fraid I don’t quite remember yer name, though,” he said.

“It’s Hermione, sir. Hermione Granger.”

“Well, good ter meet yeh, Hermione,” Hagrid said. “And what are yeh up ter out here today?”

“I’m…drawing a picture of the castle for my parents. This looked like a good place to do it, if that’s alright.”

“Well, o’ course it is. It’s got a nice view, don’ it? Come on, make yerself at home.”

“Thank you…Hagrid.” Hermione sat on the large front porch of the hut and took out her notebook.

“It’s nice havin’ company out here,” Hagrid mused. “I don’t see too many o’ the younger students. Of course, Harry Potter and his friend, Ron, come by every so often. Yeh know them?”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yeah…we’ve met,” she said. You couldn’t escape knowing all about Harry Potter, as much as the boy tried himself. It made her feel a little sorry for him, when she wasn’t busy being annoyed at him and Ron.

But Hagrid seemed to like them, like many people. “Good blokes, those two,” he rambled on. “Course, I had ter pick up Harry from his relatives this summer. Phew—nastiest bunch o’ muggles I ever met.”

“Really?” she squeaked. That was news to her.

“Oh, yeah. You shoulda heard what they were sayin’ about his parents and about Dumbledore. They hadn’t even told him what’d happened to his parents.”

Hermione quietly stopped sketching. That didn’t sound like the Harry Potter she knew—usually looking happy, doing okay in classes, nice enough most of the time, but annoyingly not afraid to get into trouble, especially around Malfoy, although it might explain why he never talked about his family, when Ron and everybody else did—even Hermione herself, if you asked her.

As if on cue, Hagrid said, “Mind yeh, most muggles are pretty decent folks. Yer parents are muggles, aren’t they?”

“Mm hmm, they’re dentists,” she said absently as she started drawing again.

“Dentists? What’s that?”

Did nobody in the magical world know what a dentist was? “They’re like healers, except they only work on teeth.”

“Huh, funny how they do things out there.”

Hermione found it was strangely pleasant talking to someone who had no idea who she was, about nothing in particular. In every school she attended, her reputation as a maths whiz ran ahead of her within a few days, but Hagrid didn’t seem to be in the loop, or perhaps he just didn’t remember. That wouldn’t surprise her.

“So yeh’ve been spendin’ yer Saturdays explorin’ the castle on yer own?” Hagrid said as she explained what she’d been doing.

“More or less. It’s hard when some parts of the castle don’t make normal sense—at least by muggle standards. But I’ve been through most of the parts that students are allowed in by now.”

“Hmm…” he said, impressed. “Must get lonely, though, don’t it?”

Hermione froze up. The truth was that she was getting lonely on these excursions. She hardly ever saw anyone out here—Dean once in a while, but they never had much to say to each other—which was a little odd, considering he was muggle-raised. And so much of the rest of the time, she was in schoolwork mode and didn’t really have much occasion to talk to people. She was starting to see the pattern, but this yet one more thing she wasn’t sure how to talk to anyone about, including her parents.

“It can be…” she admitted. “I see Dean Thomas out here drawing sometimes, but there’s not many people interested in this kind of thing. I think I’ve got most of the drawings I want done, though.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find some good friends in there. Always a pretty good lot, the students, most o’ them.”

“Yeah…sure…” She kept sketching, not letting Hagrid see her face.

As she was putting the finishing touches on her drawing, something struck her—something she couldn’t believe she’d never noticed before. “Hagrid?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“What’s above the Great Hall?”

“What’s above where?”

“Look.” She pointed up at the castle. “Above the Great Hall, there’s three rows of windows and three small towers. I’m sure they’re not visible on the inside. They must be above the enchanted ceiling. Do you know what’s up there?”

Hagrid stroked his wild beard in thought. “Hmm…can’t say I do. Never paid much attention ter that before. Don’t think anyone ever goes up there.”

Was it just her, or were there a lot of things about Hogwarts that nobody ever paid attention to? Then again, the castle was a thousand years old, and Hagrid was only the groundskeeper. Maybe one of the professors would know.

Nope. Nobody really did pay attention to what the castle looked like. Professor Vector said she’d never thought about what was above the Great Hall and had never heard of anyone using that space. Professor Binns was sadly useless, as usual, as was, more surprisingly, Hogwarts, A History. And she didn’t feel comfortable asking Professor McGonagall after the Grand Staircase fiasco—which was silly, she thought. It was a perfectly reasonable question. It was just the way everyone else seemed to ignore it that made her feel like it was taboo or something. And Professor McGonagall just didn’t seem to be the one to approach for that.

In a normal school, this wouldn’t have been a difficult question. But then again, in a normal school, a lot of things that had already happened to her this year wouldn’t have happened. And the students were no help, either. Of her study group, Cedric was the only one who had even noticed the rows of little windows. She’d tried the prefects all the way up to seventh year, too, and none of them knew what was up there either, much less how to get there.

Hermione sighed softly. Perhaps it was time she took more drastic action. She’d rather not go there, but she had to admit it probably would work—

“Hey, Hermione,” someone interrupted her thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, hi, Parvati,” she said, seeing her roommate sit beside her on the sofa in the Common Room.

“So I haven’t seen you much lately. Where do you go all the time?”

“The library, mostly…I like to get my homework done early…and then read for a while.”

“Well, I guess that’s good if you can. You should come and hang out with me and Lavender sometimes, though.”

“Oh, what do you do together?”

“You know, just talk. Or we could do your hair,” Parvati offered.

Hermione slumped back on the sofa and sighed loudly. She’d never had a single female friend who hadn’t offered to do that at least once. She didn’t particularly like her bushy hair, but she didn’t have time to get it under control every morning. Or, if she was brutally honest, she rarely wanted to take the time, like other girls did.

“Sorry. Just talk, then?” Parvati backed off.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at that either…what do normal girls talk about, anyway?”

“Mm…boys, Quidditch stars, family, other girls, whatever’s in Witch Weekly, how much we hate our teachers—”

“I like most of my teachers,” Hermione protested. “Besides, we have all but one of the same ones.”

“Well, there’s other things. Listen, how about I loan you my copy of Witch Weekly? Then you’ll at least know what’s going on.”

“Uh, sure, thanks,” she said unenthusiastically.

“Great…”

She tried reading Parvati’s copy of Witch Weekly that evening. She really did. But she gave up halfway through. She just couldn’t slog through all of those gossip columns. It didn’t help that she didn’t even know who Gwenog Jones was, much less why she should care about her correspondence with Kirley Duke of the Weird Sisters. She didn’t care for that in the muggle world, and here was no different.

What did she talk about with her friends back at home—besides school, anyway? Books? Movies? Sure, there was a fair bit of that, but most people in the magical world didn’t even know who Tolkien was, let alone Arthur Clarke, and they’d certainly never seen a muggle film, any more than she’d seen a magical play. Relationships? Well, they were starting to in secondary school, but she’d been out of her element there, too.

Honestly, Hermione liked maths, science, science fiction, fantasy, chess, classical music, history—she could find other girls like that in the muggle world, but at Hogwarts—at best, she was in the wrong house for that. When it came down to it, she just had to admit that she had almost nothing in common with Lavender or Parvati. And Lily and Sally-Anne weren’t much better. They mostly just hung out with each other, and she rarely saw them outside of class since they were both even more morning people than she was. She was starting to wonder if the Sorting Hat had been right not to put her in Ravenclaw.

Meanwhile, her lingering problem of figuring out what was above the Great Hall was still tugging at her mind, and she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she had only one useful resource left.

Well, this was it, she thought. This was her last, best hope for solving the mystery. It was risky, but if she was a Gryffindor, she might as well put it to some use.

“Hello, Fred, George,” she said uneasily when she caught the Weasley Twins in the Common Room.

“Why, hello, Miss Granger. What can we do for you?” one of the red-haired boys said—probably Fred. She was starting to notice that Fred was the more outgoing of the two and more often the first to speak.

“Ah, you two know a lot about the castle, right?”

“Do we know a lot about the castle, Fred?” the second twin said, laughing.

“I’d say we know a fair bit, George. Trying to find a way to sneak out, are we?”

“No! I was just wondering if you could tell me what’s above the Great Hall.”

They stared at her in confusion. “Come again?” George said.

“There are three rows of little windows above the Great Hall. I was wondering what’s up there. Even Professor Vector didn’t know.”

Now the twins stared at each other. “I never noticed that,” George said.

“Me neither,” Fred replied. “I’ve never seen them mentioned…anywhere.”

“Do you think we should check with, uh…” George lowered his voice.

“Yes, I think we should. Miss Granger, could you give us a few minutes while we check our…sources?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Come on, George, let’s go.” They dashed up the staircase to their dorm room.

Hermione wondered what that was all about. If she found out those two had had a map this whole time, she would…well, she wasn’t sure what she would do yet, but she’d at least reconsider her stance of not antagonising them.

Up in their room, Fred and George quickly made sure there was no one inside, shut the door, and took out their most prized possession: the Marauder’s Map.

The Marauder’s Map was one of the most impressive bits of charms work they had ever seen. They’d filched it from Filch in their first year—from his “Confiscated and Highly Dangerous’ file, no less. At first, they’d thought it was just a piece of parchment charmed to make snarky comments at people, but, apparently sensing the presence of a couple of pranksters, it had led them on until they’d discovered the pass phrase: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

They spoke the pass phrase now, and the map came to life, drawing in the names of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, those great unknown patrons of magical mischief-makers.

It was a complicated piece of work. The map unfolded to about three feet wide, and even then, the little dots that represented the occupants of the castle were barely bigger than periods. At meal times, the Great Hall was just a jumbled mess of names in between long rows of dots.

But it was surprisingly easy to use. The map was laid out like a book, with the West Wing on the left-hand page and the East Wing on the right-hand page. The front cover showed the title and a stylised representation of the grounds. The first spread was the dungeons, with some cutaways for the storage rooms under the dungeons. The next was the ground floor, then the first floor, and so on, up to the seventh floor. Finally, the tenth spread and the back cover were covered in dozens of little circles—cross sections of all the towers all the way up to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Finding a person in all those pages could be difficult, but finding a place should have been easy. Yet even though they checked all the levels just to be sure, they found their memories were accurate: the building that housed the Great Hall was only drawn on the spread for the ground floor.

“Huh, that is odd,” Fred said. “I know I’ve seen those windows, but they’re not on the map.”

“I know…” said George. “Maybe the Marauders never went up there.”

“Blasphemy!” his twin exclaimed. “Burn the blasphemer!”

“It would make sense, though,” George laughed. “Not much reason to go there if no one ever uses it. And if even some of the professors don’t know—”

“—they really might not have thought about it. Wow…”

“I think that girl’s really going places.”

“Oh, yes, brother. Merlin help us all if she ever turns that mind of hers to pranking. Any ideas how to get up there, now?”

“Well, there must be a door off the Great Hall or the Entrance Hall somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to look. You?”

“Haven’t the foggiest…but I know someone who might.”

Both twins broke into wicked grins. “Mischief managed.”

Hermione was waiting in the chair where they’d left her when the Weasley Twins ran back down the stairs.

“You have us at a loss, Miss Granger,” one of them said.

“Even we do not know what is above the Great Hall—”

“—something we thought was impossible.”

“Oh, alright then,” Hermione said, disappointed.

“You seem to have quite the knack for finding out things, though,” the second twin said. She gave an equivocal nod. She thought that was far more down to everyone else’s lack of curiosity.

“If you should discover what is up there—”

“—We do hope you’ll let us know.”

“It’s a rare treat to meet anyone who can compete with us on this sort of thing.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

She was glad when they left her alone after that. She could appreciate the compliment, but she still didn’t want their reputations rubbing off on her.

As for searching for a way into the unknown space, she could try checking for doors in that part of the castle that led up, but it wouldn’t be easy. She had the rest of the castle pretty well mapped out now and had been in all the other towers that weren’t off limits, but that was mostly from asking the older students how to get places. There were so many hidden doors and doors that were really “walls just pretending” in Hogwarts that it would be hard to find a new place that nobody knew about. And in the meantime, with her mapping efforts, she hadn’t kept up with her calculus studies as well as she’d intended, not to mention trying to get to know her fellow students. Maybe it was time that she took a break from her exploring, she thought.

Chapter Text

Hermione was on edge from the minute the Potions class started, when she and Dean found themselves at a table adjacent to Draco Malfoy and his crony, Goyle. Just what she needed, she thought. It was hard enough just dealing with Professor Snape every week. Malfoy had more or less left her alone since their confrontation in the dungeons, but he had been in an increasingly bad mood in the last two Potions classes.

“Padma heard from Mandy Brocklehurst who heard from Daphne Greengrass that Malfoy’s been complaining because a muggle-born is getting better grades than he is,” was Parvati’s breathless explanation, and Hermione had to conclude that it was depressingly plausible, from what she had heard about pureblood politics. Hermione just continued to ignore him. After all, there had been people around who were jealous of her intelligence since she was five. She had no intention of letting anything the little git said interfere with her studies.

But Malfoy didn’t say anything to her. He only sneered at her a few times. Actually, he sneered at her fairly often, as he kept glancing suspiciously in her direction, but she didn’t think much of it. It was only when she and Dean were both bent over the Potions book, checking the next step, and Snape was at the far corner of the room making waspish comments at Harry and Ron, that Malfoy made his move.

Hermione saw the movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up just in time to see Malfoy toss a handful of something into her cauldron. She didn’t quite get a good look at it, but she didn’t need to, as the potion’s reaction made it obvious, almost instantly boiling over in exactly the same way that Neville and Seamus had botched their potion last week.

It was only by reflexes faster than Hermione knew she had that catastrophe was averted. She reached under the cauldron and flipped the burner off before the now-explosive liquid touched it—the blast last week had been enough to send Seamus to the Hospital Wing. As it was, she got a scalded hand for her efforts, but that was the least of her problems, and Snape had turned toward the shouts and was approaching with a wicked grin.

“Tut tut,” he said, casually vanishing the spilt potion with his wand. “Pine nuts again. Thought you’d try to experiment without permission, Granger? Or did you actually manage to read the wrong page?”

“N-neither, Professor,” she stammered. “Malfoy threw them in.”

“I did not,” Malfoy said indignantly. “I can’t help it if you don’t know how to brew a simple potion.”

“But I saw you throw them!”

“Prove it!”

Hermione turned a hair paler and looked at Dean pleadingly, but he shook his head slightly. He hadn’t been looking that direction, and, Gryffindor though he was, he wasn’t about to lie to Snape.

“Well, I’d say this work rates a Poor,” Snape said. Hermione’s eyes grew to the size of saucers in horror. “No use trying to salvage what’s here, and I’m afraid you won’t have time to start over.” He vanished the contents of their cauldron without another word.

“Professor,” she tried again, “We don’t even have any pine nuts set out here. The potion doesn’t call for them. We didn’t put them in.”

“I still see no proof,” Snape said viciously. “You should not make unfounded accusations, Miss Granger.”

“But I—”

“And five points from Gryffindor for talking back.”

Hermione let out a small squeak and clenched her fists tightly under the table. She wanted very much to walk out right now, but she knew that would just make things worse. Lavender and Parvati gave her a sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry about that,” Dean whispered when Snape moved on. “I wasn’t paying attention, and—”

“Just forget it,” Hermione said. She turned away from him and sat down and read the textbook for the rest of the period.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t even get off that easily. As she left the classroom, not looking up from her feet, she’d only made it a short way down the corridor when she heard a voice call out, “Running off crying to McGonagall, are you, Granger?”

She whirled around. “I am not crying!” she shouted, which was quite true. She was far too angry. “Can’t we just stay out of each other’s ways, Malfoy?”

“Like I’m going to do what you say, mudblood. Somebody needs to show you your place.”

“I’m only trying to do well in my classes—”

Malfoy just talked over her. “Your sort don’t really belong here in the first place. I don’t know how you pulled one over on Professor Vector—”

“I didn’t—!”

“—but I think you can see Professor Snape knows how to handle people like you properly.”

Malfoy drew his wand and, almost faster than she could follow, cast, “Tsimpima!”

She tried to dodge, but the spell hit her left shoulder, and she could attest then that the Stinging Jinx lived up to its name.

“Ouch! Please, I don’t want any trouble.” Hermione raised her own wand defensively and backed away.

All three of them took a step toward her, grinning evilly. “No prefects around to save you now,” Malfoy said. She yelped as he hit her with another Stinging Jinx, evidently unafraid of retaliation.

She needed to get away from them, and fast. She needed to keep them from following and hexing her, which meant she needed a way to slow them down reliably without using too much power. One of the very few jinxes they’d learnt so far in Defence Class was the obvious solution. She raised her wand, still vaguely horrified at the blatant rule-breaking of it, and uttered, “Colloshoo.”

Crabbe, who was nearest to her, toppled forward, his shoes stuck firmly to the floor. She turned her wand on a surprised Malfoy, but before she could cast again, she heard a gruff voice say, “Vermillious, and she got a face full of red sparks from Goyle. Then, as she blinked them away, Malfoy yelled, “Mordeodigiti!”

The Toe-Biting Jinx hit her in the stomach, but that didn’t matter. She felt her trainers constrict painfully around her toes, so much that she stumbled and collapsed onto her bum, struggling to scoot away from them. Crabbe unstuck himself, and the three boys started advancing on her again. She raised her wand to defend herself, desperately trying to think of a spell that could even the odds. With a cry of “Verdimillious!” she created a cloud of green sparks large enough to cover all three of them, but even as she uttered the spell, the boys were lowering their wands.

“Magic in the halls? I’m sure you know that’s against the rules, Granger.” Out of nowhere, Professor Snape was looming over her.

She managed to scramble to her feet, though she still couldn’t feel her toes. “But, Professor, they—”

“Ten more points from Gryffindor, and be thankful it’s not more. Now, get a move on!” he snapped. The boys smirked at her silently.

Hermione stood stock still for an instant, every muscle on a hair trigger, and then spun on her heel and ran down the corridor—not so much because she was upset, though she was, but because she knew instinctively that if she opened her mouth again, she would say something she would regret. It was a pure fight-or-flight response, she thought afterwards, and that was definitely not a fight she could win. She spent most of that afternoon in her dorm room. After losing fifteen points in one morning—all of them completely unfair—she could be forgiven for not wanting to face her house-mates any more than necessary. She never thought she’d be so glad to see the weekend.

Hermione sat in the library on Sunday, trying to fight off one of those afternoon attacks of sleepiness that seemed to be hitting her more and more often. It was her own fault, of course, for staying up past midnight so often. She almost felt like she’d been bewitched, it was so hard to break the habit.

She’d spent the weekend, like the last couple, off by herself, reading—the time she didn’t need for homework, anyway. She felt vaguely like she ought to be hanging out with her roommates or something, but anymore, it felt like by the time she got to the weekend, she needed the time alone to rest up mentally. Besides, she enjoyed taking some time out to read what she wanted to, whether it was about the Second Derivative Test or Animal Ghosts of Britain or just taking a closer look at One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi—when she could stay awake, anyway.

She might well have dozed off for a few minutes, her head hanging low over the table. At a sharp sound, she snapped awake—it was only an older Ravenclaw slamming a book shut, but at least she was reasonably alert again. She reread the page she was on so she could actually remember it and kept going.

With a start, she soon noticed the light through the windows was fading. She checked her watch and started fuming. She was late for dinner! This was happening far too often lately; she couldn’t understand where the hours went. She would barely have time after dinner to scribble out a letter to her parents and send it before curfew, and while her homework for tomorrow was done, she still had a Charms essay that she’d somehow managed to put off for the whole weekend. Again.

Hermione Granger never thought she would have trouble getting her homework done. And no, she certainly hadn’t missed an assignment, nor had her marks fallen. But it felt like it was getting harder to keep up, even though the work objectively wasn’t any harder, and that worried her to no end.

Hermione was by no means incompetent at managing her own studies. The obvious thing to do in a situation like this was to draw up a homework schedule, which she did. Unfortunately, and uncharacteristically, she couldn’t seem to predict how long her homework would take anymore. She was having a harder time focusing than she used to. Not that she was slacking off by any means—if she thought about it, she was reading more voraciously than she ever had in her life, since she was usually more engrossed in numbers. Even she had a hard time believing how fast she was getting through books, but there was no useful order to it. She just grabbed whatever book caught her eye off the library shelves—there were so many of them—and most of them were of little practical import to her classes. Even a detailed history of Grindelwald’s War, for example, contained little to nothing in the way of magical instruction, wizarding culture, or even duelling tactics, which were likely to be useful in day-to-day life. But Merlin, it was fascinating—wow, she really was starting to talk like them.

Anyway, she wasn’t used to being this easily distracted, and it disturbed her not knowing where it was coming from. It disturbed even more her that she was barely motivated enough to finish her homework on time, and she really didn’t know where to turn. It would be hard enough to tell her parents in person, let alone in a letter, and this just wasn’t the sort of thing she could tell a teacher. Not with her reputation. And there was nothing academically wrong with her—well, besides Snape—so why bring it up?

Hermione ate dinner quickly, paying little attention to what was on her plate and speaking only a few curt words to anyone who spoke to her. She felt exhausted, and the day wasn’t over yet—plus, she still didn’t really feel like dealing with people right now. When she was done eating, she then trudged up to the owlery. It was actually starting to feel like a chore writing these letters home every Sunday, which was probably another bad sign. She didn’t dislike it—in fact, she would have liked to spend more time on it, but the problem was that time was something she never seemed to have enough of, even when she thought she ought to. And, more to the point, she never really knew what to say anymore.

But her mum and dad were expecting her to write, so she went up and hesitatingly wrote out a short note, just putting down whatever came to mind. Oddly, most of the unpleasant things that had been going on literally didn’t come to mind, not until she was sitting up in the Common Room wondering why not, and if she really would have written them anyway.

She tried to get started on her Charms essay and managed to write about a foot—that she would probably have to rewrite tomorrow, since she kept dozing off in her chair, rendering it far more disjointed than her usual work. In an unusually clear moment of self-awareness, she decided that she must be even more sleep-deprived than she thought. Normally, if she was behind on her work (and this was behind for her), she would stay up late to finish it, but that wasn’t working anymore, since she just couldn’t stay awake to do it. She’d have to finish the essay up tomorrow. She wearily climbed the seven flights to her bedroom and, like Sally-Anne had their first night, fell asleep on her bed without even changing out of her robes.

Daniel and Emma Granger waited in the kitchen at breakfast on the Monday before Halloween for her daughter’s weekly letter to arrive. Sure enough, right on time, a short-eared owl flew up to house and tapped on the window with its beak. Emma opened the window, took the letter from the bird, and fed it a piece of bacon. It hooted happily and flew up into the tree, where it would wait for them to write a reply. The Grangers were still amazed at how intelligent the post owls were.

Emma opened the envelope and sighed. Hermione’s letters had been getting progressively darker over the past few weeks. It wasn’t anything major. It just seemed like the mentions of her classmates were growing fewer, or when she did mention them, it was more often to complain about them. And while she was doing well in her classes, it was becoming clear that History, Defence, and Potions all frustrated her endlessly. The letters had grown a bit shorter and sparser, too. She could tell her daughter wasn’t sure what to write anymore. It was hard for any parent  to see their child begin to grow up and grow apart from them, but a it was lot harder when she was living in an entirely different world and apparently not adjusting well.

So Emma was more than a little concerned when her daughter’s latest letter came out a good deal less neatly written than usual.

“Oh, dear, it looks Hermione’s really got trouble now,” she said sadly.

“Oh, what happened?” Dan said.

Emma read the letter aloud.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I just don ’t know what to do anymore! Professor Snape gave Dean and me a Poor on our potion on Friday. A Poor! And he knew that we were doing just fine until that git Draco Malfoy sabotaged us. He managed to slip pine nuts into our cauldron, and it boiled over. (Pine cones are opened by fire, so they have a strong reaction to the heat—it ’s not important.) We tried to tell Professor Snape, but we couldn’t prove Malfoy did it.

I asked Professor McGonagall if there was anything we could do, but she just said to file a complaint, and I asked around, and people say Professor Snape has complaints filed against him all the time, and no one ever does anything because he has friends on the Board of Governors! Including Malfoy ’s father! I filed a complaint against him and Malfoy, but there’s not much she can do because Professor Snape is in charge of the Potions grades.

Parvati said she thought Malfoy was mad because I ’m getting higher grades than he is, and he’s one of those purebloods who think they’re better than everybody else. And then Harry Potter and Ron Weasley said to just let it go. Actually so did Lavender and Parvati. And Neville Longbottom said he thinks Snape and Dumbledore worked together during that civil war or something, and that’s why Dumbledore never does anything about him. It’s like everyone just accepts how awful Professor Snape is because they can’t do anything about it, and the worst part is I can’t think of anything to do either.

Arithmancy this week was weather forecasting. I don ’t think it’s up to muggle standards, though. In fact, I’m not even convinced it’s really magic like before when we used numerology for probability manipulation, but it seems to work well enough for wizards. I’m really excited for Charms this week, though. Professor Flitwick says we’re finally going to learn levitation.

Love from Hermione

“I can’t believe they let that man get away with that,” Dan groused.

“Well, we know the magical world is behind the times,” Emma said dejectedly. “I just wish we could do more for her. It’s like Year 3 in primary school all over again, except we’re not there to hold her when she cries.”

“God, I was hoping I could wait a couple more years before seeing our little girl have her heart broken,” Dan said. “I don’t know what we can do, though. They’re going to make her go to a magical school somewhere, and it’s really only going to be Hogwarts or that one in France.”

“Just keep encouraging her, Dan. That’s all we can do.

Dear Hermione,

That sounds pretty awful about Professor Snape. He shouldn ’t be allowed to behave like that, no matter whose friend he is. Out here, if something like that happened, someone would write a letter to the paper and complain, but I don’t know if you can get away with that there, especially while you’re still in his class. Are there some older students or former students who aren’t taking Potions anymore who could do something? We wish we could do more for you, but the magical world is so isolated from the “muggle” world that we don’t have much access to anything, really.

We do hope your year isn ’t going too badly for you. You were so excited to start learning magic this summer, but now it sounds like a lot of your classes are causing trouble. And you don’t seem to be all that close with your classmates. We’re sure it’s hard adjusting to what’s basically a completely different culture, but we do worry about you. We want you to do your best, yes, but we also want you to enjoy yourself. If you have any kind of problems, please try to at least find a teacher you can talk to. We know you haven’t had much luck with Professor McGonagall, but Professor Vector and Professor Flitwick both sound pretty helpful.

Please try to stick it out, at least for this year. If you really think it would help, we can look into having you transfer somewhere else, but, honestly, there aren ’t that many options. Just remember that we love you and support you here at home.

Love from Mum and Dad

Hermione read over the letter with a frown when she took it from the owl the next day. She was all too aware that she wasn’t that close to her classmates, and her classes certainly weren’t all she had hoped they would be. But transfer? She hadn’t even considered that, and she hadn’t even told her parents the worst. She wasn’t the first person Malfoy had sabotaged in class, not to mention the hexing incidents. But leaving Hogwarts would feel like failing—like giving up. There had to be some way to make things better here, if only she could understand how things worked in the magical world. If only she could understand why she was having so much trouble independent of everything else. She felt like she was on the verge of failing a test that could have passed with flying colours if she’d tried…if she only knew where to even start.

Well, her parents had given her one idea. And she happened to be sitting right by one person who might be able to help.

“Percy,” she said, turning to the red-haired prefect on her left.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do about Professor Snape?”

Percy glanced up at the High Table, where Snape was grimly reading the morning paper and taking a sip of tea. He leaned a bit closer to Hermione. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

“Well, he gave Dean Thomas and me a Poor on our potion when we were sabotaged by Draco Malfoy, and he…took he took fifteen points from me for things Malfoy started.” She sniffled slightly. “And he’s a really unfair teacher in general.”

“Oh, sorry, that’s too bad.” Percy said sympathetically. “Draco Malfoy’s been a bigger troublemaker than most of the Slytherins all year.”

“Malfoy, you say?” She turned to see Fred and George sitting a couple of seats down between Alicia and another Quidditch player, Angelina Johnson. “If you’re having trouble with Malfoy,” one of them said—George, she thought, “you might appreciate what’s going to happen to him this morning.”

“Alright, what did you two do?” Percy asked warningly.

“We will not confirm or deny any involvement,” George replied.

“You’ve got nothing on us,” Fred confirmed. “Why, maybe it was Lee who did it.”

“But it should be pretty entertaining, right Fred?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, guys,” Hermione said nervously. “What if he tries to get you back?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy’s smart enough not to try anything in the Hall.”

“Besides, we’ve got two years’ experience on him and those two lumps he calls his friends.”

“It’s not you I’m wor—”

“Oww! Augh! Let go! Get this—stupid thing—off of me!” Hermione was cut off by a very nasally-sounding Draco Malfoy leaping from the Slytherin Table and shouting loudly. He pulled something that looked like a teacup off his face and smashed it against the wall. With half the school laughing at his now unusually-red nose, he glared across the Hall at the Weasley Twins, who were laughing the most hysterically of all. Most of the Professors looked quite displeased by the incident, and Snape had swooped down to make a show of taking care of things at the Slytherin Table, but Malfoy had already sat down, since he really couldn’t try anything with so many eyes on him, and started muttering angrily to Crabbe and Goyle.

“A nose-biting teacup!” Percy exploded. “And in the middle of the Great Hall! Really?”

“Brilliantly simple!” George exclaimed.

“I didn’t think it would work,” said Fred.

“Professor McGonagall will hear about this,” Percy grumbled.

“Ah ah ah, brother, you still have no proof we did anything,” Fred countered.

“Especially since Malfoy smashed the thing.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “One of these days, these pranks are going to come back to bite you two,” he said.

“Bite you! Ha!” George said.

“Maybe he does have a sense of humour.”

“He does have a point,” Hermione suggested. “If nothing else, Professor Snape can find an excuse to take points from you in class.”

“Yeah, but he does that anyway,” said George.

She and Percy both rolled their eyes. “Percy, I know a lot of the sixth and seventh year students don’t take Potions anymore,” she said. “Couldn’t they write letters to the Daily Prophet or something about Professor Snape?”

“Well, they could,” Percy said with a sigh. “Unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t help all that much. There actually was a letter-writing campaign a few years ago, when my brother, Bill, was starting here. A lot of people complained about him, but Professor Dumbledore didn’t want to fire him, and Lucius Malfoy convinced the Board of Governors to let him off with what amounted to a slap on the wrist. But you shouldn’t worry too much. Snape usually won’t give you too much trouble if you keep your head down and are respectful to him.”

Hermione sighed and wearily went back to her breakfast. Apparently, there was no getting rid of Professor Snape. For supposedly being the best school of magic in the world, Hogwarts had some serious issues. A Potions teacher who hated children, and yet nobody could seem to get rid of him was only part of it. History? Binns had seniority on everybody, including Dumbledore. Defence? Supposedly cursed, and, given the small size of the wizarding world, they were lucky to get anyone to teach it at all. And bullying? For Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, apparently, the number one rule at Hogwarts was, “Don’t get caught.”

She left breakfast wishing she could go back to bed, and not just because she hadn’t got enough sleep. But no, she had Charms this morning. Percy went on ahead to…wherever he went all the time—he seemed to just appear and disappear at random, juggling his twelve classes. So she followed Alicia, with half the Quidditch team close beside, when she heard a voice call out, “Alright, Weasels, I know it was you!”

She looked over her shoulder to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle storming toward them, wands already drawn.

“Why, Mr. Malfoy, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” George said, obviously holding back a laugh, since Malfoy’s nose was still bright red.

“You think almost taking my nose off is funny, do you?” Malfoy fumed. “Did you put them up to this, Granger? I didn’t think you had the guts to go out for revenge.”

“No!” she cried in horror as Crabbe moved toward her. “I didn’t—”

“I know Miss Granger wasn’t involved,” Fred said, stepping in front of her. “She’s far too much of a killjoy for following the rules.”

“You should not make unfounded accusations, Mr. Malfoy,” George added, mimicking Snape’s voice. “After all, can you prove that any of us was involved?”

“And besides,” George continued, “if, hypothetically, we were in some way involved with planting that little teacup on your table…”

“We wouldn’t need an excuse,” they said in unison.

By now, Alicia and Angelina had backed away behind Hermione. Hermione had started backing away, too, but not fast enough because Malfoy and his friends and Fred and George all started casting spells.

Several things happened very fast. First, spells started flying—she didn’t even know who cast what, but she distinctly heard “Tarantellegra,” “Furnunculus,” and “Vermillious.” Then, there was a loud bang as the spells collided and interacted unpredictably, and a whirlwind of red sparks exploded through the corridor. Hermione was thrown to the floor, and she felt a painful heat on her skin as the sparks danced dizzyingly around her eyes. When she came to her senses, she smelt something smoldering. She looked and saw the letter her parents sent her, which, being written on paper rather than less flammable parchment, had been set on fire by those overpowered sparks.

“My letter!” she screamed. She scrambled over and quickly beat the little flames out with the sleeve of her robes, but the damage was done. The letter was barely still in one piece and barely readable.

“My father will hear about this!” She looked over and saw the primary participants in the battle all had boils on their faces and were wobbling on dancing legs. From the blistering sensation on her face, she was sure she had a few boils herself. The hem of Goyle’s robe was on fire. Malfoy looked apoplectic, but he didn’t try anything else and instead staggered away, presumably to the Hospital Wing.

Fred and George quelled their dancing feet with a simple Finite Incantatem and helped Hermione to her feet.

“Phew, things can get a little crazy if you mix too many spells,” George said. “If you don’t still have that Boil-Curing Cream from your first week, we have extra. You don’t really need the Hospital Wing for it.”

“We are sorry about that,” Fred told her. “We didn’t think he’d try to start something.”

“Well, not with anyone but us, anyway,” George corrected.

“See, we’ve been told on plenty of times before, and—”

“Thanks,” Hermione muttered as she pushed past them, averting her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Alicia asked as she ran past.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Right now, she just wanted to get away where they wouldn’t see her crying, but she could probably compose herself in time for class. The way she figured it, she had just enough time to run back up to her dorm—Thank God she actually had saved some of that Boil-Curing Cream to show her parents. And thank God Snape had actually let her when she asked. (He claimed he appreciated people “showing some actual interest.”) It was about the one sensible thing he’d done in his class.

“Well, I feel kind of sorry for her, now,” Fred mused as he watched Hermione go. “That was mostly our fault.”

“She seems to be having a hard enough time,” George agreed. “And I’ve seen that same look she has on Percy. She’s obviously working too hard.”

“Mm-hmm. I wish we could do something to get her to come out of her shell a bit,” Fred replied with a grin.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Alicia Spinnet came back and scolded them. “She’s got enough problems without you two messing things up for her.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t do anything bad to her. Just a bit of fun,” he replied.

“Like maybe prank her slide rule to crack a few jokes,” George suggested. “Do you know where she keeps it?”

“Prank her slide rule?” Alicia said incredulously. “She’s Hermione Granger. She doesn’t use a slide rule.”

“Well, we just thought it would help if she could laugh at herself a little,” Fred told her. “Besides, it might convince Malfoy she didn’t have anything to do with his little incident.”

“You two just lay off her, will you? She’s having a hard enough time adjusting to the magical world as a muggle-born. She never had any magical friends before, and she’s been having a hard time opening up to people here.”

“It can’t be that bad. You guys are her friends, aren’t you?” asked George. “And we’ve seen her hanging around with some others in her year.”

“You know what,” Fred interrupted, “if you feel that strongly about it, we won’t prank her. She’s probably too smart for us, anyway.”

George snapped his head to look at his twin in surprise.

“Thank you,” Alicia said. “It’s good to see you have a sympathetic side.” She walked off.

“Why did you do that?” George whispered.

“Because I just had an idea.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“Not today, brother. Besides we can’t have Alicia tipping little Hermione off. She’s too smart to just slip something by her, like Malfoy.”

“But you just said—”

“I said we wouldn’t prank Hermione Granger. Have you noticed where she usually sits at mealtimes?”

“Ohh…” He remembered quite well, now.

“Exactly. Now all we need is some kind of light-hearted area-effect prank to nail the both of them at once.”

“Well, now that you’ve brought him up, I did have an idea for combining a Comb-a-Chameleon with a Springloaded Switching Siphon.”

“Oh? Do tell…”

“So an exponent…means…” Cedric Diggory checked his notes. “Multiplying a number by itself over and over.”

“That’s right,” Hermione said. “It’s a lot like how multiplying is adding a number to itself over and over.”

The Wednesday afternoon study group was probably the high point of Hermione’s week so far, although she was looking forward to Halloween, too. But what with the mess with Snape and Malfoy, plus little annoyances like Ron Weasley being in an even worse mood than normal for no apparent reason, the study group was a definite improvement. It was also some refreshing intellectual stimulation coming off of History.

“Okay, so, like, ten times ten is a hundred,” Cedric continued. “Ten times ten times ten is a thousand…ten to the fourth power is ten thousand?”

“That’s right.”

“Wow, those are going to be some big numbers pretty fast,” Alicia said. “That means ten to the tenth power is…”

“Ten billion,” Hermione said idly.

Alicia laughed. “Just as fast with those, huh? What eight to the seventh power, then?”

“2,097,152.”

“How about seven to the eighth power?” Roger challenged her.

“5,764,801, but I memorised them up to ten to the tenth, just like the multiplication tables,” she said, staving off any further queries. “I doubt we’ll do much in class beyond the fourth power this year, and usually only squares.”

“I don’t know,” said Roger. “I think spellcrafting might use higher powers.”

“Huh…well, that might get complicated, then. Hmm…I wonder…Can you hold on a minute? I want to take a quick look at the library’s copy of Principles of Analytic Spellcrafting.”

“Um…sure.” Alicia said.

Hermione eagerly rose to head off to the library’s textbook reserves.

The older girl giggled after she left: “She’s so cute.”

“Never stops, that one,” Roger added with a chuckle.

“I know. I love how she just runs all over the place like that.”

“Okay, she’s not a cat, Alicia,” Cedric said.

“I don’t know,” Roger joked. “I’m not completely convinced she’s human.”

“Alright, cool it, you two. She’s a first year girl who just happens to be better at Arithmancy than…anyone Professor Vector has ever seen.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing. Think what she’ll be capable of by her seventh year. She’ll probably be the youngest duelling champion ever or something.”

“Hey, maybe she can finally get rid of Snape,” Alicia added. All three of them laughed.

“Yeah, like anyone could get rid of Snape,” Cedric finally joined in. “Maybe if McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all chased him out an upstairs window, he’d go away.”

Hermione stood very still by the reserve stacks. It must be something about the acoustics of the library, she thought. They must not realise she could still hear them. She tried to shake it off. After all, it was just good-natured ribbing. But still, as nice as her Arithmancy classmates were, she couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that they really did think of her as their little pet firstie—or else something exotic to be put on display—like she didn’t quite fit with them.

And getting rid of Snape? If only.

As for the book, well, she only needed to flip through a few pages to find her answer: she should have known that spellcrafting would involve taking a lot of seventh powers and seventh roots. She even saw things as high as twenty-first powers in some places. She put the book back and returned to the study table, trying her best to smile as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. After all, why should she let it worry her? If the others noticed anything amiss, they didn’t say it.

It happened at dinner that night. Hermione ate in her usual spot, mostly in silence aside from an occasional comment to Percy Weasley beside her. Between the main course and dessert, an impressionable second-year Gryffindor named Katie Bell came up to Percy from his other side and spoke to him.

“Excuse me, Percy,” she said, holding up a small box. “Could you take a look at this please?” She stepped to the side slightly, so that she could see both Percy and Hermione.

“What is it?” he asked, taking the box.

“I’m not really sure,” she said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Well, let’s just take a look, then,” he said importantly. He opened the box, and, suddenly, something sprung out of it in a cloud of colourful smoke, hitting both Percy and Hermione square in the face. Hermione was momentarily blinded by the smoke and felt something like cobwebs brushing through her hair, which she tried to swat away, coughing.

When the smoke cleared, she immediately noticed two things. First, everyone around her, including Katie Bell, was laughing and pointing at her and Percy—but mostly at her. Second, Percy’s normally red hair was now light brown.

“Percy—your hair—” she started.

But when Percy turned to her, his eyes went wide. “Miss Granger…” he said, pointing at her own head.

Hermione quickly pulled a handful of her hair in front of her face. “Eek!” she squealed in protest upon seeing that her frizzy brown hair had taken on the colour of Percy’s usual flaming orange.

“Fred! George! What did you do?” Percy shouted rising to his feet and rushing over to where the twins were sitting. Hermione followed him.

“We’re sorry, do we know you?” one of them said.

“The face looks familiar, but I just can’t match it with that hair,” the other added.

“Alright, you two, cut it out. What did you do to our hair?”

“They switched the colours, Percy,” Hermione whined.

“Oh, look, Fred, it’s our long-lost sister.”

“Kind of creepy how much she looks like Mum.”

“Ooh, she’s even got the death glare down,” George said upon seeing her face.

“Does anyone have a mirror?” Percy demanded, looking around at the girls at the table. One of the older girls pulled one out of her robes whilst smirking loudly. He took a look. “Oh, come on! Change it back right now!”

“Lighten up, Perce, it’ll change back on its own in a few hours,” said George.

“Yeah, a few hours—overnight, tops.”

Hermione looked in the mirror after Percy put it down. She wasn’t exactly fashion-savvy, but she could tell that that was not her colour.

“But why’d you have to involve me in this?” she complained.

“Well, you’re the one who decided to sit next to our brother.”

“That’s a dangerous endeavour, that.”

“And, besides, we thought you could afford to lighten up a bit, too, Miss Granger.”

“Augh! I’m plenty enlightened already, thank you very much.” She spun on her heel and stalked away, though she was secretly relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain to her parents how she became a redhead.

That evening was not particularly pleasant, however. She had to take quite a bit of ribbing from her roommates, and she didn’t dare go down to the Common Room. Tomorrow was Halloween, after all, and the jokes were coming fast and furious, on top of the obvious “Weasley sister” jokes. She also didn’t get any sleep before midnight, again, when she had to go out to Astronomy class. At least it was too dark to see her hair properly there. Good God, why couldn’t the magical world be more…normal?

But she was glad to see that her hair was, indeed, back to normal by morning. Having flaming orange hair for Halloween would have just been too much.

Unfortunately, it seemed like that was the only thing that would go right that entire day.

Chapter Text

“What happened to all my socks?”

Hermione Granger awoke on Halloween morning after a short and fitful night’s sleep with her hair as unmanageable as ever, but brown again. She had slept late and missed breakfast, but plenty of people did that the morning after Astronomy class. But now, she was going to be late to Charms if she couldn’t get dressed soon.

“What happened?” said a bleary-eyed Lavender Brown as she pulled herself out of bed.

“I can’t find a single pair of socks that match! Where did they all go?”

“I don’t know. Wendelin must have taken them.”

Their roommate, Lily Moon’s, deranged calico cat, Wendelin, was nowhere to be seen. And of course, Lily and Sally-Anne would have cheerfully got up and headed down to breakfast two hours ago.

“Mmm…try under Lily’s bed,” Parvati said with a yawn.

“Hmph.” Hermione knelt down beside Lily’s bed and lifted the sheets. Two yellow eyes peered out at her. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the outline of feline form sitting atop a bed of socks.

“Wendelin, give those back!” She reached under the bed to grab a handful of them, but suddenly, there was a loud hiss, as a multicoloured ball of fur flew out from under the bed and across the room.

“Oww! My hand!” she shouted, holding her arm up. A bright red scratch was visible across the back of her wand hand.

Parvati looked a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, and Lavender winced. “Ooh…” she said, “well, don’t worry. Madam Pomfrey can fix that up in a jiffy.”

“Lily really needs to do something about that cat,” Hermione complained. She wrapped her hand with some tissues while she finished getting dressed, and then ran over to the hospital wing to get her hand healed. Madam Pomfrey was sympathetic, but she barely heard anything the mediwitch said because she was more worried about getting to Charms on time, and with that detour, she barely made it.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Granger,” Professor Flitwick pleasantly said from atop his stack of books as she rushed in and took the only open seat. “And good morning class. Now that we’re all here, I do believe that you are ready to begin making objects fly today.” There were some excited murmurs from the class. “Levitation is one of a wizard’s most rudimentary skills, but it is also one of the first serious challenges you will learn in this class. The Levitiation Charm requires a good deal more control that a simple Lumos or Fire-Lighting Spell that only releases energy, and it also requires more control than simple charms like the Softening Charm that are simply cast once and are done. The Levitation Charm requires continuous control for as long as the object you are levitating is in the air and can often take quite a bit of practice to produce any results.”

Hermione hadn’t really thought of that part. She was pretty far ahead in studying the Standard Book of Spells, and there were the spells they used in Arithmancy, but she hadn’t tried anything yet in either that required continuous control.

Professor Flitwick spent quite a bit longer than usual, more than half the class, explaining just how the Levitation Charm worked and how to cast it, having them practice the wand movements at several points. At eight syllables, Wingardium Leviosa was one of the longest incantations they had learnt, and lining it up with the swish and flick motion was tricky. But by the time they moved on to the practicals, Hermione was pretty confident in her ability to cast the spell.

“We’ll do this in pairs, so that one of you can act as a spotter,” Flitwick said as he began to levitate feathers to the students’ desks. “This charm can be temperamental to those who are first learning it. Now, then, Mr. Potter and Mr. Finnigan, I think.”

Hermione looked to where the boys were sitting. Harry Potter looked relieved and Neville Longbottom, who had been looking in his direction, looked dismayed.

“And Mr. Longbottom with Mr. Thomas.”

She wouldn’t be paired with Dean? Her eyes swept over where everyone was sitting and made the connection. Oh no!

“And Mr. Weasley with Miss Granger.”

Ron groaned loudly, and Hermione nearly did herself. This was just not her week.

Ron scooted his seat nearer to hers as Professor placed a feather on their desk.

“Um…hey…” he said.

“Hey,” she replied wearily.

“Your, uh, your hair’s back to normal, now,” Ron told her.

“Thanks for noticing,” Hermione grumbled.

“Hey, I know Fred and George can be annoying, but they never do anything really bad to anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

She rolled her eyes at the boy. “Yeah, that’s so reassuring.”

“Now remember to put all the parts together,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “Be sure to use that nice wrist movement to let the magic flow freely—swish and flick, swish and flick. And saying the incantation correctly is just as important. Remember, the incantation triggers the specific action of the magic, and things can go very wrong if you don’t say it just right. Don’t forget the story of Juan Carlos Baruffio, who scored a knockout on himself in the 1957 World Duelling Championships when he said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and dropped a buffalo on his own chest.”

The class giggled and shuddered in equal amounts at one of Professor Flitwick’s many humorous stories from his days on the duelling circuit. If that were really true, that had to say something bizarre about how magic worked, Hermione thought. After all, why would a slip of the tongue produce a spell so powerful that most wizards probably couldn’t do it deliberately, even if it was very rare? It was something to investigate in Arithmancy later.

She watched around the room as people began trying to cast the Levitation Charm, without much success. At the next desk, Harry and Seamus both swished and flicked, but their feather didn’t even twitch.

Hermione suppressed a yawn. “Why don’t you go first,” she said wearily.

“Sure, uh, thanks.”

Ron tried to swish and flick, but he didn’t produce any results either. She let him go on a few times, just watching to make sure he didn’t do anything “temperamental.” She wondered how she had got to this point. She’d barely spoken to the boy since the dog incident—or his friend, Harry, for that matter—and largely by choice. Percy was pretty good, and the Twins at least tried to be helpful in the own bizarre and, frankly, troublesome way, but she hadn’t seen anything to improve her opinion of Ron all year.

But then again, she was starting to feel a little conflicted about thinking that. After all, she’d barely talked to Ron and Harry before that night, let alone after it. Sure, they were dumb and reckless—scratch that, they were boys. She mentally rolled her eyes. But those two objectively didn’t get in anywhere near as much trouble as Fred and George, and their troublemaking was what had really rubbed her the wrong way in the first place…well, that, and Ron was pretty short with her when she’d tried to talk to him before. Still, she wasn’t sure if the duo had got in any trouble since then. None that she’d heard about, anyway, and from the sounds of things, Harry was too busy with Quidditch practice for that.

No, her problem lately was that she didn’t feel like dealing with people. Exactly why was hard to articulate—they were an extra element of uncertainty in her precariously balanced life. She thought back to the half-burnt letter her parents had sent her on Tuesday. They had sounded so concerned about her, even though she hadn’t told them half of what was going on. She supposed they were right—it was so hard to find anyone to talk to—but she was worried about very different things, like getting her course work done.

And at the moment, she also had to worry about Ron, who was still waving his wand in a very unsteady pattern that certainly wouldn’t get the spell to work.

“It’s more of J-shape on the swish,” Hermione said offhandedly.

Ron gave an annoyed-sounding grunt and started swinging his arm in a very wide arc.

“Y-you know…I guess that prank was kind of funny,” she tried to make small talk. “I was just worried I was going to have to explain it to my parents.”

“Uh huh,” he said. She didn’t think he was listening to her, not that it much mattered. He kept swinging his arm in a wide arc.

“You really shouldn’t swing your arm that far. It’s more of a wrist movement.”

They were interrupted by a shout from Harry’s and Seamus’s desk. Seamus had hit their feather with his wand and set it on fire. Harry quickly put it out with his hat.

Ron turned back to his own feather.

“Wingar-di-um Leviso-sa!” He shouted it this time and flailed his long arms, nearly hitting Hermione in the face.

She forced his arm down by the wrist. “Ron! You’re saying it wrong!” she snapped. “And you’re going to put someone’s eye out.” Like mine. “It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. You need to swish from your wrist, and make the ‘gar’ nice and long while you’re doing it.”

Ron turned to her and positively snarled, “If you’re so clever, do it yourself, then.”

“Fine.” She rolled up her sleeve and held her wand aloft. Carefully feeling the magic flow through it, she swished it in front of her in a backwards-J shape and then quickly flicked it toward the feather. “Wingardium Leviosa,” she pronounced.

The feather slowly rose off their desk, picking up speed as it went higher and finally coming to rest fluttering freely about four feet over her head.

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands. “Excellent, excellent!” he squeak. “Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s got it working. That’s it; now focus on holding it steady…”

Hermione smiled weakly at the praise, but Ron was still scowling.

“See, it’s not that hard,” she told him curtly. “Just be careful to follow the steps closely.”

Ron just scoffed at her, but between her and Professor Flitwick, and later Harry, who was watching both of them closely and soon got the charm working himself, they got Ron through all the steps by the end of the class. But he still only made the feather hop and flip over, and Professor Flitwick recommended some more practise to get it just right.

Predictably, Ron was in a very bad mood by the time they left class to head down to lunch. Granted, Hermione wasn’t in a very good mood, either, but at least she was quieter about it. As the two boys pushed their way into the crowded corridor, she started to follow in the gap behind them with the rest of the class. Ron was still going at it.

“‘Make the “gar” nice and long…” Completely mental, I’m telling you. I don’t get how anyone can stand her.”

Well, you’re not so friendly yourself, she thought. She pushed her way passed the pair in annoyance, nearly tripping over Harry’s feet on the way.

Harry might have misread her a bit because he said, “I think she heard you.”

“So?” Ron replied. “It’s obvious she likes being alone all the time.”

She very nearly whirled around with an indignant protest, but the words died on her lips in the very act of thinking them. Could she really deny it at this point? Could she, with as many times as she’d thought to herself that she didn’t want to deal with people right now in the past few weeks?

And then, suddenly forced to confront things she had buried so deep, Hermione felt something crack. Something that had building up inside her all month—maybe all year—broke free, and her tears started flowing freely before she even knew what had happened. She didn’t understand how it had come upon her so suddenly, but she felt like she’d just taken a hard blow to her chest, and she had to get someplace more private right now.

She started walking faster and then broke into a run. She could barely see to find the nearest girls’ bathroom, but she remembered the layout of the castle pretty well by now. She found the door and dashed inside and back to the last stall. Safely away from the eyes of the world, she slumped against the wall and sank down to the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest and sobbing uncontrollably.

She didn’t know how long she was in that state—just crying it out. She couldn’t stop it—couldn’t even think coherently for quite a while. She only knew that by the time she could breathe again and take stock of her surroundings, she was already exhausted from the tears and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and not get up until Monday, but she couldn’t even think about dragging herself all the way up to her dorm right now, and please, God, what was wrong with her?

It was quiet now, aside from her continued sniffling. There had been a couple of older girls she didn’t recognise in the bathroom when she had run in, but they seemed to have left without questioning her, for which she was mostly relieved.

She stared up at the high ceiling, wondering what time it was. In her haste that morning, she had forgotten to wear her watch. She was surely missing lunch, but she didn’t care right now. She wasn’t hungry. She felt the tears coming on again as she finally thought back on what Ron had said, on her whole stupid week, on her whole year so far, really. Where had it all gone wrong?

What was wrong with her?

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She lowered her head and covered her face with her arms. Maybe she should just stay here a while longer.

Septima Vector looked out over her third year class and saw, to her surprise, that her top pupil was not there. As far as she knew, Hermione Granger had never missed any class before, and she was pretty sure she would have heard of it if she had. It could be for any number of reasons, of course, but it did give her cause for concern.

“Miss Spinnet, where is Miss Granger?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Professor,” Alicia said, looking uncomfortable. “Um…Fred told me at lunch he thought his little brother said something that upset her, but I don’t know where she went.”

“Hmm…” she sighed. Children could be so cruel sometimes. She could tell the girl had been having difficulties already. Still, there was nothing she could do right now. “Well, the next time you see her, please tell her to come and see me so that she can pick up her assignments.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Hermione had barely moved from her spot slumped against the back wall of the loo. She’d sat atop the toilet lid, laid flat on the floor, and leaned with her forehead against the wall at times, shifting whenever her legs got too stiff. She ventured out of the stall only once, to wash her face, but she was discouraged by how dishevelled and puffy-eyed she looked in the mirror and quickly ducked back inside, alone with her thoughts.

“I’d know that ridiculous bushy hair anywhere.”

“You’ll pay for that, mudblood!”

“Somebody needs to show you your place.”

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She’d been called names before. Not outright slurs, but there were always a few people who would make fun of her unmanageable hair or her over-sized teeth, or, more recently, about how “plain” she was, and worse than that, too. Back in Year 3 of primary, a few of the boys started calling her a “freak” because she was getting maths tutoring and doing things like long division and multiplying large numbers. She’d broken down several times and barely made it through that year with a lot of support from her parents. It was the only time before now that they’d considered switching her to a different school, but the next year was when she skipped to Year 5, and everything was fine again, and she’d learnt to develop a thicker skin since then.

She ought to be able to handle bullies by now, even of Malfoy’s calibre, and if that were the only problem, she easily could have done.

The hell-hound on the third floor.

Malfoy jinxing her in the corridors.

Anything involving the Weasley Twins.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

Her parents had always been there for her, and they still gave her all the support they could, of course, but she felt like she couldn’t fall back on them anymore. Not like before. It was more than just that she was away from home. She hadn’t told them half of what was going on around here. There were so many things that she felt like she couldn’t—that they wouldn’t understand. She didn’t understand herself. It was maybe for the same reasons that she wasn’t completely comfortable talking to any of the professors, not to mention that parts of it could get her in trouble. But after week after week of this, it just felt so isolating, and she was having enough trouble with that as it was.

“You keep to yourself, and you are separate from all others.”

“I do expect you to stay awake in my class.”

“Must get lonely, though, don’t it?”

“What do normal girls talk about, anyway?”

Chronic sleep deprivation.

“You don’t seem to be all that close with your classmates.”

Barely being able to keep up with her homework.

“I don’t know, I’m not completely convinced she’s human.”

Not really even wanting to talk to anyone about it anyway.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

It wasn’t what Ron had said that had sent her over the edge. She’d been called a lot worse before.

No, what really got to her was how much of it was true, and what really ate her up inside was how much she had brought this on herself.

She’d promised her parents that she’d make some friends here. Sure, she was naturally shy, sometimes painfully so, but it wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before. She’d always managed to make a couple of friends, even through the worst of it. But how had she fared at Hogwarts in these past two months? Her roommates were kind of her friends, even though they had nothing in common. There was her Arithmancy study group—the same class she was missing right now! She almost leapt up and ran to the classroom right then, but she didn’t. She couldn’t bear the shame of walking in there like this—of facing Alicia, Cedric, and Roger dazed, red-eyed, and tearful—of facing Professor Vector like that. She shuddered and curled up tighter in the corner.

Still, objectively, she could reasonably call her study group her friends. Of course, she didn’t have a lot else in common with them, either. Alicia, Cedric, and Roger were all Quidditch fiends, and she had little to no interest in sports of any kind. They were also two grades ahead of her. They were taking different classes, they could go to Hogsmeade, they were starting to think about dating, and, most of all, they had all been raised in the wizarding culture. As nice as they were, she felt like there was a gap she just couldn’t cross. (Not to mention how Roger kept calling her the “human slide-rule.”)

But why was she pushing them away so much lately? She’d got off to a good start and made some friends, and then everything fell apart. She closed herself off in her own little world that she loved and hated at the same time. She stopped talking to people, drowned her sorrows in books, and all but stopped sleeping. She was acutely aware that it wasn’t academically or psychologically sustainable, but she’d gone so deep into it that she didn’t know how to get out anymore.

She felt like she could barely say she had friends now, and it was her own stupid fault.

What was wrong with her?

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She couldn’t do this to herself anymore, and she had no idea how to fix it.

She kept sitting against the back wall, crying off and on.

“Hey, Brown, Patil,” Alicia Spinnet said on her way back from checking the library. “You two are Hermione’s roommates. Have you seen her lately?”

Lavender and Parvati turned around. “Not since Charms. Is something wrong?” Lavender said.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t in Arithmancy, and that’s not like her. I didn’t think she’d miss that class for anything.”

“She missed Arithmancy?” Lavender said, surprised. “Wow, I know Ron was being a real git to her after Charms, but I didn’t think she’d take it that bad.”

“I don’t know,” Parvati countered. “She’s been really distant lately. Maybe it’s something else.”

“Well, either way, if you see her, tell her Professor Vector wants to talk to her—and…just make sure she’s alright,” Alicia said, sounding concerned. “I’ve been getting worried about her, too.”

“Sure thing. We’ll keep an eye out.”

It was by pure luck that Parvati noticed anything out of the ordinary when she wandered into the first floor girls’ loo in the East Wing. It wasn’t much—just a soft sound of sniffling coming from the back. She approached the last stall and saw someone sitting on the floor behind the door. Someone wearing trainers. Only a handful of girls in the school wore shoes like that.

“Hermione, is that you?”

A small, tortured squeak came from behind the door. “Go away!” a familiar voice whimpered.

“Hermione, it’s me, Parvati.” There was no response. “Are you okay? Alicia Spinnet said you missed class.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Have you been here all afternoon? Is this about what Ron said? You shouldn’t worry about him. You know he can be a right bloody git sometimes.”

“Please, Parvati, I just need some time alone to think,” Hermione said, her voice hitching with tears.

Parvati frowned. There didn’t seem to be much more she could do from here. “Well, okay, Hermione. Just remember to come down for dinner. And if you want to talk to us girls—about anything—you can. We do worry about you. Oh, and Professor Vector wants to see you when you have a chance.”

Hermione sniffed loudly. “Thanks, Parvati,” she whined halfheartedly.

Parvati left the bathroom, feeling defeated.

As Professor Vector looked out over the Halloween Feast, she was one of the few people who was not celebrating. She scanned the Gryffindor table from end to end. That bushy brown hair was easy to spot, and she was certain Hermione Granger was not at the table. She did see the other first year Gryffindor girls talking to Alicia Spinnet in hushed tones. Perhaps someone had seen her, at least. Vector even looked at the other tables, but the girl was not to be seen in Cedric Diggory’s circle of friends, nor in Roger Davies’s.

“Everything alright, Professor?” Hagrid leaned over to ask her as the feast began.

“Oh, just worried about one of my students,” she said. “I think—”

But she was cut off as Quirrell, of all people, burst through the doors of the Great Hall—she hadn’t even noticed he was missing—and ran up to the High Table in front of the Headmaster, screaming, “Trooollllll in the dungeons! Troll in the dungeons! East Wing! Headed this way…” Then he gave a high-pitched squeak and muttered, “Thought you ought to know.”

Quirrell toppled forwards and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. So much for this year’s Defence Professor, Vector thought.

The Great Hall was pandemonium. Many students leapt to their feet and started running around like headless chickens, trying to escape, but mostly colliding with each other. Dumbledore rose from his chair and, quick as lightning, fired off a loud purple firecracker from his wand. The Hall calmed somewhat, but only when the Headmaster fired off three more firecrackers did he obtain silence.

Albus Dumbledore was rarely seen angry. It was a terrifying sight.

“Prefects, lead your Houses back to your dormitories immediately!” he thundered in a magically amplified voice. “Teachers, proceed with me to the East Wing to contain the troll.”

Many students were still panicking, running around the wrong way as the prefects desperately tried to round them up. About half of the teachers left the Hall at once, headed toward the bridges into the East Wing to prevent the troll from getting to the Slytherin and Hufflepuff dorms in the West Wing dungeons. The other half were slowed down helping to corral the students. Snape seemed to be running off in a different direction entirely—Dumbledore’s little side project, Vector remembered, the one he had asked her to help set up. The troll would be a perfect distraction.

But Vector was already in motion as she took all of this in. She knew for a fact that there was one student in the school who was not in the Great Hall to hear Quirrell’s warning.

She rushed over to the Gryffindor first years as Percy Weasley confidently led them up the Grand Staircase. Perhaps sensing the danger, the staircase had frozen in place for once to let them pass quickly. She caught two of the girls and asked, “Quickly, do any of you know where Miss Granger is?”

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown blanched. “Oh, Merlin! Professor, she’s been in the bathroom all afternoon!” Parvati exclaimed.

“Which one?”

“Uh, first floor, by the Charms Classroom.”

“Stay with your prefects. I’ll go find her.” Vector rushed off toward the East Wing, hoping the troll was still in the dungeons. She hadn’t noticed that two first year boys had already gone on ahead of her.

Hermione still sat against the back wall of the bathroom, her tears mostly spent, but still contemplating her situation bleakly. She thought she had dozed off for a little while, laying on the floor, but she couldn’t even be sure of that, which she was sure was a bad sign. She’d probably missed Flying Class by now, at a guess. Was it dinnertime yet? She didn’t know anymore and couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

She kept sitting there and considered her options. Why had her mum and dad brought up transferring? She hadn’t even told them everything that was going on here, and she hadn’t been thinking about it at all, but now she couldn’t get it out of her mind. French was the only other language she spoke well enough to get by in school, and Beauxbatons was the only other school she could go to without needing her whole family to move out of the country. If she were a pureblood, she could probably hire private tutors, but that wasn’t an option in a muggle home. But all of that was moot, really. Her problem wasn’t the school. It was her.

She remembered how her parents used to talk about her getting cranky when she didn’t get enough sleep. It was a perfectly normal thing. It was always said half-jokingly, but she wasn’t laughing now. She could see how much it was hurting her. Having nothing else to do all afternoon but stew in her own troubles, she was starting to realise how much her chronic sleep deprivation was causing it. She was always too tired to deal with things, whether it was people or homework or anything that happened that was unexpected. And the worst part was that her body was mis-adjusting to it. On the occasional night when she went to bed early, she would wake up early and couldn’t get to sleep again. She might actually have to work at it to change it back.

The other problem, the one that she was aware of already, but far more acutely now, was that she had no one to confide in. Usually, she didn’t want to, lately, but even someone as reserved as she was needed to actually talk to people, and she’d barely even been trying.

She couldn’t get that thought out of her head. She’d barely been trying to maintain her friendships. She’d barely been trying (by her standards) to do her homework. She hadn’t been trying to get a good night’s sleep in weeks. And all that had to change. The problem was that she couldn’t even think about that right now.

She felt spent in more ways than one. For all that she was beating herself up for not trying, she felt like she’d poured out everything she had, and there was just nothing left in her. Like she was just limping along, barely keeping pace where she was and not able to spare the mental energy for anything more—not because it was too hard—far from it—but because she’d already wasted too much of it to keep going.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a heavy shuffling sound followed by a door slamming, and then, a very, very foul odour filled Hermione’s nostrils. It smelled, well, a lot like a toilet, actually, but one that had clogged and hadn’t been cleaned all week. Thinking the only thing that came to mind—that someone had had a very unfortunate accident—she wearily opened the stall door and staggered out to see if she could help.

She stopped when she found herself face to face with a hulking wall of flesh. The creature stretched up taller than Hagrid and seemed to be all lumpy torso and big, swinging arms that dragged a wooden club as large as a man behind it. It had thick folds of granite grey skin like a rhinoceros that turned horny and knobby on its huge feet. High above, a small, bald, disturbingly ape-like head sat atop its lumbering body, betraying its tiny brains. The disgusting smell that was emanating from it told her it must have abominable hygiene for anything capable of wearing trousers.

Hermione recognised the creature at once from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

It was a mountain troll.

It was an extremely dangerous Class Four-X creature that required specialised knowledge to handle—or, in other words, to not get flattened by its giant club.

And it was coming toward her.

She screamed.

She was sure she screamed louder than she ever had in her life, and she flattened herself against the back wall, her mind a complete blank as to what to do, its proverbial gears skipping and skidding. There was nowhere to run, precious little to hide, and no weapons at hand of any kind…

Wait a minute; she was a witch, wasn’t she? She whipped out her wand from her robes, forced as much magic as she could through it, and, hardly thinking about it, shouted, “Colloshoo!”

The Shoe-Sticking Jinx hit the troll in the knees, but it whether it was because the troll wasn’t wearing shoes, or because it was just too big, it has no discernible effect.

“Tsimpima!” Hermione yelled. “Tarantallegra! Locomotor Wibbly! HELP!” Nothing worked. She just didn’t have enough power; the troll was thirty times her size. It didn’t react to any of her spells except to growl and advance on the source of the shouting.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as the the troll advanced on her. It groaned and raised its club in anger at the noise, smashing the sinks off the walls and spraying water all over the bathroom as it approached her, step by shambling step.

This was it, she thought. There was no escape this time, no door that she could fall backwards through and run away. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t even accidental magic herself out because you couldn’t apparate inside Hogwarts. She was completely cornered, and there was a Class Four-X creature coming to squash her flat.

With the hell-hound, she had turned hysterical. It wasn’t really that hard to get out, and there had been no time to see her life flash before her eyes. Not so now. Her wonderful memory reminded her of everything—everything, that is, except for anything that would get her out of this alive.

She was going to die.

She was going to die!

She was going to die alone and as good as friendless in a bathroom, hundreds of miles from home, at the end of the worst week—maybe of her entire life. Her parents’ last memory of her would be a letter telling them that after all of two months in the magical world, she just couldn’t take it, and when they found out what had happened today—if they found out what had happened today—they would learn she was even more right that they thought—that it had actually killed her.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

For someone who couldn’t stand to get a B on a test (or an Acceptable here at Hogwarts), there were no words to describe the feeling of facing certain death at age twelve and knowing in that moment that she had utterly failed at life. Actually, there were just no words to describe the feeling of facing certain death at age twelve in the first place. She was sure she was about to faint and was almost glad for it. It would be less painful that way—

“Hermione!”

Hermione was sure her brain had given out on her completely when she saw two people—two boys—run into the bathroom behind the troll—the last two people she ever expected to see: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

“Distract it!” Harry yelled. He started grabbing bits of debris from the destroyed sinks and throwing them as hard as he could at the troll’s head. Ron followed suit, but the beast barely even noticed. It slowed down and looked about as if confused, then shambled forward again.

“Oy, pea brain, over here!” Ron shouted as he managed to bean the troll in the head with a broken tap. That actually did get its attention. It lumbered around, staring at Ron, making the connection in its tiny mind. Then it raised its club at him.

“Ron, watch out!” Harry yelled. Ron ducked under the club as it came down, tearing through the wooden walls of the nearest stall and knocking him to the ground under the debris.

Hermione held her breath and only let it out when she saw Ron starting to crawl out from under the debris. But that was the only coherent thought she could form before the gears of her mind jammed completely. The troll had moved away from her? What? How? How could she have been saved from imminent death by the two boys who least cared about her right now? (Well, besides Malfoy, if she had been in her right mind.)

But the troll raised its club again and—

“Ron, move!”

The troll’s swing went wide as it was distracted by Harry’s shouting. Harry ducked just in time to avoid having his ribcage bashed in, and the club went through what was left of the row of sinks.

“Hey!” Ron was throwing things again, standing by the stalls and desperately trying to get it away from Harry. It swung bulk around again, and Ron dove as it brought the entire row of stalls down on top of him.

But Harry used his small size to slip by behind it. “Come on, run, run!”

Hermione barely registered Harry yelling at her. Run? Run where? There was still a troll between the two of them and the door. She stayed flat against the wall and shouted an incoherent protest.

All three of them shouting at once seemed to drive the troll mad. It roared, something like a cross between a braying donkey and a howler monkey, and started swinging its club wildly—up, down, and all around it, demolishing the entire room in seconds. Splinters of wood and fragments of porcelain were hurled everywhere. Hermione’s hands flew to her face to protect it. The troll lunged toward her again, and its club pounded a deep dent in the wall just over her head. Then, Ron was struggling to get out of the pile of wood chips, screaming as loud as she was as the troll made for him as if to step on him.

She was frozen in horror. She had to do something, but what? She couldn’t just stand there and watch Ron die. That this was all his fault in the first place was the furthest thing from her mind right now. But her brain still wouldn’t engage. Even she didn’t know any spells to handle a creature that big.

Harry looked equally scared for his friend, she could see, but he did do something about it. Something incredibly stupid. He ran towards it. He took a running jump and started climbing up the troll’s crudely-cut leather clothes. He was surprisingly good at climbing, but what in God’s name was he doing! He grabbed it around the neck from behind, but it didn’t even seem to notice. It lifted its foot over Ron’s prone form.

Except the troll definitely did notice when its stomping about swung Harry around, and he accidentally jammed his wand up its nose. The massive foot missed Ron by inches.

There was a deafening roar as the troll howled in pain and spun around, flailing its arms. Hermione saw Harry clinging to its neck for dear life, but even more pressing was the fact that the beast was swinging its club wildly again. The bathroom was already nothing but rubble, but that didn’t stop it from pounding it into even more rubble and bashing chunks off of the walls. It might catch any one of the three of them in a blink with that thing. Hermione squeezed herself back into the corner, praying it would just go away. Harry fell off its back, miraculously (and disgustingly) pulling his wand along with him. Then, she saw Ron free himself and stagger to his feet by the door. For a moment, she thought he would make a run for it—and she wouldn’t blame him if he did—but instead, to her disbelief, he whirled around and drew his wand, even though he obviously had no idea what to do with it. He stood shaking, as if preparing to shout out the first spell that popped into his head, which would probably be completely useless. The troll lifted its club over its head again, preparing to pound the boy flat.

Then, Ron did the last thing she expected. He yelled out, “Wingardium Leviosa!” And to Hermione’s amazement, the troll’s brutal swing seemed to bounce clumsily and went about a foot over the boy’s head.

For just a moment, Hermione felt like she had some kind of dissociative episode. It was as if her right brain was registering shock that Ron managed to cast the Levitation Charm correctly at all, let along on something that big, and at the same time, her left brain made about three logical leaps in half a second.

Then, time started again. As the troll staggered from its unbalanced swing, Hermione jumped to her feet and yelled, “Quick! Everyone cast the spell at once—one—two—three!”

Harry and Ron didn’t have a clue what Hermione was driving at, but at least someone had an idea. Three voices yelled out “Wingardium Leviosa!” with as much power as they could muster.

But mingled with those three voices was a fourth. For in a flash of burgundy robes, all of Hermione’s prayers were answered. Professor Vector charged into the bathroom, and, in a single, smooth motion, spun toward the troll, pointed her wand at it, and shouted, “Immobulus!”

The troll froze instantly just as it held its club above its head, and, under the combined force of three adrenaline-fuelled Levitation Charms, the club actually levitated out of its hand.

Of course, all three of them were so surprised by Professor Vector showing up out of nowhere and freezing the troll that they broke their concentration. The troll’s club dropped down onto its own head with a sickening crack and clattered to the floor. Harry had to roll out of the way to avoid it. Ron later told Harry and Hermione how the troll’s beady eyes had glazed over and then rolled back in its head.

“Everyone out, quickly!” Vector ordered.

Hermione’s deeply ingrained habit of following teachers’ instructions kicked in. She found her feet at last and leapt over the rubble as fast as her legs would carry her until she was hiding safely behind her professor’s robes. Harry and Ron dashed around behind her. Then, Vector released her freezing charm, and the troll fell forward with a massive thud, unconscious.

A single roll of toilet paper rolled up to Harry’s feet. He picked it up and used it to wipe the disgusting grey mucus off his wand.

Vector sighed with relief. “Are all three of you alright?”

“Y-y-yes, Professor,” Hermione said. Truthfully, she still felt like her heart was going to jump out of her chest, but at least she was in one piece. Harry and Ron just nodded.

“Well, you’re very lucky, all of you. I don’t think I have to tell you at this point how dangerous mountain trolls can be,” she said, surveying the destroyed lavatory. Water was still spraying everywhere, and there was barely one board or pipe standing upon another anymore. “I don’t know how you pulled off that spell, but that’s not a good way to stop a troll, if you can help it.”

That much was obvious. They could all tell they were equally lucky that Vector had shown up when she did. They might have been able to aim the club if they’d tried, but not with the troll moving around. Harry and Ron grimaced at her words, suddenly aware that they could get in serious trouble for this, but Hermione spoke up sadly: “P-please don’t punish them, Professor. They were only looking for me.”

“I know, Miss Granger. I’m well aware of the situation—”

“Septima! What on earth happened here?”

In the chaos of their escape, they hadn’t even noticed the bathroom door slam open a second time. The other professors had clearly heard the noise of battle all the way down in the dungeons. Professors McGonagall and Snape rushed into the room, wands drawn, only to stop in disbelief when they saw the troll out cold on the floor. Professor Quirrell stumbled in behind them, but with one look at the troll, he clutched at his chest and slumped down against the wall.

Professor McGonagall was angrier than Hermione had ever seen her—even angrier than after Harry’s broomstick incident. Her lips were pressed until they turned white and she looked like she was could set something on fire with her eyes. Hermione was sure she was about to eviscerate all three of them, but Professor Vector stepped in front of them.

“Minerva, it appears that Miss Granger was indisposed and was not able to make it to the feast,” she said calmly. “Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley came looking for her when the troll stumbled upon them.”

“Oh, dear…” McGonagall seemed to deflate before her eyes.

“From what I could tell, Miss Granger came up with the idea to use coordinated Levitation Charms, coincidentally at the same moment that I froze the troll, resulting in it being knocked out by its own club.”

McGonagall’s look changed to one of shock. Snape was eyeing Harry suspiciously. The boys wisely didn’t say anything about the rest of the fight.

Vector turned back to the children, who all seemed to be standing in a daze. “That was very brave of you to come to the aid of your fellow student…Ten points to each of you for helping to bring down that brute.”

Ron’s jaw dropped open. They were getting points for this mess?

But Hermione was on the verge of tears again. “Please, Professor, I don’t deserve any points,” she said. “It was my fault we got caught in here.”

Harry’s jaw dropped open alongside Ron’s. Hermione Granger was turning down points?

“But you had no way of knowing a troll was on the loose, Miss Granger. And you came up with a successful way to stop it—even if, I must stress, it was ill-advised, as you would know if you’d ever seen anyone handle trolls before. That was an amazingly resourceful use of your as-yet-limited magical repertoire and power.” Vector placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and turned back to the other teachers. “Minerva, if you and Severus don’t mind cleaning up here—” She didn’t bother mentioning Quirrell. “—I’ll see these three up to their Common Room.”

McGonagall seemed to need a few moments to find her voice herself. “Ah, of course, Septima. And thank you so much for looking out for my students.”

“My pleasure. Come along, you three.”

The four of them started back toward the West Wing, with none of them really looking at each other. “Miss Granger, do please come see me tomorrow morning before classes,” Vector said as they walked. “You can turn in your homework then and pick up the next assignment.” She should have sounded cross, Hermione thought, but she didn’t. In fact, her professor seemed surprisingly tender and understanding.

“Y-yes, ma’am—thank you.” A normal person might have been angry at her for bringing up homework at a time like this, but for Hermione, it was comforting, like a return to normalcy, something she needed desperately, as her head was still spinning. She’d nearly been killed by a mountain troll, and she was saved by two boys whom she’d barely spoken to all year—whom she thought actively disliked her. She’d skipped class, and she didn’t get in trouble. And Professor Vector knew she’d been in there crying all afternoon and hadn’t embarrassed her by mentioning it.

And through all this, she couldn’t get one image out of her mind: Professor Vector storming into the bathroom like some legendary heroine and stopping the monster with a single spell. The three of them had barely squeaked through that fight with their lives, and yet she made it look easy. And then, a minute later, she was just a teacher again. Hermione didn’t really have a word to describe the transformation except that it was, well, like magic. But she knew at once that she wanted to be able to do that someday.

Then, just when she thought nothing else could surprise her, Ron spoke up. She couldn’t have known, but Ron was looking even more uncomfortable than he had all afternoon. “Um…sorry, Professor Vector, is it? Listen, I don’t really deserve any points, either. It was my fault Hermione was in there in the first place.”

“I know that quite well, Mr. Weasley,” Vector said, to the boy’s surprise. She gave him an approving look. “Yet you also came back to help her.”

“Well, yeah…but only “cause Harry made me.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Vector said firmly, “a moment ago, I saw an eleven-year-old boy stand his ground and raise his wand to a fully-grown mountain troll to save his friends, even when he had an easy escape route. You are truly a credit to your house.”

“Well, I couldn’t just let Hermione and Harry get flattened like that,” Ron said, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to turn red or green. “Look, I’m…really sorry…” He glanced at Hermione apologetically, but he mostly kept looking at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I know you were just trying to help.”

And her brain jammed again. Risking his life for her and now actually apologising to her? “It…it wasn’t about that, really…” she started, shaking her head. “And I could have been nicer, too—”

“No, really, you weren’t that bad,” Ron insisted. “I couldn’t’ve cast that charm right if you hadn’t helped me. And I know there’s plenty of people who like you here.”

“Well…” Hermione bit her lip, unsure of how to respond. She didn’t know that Ron had been hearing her friends loudly tell him just that all afternoon. But that was only half of her problem.

“And that, Mr. Weasley, is exactly why you do deserve those points,” Vector saved her. “Not just anyone could have faced a mountain troll, and sadly not everyone can own up to their mistakes like that…Well, here we are—” She stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. “Try to stay out of trouble the rest of the evening.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ron said.

“What happened to—” the Fat Lady began.

“Pig snout,” Harry cut her off. The portrait swung open, and the two boys climbed inside.

Hermione turned back to Vector. “Thank you, Professor,” she said.

“My pleasure, Miss Granger. I wouldn’t want to lose my best student. You know if there is anything you need, you can come speak to me anytime. Now, off you go. I’m sure you’re hungry—the feast’s been moved into the Common Rooms.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said, realising for the first time that she hadn’t eaten anything all day, and she was, in fact, starving. She climbed in through the portrait hole.

Chapter Text

The Common Room was crowded and noisy. The Halloween feast had been set up on a buffet table in the middle of the room, and the couches and chairs were overflowing, with many people eating whilst sitting on the floor.

Hermione noticed a number of people staring in her direction, probably at Harry and Ron, who were looking pretty dishevelled themselves. But once her bushy head of hair ducked inside, covered in dust and tangled with little bits of rubble, everyone was staring. The clamour of the fight with the troll had probably been heard clear throughout the castle, and it was easy to see now who had been involved. Before she could speak a word, Hermione found herself mobbed by three hysterical witches.

“Ohmygod Hermione are you okay?!” Hermione’s mind went blank as Alicia caught her in a bone-crushing hug. Meanwhile, Lavender and Parvati both got in her face, talking nonstop so she could only catch every other word.

“Everyone was so scared of the troll—”

“We didn’t even think—”

“And then Professor Vector—”

“And we were like, “Oh, Merlin!”—”

“What happened—”

“We thought it ate you—”

“Did you get hurt—”

“Girls! Girls! I’m fine!” Hermione stammered, pushing them away to give herself some space. That probably would have been more convincing if her hands weren’t still shaking. No, she’d just been through a near-death experience. She wasn’t fine and probably wouldn’t be for a while, but she was unhurt, anyway.

By now, Sally-Anne and Lily and Alicia’s friends, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell, were crowding around to see what had happened to their fellow Gryffindor. Across the room, she could see Harry and Ron being interrogated by the boys as they loaded up her plates. She really just wanted to get to dinner, but she was surrounded now.

“Hermione we were so worried—what happened?” Lavender said. She started trying to comb the debris out of Hermione’s hair with her fingers, which Hermione found oddly comforting. She collected herself and started talking.

“The—the troll came in the bathroom—” Several of the girls squeaked in fright. “It came after me and smashed up the sinks. None of my spells were strong enough to do anything. But then, Harry and Ron came and saved me—”

“Ron saved you?” Alicia said. Lavender and Parvati looked equally shocked.

“Well, not very well,” she admitted. “Then Professor Vector came in and saved all three of us…” And she explained about Harry’s and Ron’s incompetent rescue attempt, her lucky break with the Levitation Charms, and how Professor Vector had run in and stopped the troll in three seconds flat, and how she had defended them to the other professors.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Alicia said.

“I can’t believe Harry and Ron did that!” Parvati said.

“I can’t believe you got thirty points!” Katie Bell added.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get detention!” said Angelina Johnson.

“I can’t believe nobody got eaten!” Lavender exclaimed.

The other first years stared at her. “Eaten?” Hermione asked nervously.

“Uh-huh, I heard a mountain troll can take your leg off with one bite.” The others all grimaced.

Alicia quickly changed the subject. “Look, Hermione, about what Ron said—he’s all wrong. You know we’re you friends, right? Me and Cedric and Roger?”

“I…”

“And so are we,” Parvati said. The other first years nodded in agreement.

“And us, too.” She jumped as Fred and George Weasley were now standing over her shoulder. Those two still weren’t her first choice, but she guessed that was nice of them.

“I…yeah,” she said, breaking into a smile. She was starting to feel misty-eyed again. It was good to know she really did have that many friends, but she still didn’t feel like she’d been a very good one herself. “And don’t…don’t be too hard on Ron,” she said. They all gave her surprised looks. “Well, he already apologised—and, really, I just needed to work through some things on my own—well, a lot of things, actually.” And still did, she thought, but she could worry about that when she wasn’t about to faint from hunger.

“Excuse me…please…I haven’t had anything to eat all day,” she said timidly, hopefully deferring any further questions until later. The crowd parted for her, and she made her way to the buffet table. A great feast was laid out, like the Welcome Feast, making her mouth water. She quickly loaded up a plate with enough food to give Ron a run for his money, then looked around for a place to sit.

She saw Harry and Ron sitting on the floor in one of the emptier parts of the circular room, near the fire. She thought about how upside-down this day had been and decided it was well past time to reevaluate those two. She walked over and, still a little uneasily, sat down next to them with her plate in her lap.

“Hi…” she said. “Uh, thanks for saving me.”

Harry smiled kindly. “Anytime,” he said.

“You helped, too,” Ron observed. “What was that?”

“Well, I saw when you cast that spell, I saw the troll’s club kind of bounce, so I just figured, with three of us, we might be able to lift it.”

“Wow—well, I’m sure glad that worked.”

Hermione nodded and hesitantly took a few bites as she tried to put her thoughts into words. “I still can’t believe you came for me,” she said. “I mean, I’ve barely even spoken to you since school started.”

“Well, somebody had to do it. We couldn’t just leave you alone like that,” Harry said. “Besides, we, uh, did kinda lock it in there with you.”

“What!”

“We were gonna try and find you, but then we saw the troll go into the room and decided to trap it. We didn’t realise you were in there until we heard you scream.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, we didn’t even know what room it was,” Ron said—or at least she thought that’s what he said, since he still insisted on talking with his mouth full. It figured these two would make things worse before they made them better.

“You really should pay more attention,” she said in spite of herself.

Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“I was kinda more worried about not getting hit with that club,” Ron protested. “That thing was horrible!”

“You’re telling me,” Hermione squeaked. Her knife slipped and scratched loudly on her plate as she tried to steady her hands. “I thought…I was sure I was about to die before you came in.”

“Yeah, and it’s a good thing Professor Vector came looking for you, too. I still don’t know what I was trying to do casting that spell. Mind, the crazy part is it actually worked.”

“I couldn’t think of any spells,” Harry commented, remembering how his best idea was to climb up the troll’s back. “But that was amazing how Professor Vector froze it like that.”

“I know,” she exclaimed. “I’ve read about things like that, but I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve got to learn how to do that spell.”

“Me too,” Ron added. “My brother, Bill, he had to be really good at arithmancy and stuff to become a curse-breaker, but I thought that kind of stuff was all in Defence.”

“Your brother’s a curse-breaker?” she said interestedly.

“Uh huh. He works for Gringotts in Egypt getting the curses off all the old tombs and stuff.”

Hermione was duly impressed. She’d heard Ron talk about his brothers before, but never paid it much mind. But Professor Vector said curse-breaking was some of the most difficult magic there was. It would take someone really good to do it for a living.

“Hey, Hermione, that reminds me. Did I tell you about that package Hagrid got from Gringotts?” said Harry.

She shook her head. “I think I was trying not to listen.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Go ahead and tell me about it.”

“Well, when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, we got some money from my vault in Gringotts, and then we went to this other vault that was really high security, but there was only one little thing in there. It was wrapped in brown paper, and it was about this big.” Harry indicated something that was small enough to fit in his hand. “And Hagrid took it out, and he said it was very secret Hogwarts business, and he wouldn’t tell me what it was. But I read in the newspaper that someone tried to rob a vault that had just been emptied later that same day.”

“So you think the dog is guarding whatever was in the vault?”

“Yeah. Hagrid said Gringotts is the safest place to keep something except Hogwarts.”

“You—you haven’t gone back in there, have you?” Hermione asked nervously.

“No. Of course not. I mean, if Hogwarts is really that safe, it’s not like it’s in any danger, right?”

“I wonder what Snape was doing, though,” Ron mused.

“Snape?” said Hermione.

“We saw him headed towards he third floor when we came to find you,” said Harry.

“Huh. That’s odd. I don’t know what someone would be doing there at a time like that. I wonder what’s so valuable that they’d have to keep it here like that.”

“Or so dangerous,” Ron suggested.

“Or that. It’s probably some kind of jewel or talisman or something if it’s that small. Maybe we could research it and narrow it down.”

“What, more homework? I’ll pass,” Ron protested. “I don’t get how you do it. You’ve already got an extra class.”

“Arithmancy’s not that hard…” Hermione protested. Of course, she realised, she’d been telling her muggle friends that about maths for years and still hadn’t convinced them.

“Maybe for you. How you get so good at Arithmancy, anyway?”

“Just practice…and a little luck, I guess. I’ve always been able to do maths well, as long as I can remember. Anyway, I think we should try to find it out. It could be important.”

“Then why don’t you do it. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever the thing is, it’s safe, right?”

“Well, I just thought…” She stopped and sighed. “Sorry. I know I can be a bossy know-it-all sometimes.”

“You’re not that bad, really,” Harry said. “Though you can go a little overboard—I was pretty mad when you kept interfering that day with the duel and stuff, but that was “cause I really hate Malfoy. You were just trying to keep us out of trouble. And you were right about Malfoy’s trick.”

“Oh, yeah, Malfoy,” Hermione grumbled.

“Now there’s somebody I wouldn’t mind seeing attacked by a troll,” Ron said, and Hermione had a hard time disagreeing. Harry laughed a little.

“Yeah, he’s been really awful all year,” Harry said. “To you, too, Hermione. I saw him sabotage your potion last week.”

“Uh huh,” she agreed. “He’s even worse than that, though. He actually hexed me in the back once.”

“What!” Harry yelled. “When did he do that?” Ron choked on his steak.

“Do you remember when I was making my map of the castle?”

Ron scrunched up his face, trying to remember. “Uh, yeah, I think Fred and George said something about it…How’d that go, anyway?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I think I got most of the school that students are allowed in, but the measurements keep changing, so it’s not exact.”

“You mean the castle changes shape?” Harry said in surprise.

“Of course it does, mate. It’s magic,” Ron said, as if it were obvious. “So what happened with Malfoy, then?”

“Well, I was mapping out the dungeons when he saw me and accused me of spying on Slytherin. And then he used a Jelly-Legs Jinx on me.”

“Aw, man, what’d you do?”

“Nothing,” she said in embarrassment. “A Hufflepuff prefect saved me.”

“That little git! You want us to hex him for you?” Ron asked.

“No! That’ll just make it worse. He already jinxed me and got me in more trouble after Potions last week. And he accused me of setting Fred and George on him on Tuesday. I just want him to leave me alone. I don’t get what his problem is.”

“It’s his whole family,” Ron said. “Dad says Malfoy’s family’s been really anti-muggle pretty much forever.”

“His family should have just stayed in France, then,” Hermione complained.

“Maybe the French kicked them out,” Ron joked. “You know, they said, “Ne jamais faire confiance à un mec dont le nom signifie mauvaise foi.” ’

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Tu parles français?”

“Oui,” he shrugged.

“Uh, sorry. I don’t,” Harry said.

“He said, “Never trust a bloke whose name means bad faith,’” Hermione explained. Harry smirked. “When did you learn French?”

“Mum made us all learn when we were little,” Ron replied. He sounded annoyed about it. “I guess Mum and Dad were thinking about moving to France during the war, and they still wanted all us kids to learn it, “just in case.” A little German, too, though I don’t know why. The Weasleys would never be caught dead at Durmstrang.”

“You speak three languages?”

Ron shook his head. “Mostly just the two, but I guess I know enough German and Spanish in case I got lost there or something.”

“¿Oh, has estado en España?”

“Um, no, no, uh, viajan mucho—? Sorry—we don’t travel much.”

“Viajamos,” Hermione corrected absently.

“Uh, right. Mum and Dad go to visit Bill or Charlie once in a while, but they can’t…we can’t really…” Ron started turning red as the conversation drifted a little too close to home— Hermione could tell he got a lot of his things secondhand. “So how’d you learn so many languages?” he asked her.

“My, uh, my parents like to travel.” She felt like she should leave it at that. “I’m probably not that much better at Spanish than you are, though.”

“I have enough trouble with just English,” Harry said uneasily.

“Well, French isn’t that hard,” Ron said, surprising Hermione, who didn’t expect him to describe anything that way.

“So…What were you making that map for, anyway?” asked Harry.

“Just to find my way around—and to show my parents what the castle is like. It’s so confusing here with all the hidden doors and moving staircases. It seemed silly that they couldn’t give us maps to at least show us where everything is.”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Harry said.

“We almost got busted by Filch our first day because we got lost by the third floor corridor,” Ron added.

“Me too! They need to put up a sign or something. Anyway, after we met that dog, I memorised as much of the castle as I could so it wouldn’t happen again.”

“The whole castle?”

“Everything on my map,” she confirmed. “There are some parts I still don’t know anything about.”

“Like the third floor,” Harry said.

“That’s one of them. And some of the towers are always locked. And…um, have you ever looked at the Great Hall from outside?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. “Yeah, I guess,” Harry replied.

“Have you seen the little windows on top?”

Both boys shook their heads.

“Well, they’re there. I’m sure they’re above the enchanted ceiling, but no one seems to know how to get up there or even what’s up there. Even Fred and George didn’t know.”

Ron looked suitably surprised. “They didn’t? I thought they knew everything.”

“So did I, but they couldn’t find out anything about them. I was gonna try and find a way up there myself, but I…haven’t got around to it yet.”

“We could help you out,” Harry suggested.

“Really?” Hermione’s eyes went a little wider.

“Sure—when we can, anyway. I’ve got a lot of Quidditch practice for the match next week."

“Oh, right, Alicia’s been going on about it…”

Harry was obviously very excited about the first Quidditch match, as was most of Gryffindor, since it had been so long since they’d been able to field a competitive team. Hermione politely sat through Harry’s and Ron’s detailed description of exactly how Quidditch worked. She still thought the part with the snitch was more than a bit silly—it almost seemed as if it were designed to be deliberately frustrating—but she held her tongue out of respect for the boys’ obvious enthusiasm.

They talked for a long time about nothing in particular. They tried to talk about their families—what they could, anyway. Ron was from a wizarding family, so neither Harry nor Hermione understood the finer points of that; only Harry knew what a dentist was or understood much else that Hermione had to say about her parents; and Harry didn’t want to talk about his relatives, who, from what Hermione could gather, didn’t sound very nice.

Still they kept at it, moving on to books and films and plays, although they didn’t have a lot they could share there either. Ron didn’t seem to be much of a reader, even of wizarding books, and Harry had apparently led an extremely sheltered childhood. Objectively, she really didn’t have much more in common with these two than she did with Parvati and Lavender…except that they did just face a mountain troll together. That definitely counted for something, so she didn’t mind so much, now. Honestly, she felt like she didn’t mind all that much about the girls at the moment, either. Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

The plates were taken away after a while, and a while after that, people started heading up to bed, but the three of them kept talking, oblivious. They went on for a while about classes and what a greasy git Snape was, and Hermione told them about Professor Vector and the basics (very basics) of Arithmancy, and there was another round of speculation about how the troll got into the castle and just what was hidden on the third floor and whether it could possibly be related (which they dismissed as ridiculous), and a lot of other, less important things that none of the three would remember anything about in the morning.

And as they sat and talked, the pieces of Hermione’s life slowly seemed to fall back into place, and she felt the tension slowly drain out of her limbs for what felt like the first time in weeks. She was utterly exhausted, but that wasn’t what did it. Indeed, it was when the darkness closed in late at night, and she couldn’t fight back sleep anymore whether she wanted to or not, that she agonised most over everything. But tonight, even though she was dead tired, she kept talking because tomorrow—tomorrow, she would worry about getting enough sleep, and fixing everything else, too. And she would need to worry about it, she knew, but for tonight, she was just going to not worry about any of it and just celebrate still being alive. And, she found, she was actually having fun with it.

Parvati and Lavender had said good night and gone up to bed an hour ago. They clearly wanted to talk some more, but they gave her her space for the time being. The Common Room was nearly empty by now, and a tired-looking Alicia came up and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Hermione, I’m going to bed. Are you doing okay?” she asked.

Hermione’s brain derailed for a moment. “Yes…” she said instinctively. “No…I don’t know—I’m sorry, I just need some time. It’s been a hard week.”

“Okay, well, we can talk tomorrow if you want,” Alicia assured her. “And don’t stay up too late. You don’t want to miss any more class—that goes the same for you, too,” she told Harry. “We don’t need you getting in any trouble before the match.”

“Oh, bloody hell, that’s right, we have Potions tomorrow,” exclaimed Ron. Harry looked genuinely frightened at the thought. Professor Snape did seem to be harder on Harry than everyone else.

“We’d better get to bed,” Harry agreed. He stood up slowly and leaned against a sofa. “What do you think we’ll be brewing?”

“Probably a Dizziness Draught, based on how Professor Snape’s been following the book,” Hermione suggested, standing up herself and leaning on a chair.

“Aw, man, I didn’t even look at that one,” Ron whined.

“Me either,” Harry said nervously.

“I have,” Hermione said. “Hey, do you want to, um, switch partners in class tomorrow? I don’t think Dean will mind, and we’re both getting pretty good.”

“Really?” Ron said hopefully.

“Are you sure?” Harry added. “I mean, you said you’ve been having a hard week.”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s not that hard to follow the instructions.”

“Wow…sure, thanks.”

“Yeah, that’s real nice of you, after…” Ron started. “I’m sorry—again.”

“Well, you did save me.”

“Yeah, but it was my fault in the first place.”

She sat down and curled up defensively in the chair, and she shook her head dismissively. “It wasn’t just that. Actually, it mostly wasn’t that at all. I’ve just been having a really awful week—there was Snape, and Malfoy, and the pranks, and my study group was—well, that’s not important. And I’ve been sleeping very poorly. I’ve been losing track of time, losing focus—”

“But you’re still getting the best marks in our year,” Ron protested.

“I know, but it’s got harder and harder for me to keep up. I think I just need to back off the late night reading and get more sleep, but the stress has really been getting to me. It makes everything that much harder. And that’s not all. There’s so many things I can’t tell my parents or the teachers, or even other students, some of it—like about the third floor. You two and Neville are the only ones who know about it. It’s hard not having anyone I can talk to.” She kept looking at Ron and fought to keep her hands from shaking. “That’s the thing, Ron, I really snapped at you in class because I was already under so much stress from everything else. And then when you…said that about me…”

“I’m sorry—” Ron blurted out.

“I know, it’s just…when you said that…it hurt so much because you were right.” She clutched at the arms of the chair, fighting back tears. She couldn’t believe she was saying this out loud, much less to these two, but it felt so good to get this weight off her shoulders. “I’ve been spending all my time alone, and I just couldn’t take it anymore…And I think my real problem was I was being a lot harder on myself than you were…Anyway, I’m sure Alicia and the others will set me straight if I actually let them…It’s good to know I do have friends to help out here.”

“I’ll say you do,” Ron half-complained. “They’ve been setting me straight all day…Mind, I was being pretty stupid,” he admitted, sitting back down again. “I knew the Twins liked you and stuff…I guess I was just really mad “cause I couldn’t do that spell. It’s hard, you know? Having five older brothers. Bill was head boy, and Charlie was Quidditch captain. And Percy’s a prefect, and even Fred and George get really good marks when they try. Everyone expects me to be like them—including the teachers—but even if I do get good marks, it’s no big deal because they did it first. So when you beat me at doing that spell in class…” He trailed off, turning an unnaturally bright red in the firelight.

“You were jealous?” Harry suggested.

“Yeah, I guess. I was mad, anyway. Mum’s always yelling at me about it and saying how I need to apply myself more if I want to do as well as them…She’s gonna go spare when she hears about this.”

Hermione thought Ron’s mother had a point, but she kept that to herself. Still, that was unusually deep for the redheaded boy, undoubtedly brought on by being told just how big a git he was all day, by the sounds of it.

“Well…my cousin’s a lot worse,” Harry said uneasily as he tried to cheer Ron up. “He always said I was cheating if I got a better grade than him, and my aunt and uncle would take his side. I got really good at getting by with a D-plus.”

Ron smirked a little, evidently have heard about Harry’s family.

“Harry, no offence, but your relatives really do sound awful,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, but it’s alright. They can’t bother me here, and they don’t like magic, so they don’t care what grades I get.”

Hermione thought that sounded like one of the most dysfunctional families she’d ever heard of, but Harry didn’t seem too keen to say anymore. When she tried, he turned it into a joke and changed the subject. Still, he didn’t look that troubled about it. Maybe being away from them really was enough for him. Ron could open up a little more, but with Harry’s unique situation and Hermione being an only child, they didn’t have much to reply to him.

But then Ron asked about the Dizziness Draught, and one thing led to another, and, somehow, they managed to stay up and talk for another hour. On any other night, Hermione would have been having a fit over losing track of the time yet again, but tonight, she was okay with it. It was her choice, for once, and that, it seemed, made all the difference. She was a little surprised that she’d told the boys so much. But at the same time, she was a little surprised they’d been so open with her—maybe it was the late hour messing with all three of them, she thought. Still, it felt nice being able to talk to someone for a change and not having to keep secrets.

Actually, she felt very strange: giddy and tired and turned on her head all at the same time. Even though not much had objectively changed, something made her look at things differently—like all those friends who had crowded around her when she came into the Common Room. Now that she could finally look at things in a better way, she felt much lighter. And yes, she did need get more sleep, and she needed to talk to people and socialise more, too, but, surprisingly, even that fact was a comfort now that she understood it properly. Now that she knew what was really the matter, she was sure she could fix it.

And then there were Harry and Ron—the boys who were Gryffindor enough to save her from a mountain troll when she was barely speaking to them—she still had to wonder about the Sorting Hat’s judgement when her main contribution had been to be Ravenclaw enough to come up with a half-decent plan to get them out of it. In any case, if she thought about it, she could relate to them no worse than her roommates, and they got in less trouble than the Twins. She had to conclude they really weren’t that bad at all.

The Common Room clock chimed twelve, and Harry and Ron finally stood back up, again looking a little worried about finishing so late on a Potions night.

“I guess we really had better get to bed,” Harry said.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron agreed. “Snape’s bad enough when I’ve got enough sleep.”

“Yeah, we should,” Hermione said.

There was an awkward pause.

“So…friends?” Harry said, looking at both of them—but mostly at her.

She froze. Harry smiled disarmingly. She looked to Ron, who had been more put off by her know-it-all-ness. The boy nodded slightly at Harry, then looked at her.

Hermione smiled. “Yes,” she agreed. “Friends.”

Chapter Text

“Does someone want to explain how a mountain troll got into the castle?” Septima Vector demanded as soon as she came into the emergency staff meeting the next morning, and she wasn’t the only one. Minerva had even more right to be angry than Septima, since it was three of her students who had been endangered. And Hermione Granger was the favourite of many of the teachers, with the exception of Severus.

No one bothered asking why the Defence Professor had fainted at the sight of a troll. That was almost to be expected these days.

“I think we would all like to know that, Septima,” Minerva said acidly, glaring at Quirrell. Once again, if any sort of disaster happened, it was the Defence Professor who was usually the first suspect.

But now, the Headmaster approached the table. “I inspected the wards myself last night,” he said grimly. “The troll entered the castle from the ravine through the drainage tunnels in the sub-basement. From there, it began climbing, eventually reaching the first floor washrooms.

“But why didn’t the wards alert us when it entered the grounds, much less the castle?” Minerva protested.

“The wards had been specifically opened to permit trolls to pass through without report,” the Headmaster said, to the surprise of most of the table. “Quirinus, do you have anything to say about that?”

Quirrell turned even paler than usual and started stammering fearfully: “I-I-I opened the w-w-wards to b-bring in a…t-t-troll—” his voice squeaked loudly “—for the p-p-protections on the Stone…I m-m-m-must n-not have c-closed them p-properly,” he whimpered.

About half the staff groaned and raised their hands to their foreheads. Severus glared at Quirrell suspiciously. The Defence Professor had taught Muggle Studies for years, but taking a year off and switching positions was a quick way to get turned into an outsider. After all, with the apparent curse on the position, they already knew he probably wouldn’t be around next year. Septima felt a bit sorry for him at times, but not anymore. Actually, she had to wonder how a troll would be that big of an obstacle in the first place, but if it were charmed magic-resistant, it might be.

“Your ‘mistake’ nearly got three of my first-year students killed, Quirinus,” Minerva hissed, slipping deeper into her Scottish brogue. “Frankly, you’re lucky we don’t have anyone to replace you at the moment, or you’d be out of here by the end of the day.”

“As it is, that is not possible,” Albus said gently. “I resealed the anti-troll wards last night and checked all the other wards for good measure. The castle is once again secure.”

“Secure against anything but more incompetence,” Bathsheda Babbling commented.

“There is another issue to be addressed,” Septima said harshly. “I move that we review our emergency procedures. In the chaos last night, only I and two of Miss Granger’s classmates remembered that she was not at the feast. It is unacceptable that we would lose track of a student like that. Miss Granger’s extraordinary arithmancy skills might well have saved her life, since it seems no one else remembered to look for her.” Minerva turned noticeably pink at that. “The prefects should be required to do a head count in such a situation and report anyone who is missing.”

Filius and Pomona instantly agreed to that, and the motion carried quickly, with the three of them drafted to make the review.

“Very good,” Albus concluded. “Now, Severus, I believe you had an additional security concern?”

“Yes,” the Potions Master said. “Letting the troll into the castle would have been the perfect distraction for someone to try to steal the Stone. Perhaps a mission of opportunity, or perhaps not.” He glared at Quirrell again.

“Y-yes, I had the same c-concern and w-w-went up there as well,” Quirrell said nervously.

“I approached the third floor immediately after the warning and again once the troll was dealt with,” Severus continued. “I could find no sign of a breach, but Hagrid’s dog made it impossible to search thoroughly.”

“Hey, now, Fluffy was jus’ doin’ his job,” Hagrid protested.

“How is your leg, Severus,” Minerva asked.

“I will be fine,” Severus growled. He glared back and forth between Quirrell and Hagrid. “Let us just hope that we have no more similar incidents in the future.”

“Are you sure it’s even the best idea to keep that thing here in the first place?” Septima asked.

The Headmaster nodded firmly. “As I have said, it is vital that we keep the Stone secure. You know that I would not allow it to be kept within the walls of Hogwarts if the students could not be kept safe, and if it would not be even more dangerous to the wizarding world to keep it elsewhere. Unless I can convince Nicolas and Perenelle to dispose of it, it must stay here.”

A majority of the staff grumbled at that, but they knew the stakes just as well as he did. And the protections were sound. Everyone involved agreed that no one person besides Dumbledore himself could get through them. Certainly, Septima was sure no one could get through her part. They would conclude that they had to accept the arrangement, just as they had when he had first proposed it.

“Now, then, to the repair work. Argus, what is your assessment of the damage?” Albus asked.

Argus Filch looked even more disgruntled than usual today. He wasn’t exactly the type for dealing with catastrophes like this, and not only because he was a squib, but as Caretaker, it was technically his job to organise repairs to the castle when it was damaged. “There’s about nothing left in there,” he wheezed angrily. “It’ll take you lot all weekend just to clear out the debris. I don’t have the tools for that. We’ll have to knock out parts of the walls and rebuild them if we want to do it right, reinstall all the fixtures from scratch. Why’d you have to go and make such a mess of things, Quirrell?”

“M-m-my apologies…”

“Thank you, Argus,” Albus replied. “I myself will oversee the repairs. The ancient magic within the walls of Hogwarts is a rather tricky medium to work in. Once the walls are repaired, it should be simple to install new plumbing fixtures. We should be able to reopen the bathroom in a very few weeks.”

Hermione was correct that they were to brew the Dizziness Draught in Potions class. Dean had no objection to working with Harry, so she helped Ron muddle through. It was a little trying on her patience, especially as Ron had not got into the habit of keeping his workspace clean, but she did it, and they produced a draught that she thought would be worth an E grade.

Surprisingly, Professor Snape didn’t say anything about their new partner arrangement. In fact, the class was unusually pleasant today. Not because of Snape’s temperament—indeed, he was a good deal more acerbic than normal—but because he never once rose from his desk, and that meant he couldn’t wander the room making his usual caustic comments to the Gryffindors and gratuitous compliments to Draco Malfoy.

“Seems kind of suspicious, don’t you think?” Harry said at lunch.

“What do you mean?” Hermione was sitting with Harry and Ron for the second meal that day, something her other friends had noticed well after how Ron had treated her yesterday, but aside from being interrogated by Parvati and Lavender at breakfast—among the many people who wanted to hear what it was like facing a troll (she mostly let the boys answer that) none of them had said anything about it.

“Why Snape didn’t leave his desk.” Harry said. “He missed plenty of chances to insult us.”

“Maybe he felt like being nicer for a change—”

“Yeah, right!” Ron guffawed.

“—or maybe he’s tired from cleaning up after last night. I doubt he meant anything by it.”

Harry looked sceptical, but he didn’t say anything more.

“Why, hello, Hermione,” a voice sounded in stereo behind her. She looked up and braced herself for whatever the Weasley Twins had cooked up today. But they were looking friendly at the moment. And wait, she was Hermione to them, now? She supposed that was nice of them.

“We hope you’re feeling better today.” She was pretty sure it was George who said it. Fred, on her other side, was idly picking over the food on the table.

“Much better, thank you.”

“All made up with your little friends, now?” Fred said in a babyish tone.

“Cool it, Fred,” said Ron.

“That was pretty brave of you running in there like that, Ron,” George said. “Mum’d be proud…except she’s gonna kill you first.” Ron’s ears turned red enough to match his hair.

“Well, I’m doing alright, now,” Hermione assured them. “I was really just being too hard on myself. I…I think you were kind of right. I did need to lighten up a bit.”

“Oh, we’re so glad to hear that,” George said with a mischievous grin. “Because hanging around with Percy was bad enough. Hanging around with two of our brothers—that’s double trouble.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Brave words, Hermione. We’ll see if you can live up to them.” The Twins walked away, chuckling.

“Are they always like that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “but don’t worry. They’d never hurt their friends—just annoy them.”

Ron lifted the cover on one of the dishes in front of him. The moment he did, a swarm of large gypsy moths flew out and started fluttering densely around all three of their heads. Hermione screwed up her face and did her best to swat them away.

“FRED!” Ron roared, jumping out of his seat.

Down the table, Fred and George high-fived.

“So, yeah, I know Ron was being a git, but he figured that out on his own pretty quickly. And I only really let it get to me because he’d hit so close to the truth.”

After lunch and classes were over for the day, the other Gryffindor girls had all but picked Hermione up and carried her back to the Common Room, insisting on getting the full story out of her without any more delay. Now that she had accepted it for herself, or had started to, Hermione managed to get through the story with only a few tears—in fact, between them, the girls around her were showing more tears than she was. And they were all very impressed—more than she thought she deserved—at how she had devised a plan to knock out the troll on the spot. (There were sure to be all sorts of crazy rumours about it by Monday.)

Lavender and Parvati sat on either side of her, each wrapping an arm around her as she related the trials of the past few weeks. It was an eye-opening experience for a lot of the girls that she had been suffering so much so silently, and several of them started commiserating about their own hidden problems by the end of it.

“Oh Morgana, Hermione, how could you go through so much like that without flunking out or something?” Lavender said. “I never could have made it going through what you have.”

“That’s just how I was raised,” Hermione said softly. “My parents made sure that no matter what happened, I would never let it interfere with my schoolwork…and they helped me a lot along the way when I needed it. I just kept doing what I’ve always done.”

“It just sounds so awful,” Parvati said. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

Hermione smiled slightly. “Well, honestly, I think if you could just remind me of when to go to bed, it would be a big help.”

“Of course,” Parvati and Lavender said at once. Hermione wasn’t sure she liked how eagerly they accepted the job.

“Thanks, girls,” she said, once again feeling much better than she expected.

True to their word, her roommates made sure she got up to bed at a reasonable hour that night, and, thankfully, they weren’t too pushy about it. She laid down to sleep feeling as every bit as good as she had the night before, and to her surprise and great relief, she managed to stay asleep until it was time to head down to breakfast. Her resultant good mood was enough to carry her through the whole day.

Hermione had already come up with a response to Fred and George by dinnertime last night, but it took her until morning to work up the nerve to use it. As everyone was getting ready to go to breakfast, she spotted them in the Common Room. Surprisingly, they weren’t dressed alike today. Dressed in casual clothes for the weekend, one of them was wearing a red shirt, and the other was wearing a blue one.

“Hi there, Fred and George,” she said with a smile.

“Good morning,” they replied amiably.

“Listen, you asked me to tell you if I learnt anything new about the castle.”

“That we did,” George replied.

“How touching that you remembered,” added Fred.

“Did you find out what’s above the Great Hall?”

“No, not yet, but there was something else that I should have told you a while ago.”

The Twins were all ears.

“Have you two ever been to the top of the Grand Staircase?”

They glanced at each other. “Why, no,” George said. “Did you see something interesting up there?”

“I saw a lot of interesting things when I explored the Great Tower a few weeks ago,” she said precisely.

“Such as?” Fred asked.

“Well…it’s hard to explain. You really have to see it to believe it.”

They grinned at each other. “Very interesting. We’ll have to check that out after breakfast.”

“Thanks for the tip,” George said.

“Sure, no problem,” she replied innocently.

Hermione indulged herself in an mischievous smile after the pair left the Common Room. That had been too easy and entirely too much fun.

With her plan set in motion, she went down to the Great Hall for breakfast with a spring in her step, then came back up to the Common Room and curled up on one of the sofas with her Calculus book. She laughed out loud when she remembered that the next lesson was about limits at infinity.

She was still getting funny looks from people when she did this. Most people, muggle and magical alike, balked at seeing those kinds of equations, but for Hermione Granger, this was her idea of a relaxing morning. She was at it for a little while when she heard someone call her name. Harry and Ron had come down to the Common Room, bringing some of their course books, which surprised her for a Saturday morning.

“What are you working on?” Harry asked.

“Calculus.”

“What’s that?” Ron said.

“My maths independent study. Arithmancy’s nice, but the maths is way too easy.”

Ron looked over her shoulder at the unfamiliar symbols on the page with a disbelieving look, but he held his tongue. It had taken him only a few minutes to learn not to question Hermione about her attitude towards maths. “So you really can do crazy maths stuff in your head?” he finally said as he sat down.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it crazy.”

“Right, but, like, you can figure out what’s a hundred and ninety five times seven forty-eight?”

“A hundred and forty-five thousand…eight hundred and sixty,” she said casually.

“Bloody hell! I thought Fred and George were joking when they said you could do that,” Ron said while Harry’s eyebrows disappeared under his messy fringe.

Hermione shot Ron a dirty look for his language, but she answered, “No, it’s not that hard if you want to learn it, but this stuff is completely different.” She indicated her book.

“What is it, then?” Ron asked.

“Well, this in particular is limits at infinity. It’s like…” She tried to think of how to explain limits to someone who didn’t even know algebra yet. “Say you have a bunch of numbers, and they’re one half, one third, one fourth, one fifth, and so on. What number would you get if they kept going on forever?”

Ron looked perplexed, but Harry tentatively said, “I guess zero.”

“Right. It’s like that, but…a lot fancier.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“What are you working on, then?” she asked them.

Harry sighed. “Transfiguration. I don’t know how I’m gonna get all this stuff done with all the extra Quidditch practises Wood’s scheduled. Do you…do you think you could give us a hand.”

Hermione closed her book. “Sure—as long as you don’t expect me to do it for you. Let me see…”

With her help, both boys got through quite a bit of their Transfiguration homework that morning. They barely noticed her frequent glances toward the Common Room door. But her vigilance paid off when, nearly at lunchtime, two dishevelled and disturbed redheads ran into the Common Room. Both of them were wearing shirts that were half red and half blue, divided along a randomly zigzagging edge.

“Hermione Granger!” they yelled as stumbled over and knelt on either side of her chair.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Ron said.

“We were in the—”

“—Grand Staircase and—”

“—way, way above the top—”

“—and there were—”

Both of them were out of breath and incoherent, and Harry and Ron were baffled, but Hermione just smiled smugly and said, “So, how high did you get?” to her friends’ amazement.

“Big, huge moths—” Fred held his hands a couple of feet apart.

“Crawling everywhere!” George added.

“We got swarmed.”

“We tried to repel them with our wands.”

“The magic didn’t like that.”

“Our shirts…”

“Wow. That sounds like it’s about as high as I got. It’s a good thing I didn’t try to cast any spells.”

“Wait, you did this to them?” Ron exclaimed.

“I only suggested that they try to explore the Grand Staircase,” Hermione said, still smiling.

“You told us to climb to the top,” Fred complained.

“No, I believe I only asked if you’d been.”

Fred and George stared at each other again, wondering how they’d been had so easily, while Harry and Ron were staring at Hermione in utter confusion.

“I’m pretty sure the Grand Staircase just goes on forever,” she explained. “But it all has to fit in the tower, so it keeps getting smaller, and the bugs and mice and stuff look huge when you get high enough. And there’s so much magic that it mixes everything up, like their shirts.”

“And you knew all along! Did you put those moths up there, too?” George demanded.

“No, of course not. I’m not going back up there. That was just luck.”

“I told you, brother,” Fred said. “Merlin help us if Hermione starts using those brains of hers for pranking. Now, we’re all in trouble.” Hermione giggled slightly.

“Indeed,” George replied.

“You are a worthy opponent, Miss Granger,” they said in unison, tipping imaginary hats. They stood and backed up the boys’ staircase, as if not wanting to take their eyes off her.

“Wicked, you actually managed to prank Fred and George?” Ron said. “Oh, I’ve gotta write Ginny about this. I didn’t think you’d be one to break the rules, though.”

“Well, plenty of other people do,” she groused. “Besides, I don’t think that was technically against the rules…just not advisable.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you have a Gryffindor side after all. You know they’re going to try and get you back, though, right?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “but at least they know I’m not an easy target, now. That should keep me a little safer.” They started to pack up their things for lunch. “Oh, by the way, Harry, I still have Quidditch Through the Ages on loan from the library. Do you want to read it?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

Hermione wanted to try exploring the Great Hall again, but with Harry’s Quidditch practice and reading the book plus Ron being behind on homework, they didn’t have all that much time. They went around the Great Hall once after lunch trying everything that looked like it might be a door, but plenty of doors in the castle were too well hidden for that. Afterwards, they told her she could keep going without them, but she didn’t feel like it. She needed to finish her own homework—and address something that had been a growing concern in the back of her mind for the past two days.

What was she going to tell her parents?

Dear Mum and Dad,

I want to start off by telling you that I ’m fine, and even though some really bad things have been happening, they’re over now, and I got through them alright. I hardly even know where to start, but I suppose I should get the worst out of the way first. On Halloween, a mountain troll got into the castle and attacked me…

And then they would be too hysterical the read the rest. Hermione crumpled up the parchment, threw it in the bin, and started again.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I ’m sorry I’ve been so distant, lately. The truth is that I’d got myself into a bad habit of not getting enough sleep, which I’m just starting to get out of. Honestly, things are quite a bit better here than I think I’ve let on…

And that was a blatant lie. There was no reasonable way she could objectively say that except that she just felt that way. Try again.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I think things are finally looking up here at Hogwarts …

This was ridiculous. Was she really going to keep it from them? Why should she? But why shouldn’t she? They’d have her out of Hogwarts before she could say “Wingardium Leviosa”if they knew the truth.

But she just couldn’t take the secrecy anymore. They deserved to know, didn’t they? She would just tell them she was old enough to make her own decisions…even if they involved extremely dangerous creatures…it was hopeless, wasn’t it?

Dear Mum and Dad …

Hermione threw her quill down in disgust and slumped back in her seat. On a whim, she pulled out her wand and decided to try out a new charm she’d read about in the library: “Lacarnum Inflamari.”

A little blue flame shot out from the tip of her wand and landed on the parchment. It spread, and the parchment began to smolder. It felt rather satisfying to see the attempted letter go up in flames. From what she had read, the Bluebell Flame Charm was supposed to consume very flammable things like parchment and cloth, but it didn’t actually need fuel, and it was supposed to be cool enough to handle if one was careful. She reached out tentatively and brought her hand up to the flames. The fire felt like hot water as it licked her fingers, maybe uncomfortably hot, but not scalding. She laughed and scooped the flames into a spare jar from her potions kit before they started to scorch her wooden nightstand. The flames in the jar would make a nice little portable lamp and heater.

Anyway, there was no way she was going to figure this out on her own. Maybe her new friends (or her old ones) could help.

“Tell your parents? Are you mental?” Ron Weasley yelled. “They won’t understand. My Mum completely freaked out when Percy told her, and she’s a witch. They’ll withdraw you, and the Ministry’ll snap your wand and erase your memory!” Harry looked positively horrified at the suggestion.

“Ron, they don’t do that to people who withdraw,” Hermione corrected. “They’d only make me transfer to another school, like Beauxbatons.” Harry sighed with relief.

“But you can’t want to leave Hogwarts, can you?” Ron said.

“Of course not! But I can’t keep keeping secrets from my parents. I need to be able to talk to them honestly.”

“Well, I don’t know. You can try if you want, but I’m telling you, no good’ll come of it.”

Hermione sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Harry, are you going to tell your relatives?”

“No, they’d probably just be mad that I didn’t die on them.”

“Harry…”

“It’s fine, really. I’m sorry; I really wouldn’t know what to do either.”

“Well, thanks anyway…I think I need to think about it some more.”

The other students all had similar responses, either rejecting the idea of telling her parents about the troll out of hand, or not really being able to come to an opinion. Her fellow muggle-born, Sally-Anne, was among the latter group and was one of several who suggested that she ask a teacher for advice.

More than one person had suggested that she go to Professor McGonagall, but Hermione was reluctant to do so. She still didn’t consider her head of house to be the most supportive teacher, though her house-mates had few problems with her. And more to the point, she was a little worried about the consequences of any stories other than the glossed-over version she’d told reaching the ears of the Deputy Headmistress.

It took her longer than it ought to have, well into Sunday afternoon, before she remembered that there was one adult in the castle who did know the full story, or more of it than the others, anyway. Of course, it was Sunday, and no one held office hours on Sunday (if she deluded herself into thinking she’d get the letter done today at all), so Hermione screwed up her Gryffindor courage and took a different tack.

Few students besides the Weasley Twins ever thought about where the teachers slept at night. Professor Trelawney, of course, stayed cooped up in her tower, and Professor Dumbledore’s apartment was known to be above his office. Married staff often commuted, at least on the weekends, but most of the teachers weren’t married. They were never really seen going in and out of their residences, as they usually stayed out until curfew themselves. It was only by paying careful attention while she was mapping the school that she figured out that the staff apartments were located in the Great Tower and the body of the West Wing.

Her main clue had been the cluster of unusually notable portraits in that area. Her attention was first drawn there by a portrait that she was amazed that she could recognise as John Flamsteed, the first Astronomer Royal, who had been appointed before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted. The rest she could only identify as notable thanks to her overzealous reading habits. The Irish Druidess Cliodna, a known animagus and one of the greatest transfiguration mistresses of the medieval period appeared on one stretch of the corridor. Charms mistress Hedwig of Vienna graced the corridor nearby. On the floor below was the preeminent Renaissance potioneer, Zygmunt Budge.

But what had really tipped her off was when she studied John Flamsteed’s portrait for so long that he asked her what she wanted and informed her for no apparent reason that Professor Sinistra was in her office. From that, it all became clear soon enough. Each portrait was a leading historical figure in his or her field, and each guarded the door to a professor’s apartment, just like the Fat Lady guarded Gryffindor Tower. Once she looked up all the portraits, it was easy to piece together who lived where. (She had decided not to tell Fred and George that little tidbit, although it wouldn’t surprise her if they already knew it.)

And so it was that Hermione followed her map to the portrait of Bridget Wenlock, the founder of modern arithmancy.

Bridget Wenlock wore purple and had wild black hair and half-moon glasses. She didn’t particularly look like she came from the thirteenth century. Unfortunately, she rather sounded like it. Even more unfortunately, Bridget Wenlock was known for both paranoia and absent-mindedness.

“Excuse me, Madam Wenlock?” Hermione said tentatively.

“Forsoath! Tawht purpoase hast tho, cheeld?” the portrait said, or at least that’s what Hermione thought she said.

“Um, I was just wondering if Professor Vector was in,” she replied, doing her best to interpret the Middle English.

“And ho mah thot bay?”

“Professor Vector? The Arithmancy Professor?”

“Arithmahnsay!” the portrait shouted. “Eek am thay Arithmahnsay Professor haireh! Has this Vector stolen me thayores?”

“What? No!”

“Eek will not have hit!”

“Madam Wenlock, you’re a painting,” Hermione pleaded. “You haven’t been the Arithmancy Professor for seven hundred years. I was hoping I could speak with Professor Vector. This is her apartment, isn’t it? I…I could come to her office tomorrow is she’s not in.”

“Stoadents areh not toe bay given occess—” Wenlock started, but then the portrait frame swung open, and Professor Vector was standing in the doorway, smiling.

“Miss Granger, what a pleasant surprise,” she said.

“Hello, Professor,” Hermione said nervously. “I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

“Of course, of course. Please come in.”

Vector led her into a small parlour with a tea table and a couple of chairs and a desk in the corner. The room was furnished in the same general style as the Gryffindor Common Room, but with green accents. A kitchenette was visible through one door and a short hallway extended from one side of the room. Hermione decided it was a fairly nice apartment for one.

“Have a seat.” Vector said, indicating the chairs. “And don’t worry about Bridget. She gave me that for a year after I started teaching here. I take it you figured out the clues from the portraits?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not surprised, with someone like you. Would you like some tea?”

“Um…sure, thank you, ma’am.”

The professor produced two cups of tea and sat down across the table from Hermione. The first-year sipped thoughtfully.

“I was hoping you would come to see me, Miss Granger,” Vector said. She was being about the friendliest Hermione had ever seen her. “I could tell you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, even before Thursday. All of your teachers say that your course work remains exemplary—even Professor Snape, when one corrects for his usual bias—but there is more to life. I wouldn’t want to see you burned out so early. If there is any way that I can help, you need only ask.”

“Th-thank you, Professor…It’s…it’s complicated. You see, I’m afraid I’ve let myself get into some very bad habits…” She gave a brief summary of the disaster that the past few weeks had been as Vector listened with concern. “I am doing better now,” she assured her. “I probably need some time to really get back on my feet, but I’m feeling a lot better getting a full night’s sleep, and I’m working faster, too.” Vector smiled a little. “But what I really wanted to talk to you about is…well, I usually right my parents every Sunday night.”

“Ohh…” Vector said with an understanding nod.

“I just don’t know what to tell them!” The words came spilling out. “I’ve been keeping so many things from them. I don’t like keeping secrets, and they deserve to know what’s happening. I’m tired of not being able to talk to them. But I’m so afraid that if I tell them what happened, they pull me out and transfer me to Beauxbatons or something, and I don’t want to leave Hogwarts, even with the bad stuff that’s been going on. I really like it here, and I like my friends, and all my classmates say I shouldn’t tell them, and they’d be so scared with me being away from them, and—”

“Miss Granger…” Vector cut her off. “Hermione…” She gave her a sad smile and lightly patted her hands. “I know this can’t be an easy decision for you, but ultimately it is one that you’ll have to make for yourself. You’re the one who knows your parents best.”

“I just don’t know know what to do,” Hermione whined with tears staining her cheeks.

“Well, I’m glad you feel comfortable coming to me for advice, but I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with this kind of situation. We only get about one muggle-born in Slytherin every five years or so, and about half of them wind up transferring at some point. I think you’ve already seen the unfortunate prejudice shared by most of my former house. And I’ve certainly never seen anyone attacked by a troll before—I promise you anything like that is quite a rare occurrence at Hogwarts. But I have seen difficult situations along similar lines, so I’ll tell you what I have seen, and you can hopefully decide for yourself.

“Muggle-born students almost invariably wind up living in the magical world,” Vector explained. “After all, even after the short time you’ve been here, can you ever imagine going back to the life you had before? Their friends are all magical, and they usually marry magicals, because of the Statute of Secrecy, and unless they work very hard, like you are, they rarely have the educational credentials to get a good job in the muggle world. Meanwhile, your parents are still living in the muggle world, they have limited access to the magical one, and you’re not allowed to do any magic at home.

“Now, it can be hard enough to relate to one another across that gap under normal circumstances…But I’m sure you know by now that about ten years ago, there was a very bloody civil war in the magical world while things were perfectly fine in the muggle one. It was very dangerous for everyone back then, but especially for muggle-borns. You friend Harry Potter’s mother was a muggle-born—and one of my best students, too. Dirk Cresswell, the year after her, he was another one. They came from homes where you’d hear about the occasional murder or assault somewhere, but it was a one-in-a-million chance. But at school, every month they’d hear about more and more attacks on muggle-borns. They started getting in fights with rising Death Eaters in Slytherin—I suspected some of them were marked Death Eaters. When they graduated, Lily Potter, at least, actively fought against them.

“Growing up in that world, they had an even more serious decision to make than you have, and to my knowledge, neither of them ever told their families—never told them how much danger they were in. Whether they didn’t want their parents to worry, or they didn’t want to create a rift in their families over it, or they wanted to stand and fight for justice, or some combination of the three, I don’t know. Whatever their reasons, they kept it up—they never told them…but it hurt them deeply. They hid it, of course, but you learn to recognise it as a teacher—you could see in their eyes how much it tore them up inside. Living through that does things to a person…and as far as I know, they both became completely estranged from their families, stopped contacting them altogether. Now, I’m not saying that will happen to you. Your situation is different, and your parents are different. I just thought you should know how I’ve seen things go before.”

Hermione was doing her level best not to start sobbing over the table. She would have been mortified to be seen like this around a teacher in public, but here in her parlour, it wasn’t so bad. She was so grateful for Professor Vector being so frank with her, no matter how painful her words.

“Professor, I…” she squeaked. “I have to tell them. I can’t let that happen—I can’t…”

“I understand, Hermione. If you like, you can tell me when you send your letter, and I can send one of my own to help explain the situation. If you are concerned about their reaction, a professional view might help.”

“That’s…that’s very generous of you, ma’am, thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’m glad I could help.”

Hermione finished her tea and slowly composed herself, but her mind was already racing thinking about what needed to go into her letter. It was fast looking like it would wind up being longer than most of her homework essays. She was certain she wouldn’t be able to send it tonight, and she could only hope her parents wouldn’t be too worried about that. Finally, she felt ready to get up to leave.

“Thank you again, Professor,” she said.

“No trouble at all, Hermione. Please come see me anytime if you need help.”

Hermione nodded and stood up, but then she remembered something.

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

“There was one other thing I was wondering about. How did you stop that troll so easily?”

Professor Vector smiled. “That? It was actually quite simple. The Freezing Charm is a simple second-year Defence charm. I just put a lot of power into it—although even then, if you hadn’t knocked it out, it only would have held long enough to get you out.”

“Really? That’s all it was?”

“Yes. A crude method, I admit, but trolls aren’t very bright, so it’s all you need. There is a time, even in combat, to be really clever. This is especially true if you have less power than your opponent, as you yourself learnt. But there is also a time when something fast and simple is best. The power you need to cast a Freezing Charm that strong will come with age and practice.”

Hermione wondered at how such a simple spell could have such amazing results, but she was glad to hear it wouldn’t be too hard to learn down the road. She left the apartment and started back toward Gryffindor Tower.

Professor Vector sighed as she left. That girl really was one of a kind, more than even she herself knew.

Hermione wanted to get started on her letter right away, but she knew there was one more thing she needed to do first, uncomfortable though it was. She found her new friend in the Common Room and sat next to him.

“Harry…can I ask you something?” Hermione said nervously.

“Sure.”

“It’s…it’s okay if you don’t want to answer.”

Now Harry looked a little confused. “What is it?”

“Harry, did your aunt know—know what was going on with your parents? The war and everything?”

Harry stopped and thought. It was something that hadn’t really occurred to him. Aunt Petunia had said his parents had got “blown up,” but from what he’d heard, that wasn’t exactly true. He had to wonder how much she really knew, the way she talked about her sister. It might even be something worth the risk to ask her next summer.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I know she didn’t know about my dad’s money, or she would have taken it. And she never talked about any of it except when Hagrid came. She knew my parents had been killed, but I don’t think she ever really knew there was a war on.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Professor Vector—you could talk to her if you wanted—she said your mum was one of her students. But she didn’t think she ever told her parents about the war, and eventually she just stopped talking to them.”

“Well,” Harry said slowly, “my aunt thought she was a “freak” from the beginning, so…”

“She did? Why would she do that to her own sister?”

“I don’t know. I guess some people are just like that. Kinda like Malfoy.”

Harry didn’t have any more to say after that. Hermione pondered his words as she climbed up to her dorm room. She started writing. But it was going to take a while.

Chapter Text

“You actually managed to prank Fred and George Weasley?” Alicia Spinnet said. The Arithmancy study group was laughing as loudly as Madam Pince would let them get away with as Hermione recounted the story.

“Uh huh. It worked even better than I expected,” she said happily. “It was pure luck that they got swarmed by gypsy moths up there.”

“Hermione, I take back everything I said about mapping the castle being a silly idea,” Roger said. “That is awesome.”

“I know,” Alicia added. “Most of us have been dreaming of pulling one over on them for the past two years.”

“I bet a lot of the teachers have been thinking it, too, even if they won’t admit it,” Roger added.

Hermione smirked at that. She was reasonably sure Professor McGonagall secretly wanted to give them a taste of their own medicine, but that wouldn’t fit her stern teacher image. “Thanks. I just thought I needed to assert myself a little more. Now they know I can get them back.”

“Well, it’s good to have our Hermione back,” Roger said. “We, uh, might not have shown it that well, but we were all starting to worry about you, even before…you know, Halloween. You seemed pretty out of it last week.”

That certainly surprised Hermione. Roger had always seemed like the most distant of the three of them. She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt, too. She still felt like most of her problems were self-inflicted, but she tried to force the feeling down.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t think to look for you. I guess I got distracted with the feast and all.” said Cedric. Alicia and Roger quickly registered their agreement. “I would’ve thought the prefects would have kept track of everyone,” he added.

Alicia let out a low whistle. “They should’ve. Percy Weasley got a real hiding from McGonagall for not noticing that three of his first years were missing.”

Hermione remembered that. It was the first time she’d heard Professor McGonagall shouting. Percy had been depressed all weekend and had since become so uptight that even she thought he was annoying.

“Is it true that you beat the troll with a Levitation Charm?” Cedric asked.

“Well, sort of. It took all three of us to lift its club and drop it, and I don’t know if it would have worked if Professor Vector hadn’t frozen it.”

“Okay, that makes more sense,” said Roger. “Some people were trying to say that you started swinging its club back at it.”

Hermione and Alicia both rolled their eyes. Hermione supposed she should consider herself lucky that the rumours had only gone that far.

“How did you come up with the idea to use combined Levitation Charms, though?” Cedric asked. “People rarely do anything like that.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” she insisted. “I just saw that one spell partially deflected it, so I thought three might be able to lift it.”

“Well, we’re all glad you got out of there,” Alicia said. “We wouldn’t want to see you get hurt, especially with the rough time you’ve been having.”

“Thanks.” Hermione smiled meekly.

“Anyway, we’d better get to work,” she continued, looking down at their exercises on proportions. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it on Wednesday. Wood’s scheduled a bunch of extra practises.”

“I know. Harry’s getting really nervous about the match,” Hermione said. “He’s already under a lot of pressure with the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing and being the youngest player this century. And I guess it doesn’t help that he’s especially important being a Seeker in the Hogwarts league.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alicia.

“Well, since the Seeker almost always wins the game, having the Snitch only really makes sense in a tournament context where there are a lot of games and the actual scores matter. But in the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup, each House only plays three games per year, which makes the whole thing extremely Seeker-dominated.”

The others stared at her, open mouthed.

“What, isn’t that obvious?”

Cedric cleared his throat. “Um, sorry, Hermione, it’s just that we didn’t think you even liked Quidditch, and for a minute there, you sounded like a sports writer or something.”

“Well, honestly, I don’t that much,” she admitted sheepishly. “I don’t think it’s very well balanced, and I don’t enjoy flying all that much. But most of my friends love it, including you, and it’s not hard to figure the numbers, so I might as well have fun with it.”

“It’s nice of you to get into it, then,” Cedric said. “I guess I’ve always thought it was a little silly that we play so few games here. When you only play each house once, you never really get a chance to develop a strategy. We could easily play each house twice like in the professional league without disrupting classes.”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Roger said wistfully. “My grandpa says they used to do that in the old days.”

“Maybe you should start a petition,” Hermione suggested.

The others all chuckled at that. “Yeah, maybe we should,” Roger replied. “So can you use maths to figure out who’s gonna to win on Saturday? And don’t worry about offending Alicia.”

“Hey!”

“Well, that’s difficult with three new starting players on the Gryffindor team,” Hermione said as she thought over the numbers. “Based on last year’s statistics—percentage of Chaser shots made and so forth—I’d say Gryffindor has a slight advantage on the Chaser side, but, of course, the wild card will be Harry. I’ve only seen him fly the one time, but if he’s as good as everyone says, I think I give Gryffindor a seventy-five percent chance of winning.”

“Well, I guess it’s up to us to make sure it’s a hundred percent,” Alicia quipped.

“Wow,” Cedric said. “Hermione, have you ever considered a career as a Quidditch analyst.”

“Not really,” she said flatly. “I’d rather do something that has more advanced maths in it.”

“Yeah, I hate to admit it, but your brains would be wasted on that,” Alicia said. “I’m sure you’re gonna be inventing spells that aren’t supposed to be possible someday.”

Hermione smiled nervously. That seemed like an awful lot of pressure, even if they were just joking around. “Well, I try,” she finally said, trying to lighten up a bit as they really got to work. She had to admit she was still a little distracted, though, for other reasons, for as they worked, she found her thoughts wandering back to the letter she was writing to her parents, which now stood at four pages and counting. It was hard work, and she was sure she still wouldn’t be able to finish tonight, but she would get there eventually.

Daniel and Emma Granger had been a little concerned when no owl arrived Monday with a letter from their daughter, especially after last week’s distressed note. Still, she might just have been revising for an exam or something.

When Monday stretched into Tuesday, and Tuesday stretched into Wednesday, they became more concerned. They wanted to say perhaps Hermione had just missed a week, but it was hard to say it, knowing how hard a time she was having.

Finally, on Thursday morning, they got a shock when not one, but two owls showed up at their kitchen window. One was carrying a small letter in an official Hogwarts envelope and addressed in emerald-green ink, but Emma set that one aside for a moment because she was more interested in the second letter, addressed with “Mum and Dad” in their daughter’s neat handwriting.

But this was by far the fattest envelope Hermione had sent them, and when Emma opened in on the kitchen table, pages and pages of parchment spilt out, obviously written over several days and at least as many moods. Some of them were her written in her usual tidy script, while others were roughly scribbled and tear-stained and everywhere in between.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed.

“Whoa, what happened?” Dan asked.

“I don’t know. This is either a really good sign or a really bad sign.” She organised the pages to find the top one, and started to read with growing apprehension:

Dear Mum and Dad,

I ’m sorry I didn’t get this letter to you on time. This is going to be really hard for me to write, and I know it’s going to be hard for you to read, too. You’re going to want to sit down for this and maybe make an extra-strong cup of tea.

I was really afraid to tell you all this stuff because I know how you ’ll react. I was going to just hide it and pretend it didn’t happen. I really wanted to, but Professor Vector told me how she’d seen muggle-borns keep things from their families back in the war and grow apart from them and lose all contact with them, and how much it hurt them, and I don’t want that. I don’t think I could bear it without you there to support me. So please, just hear me out. I know it’s going to sound bad, but it turned out better than I ever could have hoped. It turns out I was all wrong about Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Actually, I was all wrong about a lot of things. You know, they say when times get rough, you learn who your real friends are, but even I’m surprised that I’ve got so many.

Sorry, I know I ’m rambling. It’s just so hard to think in a straight line right now. So, anyway, what happened was…

Dan and Emma held each other close and took turns reading each time one of their voices gave out as they saw their daughter’s trials and tribulations unfold over the next ten pages. It was clear that she hadn’t told them half of what was going on, and they could understand why, as it got darker and darker. If the length of this letter was any indication, though, she wasn’t holding back anymore.

She told them about how she was being bullied and called racial slurs by that pureblood Malfoy. How the Weasley Twins messed around and caused her trouble and generally made her nervous. How creepy the Divination teacher was. How she was feeling like she couldn’t relate to her classmates. About how she had withdrawn into herself and made things that much worse for herself. How she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus, and felt like everything was slowly crumbling out from under her. And finally how Ron’s words on Halloween had been her breaking point, and she spent the entire day crying in the bathroom.

All of that was bad enough, but that was just the opening act before her letter took a turn to the plot of a horror film. Dan and Emma staggered out to the living room and collapsed on the sofa together as they read the news that their daughter had very nearly died that day.

More than that: she told them in graphic detail just what a mountain troll looked like (and smelled like), followed by a blow-by-blow account of being cornered by it in the bathroom, being saved by Harry and Ron, whom she hadn’t been getting along with at all, and by Professor Vector, whom she made sound like some kind of mythical warrior, and a little clever spellwork on her own part, and, finally, being mobbed by all the worried friends she had been ignoring when she got back to safety.

And then, just as an afterthought, she mentioned that the school was keeping a giant three-headed dog on the third floor to guard something, but she didn’t think that was such a big deal anymore.

…Look, I know that right now, you’re going to be completely freaking out and probably looking for the literature from Beauxbatons to transfer me right away, but please don ’t. I’ve only just now realised how many friends I have and how much I love it here, ridiculous non-Euclidean geometry and stupid pureblood politics and all, and I don’t want to go. After everything that happened, I think all I really needed was to get more sleep and lighten up a bit and quit being so hard on myself about everything.

Even Harry and Ron are a lot better than I thought now that I ’ve really talked to them. Ron apologised on his own for what he said, and he even tried to turn down the points for saving me. He’s still kind of a git, but he usually comes around before too long. And Harry—well, I’m not quite sure what’s going on with Harry. It sounds like he’s had a rough time at home, but he usually gets along with the other Gryffindors pretty well.

Hogwarts really isn ’t that dangerous, either. All the professors have been saying dangerous creatures almost never get into the castle, and no student has died here since 1943, and I did the math, and that’s probably better than most muggle schools—I wrote it out on the back. It’s not like an evil psychopath sneaks in and tries to kill somebody every year or something.

I ’m sorry for scaring you like this, but I was really worried about what to say to you, and after I talked to Professor Vector, I just had to get it all down. I hope you can understand how I’m feeling. I really do want to stay here, so please give Hogwarts another chance.

Love from Hermione

They turned the last page of the letter over to see that, sure enough, Hermione had used her limited actuarial knowledge and some algebra to try to prove that living in Hogwarts was safer than living in the muggle world. Dan and Emma gave a pair of tight smiles to see that a near-death experience hadn’t blunted their little numberphile’s wits.

“I can’t…I can’t believe…” Emma whispered tearily.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dan said, shaking his head. “I’m almost not sure whether to be more worried about her being…attacked by a…by a troll—or her reaction to being attacked by a troll.”

“Well, it’s good she’s made so many friends—it’s amazing, really, but…” Emma shook her own head frantically. What was she saying? Her daughter had nearly been killed, and she started liking the place more? She’d gone mad! The whole world had gone mad!

“Emma, where’s the other letter?”

She closed her eyes and remembered. “Still in the kitchen. You think it’s related?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’ll go get it.” He squeezed her shoulders gently and slowly lifted himself off the sofa.

Returning a moment later with the official-looking envelope, he opened it and began to read:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

I would like to let you know that I have every reason to believe that everything your daughter wrote in her letter is true and more or less complete. I wanted to inform you of what I know of the situation.

On Halloween night, a mountain troll from the colony that lives to the north of the grounds got into the passages under the school from the ravine due to a mistake on the part of the Defence Professor, Quirinus Quirrell. Professor Quirrell discovered his mistake and alerted the school during the Halloween Feast. I knew that Hermione had missed class that day, and I did not see her at the feast, so I immediately found out where she was from her roommates and went to find her. I believe her classmates, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, did save Hermione from the troll, if ineptly. When I arrived at the scene, I got all three of them out of harm ’s way as quickly as possible. (While first-years would not be able to handle one, it is relatively simple to stop a troll long enough to escape it.)

I want to assure you that your daughter is safe and whole, and in as good of spirits as can be expected under these circumstances. Indeed, I had noticed her growing self-isolation myself in recent weeks, and the outpouring of concern and support she has received from her classmates has lifted her spirits greatly.

I also want to assure you that these events are definitely not usual for Hogwarts. There has only been one other occasion in which a troll has got into the castle in my twenty years of teaching, and other dangerous creatures are very rarely sighted. In the past fifty years, there has been only one fatal attack at Hogwarts, a tragic incident in which a student was killed by an acromantula—a creature which has since been carefully confined to the forbidden forest. This rate of attacks is, in fact, slightly better than at other schools because there are fewer large, dangerous magical creatures in Britain than on the Continent. We are also reviewing our safety procedures to prevent another such incident from occurring.

As such, I strongly urge you to respect Hermione ’s wishes to remain at Hogwarts, as I can honestly say I believe she will be happiest staying here. She has been very worried about your reaction to her ordeal. However, I advised her of the difficulty that muggle-born students have in staying connected with their families, and she expressed a strong resolve to keep close to you and to be fully honest with you in response. I have seen the damage done to families of muggle-borns who chose to hide the danger of the war from their parents a decade ago. Because the divide between the magical and muggle worlds is so deep, it is a tempting choice to make, and for Hermione to be so open with you about this shows and incredible degree of trust on her part. Keeping a family together across that divide is not easy, but I believe she has shown a commitment to doing that, and that she would do so is a great credit to you as her parents.

And on a personal note, I would be very sorry to see Hermione leave. Your daughter is easily the most intelligent student in her year and the most intelligent I have ever had the pleasure to meet in the field of arithmancy. She is a joy to have in class and has been a great help to the other members of her study group. With training, I believe she has the potential to make advances in the theory of magic that we can ’t even imagine yet, and I hope that you will continue to give her the opportunity to do that at Hogwarts.

Sincerely,

Septima Vector

Professor of Arithmancy

Dan and Emma sat on the sofa in silence, wondering how the second letter had managed to completely floor them again.

“She’s really something, isn’t she,” Dan whispered. “She practically has the whole thing worked out.”

“She’s growing up, Dan,” Emma sighed. “She’s starting to make her own decisions now.”

“I know. It’s just—it was always going to be hard. It’s a lot harder with this mess. I wish we could’ve had a few more years with her around.”

“She still needs us, you know,” Emma said as she tried in vain to wipe away her tears. “She’s trusting us to support her. She’s wanting so much to be able to rely on us—We can’t pull her out now. We couldn’t do that to her after all she’s been through. We’re so lucky she wants to keep us close.”

“We certainly are, Dear. And…I guess Hogwarts doesn’t sound that dangerous normally. And she already worked out the maths for us, so we know it’s right,” Dan said with a slight grin.

Emma grinned back. “No stopping her, is there?”

“She wouldn’t be our Hermione otherwise.”

“Mmm…”

They sat there in each other’s arms on the sofa for a while as they started to come to terms with what was happening. “We’ll have to reply before too long,” Emma said after a while. “She’ll need closure with this—I need closure with this…We just need to figure out what to say.”

Dan helped her rise to her feet and planted a soft kiss on her lips. “Well, we’d better get started, then.”

Dear Hermione,

…Wow, this is hard, isn’t it. We hardly know what to say after your last letter. It was probably the most terrifying thing we’ve ever read in our lives—and saddening and disturbing and confusing and somehow wonderful all at the same time. We couldn’t have imagined anything like a troll attack happening in a school, or even some of the other things you mentioned. You know, you never really told us about all of your friends at school, and it sounds like you didn’t really see things clearly yourself until now. We can’t say how proud we are that you’re fitting it so well at Hogwarts, even though we wish you could have realised it under less dangerous circumstances.

Professor Vector sent us a letter explaining things. She understandably made the whole incident sound a lot more cut-and-dried than you did. When we read your version of the story, it was like seeing a side of magic that we ’d never seen before. Be sure to thank her for us for saving you. We don’t know if she told you what she wrote, but she speaks very highly of you. She obviously has a lot of respect for you not just as a student, but as a person, and we can tell that she will be a good mentor for you in school and beyond.

It disturbed us a little to see you getting so much more enthusiastic about Hogwarts after what happened. And you were right, our first instinct was to get you out of there—that ’s just one of the rules of being a parent. But thinking it over, we realised that you were right about the rest, too: it was just a freak accident, and there’s really nothing especially dangerous about Hogwarts. Professor Vector also confirmed this and explained what the school is doing to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

To be honest, though, now that we have a better handle on your safety, we ’re a little more concerned with your emotional well-being. You’ve gone off into these little episodes before, but never like this. It hurts to see how difficult things have got for you, and it worries us not having you here where we can help you out or comfort you or bug you about your homework—and yes, we know you always get it done. It’s really good to see that your friends and at least Professor Vector are supporting you. That was a good idea asking them to help you stay on track and remember to sleep. Still, we were getting worried about how detached your letters sounded, and now we have a whole new set of things to worry about.

Now, we know you said things are getting better, but these kinds of things take time to recover from. Please go to your friends and teachers for help before you let things get that bad again, and don ’t take on too much right away. Take it easy and relax when you can. You know we’re going to worry about you even more now until we’re sure you’re back on your feet. We wish we could keep you closer to us at home. After all this, we’re hardly going to be able to wait to see you at Christmas.

As much as it pains us, though, we know that we need to let you start being your own person and make your own decisions. We know it must have been hard for you to trust us enough to tell us all of this, and if you can do that, then we can trust you to make a rational decision about where you ’ll go to school. It’s wonderful to see you growing into such a strong, thoughtful, and brilliant young woman, and we know you’ll find the right path for yourself as long as you surround yourself with people who truly care about you. Just keep trying your best, try not to let things get to you, and be sure to get enough sleep. We’ll see you at Christmas.

Love,

Mum and Dad

Harry wore an obvious look of concern as Hermione set down her letter, and he saw her tear-stricken face.

“Hey, Hermione, is something wrong?” he asked tentatively.

“No,” she squeaked, smiling wistfully. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

Chapter Text

Hermione raced through the Quidditch stands as fast as her legs would carry her, but her mind was racing even faster. Harry’s broom had gone haywire—bucking so much that he was about to be thrown off and fall a hundred feet. His teammates might be able to catch him, but it would be a roughly landing, and if they didn’t…

Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand was brand new, and it was a top-of-the-line model, she thought, which meant it was undoubtedly individually tested. There was no reason for it to act up on its own. It was also enchanted out the ears with months’, if not years’ worth of arithmantic planning. She knew from class that enchantments that heavy and carefully designed would not be disrupted by any simple jinx. It would take serious dark magic to override them, even for a moment.

And then she had seen Professor Snape. Everyone knew he disliked Harry Potter in particular, and he’d seemed particularly angry yesterday, but she never imagined a teacher would actually try to hurt a student, much less kill him. But there he was, staring up at Harry’s broom, unblinking, muttering under his breath—exactly the kind of spell that was needed to override those heavy enchantments. And she’d just got through convincing her parents that Hogwarts was safe.

Hermione didn’t really think at first. She just sprang into action. Normal rules didn’t apply to something like this, not when the teachers turned evil. Harry was her newest friend, and she wasn’t about to let anyone, even Professor Snape, hurt one of her friends. By the time she was halfway there, she already had a plan. Those chanted curses were very difficult to maintain. All she had to do was to break Snape’s eye contact for a moment, and Harry would be able to take back control of his broom. The tricky part was that she had to do it without getting caught.

The whole thing nearly fell apart when she tripped over Professor Quirrell and knocked him forward into the front row. She leapt over the back row and scampered behind the seats, hoping nobody had seen her. A moment later, and she was behind Snape, apparently undetected. She whipped out her wand, pointed it at the hem of his robes, and whispered, “Lacarnum Inflamari.”

A bright blue flame landed on his robes and began to smolder. Wasting no time, Hermione pulled a jar from her pocket and got ready. Within seconds, Snape yelped in surprise that he was on fire and jumped out of his seat, breaking his eye contact.

Then, Hermione had to pull off the hardest part of her plan: getting the fire off of Snape’s robes without him seeing her. She would only have a split second before he shook his robes out and started looking around for the perpetrator, and if he was already trying to kill Harry, she didn’t want to think about what he’d do to the one who stopped him. With one swipe of her arm, Hermione brushed the blue flames off and onto the floor of the stands, where she quickly scooped them up in her jar and ran off.

She got back to the open air just in time to see Harry land hard and roll off his broom onto all fours. Her heart skipped a beat as she feared she had been too late. But then Harry started gagging and coughed something into his hand. He stood up triumphantly and shouted, “I’ve got the Snitch!”

The pitch descended into confusion. The Gryffindors stormed the field while the Slytherins went from shock to anger. That was probably the most absurd catch of the Snitch any of them had ever seen. Lee Jordan loudly proclaimed that Gryffindor had won one hundred seventy to sixty.

It wasn’t till Hermione made it back to where the other first years and Hagrid were standing that the enormity of what she had just done hit her. She didn’t mind a little surreptitious magic out of class here and there, now, as long as she didn’t get caught, but she had just attacked a teacher! With magic! A teacher with obviously murderous intent! Forget rule-breaking—that was probably the most dangerous thing she had ever done—well, deliberately—she remembered Halloween. And for that matter, a teacher had just tried to kill a student! Her whole world was turned on its head. She clung to Hagrid’s cloak to keep from falling over with shock on her way down to the pitch.

“That wasn’t catch!” Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Captain was shouting. “He practically ate the Snitch!” The other Slytherins were in agreement, but Madam Hooch ruled the catch good. Harry had the Snitch in his possession in the air, and that was all he needed.

“There yeh are, Harry,” Hagrid boomed as he picked the boy up by the armpits and set him on his feet, rescuing him from being carried off by the other Gryffindors. “Great catch, there, great catch. But what’d yeh think yeh were doin’ up there flailin’ around on yer broom like that?”

“I didn’t do it,” Harry protested. “My broom just went nuts on its own.”

“It was Snape!” Hermione cried, but Hagrid wasn’t listening.

“Well, yer lucky, whatever it was. Why don’ yeh come down to me hut for a cuppa? You, too,” he said to Ron and Hermione. “Ain’t seen much o’ you two in a while.”

“Sure!” Ron said excitedly.

“Um, sure, thanks,” Hermione replied.

They crossed the grounds and entered Hagrid’s hut. It was an odd little place, Hermione thought. She hadn’t seen the inside before. It looked like an old-fashioned cabin in the wilderness, except scaled up to Hagrid’s huge size. Hagrid got a roaring first going in the fireplace and started the tea.

“So, I heard you three had a little Halloween adventure,” he said. “Somethin’ about fightin’ off a troll?”

The three children turned pink at that. “Well, not exactly,” Hermione said. “More like survived it.”

“And good on yeh for it. Still, mighta liked to have seen that,” Hagrid mused. “Don’ see trolls that much “round here.”

And thank Merlin for that, Hermione thought. She’d heard rumours about Hagrid’s affinity for dangerous creatures. Then again, he was almost as big as the troll was and could probably fight it with his bare hands if he had to.

Harry saw his friends were getting uncomfortable and changed the subject back to something more relevant: “I still don’t understand what happened to my broom.”

“It was Snape!” Ron exclaimed. “Hermione and I saw him staring at you and not blinking and muttering something. He must’ve been cursing your broom.”

“Rubbish!” Hagrid cut in. “Why would Snape do that? He’s a teacher.”

“Because he hates me.”

“Rubbish, I say. I told yeh he just doesn’t like anybody. He wouldn’t cause any trouble like that.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other nervously, thinking of all the trouble they had seen Snape cause so far this year.

“I don’t know,” Harry said slowly. “We know he tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. I think he was mad “cause I saw he’d been bitten.”

There was a loud crash as Hagrid dropped the teapot and spilt it all over the floor.

“How’d you know about Fluffy?”

“Fluffy?”

“That thing has a name?” Ron shouted.

“Of course he does. He’s mine,” Hagrid said. “I bought him from a Greek chappie last year and lent him to Dumbledore to—uh…”

“Yes?” Harry said.

“I’m not supposed to tell yeh that. Top secret, that is. Don’ ask me any more about that.”

“But Hagrid,” Hermione said, thinking fast, “it’s well known that cerberi are guard dogs. What if Snape was trying to steal whatever it’s guarding?”

“He wasn’t! He even told us he was just checkin’ on—well, on Fluffy. Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, an’ he’d never do any such thing.”

“Then why did he try to kill Harry at the match?”

“I’m tellin’ yeh he didn’t!” Hagrid said angrily. “I don’ know what happened to Harry’s broom, but I know it wasn’t Snape that did it, so yeh can just forget about it, and while yer at it, yeh can forget about that dog, and forget about what it’s guardin.” It’s dangerous business, that is, and it’s supposed to stay between Professor Dumbledore and—uh…”

“Yes?” Harry said again.

“Nope, can’t tell yeh ‘bout that, neither,” Hagrid insisted. “Just drop it, now. Yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh.”

They chatted uneasily after that only long enough to finish their tea. The conversation quickly grew uncomfortable as Hagrid got testy whenever they got anywhere near the topic of what was going on on the third floor, so they decided to cut their visit short.

“It seems awfully suspicious, doesn’t it?” Hermione said as they made their way back up to the castle. “Snape tried to get past the dog, and you can’t help but wonder if he went after Harry to try to cover it up.” Harry, who was already looking pale, nodded nervously.

“So you’re with us that Snape’s a bad guy?” Ron asked.

“I guess so,” she replied glumly. “I can’t believe he would try to kill a student, but I can’t imagine what else he could have been doing. And Percy said he’s very interested in the Dark Arts, so he’d certainly be able to. If only we knew what that dog was guarding, then maybe we’d know what he wants.”

“Hermione,” Harry said, “you said maybe we could figure out what it’s guarding?”

“Well, we can try. I mean, there can’t be that many things that are that small that are worth all this trouble. I’m sure we could find all the things it could be in the library…unless it’s so secret that it’s not written in books at all.”

“I think we should try,” Harry said firmly. “I’ve got a feeling it’s important. We can start tomorrow maybe…” Then a thought struck him. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your exploring the castle, though. We can still help you out with that, right Ron?”

“Sure. If you can prank Fred and George doing that, it’s bound to be useful sometime.”

“Thanks, guys,” Hermione said, smiling. “I’d be happy to help you solve your puzzle if you help me with mine. We can split the time, maybe.”

“Thanks,” Harry agreed. “Do you want to try tomorrow afternoon, then?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

And so, the next day, after lunch, the trio found themselves wandering around the Entrance Hall and the Great Hall once again, trying to figure out how one might get up to the space above them.

“What about getting in from the Grand Staircase?” Ron suggested.

“No, I looked all over that section,” Hermione said. “They’re not connected at that level.”

“So how do we find a secret passage?” Harry asked. “We already tried the doors and tapestries and stuff.”

“Fred and George talk about secret passages sometimes,” Ron answered as he drew his wand and started tapping it at various places on the wall. “They say sometimes you have to tap your wand in the right place and say a password, kind of like getting into Diagon Alley. And sometimes you have to tickle the wall in the right place or walk by it twice or do something strange like that.”

“That’s got to be hard to figure out what to do,” said Hermione. “In muggle stories, you always have to press on the right brick or pull the right book of a shelf, and it’s like a door handle…Hmm…” She got an idea and pulled one of her empty flame jars from her robes, put it to the wall, and pressed her ear to it. Then, she started knocking in various places on the wall.

“What are you doing?” Ron asked in confusion.

“I’m listening to hear if any places behind the wall sound hollow. It’s what they always do in muggle stories.”

“Huh, neat. I’ll have to tell my dad about that. He always likes hearing about muggle stuff. Course, it won’t work if there’s a Silencing Charm on it.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

Hermione went down the wall in an orderly line, while Harry and Ron haphazardly tried out the ideas Ron had thought of, but the wall remained stubbornly solid. They tried the next wall and were just about to give up on that one, too, when Harry cried out, “I found something!”

“You found the way up?” Hermione said excitedly.

“No, it’s just…I guess it’s a little broom cupboard,” Harry said, disappointed.

Sure enough, a hidden panel in the decorative stone work around the Architect’s Statute had opened up, revealing a small cupboard, only about four feet high and filled with cleaning supplies. There didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about it, except that it was hidden—and that it probably didn’t quite fit in the floor plan of the castle, Hermione thought with annoyance. In a normal building, one could add up all the internal and external dimensions and figure out where all the hidden rooms could and couldn’t be, but at Hogwarts, that wasn’t going to work.

“Well, that’s something,” she admitted.

“How’d you find it?” asked Ron.

Harry turned a little pink. “I, uh, tickled the statue’s foot.”

Ron guffawed. “No way!”

“I did…” Harry let go of the panel, which swung back into place and blended seamlessly with the wall. “I just…” He tickled the statue’s foot, and, sure enough, the panel opened again.

“Huh. That’s odd,” Hermione said. “I wonder if…” She reached out and tickled the statue’s other foot. There was a soft scraping sound, and an identical little cupboard opened on the statue’s other side.

“Wicked,” Ron commented.

They tried to see if the statue did anything else, as far as they could reach, which wasn’t much above the knees with it being on a pedestal, but no other hidden panels appeared. Going around the rest of the Entrance Hall, they managed to find two more panels that opened onto what looked like small storage cupboards, but they were empty.

“That’s probably all we’re going to find in here,” Harry decided. “Do you mind if we go up to the library now? We can keep looking if you want.”

“Sure, I mean, it’s fine, I guess,” Hermione answered. “We’ve probably spent enough time on this for now. Let’s go.”

They wandered up to the far corner of the castle to reach the library and quietly walked past Madam Pince before Hermione led them to the history section.

“So what are we looking for?” Ron asked.

“Hmm…treasures would be a good start,” Hermione mused. “Famous wizarding jewelry, that kind of thing. We know the whatever-it-is is small. But we might also look at biographies, since it could be a relic from Merlin or one of the Founders or something. Hogwarts, A History had a little about that kind of thing, but the only thing that would be small enough would be Salazar Slytherin’s locket. We could also look up famous battles and see if any special weapons or cursed objects were used that might be powerful enough to keep locked up like this.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Ron complained.

“I know it’s a lot of ground to cover,” she admitted. “We really don’t have much to go on. I think we should make a list of anything we find that might fit, and maybe we can narrow it down by looking up the history of each item.”

Ron still looked unhappy at having even more work, but he held his tongue.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry assured him. “It’s not like we’re in a hurry. We can just work on it when we have time.”

“Let’s start by looked for books about jewels and treasures,” Hermione suggested. “Those will probably have the most leads.”

They got to work. In Hogwarts’s vast library there were a number of books that were specifically about those kinds of things. They turned up a lot of possible leads, especially if one considered that the jewels might have been separated from the necklace or diadem or sword they were mounted in, but there was very little that looked to be of “break into Gringotts’ calibre. The best leads they found were Slytherin’s locket (which looked to be of no more than historical value), plus the jewel from Merlin’s staff and the one from Morgan le Fay’s diadem, both of which were supposed to be lost for nearly a thousand years. By the time they had to go down to dinner, it was becoming clear that this would take quite some time.

The days passed quickly for the nascent trio. Hermione was feeling much better now that, with her roommates’ help, she was consistently getting enough sleep again. They had to practically drag her up the stairs a couple of times, but they got her back onto a normal schedule. Of course, she still woke up early against her will at times. When that happened, she would sit up and talk to Lily and Sally-Anne until the others were awake, but that problem was quickly going away.

Now that she was talking to them more and had got to know her new friends better, Hermione’s suspicions were confirmed. Recklessness aside, Harry Potter was a completely normal product of the muggle world, like herself. Well, not completely normal: he remained very reticent to talk about his home life, which concerned her a little, but he was otherwise a pretty normal kid. Ron Weasley, on the other hand, had been something of a surprise. If you cut through the glaring inferiority complex and the Quidditch obsession, he turned out to be pretty nice. And he seemed reasonably bright if he would only apply himself. He was good to have around, too, since he was the only one of the three with experience in the wizarding world. Suddenly, it seemed silly that she had written them off as troublemakers at the start of the term.

Harry was getting adulation (and anger and mockery from the Slytherins) all week for his most unorthodox Quidditch victory. Hermione found it a little off putting, but Harry actually seemed to prefer that to the constant Boy-Who-Lived talk. Professor McGonagall seemed especially pleased about the victory, but the real surprise came from Snape, who seemed no more disagreeable than usual by the time Potions came around on Friday. Harry speculated that it was because he wasn’t limping anymore.

They spent a fair bit of their spare time in the library, working on their private research project. It was slow going. By muggle standards, the organisation of the library ranged from mediocre to terrible—though they didn’t dare tell Madam Pince that. Given the small population and long history of the wizarding world, many of the books were ancient, and few were truly up to date. Also, many of them were not that well written, and the documentation was usually poor, so it was uncommonly hard to find anything.

On Saturday, a week after the Quidditch match, they spent some time exploring again. Hermione had a hunch that one or more of the many wooden panels on the lower sections of the walls in the Great Hall would open onto a stairwell up to the space above, but even finding the correct panels, let alone figuring out how to open them, would be a difficult task. Ron was still sceptical of her method of listening to the wall through a jar, but he and Harry didn’t have any luck either. After an afternoon spent covering most of the Great Hall and not finding anything, none of them had much confidence in any of their methods.

“Maybe we should look around the castle and see how the other secret passages work,” Ron suggested. “Maybe we can get Fred and George to tell us.”

“I wonder if there are any spells to detect secret passages,” was Hermione’s idea, “and if there, are, if we can convince someone to teach them to us, and if they would even work in a place as magical as Hogwarts.”

“What do you think’s up there, anyway?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. It’s probably just storage or something, or it might just be empty. But it’s just odd that nobody seems to know.”

They gave up for the day soon afterwards, but the problem was still bugging Hermione. She felt like she was missing something, but she wasn’t sure why. She wanted to go check it out again the next day, but her friends were not as helpful then.

“Sorry, I’ve got Quidditch Practice,” Harry said. Wood rescheduled it “cause we skipped them last week.

“Oh,” Hermione said, a little crestfallen. “What about you Ron?”

“Nah, sorry, I’ve got homework,” he grumbled. “I bet you’ve already finished yours.”

“Well, yes…did you want some help?”

“Kinda…I think I’m okay for now, though. I can always ask you tonight. You can go ahead if you want.”

“Really?” That was surprisingly considerate for Ron. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

“Sorry we can’t help you out,” Harry added. “But you don’t need to let that stop you if you don’t want. We can still help you some other time, though.”

“Well, thanks…I did want to take another look around today…I’ll see you later, then, I guess.”

“Yeah, see ya,” they called after her.

Hermione walked down to the Great Hall alone. It was unfortunate, but she could understand their problems. She felt a little awkward going off on her own. She really shouldn’t feel that way, she thought. After all, it was her project. But they were more or less working together, now, and she knew Harry and Ron would be disappointed if she found something while they weren’t with her. Oh, well, she’d certainly show them right away if she did.

They’d looked over most of the obvious parts of the Great Hall yesterday. The largest area left to be searched was the wall behind the High Table, where the teachers sat at meal times. It seemed a little bit wrong to go behind there, but she needed to be thorough, so she strode up cautiously to the back wall, placed a jar against one of the wood panels, pressed her ear against the glass, and knocked on the wood. She heard the same dull thud of all the other panels that were mounted on the solid stone wall. It was entirely possible that Ron was right, and she wouldn’t be able to find anything by sound, but she couldn’t help feeling that it should be easier than that—that there should be an easy way to find things that were hidden. She kept going, panel by panel until—wait! She knocked again and carefully compared the two adjacent panels. Yes! She could hear the reverberation. There was definitely a hollow space behind this one. Whether it was a stairway or another cupboard she didn’t know, but there was something. Now she just had to figure out how to open it.

She ran her fingers around the edges of the panel, but nothing was out of the ordinary. She knocked on the adjacent panels and got a good idea of the size of the door—it was small, like the cupboard doors. But there were no distinguishing features to them. They looked just like all of the other panels in the Hall. She tried pushing on them. She tried tickling them here and there. She tried tapping her wand to them. But nothing worked. Maybe she had to tap the six panels in a certain order—that meant 720 permutations though. Or maybe the latch was somewhere around the door. Or maybe she had to speak a password. Or maybe there was a button on the Headmaster’s chair, which was just behind her and a few seats over. There were too many possibilities to contemplate and absolutely no clues to work with. It didn’t make sense that the door should carry no indication that it was even there. The trick should be easier than that—shouldn’t it?

Then, she looked down at her wand in her hand. Suddenly, that nagging feeling she’d been getting clicked into place. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Maybe this wouldn’t work on all hidden doors, but if it worked on the door that housed a giant three-headed dog, of all things, it was worth a try. She pointed her wand at the hollow panel and whispered, “Alohomora.”

There was a click, and the panel popped open.

That was almost certainly not the intended way to get in. Leave it to wizards to not think about the most obvious solution.

With the panel open, Hermione could see where the latch was, although she still couldn’t make out how it was supposed to open normally. But more interesting was what she saw inside the panel. It wasn’t a cupboard. Instead, it was a miniature spiral staircase, looking like it was built for dwarfs, which extended both up and down from the ground floor. This was it! The only place it could possibly go up from there was directly over the Great Hall. She was so excited that she barely even gave a thought to Harry and Ron. She’d give them a tour once she knew what was up there, she decided.

She hesitated on the threshold, though. This door had to be locked for a reason—no, not locked, just hidden, she reminded herself. She didn’t know for sure if it was locked. Still it was a strange, cramped little space. It might be off-limits, or even dangerous. You’d think places like that would be more carefully secured, but the thought of that dog dispelled that idea.

On the other hand, this was a place that even the teachers didn’t know much about. It was probably not off-limits just because no one thought to make a rule about it—or no one remembered it if there was one. And certainly no one had ever told her that it was off-limits. That would have to count for something, right? She took a deep breath and stepped into the stairwell.

The staircase looked almost like something out of a dollhouse. The steps were only about four inches high and six inches deep. She could barely get her shoes to stay on them, and with the low ceiling, she quickly found it was easier to crawl up the stairs on her hands and knees, as uncomfortable as it was. The space was also very narrow. A large man would have a hard time squeezing through it. Hermione propped the door open with her jar, just in case, ascended a few steps, paused to make sure she would have enough room to turn around if need be, then started climbing.

The spiral stairs wound around and around tightly as she climbed. There was no way to see how far they went in either direction. She just kept crawling. By counting the shallow steps, she could tell she was climbing high. A hundred and fifty, or two hundred, she guessed, would put her at the level where she wanted to go. There were no pauses or landings in the staircase, not surprisingly, since the only thing on the other side was a solid wall. On the other side, there were only slits for windows, and the staircase was lit by some kind of enchanted glowing lights, rather than torches.

Finally, about when she judged that she’d reached the level of the ceiling, the stairs stopped and let out onto a small landing, which ran a few yards until it turned left into a cramped little hallway that ran directly down the entire length of the spine of the Great Hall’s Enchanted Ceiling.

Hermione tried to stand, but the ceiling in the hallway was only about three feet, nine inches high, from what she could tell, measuring with her hands. Like the stairs, the space was also only one foot, ten inches wide. But the strangest part was that the entire hallway was lined with little doors—perfectly ordinary looking, but half the normal size. She tried the first one. Locked. She considered trying to spell it open, but she saw a flickering light at the far end of the hallway, so she decided to investigate that first.

This probably counted as one of the stranger things she had done: crawling on her hands and knees in what amounted to the attic of a magical castle, wondering why anyone needed a half-scale hallway up here and why no one downstairs knew about it.

It was quiet up here—no sound but her shuffling and no sign of movement besides the flickering light ahead. Hermione had got about halfway down the long hallway when it happened: one of the little doors opened, and something stepped out.

The creature looked like a tiny person, but it was very skinny, and it had large, bat-like ears on either side of a bald, wrinkly head, plus an angular, over-sized nose, and huge, blue eyes the size of tennis balls. It was wearing a toga with the Hogwarts Coat of Arms on it, which was very fuzzy-looking and appeared to be made out of a tea towel.

The creature looked directly at her and froze in place.

“Ah!” Hermione shouted in surprise.

“Ahhh!” it yelled back in a squeaky voice.

“Ahhh!”

“Ahhh!”

Chapter Text

“Ahhh!”

“Ahhh!”

The squeaky little bat-eared creature stared at Hermione fearfully with those huge blue eyes. What was it, she wondered. She hadn’t read about anything like it in any books. Hogwarts, A History didn’t even mention that this place existed. Was it out of bounds? Did anyone know about it? Was there some secret society of little sprites hidden away like wizards were hidden among muggles?

The shouting had attracted attention. More of the little creatures came out of the miniature doors to see what was going on. They had different coloured eyes and all kinds of different shapes of noses and ears; about half were bald, and the other half had short, scraggly hair—Hermione guessed those were the females—but they were all about the same shape and size, and all of them were wearing Hogwarts tea towels. More of them came from the end of the long hallway, and a couple of them came out of the doors behind her. She counted an even dozen in all. She was surrounded.

Then, to her surprise, the first creature began speaking: “Vanny is sorry, miss. Vanny is not meaning to frighten Miss. How is Miss getting into our dorms?” Some of the other creatures began twittering quietly to each other.

Hermione blinked a few times. What? Just…what? “Your…your dorms? I…I got in through that little panel behind the High Table. I’m sorry, I’m not out of bounds, am I? No one could tell me anything about this place.”

Some of the other creatures giggled at this, hiding their mouths behind their hands. “Vanny is not thinking so, miss, but witches and wizards is never coming up here to talk with elves. Elves is not usually being seen, miss.”

Hermione was so confused that see barely even noticed the creature’s bizarre grammar. “Um…elves? I’m sorry, but who are you…? Or what are you?”

But the creature seemed eager to answer. “I is being Vanny, miss. And we is the Hogwarts House Elves, miss.”

“And…what are house elves?”

There was some more quiet twittering among the “elves.” Another elf, this one with matching grey eyes and hair, a snub nose, and a higher-pitched voice spoke up: “Is Miss being muggle-born?”

“Um…y-yes. I guess I don’t know that much about the magical world…”

“That is alright, miss,” Vanny said. “House elves cooks and cleans and does chores for wizards, miss. Hogwarts has many elves to help yous students and the teachers, miss.”

“Cooking and cleaning? Huh, I just figured there were spells to do that.”

“Oh, no, yous can’t conjure food, miss. And self-cleaning spells wears off, miss.”

Hermione knew that! Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She couldn’t believe that even she, a muggle-born, could take magic for granted like that so quickly. What other little things like that had she missed?

“Well, um, thank you for doing all that, then,” she replied. The elves all squeaked excitedly. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name’s Hermione Granger. Pleased to meet you.” She extended a hand to Vanny.

Vanny’s eyes started to fill with tears as he (she was pretty sure it was a he) took her hand reverently in both of his and shook it vigorously. The other elves squeaked even more exclamations of appreciation. “Miss Hermione Granger is a great witch,” he said. “Witches and wizards is hardly ever introducing themselves to elves like equals.”

“Well, that’s not very friendly of them.”

An odd tick ran through the group of elves as they all looked down or away, just for a moment, as if she had said something off-colour.

“Witches and wizards is not often meeting elves at all, miss,” the grey-haired elf said with the air of explaining something to a child, which, admittedly, she was. “Good elves is not being seen. Witches and wizards is liking if it looks like things runs on their own.”

“Well, you’re certainly doing a good job of that—”

With that compliment, the elves jumped up and down with exuberance. They must take their jobs very seriously, she thought. “Miss Hermione Granger is too kind to us elves,” Vanny said. The others made similar comments.

“And what is your name?” she asked the grey-haired elf when they had calmed down.

She was sure she saw the elf blush slightly. “I is being Tilly, Miss Hermione Granger. Tilly is in charge of teaching the elf children.”

That would explain the elf’s tone, she thought. Some of the other elves started to introduce themselves. They were quite an odd bunch, Hermione thought, most of them having names ending in “y” and all of them seemingly having the energy of a kindergartner on a sugar high. She did her best to remember their names, but many of them were hard to tell apart, at least at first glance.

“Miss Hermione Granger should not be staying in the hallway. Will Miss Hermione Granger be coming to our Common Room to sit?” Vanny asked nervously, as if it were some great imposition.

“Common Room…? Um, sure.” Hermione again became acutely aware that she was kneeling in the middle of a hallway that was barely big enough for her.

Some of the more shy- or busy-looking elves ducked back into what she assumed were their bedrooms, while the others ran ahead, further down the hall. “This way, miss,” Vanny said, motioning her forward, just in case there was any confusion. Hermione crawled forward until the tiny hallway opened into a fairly large room that actually had a ceiling high enough for her to stand upright.

The Elves’ Common Room didn’t look that different in style from the Gryffindor Common Room, except that it was rectangular, and everything was about half the normal size. There were two rows of little windows at either end of the room. There must still be something above this room, she thought, since there were three rows visible from the outside, not to mention the little towers. There was also a miniature staircase at each end of the room, leading to the upper floors. Interestingly, the room was decorated in Hufflepuff yellow and black.

In spite of the strangeness of the elves, it all looked so…normal. There were elf-sized chairs and tables and lamps and sofas, but most were not currently in use. In one corner, a group of elves were playing Exploding Snap with a miniature deck of cards. Some older-looking elves sat around the fireplace talking with each other or reading books. The books seemed to be the only normal-sized things in the room, but even some of them were elf-sized. Two tiny little elf children, no more than eighteen inches high, ran through the room having a sword fight with toy brooms, only to be scolded by one of the grown-up elves. Hermione thought they were incredibly cute.

The few elves who hadn’t heard the commotion in the hallway turned to look at what was happening.

“This is being Miss Hermione Granger,” Vanny introduced her. “She is finding her way in from the Great Hall.”

The other elves hopped up to introduce themselves. It was only Hermione’s years of memorising mathematical tables that gave her the skill to (hopefully) remember all of them. Vanny motioned to one of the sofas and said, “Please sit, miss.”

Hermione cautiously sat down. She took up practically all of the miniature sofa, which creaked under her weight. Now she knew what Hagrid must feel like all the time. “Thank you. So are there more elves around here?” she asked. The room seemed pretty empty.

“Yes, miss. There is only a few elves here now. Most of the elves is cooking dinner, miss.”

“Ah…”

“Why is Miss Hermione Granger coming to talk to the elves?” Vanny asked.

“Well…I mean, honestly, I didn’t know who or what was up here…it is good to meet you, though. Anyway, I’ve been making a map of the castle…” Several elves started giggling at her declaration. Great, them too, she thought.

“Please excuse Vanny, miss,” the blue-eyed elf said, “but how is Hermione Granger making a map of the castle when it keeps changing?”

“Well, it has to be approximate, doesn’t it,” she huffed. “I can’t make exact measurements, but almost all of the rooms stay the same, so I can just mark down where everything goes relative to each other. Of course there’s a lot of off limits areas I can’t get into. But I saw your windows from outside, and no one I asked knew what was up here. I even asked some of the professors…although I suppose Professor McGonagall must have known.”

“Professor McGonagall would be knowing, miss, but Professor Dumbledore and Professor Sprout is managing the elves, miss. Flory, the Head Elf, is reporting to them,” said Vanny.

Hermione watched as the elves settled back in, although many of them kept watching her. She considered asking Vanny more about how the elf…society? …was set up at Hogwarts. It still surprised her how all this could go unnoticed.

Before long, though, another elf came up to Hermione, this one apparently female and a couple inches shorter than the others. She had unnaturally deep blue eyes and blond hair in a pixie cut, but otherwise resembled a younger version of Tilly. She also wore a belt cinched around her waist tight enough to show a figure, with a small pouch hanging from it. “Hello, I is being Sonya, Hermione Granger, miss’ she said. The other elves rolled their eyes when she said her name, and Tilly grumbled, as if it were some sort of childish nickname. “Is Hermione Granger liking playing cards?” Sonya’s demeanour and boldness (though still quite timid by human standards) gave Hermione the distinct impression of her being a teenage elf.

“Um, sure, I can play a game,” Hermione said.

Sonya smiled, and she and two other young-looking elves joined Hermione and Vanny around a small table. Sonya pulled something like a marble out of her pouch. “Is miss wanting to be wagering gobstones?” she asked hesitantly.

“Sonnitt! You is ought not to be betting with witches!” Tilly scolded her immediately. “It is being most unbecoming an elf!”

Hermione was taken aback by the exchange. Sonnitt? She wondered. That explained the nickname. But betting gobstones? Unbecoming an elf? “Er, it doesn’t matter anyway,” she tried to smooth it over. “I don’t have any gobstones.”

“Pardon Sonya, miss. We can be playing for fun,” Sonya said contritely. Tilly grumbled something about the younger elves scavenging things that students lost or left behind, but she let the game go ahead. Sonya muttered something about her grandmother—presumably Tilly—being an over-wound clock spring, which Hermione only partially understood the metaphor.

They played Exploding Snap for a while. The elves were quite good at it, especially Sonya, but Hermione had a distinct advantage because she was less afraid of the smaller cards exploding and thus could think more rationally about it. Playing cards with house elves was the strangest thing she had done in quite a while, but it was actually a lot of fun.

The one odd thing that kept bothering her, though, was the way the elves were dressed. She kept glancing at their strange outfits: togas made from tea towels. Even the littler children looked like they were wearing hand towels. After a while, she worked up her nerve and said, “So, if you don’t mind my asking…why are you all dressed like that?”

“Oh, house elves is not wearing wizard’s clothes, miss,” said Vanny. “It is a mark of our service.”

“So it’s like a uniform? That’s seems like an odd uniform though. And can’t you buy regular clothes for when you’re off duty?”

“Oh, no, house elves is not being paid, miss,” Vanny said far too cheerfully.

“What? What do you mean?”

“House elves is bound to a wizard family to work their whole lives,” Tilly explained, “but we is being bound to the castle.”

“What! You mean you’re slaves?” Hermione shouted, dropping her cards, which exploded with a loud crack.

The elves all turned to stare, looking rather nervous. “Elves is always being bound to witches and wizards,” Tilly explained gently in her patronising teacher’s tone. “It is what elves is for.”

“That’s slave labour, though!” she insisted. Hermione’s stomach was turning. The food she’d been eating all year, all the cleaning going on in the castle—she knew wizards were backwards, but she couldn’t believe even Albus Dumbledore would condone slavery. “It’s horrible!” she said, oblivious to the disturbed looks she was getting. “Can’t you be freed? Work for wages?”

All the elves squeaked in horror and backed away. The tiny children ran and hid behind their parents’ legs. Even Sonya, the most outgoing one, looked nervous. None of them seemed to want to show their hands.

“Oh, no, no, no, Miss Hermione Granger,” Vanny said fearfully. “It is most disgraceful for an elf to be dismissed, miss. No one is wanting an elf without a master, miss.”

“Well, that’s the wizards’ problem, then. They shouldn’t be keeping slaves in the first place. Isn’t there some way to free the elves?”

Most of the elves whimpered again and took another step back, as if Hermione were diseased or something. Tilly, who seemed to be the most level-headed elf in the room (though even she seemed quite put off) explained nearly in a whisper, “House elves is only being freed if they is being presented clothes from their master’s hands, miss. But please do not be thinking of trying to free the elves, miss. It is being most disgraceful, and we is liking it very much at Hogwarts, miss.”

“But it’s not right. And how can you know if you’ve never lived anywhere else?”

Tilly looked distinctly uncomfortable as she answered: “Tilly does not mean to offend Miss Hermione Granger, but she is being muggle-born and is not knowing much about house elves. House elves is not the same as witches and wizards. We is liking to work, miss, and is not wanting to leave.”

“But could you be freed if you wanted to?” Hermione tried one last time.

Tilly looked down at her feet as if in shame. “Tilly is thinking Professor Dumbledore would, miss. Professor Dumbledore is a great wizard, miss. But we is not wanting it, miss. House elves is treated very well at Hogwarts.”

Hermione wanted to protest again, but as she fully registered the saddened and scared looks on the elves’ faces, she just couldn’t keep up her indignation. She knew she ought to be furious. The whole wizarding world kept a slave underclass. Even the supposedly progressive Hogwarts ran on slave labour. But after seeing the elves where they lived and talking to them all afternoon, well, she was more confused than anything else. The elves had quarters that looked the same as the students’ quarters, they hung out and played games just like her friends, and they seemed, well, happy. They also seemed deeply offended and afraid of the idea of freedom. She knew she ought to say that they were brainwashed and uneducated. That’s how it always was with slaves in the muggle world. But these elves could read and even had schoolteachers of their own. Tilly seemed pretty smart, and Sonya even played the “rebellious’ teenager. The pieces just didn’t fit together in her mind, but she was suddenly very worried that she was driving away a lot of potential friends.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “It’s just that I don’t understand. We don’t have anything like this in the muggle world. It’s not even allowed. We have to pay everyone who works for us…It’s one of our most important laws.”

The elves seemed to relax at her apology, although they still eyed her warily. To her surprise, it was Sonya who spoke up next: “Muggles is different from witches and wizards, Hermione Granger,” she said. “And witches and wizards is different from elves. You is being muggle-born, miss, but you is still a witch. You is not needing to be worried about elves.”

“Well…I can definitely see that we’re different. I guess I can try to see things from your point of view…” Truth be told, the whole thing still made her queasy, but the elves seemed much relieved by her relenting. In any case, it was clear that she would never get anywhere by arguing with them. Maybe if there was an elf out there who wanted to be free who could set an example, it might be different, but it didn’t look like there would be many of those. She set that aside in the back of her mind.

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said as the elves sat back down around their little table. “You said presented with clothes? But if you cook and clean, don’t you do the laundry, too?”

A couple of the elves giggled again, thankfully not offended this time. “Laundry is always being our masters’ clothes, miss,” Vanny said. “It is not being presented to us elves, miss, and not from our masters’ hands.”

Yes, elves were definitely more complicated than she thought.

They played a couple more hands of Exploding Snap, but mostly just made small talk after that. The slave labour bit still made her uncomfortable, but as she calmed down, she started to talk more interest in the elves’ unconventional way of life. Eventually, her boundless curiosity got the better of her.

“Tilly?”

“Yes, Miss Hermione Granger?”

“Erm, if you don’t mind, how did you become…bound to wizards in the first place?”

“We is being bred for it, Miss Hermione Granger,” Tilly explained. “German wizards a long time ago was wanting more magical pets, so they trained wild elves to do work like dogs, miss, and they bred house elves from the ones that was doing the best work.”

“I’ve never heard of wild elves, either. I know they’re not in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.”

“Tilly is not thinking so, miss. There is no more wild elves. House elves is the only elves left, miss. But house elves is smarter and more magical than wild elves, so we can be doing all the chores.”

Despite her reservations, Hermione was quite interested in that story. When asked, Tilly eagerly launched into a long description of the history of house elves: how they were magically bred from wild elves in just a few generations, how they were exported from Germany and used throughout Europe by the time of the founders of Hogwarts, how Helga Hufflepuff had purchased many of them from “unkind masters’ (this part was spoken of only in whispers) and brought them to Hogwarts, how the first Head Elf, Hooky, had helped Godric Gryffindor expel Salazar Slytherin from the castle during their infamous falling-out, and how the Wizards’ Council and the Ministry had begun regulating elves in later centuries.

All of it was fascinating, and not one word of it was in A History of Magic or Hogwarts, A History. So much for History class being comprehensive. Hermione was sure she learnt more from Tilly in an hour than she had from Professor Binns’s lectures all year. But then again, Tilly’s job was teaching, and if there was one thing she could tell about house elves, it was that they took their jobs very seriously.

Suddenly, there was a series of loud cracks, and many more elves began appearing from nowhere in the Common Room.

“Ahhh!” Hermione screamed. “What—? How—? But that’s impossible!”

“Is something wrong, miss?” Vanny asked quickly. “We is not meaning to frighten Hermione Granger, miss.”

“But…but…you can’t! You can’t apparate in Hogwarts. It says so in Hogwarts, A History.”

At this the elves started openly giggling.

“Please be excusing Vanny, miss,” the elf said with a smile. “Witches and wizards cannot apparate in Hogwarts, but elves can, miss.”

“What? But how?”

“Because our masters wants us to, miss.”

“Huh?”

“Tilly is sorry for Vanny, miss,” the older elf said. “Vanny is forgetting that Miss Hermione Granger is being muggle-born. The house elves’ highest law is their masters’ will, miss.”

And that’s really all it takes to apparate in Hogwarts? “But…but there’s still an anti-apparition ward, and those are arithmantically impenetrable…so what you’re doing must not really be apparition.”

“Of course, miss. House elves has their own magic, miss, just like goblins and centaurs and other magical races.”

The revelations boggled Hermione’s mind. The magical world was so much wider than anyone had let on. Could wizards really be that narrow-minded? Yes. Yes, they could. In a daze, she managed to ask, “So who are these elves, Tilly?”

“They is the elves that serves dinner, miss. They is finished, miss, and now the cleaning elves will be cleaning the kitchens.”

“Oh no! I missed dinner!” she exclaimed, jumping off the sofa. Her sense of time was still a bit weak.

“Is miss being hungry?” Vanny said, leaping to his feet.

“Yes, but it’s not just that. My friends will all be worried about me. The last time I missed dinner, I nearly got killed by a mountain troll.”

The elves squeaked in surprise. “You was attacked by the bad other troll that was being let into the castle?” Sonya said in awe.

“Yes, but I made it out alright,” she said, heading for the exit. “I have to go. I wonder if anyone grabbed some extra food—maybe Ron…”

But then Sonya spoke up again. “If Hermione Granger is hungry, miss, she can be going down to the kitchens, and we elves can be bringing leftovers.”

“I can…? How do I get to the kitchens?” And why did I never think to look for the kitchens before?

“If you is going down the stairs where you came in, miss, to the bottom, you will be finding the kitchens, miss.”

“Really? Is that allowed?”

“Yes, miss. We is not allowed to be helping students break school rules.” Was that just a hint of annoyance in Sonya’s voice?

Hermione thought about it for a moment. It wouldn’t matter if she was a little later, as long as she made curfew. Her parents were expecting a note, too, but she could make it a short one. She’d need time to figure out how to explain house elves to them, anyway.

“Thank you, Sonya. I’ll do that, then.”

“Sonya will go with Hermione Granger, miss. Sonya is wanted for cleaning.”

So Hermione started crawling back down the little hallway with Sonya following close behind. She got to the miniature stairwell and climbed inside, but she wasn’t quite sure how to get down. It wasn’t tall enough to stand up. The stairs were low enough that she considered sliding, but her robes presented too much friction. Finally, she wound up having to shimmy down them backwards, like a ladder. Sonya looked like she was trying not to laugh at her.

They passed the little landing where she’d come in and kept going. The panel there had been closed during dinner, and the door was almost invisible, even from the inside. It was a long way farther down from there, though. The kitchens must be as deep as the Great Hall was high. Hermione was starting to realise just how much of the castle was left out of her mapping efforts. True there were plenty of blank spaces where students weren’t allowed, but how had she not even considered where the kitchens were? She’d been so obsessed with sorting out the upstairs that she’d never paid them much mind. What else was around, she wondered. Where was the laundry, for example?

After a few more turns, she came to a more obvious door, opened it, and finally stepped into a place where she could stand upright…

Coming face to faces with Fred and George Weasley.

“Hermione?” the redheaded twins said in disbelief from across the kitchens.

“Fred? George?” she exclaimed.

“How did you get in here?”

“Um…through the door?” She pointed behind her. “How did you get in?”

“Um…through the door.” They both pointed behind them.

“But what’s with that door there?” George added. “We’ve never seen that one before.”

Hermione grinned. “Oh, that? Well…I’ve just found out what’s above the Great Hall.”

When Hermione told a speechless set of twins what was upstairs and how she’d found it, they ran over and hugged her, which scared her a bit, given who they were. Then, when she told them she’d come down for a late dinner, they grabbed a chair and insisted on sitting her down at Professor Dumbledore’s place at the duplicate High Table that stretched across the front of the room, with the huge kitchen fireplace roaring behind her. It wasn’t a golden throne, but it was fun to see things from the teachers’ point of view. Fred and George sat on either side of her, snacking and doing impressions of the other professors.

Whatever Hermione had been expecting the kitchens to look like, this wasn’t it. The room was as huge as the Great Hall and even had an enchanted ceiling of its own that showed the cloudy night sky. It was dominated by four long tables that matched up with the House Tables in addition to the duplicate High Table. In an emergency, this could be the Great Hall. She wondered if that was intentional. The walls were lined with one preparation area after another: a large cupboard, an ice chest, a sink, a large counter for preparing food, and an oven, all repeated over and over again, all of them full sized, except elf-height. Pots and pans and utensils by the hundreds hung on pegs all the way around the room, and the elves wandlessly levitated them up and down. They really must have different magic, she thought.

Even now, there were dozens and dozens of elves washing dishes, sweeping the floor, and packing away leftovers. Many had come from upstairs, but based on the introductions they kept making, the ones handling the food had stayed on from the cooking shift. Hermione noticed now that many of the elves on duty wore belts much like Sonya’s, which they seemed to be using as tool belts.

Hermione introduced Fred and George to Vanny and Sonya (Tilly was still upstairs). The twins had met most of the elves at one time or another, but didn’t know many of their names. She also told them what the elf quarters were like and what the elves did when they were off duty, much to their amusement.

“So how exactly do you get into the kitchens the normal way?” Hermione asked when the twins told her of their after-dinner snacking habits.

“Oh, that’s easy,” George said. “There’s a portrait of a bowl of fruit outside. Just tickle the pear, and it’ll turn into a doorknob.”

“What we want to know is how you got into the elves’ living quarters,” Fred said.

“Well, I just…actually, Sonya, how are you supposed to get into that elves’ staircase? I just used my wand.”

“Oh, that is easy, miss,” Sonya replied. “Just knock four times on the panel where the latch is.” She ran over to the wall beside the fireplace and demonstrated by tapping on the correct panel by the fireplace, causing the little door to pop open. “Will Miss Hermione Granger be coming to visit the elves again?”

“Of course. I want to introduce you to my friends, Harry and Ron.”

Sonya’s eyes looked like they would pop out of her head. She ran to Hermione and whispered, “That is not being Harry Potter, is it?”

“Uh huh.”

Sonya squealed with delight and started jumping around. The other elves just shook their heads at her, not knowing what was going on. Even by elf standards, Sonya was being more hyper than usual. It took her a while to calm down, and she then declared that she would keep the identity of the visitors a secret until the next visit. Hermione hoped she wouldn’t regret that.

In any case, dinner was as good as ever, until right at the end. Hermione was just finishing up, and Sonya was trying to sucker Fred and George into a game of Exploding Snap, when a frightened-looking elf popped into the centre of the kitchen and yelled out, “Peeves is coming! Peeves is coming!”

“Uh-oh!” Fred and George said at once. In an instant, the elves were running around, squealing loudly and seemingly trying to lock down as many things as they could. A few seconds later, the number of elves increased, as some of them vanished upstairs and returned with as many of the off-duty elves as they could, and it was a good thing, too, because a moment later, Peeves came zooming in the door.

It was anyone’s guess why the castle poltergeist had got it into his head to ruin the kitchens tonight, but he didn’t waste any time. The ugly little spirit started throwing pots and pans around as fast as he could. The elves picked up pots and pans and brooms and mops of their own and brandished them like weapons to fend off the attack. Seeing three students in the kitchen, Peeves soon zeroed in on them, but Fred and George grabbed a couple of pans like Beaters’ bats and tossed Hermione a large meat fork to stop him.

“Let’s get out of here!” yelled Fred.

The three of them sprinted for the exit, dodging elves and knocking away any flying objects that came their way. Soon, they dropped their weapons by the door, barrelled out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Excellent!” Fred and George immediately started laughing and high-fived. Hermione rolled her eyes at first, but she couldn’t help giggling a little herself. After all, where else on earth did things like that happen besides Hogwarts?

“Hermione, I think you are really going places,” Fred told her.

“Yeah, maybe we’re not so different after all,” George added.

Hermione smiled weakly. She didn’t have the heart to tell them what she really thought of that sentiment. “Well, right now, I’m just going to the owlery and then to bed,” she said. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Chapter Text

By Monday afternoon, however, Hermione’s excitement was back. It was actually a little difficult to get through the day, she was so eager to show Harry and Ron her new discovery. The two boys seemed less enthused, possibly because she was so hung up on surprising them that she refused to tell them where they were going.

“Hermione, will you just tell us what’s up there?” Ron demanded as she dragged them into the empty Great Hall after classes ended.

“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” She ran behind the high table, pulled the empty jar from her robes, and used it to listen to the panels, tapping on them one by one. “Now which one was it again?”

Harry and Ron looked sceptical. “Look, if you—” Ron started.

“Aha!” She found the right panel. She stood up primly and, keeping an eye on the boys, knocked four times on the wood. To her delight, the panel popped open, revealing the elf-sized staircase. “Come on,” she implored them.

“In there?” Harry asked.

“Yes. It’s alright. It’s not that hard. Just follow me.” She crawled into the stairwell.

“Hermione, what’s all this about?” Harry asked as he crawled in after her.

“I found this place yesterday, and—oh, come on, I want to show you.”

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on. We’re coming,” Ron said.

The three children crawled uncomfortably up the small, winding stone steps. Harry and Ron quickly realised, as Hermione had done, that it was quite a long way up.

“Hermione, doesn’t this thing actually go anywhere?” asked Ron. “This isn’t some kind of prank, is it?”

“No, I finally found out what’s up here, and you just need to see it.”

“This is a really weird staircase,” Harry commented. “It doesn’t look like it’s made for regular people.” Even so, the dark-haired boy seemed unusually competent at moving around in the confined space.

Hermione didn’t respond to that as she hoped Harry wouldn’t speculate too close to the truth. A few minutes later, they emerged onto the top landing, and Hermione motioned them forward, still crawling—Ron especially was too tall for the place—until she took that left turn and came face to face with a house elf with cobalt blue eyes and blond hair cropped short.

“Sonya!” Hermione said with a smile. “Hi. How did you know I’d be here?”

“Hello, Miss Hermione Granger,” the little elf squeaked eagerly. “Tenny heard that someone was climbing the stairs, miss, and came to tell Sonya, and Sonya is coming to meet Miss Hermione Granger.”

Harry and Ron squeezed up against Hermione, peeking around the corner as best they could to see what strange creature their friend was talking to.

“What the heck?” Ron exclaimed.

Harry sat wide-eyed. “Um, who are you?” he said.

“I is Sonya, sir. Sonya the house elf.”

“I met Sonya here yesterday,” Hermione explained. “Sonya, these are my friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.”

“Eep!” Sonya rushed forward to shake Harry’s hand, even though she could barely reach it around the corner. “Harry Potter, sir! Such an honour it is!”

“Erm, thank you,” Harry said absently. He turned to Hermione. “Uh, sorry, but what are house elves?”

Sonya let out a surprised squeak. “Is Harry Potter not knowing about house elves, sir?”

“Sonya, Harry was raised by muggles, like me,” Hermione said. “House elves are like magical servants,” she explained, making an effort to be respectful about it. “They do all the cooking and cleaning in the castle.”

“Yeah, lots of old, rich families have ‘em, too,” Ron added. “Mum’s always says she’d like an elf to do the ironing and stuff, but we could never get one at the Burrow.”

“Huh…” Harry said. He had obviously not thought about all that before either.

“Sonya, do you think we could get to the Common Room, where there’s more space?” asked Hermione.

“Oh, of course, miss, of course. Please be coming in.” She led them forward down the long hallway.

“So this is where the elves live,” Ron mused. “Weird. It’s all, like, elf-sized. Fred and George’ve talked about meeting the elves in the kitchens, but they never mentioned this.”

“That’s because they didn’t know,” Hermione said with a grin. “At least until I ran into them in the kitchens last night.”

Ron laughed loudly. “Wow, Hermione, I never thought you of all people would be better at exploring the castle than my brothers.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron opened his mouth and did a surprisingly good imitation of Hermione’s voice: “We could all have been killed—or worse, expelled.” Harry chuckled behind his hand.

“Please, Ron, I was hysterical about running into a giant Cerberus. And besides, as near as I can tell, this place isn’t actually off-limits.”

They came to the end of the hallway, and the three children stepped out and stood up, surveying the perfectly scaled-down Common Room. It looked just as surreal as it did last night. Dozens of elves were sitting around it, chatting. Evidently, the dinner shift hadn’t started yet.

“Everyone,” Sonya called to the room as they entered. “It is Harry Potter!”

The room erupted as all the elves jumped to their feet and crowded in to get a look at the Boy-Who-Lived, jumping up and down and bowing and curtsying to him. Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable wading through the mass of the little creatures.

“Blimey, mate, even the house elves are all over you,” Ron said, laughing at Harry’s predicament.

“Uh, hi, uh, nice to meet you,” he said.

Hermione managed to manoeuvre the three of them to a ring of sofas in the corner of the room, which was one of the few places three humans could sit together. Tilly soon came running over, ostensibly to keep “Sonnitt” in line, but Hermione could tell from her wide grey eyes that even she was eager to meet Harry.

“No thank you, really,” Harry said as multiple elves offered to get him snacks from the kitchens. Even so, they continued to bound up to him to greet him. “I’m really not…I’m really nothing special,” he protested.

“Harry Potter is very modest, sir,” Sonya said admiringly. “He does not speak of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Voldemort?” he said.

“Ahh!” The elves screamed, and many of them jumped back or even ran to the far end of the room, clapping their hands over their bat ears. Harry turned very red at having frightened the strange creatures. Tilly was the only one calm enough to reply sensibly: “Please do not speak the name, Harry Potter, sir. It is a most terrible name, sir, especially to we house elves.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But really, what’s the big deal about it?”

With a nervous squeak, Sonya turned back to him and piped up: “Sonya hears stories of when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, Harry Potter, sir, when Sonya was very young. Professor Dumbledore protected us in the castle, but other house elves was treated like vermin, sir, but life is much better for we elves since Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir.”

Harry looked even more embarrassed at this. “But I don’t even remember that,” he protested. “And I don’t think I was the one who did it. I was only a baby.”

“But Harry Potter survived, sir, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did not,” Tilly said. “Tilly remembers it well. His power was broken, and things was at once much better for we elves—and goblins and others, too, sir. Harry Potter is a beacon of hope to so many of the lowly creatures of the magical world.”

Harry was pretty much lost by that point. He knew Voldemort was a bad wizard, but he barely knew anything about the other races in the magical world, much less how Voldemort had affected them. He tried asking Hermione to explain, but he got more than he bargained for when she had Tilly, the elf teacher, start in on a long explanation about house elves’ service. It seemed a little eerie to Harry that wizards had a whole race of bound servants to do all their chores that he hadn’t heard about—eerie and disturbingly familiar—but it was actually pretty interesting, and things did get clearer as she explained. Even Ron, who was always complete rubbish around Professor Binns, was into it by the end.

“Wow, maybe you should teach history instead of Binns,” Harry said as she concluded.

Tilly blushed crimson at the praise and started tripping over her words, “Oh, b-begging Harry Potter’s pardon, Harry Potter, sir, but T-Tilly is knowing much more of elves’ history than wizards’…”

“Yeah, but anybody’d be better than Binns,” Ron quipped. “Plus, can you imagine the look on Malfoy’s face if he had to have an elf for a teacher?” All three children laughed aloud at that and several elves giggled conspiratorially, especially Sonya.

Hermione had warned Harry and Ron that they should leave when the dinner shift started, but they still had a little bit of time after that, so Sonya roped the three of them into a game of Exploding Snap with a timid-looking Vanny and a taller elf with a French accent whom Hermione had not met yesterday. Hermione had noticed by now that a significant minority of the elves had foreign accents, mostly French, but she heard some German and Spanish in there, too, which made her curious.

“What’s your name?” she asked the newcomer.

“I is being Remie, Mademoiselle,” he replied.

“Are you French, Remie?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle. Many elves is traded to different countries, Mademoiselle. Zee ‘Ouse Elf Relocation Office is doing it, Mademoiselle, to make sure too many elves isn’t breeding with cousins.”

“Really…?” To prevent inbreeding? she thought. That seemed odd. But then, Hermione thought about all the places in Britain that might employ elves: Hogwarts, the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, and then if one in ten wizarding families had a house elf (and she suspected that was being generous), there couldn’t be more than five hundred working-age elves in all of Britain, probably more like three hundred, which she wouldn’t trust to maintain a viable breeding population. (Actually, with that body shape, she wasn’t sure how elves could reproduce at all, but it was probably best not to think about that.) So the job of the House Elf Relocation Office didn’t have so much to do assigning elves within Britain, but with moving them from country to country to keep the elf bloodlines healthy.

Suddenly, Hermione burst out laughing.

Harry and Ron gave her a confused look, and Remie turned pale and started apologising, but Hermione cut him off: “I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just thinking how all the pureblood wizards are so proud of keeping their bloodlines “pure” when even they recognise the importance of interbreeding with their house elves. The hypocrites!”

At that, the other elves started sniggering conspiratorially again, as if she were speaking about something improper. Ron chuckled and said, “Well, my Dad says the whole pureblood thing is hogwash anyway. There’s so few purebloods left that practically everybody’s half-blood these days. Mind you, my family’s still pretty pure, but there’s only a couple others we’d actually associate with.”

Hermione made a mental note to look up some of the wizarding genealogies for reference when she had the time—which wasn’t often with their little third floor project—but that could wait until later. For now, she could just enjoy the game.

It was only when they crawled back down the spiral staircase and started toward Gryffindor Tower that Hermione pulled one of her friends aside for a chat, telling Ron they would catch up with him in a minute.

“Harry, I was wondering what you thought about the house elves,” said said.

“What do you mean?” Harry said, confused.

“I mean, they are technically slaves, even if they say they like it. I was just wondering, since you were raised by muggles…”

“Well, they seem like they’ve got a pretty nice place to live. It’s sure a lot nicer than what I grew up with.”

That wasn’t an answer Hermione was expecting at all. Had Harry misunderstood the question? “Huh? What do you mean by that?”

“I had to do all the chores, too, and my cu—room wasn’t very nice. I definitely didn’t like it, though, so it’s kinda like they’re better off.”

Hermione had already been a little concerned for Harry, but this clinched it. If the boy was saying he was worse off than slaves—well-treated and bizarrely-happy slaves, but slaves nonetheless—something was seriously wrong with his life. “Harry…” she asked tentatively, “if it’s so awful for you at home, don’t you have anywhere else to go?”

“No,” he said defensively. “They’re my only family. Where would I go?”

“I’m sorry, I just thought…if it’s just for the summer…Honestly, I might be able to convince my parents to take you in if I asked them nicely—or maybe Professor Dumbledore could arrange something.”

“You don’t have to do that, Hermione,” he said quickly. “I can manage fine with the Dursleys. Besides, it’s only two months, and that’s worth it to come to Hogwarts.”

Well, it was hard to argue with that logic. Even she still couldn’t believe how amazing magic was sometimes. Even so, she filed that away in case she got a chance to find her friend better accommodations for the summer.

November turned to December, and Hogwarts was buried under several feet of snow. Hermione didn’t think snow that heavy fell regularly anywhere in Britain, but maybe it was the magic of the place. People stayed inside when they could on account of the cold, except for the occasional snowball fight, and the Weasley Twins’ charmed snowballs were a constant threat to anyone who ventured outside.

With the colder weather, the Gryffindor Common Room grew more crowded with people keeping warm around the fire. Hermione took to sitting nearer the edge, away from the crush—at least when she was curled up with a good book and not chatting with her roommates. It was on one of these evenings that something at a nearby table caught her eye, something she had glanced at, but not paid much attention before. She saw Ron and Seamus Finnigan were playing chess—wizard chess.

Wizard chess turned out to be the same as regular chess except that the figures were alive, and you had to call out your moves to them. She wandered over to the boys’ table for a closer look just as Seamus made a move.

“Knight to e5.”

It was an obvious sacrifice move designed to draw Ron’s queen out. Hermione felt like the little knight piece had a resigned look on its face as it moved from a rook’s line of fire to the queen’s.

Ron accepted the offered knight: “Queen to e5.”

The Black Queen glided forward and lifted up her chair. Yelling a distinct “Hi-ya!,” she swung it around so hard that the knight was knocked clean off the board.

“That’s totally barbaric!” Hermione said.

“That’s wizard chess,” Ron smirked.

Hermione calmed herself. Surely, the little chess pieces weren’t really alive, were they? They were probably just constructs transfigured to act like it, just like Professor McGonagall always said. Even so, it was weird to see Seamus’s pieces question a couple of his moves. Wasn’t that like cheating? Or was wizard chess more different than it looked?

She watched them a while longer, thinking about what moves she might make in the game. Seamus was decent at chess, but Ron was good. After a few moves, she broke down and said, “Okay, I play winner.” She pulled a chair close and sat to watch them finish.

Ron cocked an eyebrow. “You play?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, we’ll see if you’re better than Seamus,” the redhead said smugly.

“Oi!”

But Ron beat Seamus after just a few moves, and the sandy-haired boy got up and yielded his seat. By now, Harry had noticed them and come closer to watch quietly. Fred and George were also keeping watch and came over to see what was up.

“Ah, so you’ve discovered that ickle Ronnie is a chess prodigy,” George said.

“Well, I don’t know about “prodigy,’” Fred suggested. “More like idiot savant.”

“Hey, lay off guys, I’m finally gonna beat Hermione at something,” Ron said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, “We’ll see about that.”

“Ooh, this should be a good one,” George said.

“Just a moment,” Fred added before calling out to the Common Room, “Hey everybody, Ron’s facing Hermione Granger at chess. Place your bets!”

“Fred!” Ron and Hermione said in unison. Hermione nearly lectured them that gambling was against the rules, but she reminded herself that it wouldn’t help. Anyway, it turned out that a lot of the older boys had fallen to Ron’s chess skills and wanted to see the action. Lavender, Parvati, and the Quidditch Chasers, on the other hand were sure that Hermione’s raw intelligence would win out. For their part, Fred took Ron’s side, while George took Hermione’s.

And so, it was a very red-faced Hermione who found herself facing the undeclared chess champion of Gryffindor with a sizable audience. Ron took the two queens in hand behind his back, mixed them up, and then presented his closed fists to Hermione. She tapped one of them with a finger, and he opened it, revealing the White Queen. Hermione was encouraged to see that that custom was the same in the wizarding world.

The pieces set themselves up, which was very convenient, and then it was all up to Hermione to make the first move. She sized Ron up. He was a good player. He probably had a solid opening book. This wasn’t a timed game, so her speed wouldn’t be of much help. She considered a Queen’s Gambit, but instead, she decided that she would try to throw Ron off with a non-standard opening.

“Pawn to c3,” Hermione ordered.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been so surprised when all of her pieces yelled, “What!” which was echoed by several of the chess players in the Common Room. Fred started laughing at George. Ron just stared at her in disbelief.

“I though you said you played,” he said.

“I did. Pawn to c3.”

Her pieces shouted another protest, and the c-pawn itself said, “Are you nuts? That’s a ridiculous opening move.”

“No, I mean it. Pawn to c3,” she repeated. When the pawn still didn’t move, she physically picked it up and moved it by hand as it shouted a muffled protest under her fingers.

“Grrr. Well, so much for this game,” the pawn said when she put it down.

Ron smirked at her again and said, “Pawn to e5.”

Aha! Pawn to d5 would have been better, Hermione thought. He’s just ignoring me and doing his own thing. Good.

“Mm-hmm. This should be easy,” Ron’s e-pawn said as it glided forward.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Pawn to d4.”

“Oh, now you do something sensible, after he’s already got a pawn there,” the d-pawn said, but it glided forward on its own, used to being knocked out early in the game.

Ron raised an eyebrow at Hermione’s “strategy” and ordered, “Pawn to d4,” capturing Hermione’s piece.

But that’s what Hermione was counting on. “Queen to d4,” she said.

“Are you sure?” her queen asked. “It’s risky sending me out this early.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” The queen grumbled, but moved forward, capturing Ron’s pawn.

“Well, I’m surprised,” George said. “It seems our Hermione likes to live dangerously.”

“Maybe, brother, but doesn’t she have the skill to back it up?” Fred replied.

Ron didn’t seem to think so because he shook his head and said, “You are a nutter. Knight to c6.”

Hermione just grinned and said, “Queen to a4.”

Ron’s smile started to fade, now, as the queen threatened his knight, and he started to see the inklings of Hermione’s strategy. “Pawn to d5,” he said.

Hermione responded with, “Pawn to e4.”

This put another of her pawns diagonal from one of Ron’s. Her e-pawn, being used to this kind of treatment, said, “Oh, boy, here we go,” before it moved.

Ron still looked sceptical. “A reverse Scandinavian Defence?” he asked.

Hermione just smiled innocently.

“Fine. Pawn to e4,” Ron took another of her pawns.

Hermione followed up with, “Knight to d2.”

Her knight slid into position and looked around, surveying the board. “Wait, what just happened?” it said. “This actually looks kind of good.”

Ron was surprised, but he had to agree. It was a much better position than he expected to see her in after that weird opening, even if it was still pretty off. He gave Hermione another sceptical look.

“What?” Hermione said offhandedly. “It’s a variant on the Blackmar-Diemer Gambit—I’ve already got my queen deployed, I’m blocking half of your queen’s moves, and my pawn structure’s almost as good.”

“Bloody hell!” The reply came from both Ron and all twenty-nine pieces that were still on the board. It was his chess set, after all.

“You were saying?” George asked Fred, who glared back at him.

“Wow, you are good,” Alicia said from over Hermione’s shoulder. Much of the audience murmured in agreement.

“Alright,” Ron said with a determined look on his face, “now you asked for it.”

The game was hard-fought after that. Ron certainly wasn’t ignoring her anymore. He wasn’t just good, though, he was really good. Hermione struggled to hold her own. The tension in the room seemed to rise as people started recalculating the odds on the outcome of the game. The people who were most familiar with chess cheered when either of them made a decisive move.

It was after a couple of particularly difficult moves, as Hermione surveyed the board, trying to figure out her best course of action, that she noticed Ron looking particularly smug in the corner of her eye. She nervously looked over the pieces again, and the realisation hit her.

“You win in two moves, don’t you?”

There were gasps from the people who were supporting her.

“Ah, so you noticed it,” Ron said, folding his arms.

“You won…” Hermione said. She was about to knock over her king on the spot when she saw him take off his crown and throw it at the Black King’s feet. “You beat me…” she stammered. “I can’t believe you won.”

Ron started laughing. “Yeah, well it’ll probably do you some good to lose once in a while,” he said.

Hermione glared at him. “It’s not that. I’ve never been beaten by someone my own age before.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose a bit. “Really? Well, I think you are the toughest opponent I’ve had who’s my own age. That was a good game.” He offered her his hand.

“Yeah, good game…” she said as she shook his hand. “I want a rematch,” she said sharply. She should have tried that Queen’s Gambit from the start.

But Ron let out an exasperated sigh and rose from his seat, saying, “Tomorrow. It’s getting late.”

“Fine.” Actually, it was getting close to her self-imposed bedtime. She’d have to turn in soon, as well.

“That was still brilliant, Hermione,” George said quietly after Fred forced him to pay up. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have to beat him sometime—cut him down to size.”

“I’ll certainly try,” she said. Ron was going to be tough to beat, though. Most of her friends were surprised by her own chess skills, but Ron was definitely a level above her. She was starting to think there was more to Ronald Weasley than she’d first thought.

It was the day before Christmas holidays, and the teachers were busy setting up the decorations for the Great Hall. Dinner that evening would be the Christmas Feast for the majority of students who were going home. Most of Hermione’s friends would be on the Express with her tomorrow, but Ron and his brothers were staying because his parents were visiting another brother, Charlie, in Romania, and Harry, predictably, had no desire to see his relatives.

The Great Hall really did look amazing, even unfinished. Hagrid was hauling in the twelfth and final huge Christmas tree—even taller than he was—when they ran into him that morning. Professor Flitwick was decorating the trees with huge golden bubbles from his wand. Professor Vector was nearby, measuring everything with a quadrant—probably something to do with ley lines, Hermione thought. She had mentioned that even on small scales, the proper alignment would improve the staying power of Professor Flitwick’s charms.

But for all this, Hermione was still on a mission. “Harry, Ron,” she said, “we’ve got an hour before lunch. We should be in the library.”

“Yeah, the library, right,” Ron groaned. He was quickly losing patience with the whole think.

“The library?” Hagrid said. “Bit keen, aren’t yeh, the day before the holidays?”

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry said brightly. “We’ve just been researching magical artifacts in our spare time.”

“Magical artifacts?” Hagrid rumbled suspiciously. “You’re not still on about the third floor, are yeh? I told yeh to drop that.”

“We just wanna know what’s up there,” Ron said.

“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble,” Harry added.

“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” Hagrid insisted.

“Trouble Hagrid?” Hermione twitched when she saw Professor Vector coming over, having obviously overheard their conversation.

Hagrid seemed to consider whether to say anything, but apparently decided to do the responsible thing, much to Hermione’s nervousness and Harry’s dismay. “Well, Professor,” he said diplomatically, “it’s just that these three here seem to have got it into their heads to figure out what’s at the bottom of the third floor corridor.”

“Miss Granger,” Professor Vector said in surprise. “I’m sure you remember what Professor Dumbledore said at the start of term. This isn’t something you should be getting involved in.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione said, glancing down at her feet. “But we’re not looking to cause any trouble. We’re only looking in the library. We just thought it would be interesting to know. And the research is quite fascinating. We’re learning lots about ancient artifacts.”

Vector’s lips pressed together sternly, but she softened when she saw Hermione’s face. “Pardon me, Miss Granger. I know you’re quite responsible. If you’re only doing research in the library that any other student could do, I certainly can’t stop you. But please speak to a teacher before you get any ideas about anything else. This is a dangerous business that children should not get mixed up in.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. And Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Hermione called before the trio walked off to the library.

But they didn’t find out anything interesting that day, and Harry nearly got kicked out of the library when he wandered into the Restricted Section. The next morning, Hermione packed up and got down to breakfast early so she could make it to the carriages to go to the train station. Harry and Ron walked out to the carriages with her.

“Well, have a nice Christmas here,” she said as she loaded her trunk into a carriage. “I’ll see if I can send you something by owl post.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “I can’t get you anything.”

“I want to. You’ve both been really good friends. Remember to owl me if you find anything interesting in the library.”

“Yeah, will do,” Ron said unenthusiastically.

“Happy Christmas!” she said, hugging both of them before she climbed into the carriage. Harry gave an odd shudder when she did, but she didn’t think much of it at the moment.

“Happy Christmas,” the two boys called after her, and she was off.

Chapter Text

The ride back to London on the Hogwarts Express was pleasantly uneventful. Hermione found a compartment with her older friends from the Quidditch teams, which proved to be wise, since it cut short Draco Malfoy’s efforts to accost her.

The only problem was that as the afternoon wore one, Hermione’s estimation of distances and times seemed to be slipping a little. She had confirmed through her parents’ letters that the train was to arrive at King’s Cross at precisely seven o’clock. However, from the look at the countryside, she was starting to think that they were closer to London than they should be, and when they crossed into Greater London with an hour left to go, she was sure they were going to be quite early. She mentioned this to her friends, who just shrugged and told her that the Express was always on time. Even when they were nearly there, and she insisted that they were going to be half an hour early, Alicia reassured her that there was no problem because it was magic.

Hermione thought that seemed like a whopper, even for Hogwarts, and it certainly didn’t stop the train from pulling into Platform Nine and Three Quarters at six twenty-five in the evening, by her watch. Still, she sighed, wished her friends a happy Christmas, and rolled her trunk off of the train. She walked up the platform, looking for a bench to sit down and wait for her parents to arrive. This proved to be a bit difficult, since the platform seemed oddly crowded for getting in so early. She was about to give up and just stand by the barrier into the muggle world when…

“Hermione?”

She turned and saw her parents walking towards her.

“Mummy! Daddy!” It was all she could do to keep hold of her trunk as she ran to them. She leapt into her father’s arms, and he spun her around once before handing her off to her mother. After the Halloween incident, they were extremely eager to see each other, and her mum squeezed her till she couldn’t breathe and cried softly into her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you, baby,” she said.

“You too, Mummy.”

“We’ve really missed you,” Dad said. “And what with all the stuff that’s been going on…”

“I missed you, too,” Hermione said. “It’s hard getting used to being away from home.”

“Well, at least you’ve made plenty of friends,” Mum said. “I don’t think you’ve ever had so many friends before.”

“Mummy…”

“Come on,” Dad said, kissing her on the top of her head. “You have all your things?”

“Uh huh. But what are you doing here so early?”

“Early? What do you mean? We’re right on time.”

“No, the train came in half an hour early.”

“It did?”

“You mean you’ve been waiting for us for half an hour?” Mum said worriedly.

“No, we just got here. That’s the thing.”

“Hermione, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Dad said. “The letter said seven o’clock, and the train pulled in at seven o’clock.”

“No, it didn’t. We pulled in at six twenty-five—” She checked her watch. “—four minutes ago.”

“But it’s seven—”

All three of them stopped short as Hermione and her father held out their watches side by side. Her own watch said six twenty-nine, but her father’s said seven oh-four.

“What? But how…?” she said.

“Hermione, did your watch stop?” Mum said.

“No. Look, it’s still ticking. And it’s been matching the bells all term and everything. It was fine at the castle this morning…huh, I wonder…”

“What?” Mum and Dad said.

“Well, I told you that the castle changes slightly over time, didn’t I? If space isn’t constant in Hogwarts, then maybe time isn’t constant, either…” Her face fell as a horrifying thought crossed her mind. “Dad, please tell me it’s still the twenty-first of December, 1991.”

“Of course it is,” he reassured her. “I think one of us would have noticed that. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Mum and Dad walked Hermione out to the car and loaded her things in the boot. They stopped at a drive-thru on the way out of London for some Indian takeout. (Hogwarts really was behind the times, Hermione thought. She wondered if she could teach the elves to make chicken tikka masala.)

“You’re awfully quiet, Hermione,” Mum said as they drove back to Crawley.

“I was just thinking about the time thing. If the time drifts back and forth at Hogwarts, then sunrise and sunset must drift, too, according to the clock, right? I mean, thirty-five minutes early is a minimum of three hundred miles west, even in the highlands. Even if the castle could change its actual position on the Earth, that far would take it clear out of Britain.”

Emma Granger knew better than to question her daughter’s calculations. “I suppose so. Have they?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been paying that much attention, but I think they might have. And I’m starting to wonder if that’s deliberate.”

“Oh?” Why’s that?”

“Well, in Hogwarts, A History, it says that the location of Hogwarts is secret. All magical schools are. It makes sense, really. If almost every magical child in Britain lives there nine months of the year, it’s the kind of protection you’d want to have. Anyway, Hogwarts is already unplottable—that means magic will prevent you from marking it down on a map—but if you knew the latitude and longitude, you could probably still locate it, and you could get those by watching the sun and stars. But if sunrise changes unpredictably from day to day, then you wouldn’t be able to use it to determine your exact longitude.” Come to think of it, she thought they had never actually used altitude and azimuth in Astronomy class—positions on the sky relative to one’s location and the time. They’d learnt the theory, but in the practical portion, they always aligned on the Pole Star and used right ascension and declination from there—coordinates that didn’t need to be specified relative to anything on the Earth.

“I guess that makes sense,” Dad said. “That seems like a lot of magic just to protect a location, though.”

“So’s making it unplottable,” Hermione replied. “It would have to affect map-making throughout the entire country, if not the world. That would take an awful lot of power. I don’t really know much about area effect spells yet. I think it has something to do with runes and ley lines—I think they can draw power from the Earth itself somehow.”

Many of their conversations went like this. Hermione was very grateful that her parents took an interest in what she was learning, even though it was so different from muggle subjects, and that they were smart enough to not only get a good grasp of magical theory, but also to contribute their own perspective on things. Granted, they were just as mystified as she was by a lot of the idiosyncrasies of magic, like the literal “no free lunch” rules of transfiguration or the metaphorical aspects of potions, but they did make some good points for thinking about potions by analogy with chemical reaction networks and drug interaction tables. Of course, on the more mathematical subjects like Charms and Arithmancy, they just let her do her own thing.

It was good to be home, Hermione thought. It was nice to be able to have longer conversations with her parents than she could put in her letters about her friends and classes and all the crazy things that went on at Hogwarts. Her parents were as uncomfortable as she was with the house elf situation, for example, but they had to agree that there really wasn’t much that could be done about it. All in all, it was a bit annoying to have to stay away from magic for two weeks, but Hermione still slept well that night.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione!”

“Happy Christmas, everybody!”

Grandma and Grandpa had come by for Christmas, as usual. The one problem this year was that they weren’t supposed to know about magic, and even if they did, Hermione couldn’t demonstrate it, so she and her parents reluctantly decided not to tell them, which led to more than a few awkward questions about school. They had decided to describe Hogwarts as a school with a rigorous science program: Charms was Physics, Potions was Chemistry, Herbology was Biology, and so on, but they couldn’t get into too many specifics. They also couldn’t very well tell them about the troll incident, for example, since there was no way to convincingly dress that up with a muggle cover story.

But they were all focused on opening presents this morning, so it wasn’t a problem. Hermione did hope her friends had got her owl order gifts: a box of Chocolate Frogs for Harry and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans for Ron. Hermione, of course, received more than her share of books.

But the normal holiday routine was interrupted by her mother’s startled yell during breakfast. An owl had arrived at the window. Mum quickly took the parcel from it before Grandma and Grandpa could see what was going on, and passed it off as being caught by splattering bacon. Thinking fast, she finished breakfast and then brought in the parcel.

“Oh, Hermione, I almost forgot,” she said. “Professor Vector sent you a gift in the post.”

“She did?” Hermione said in surprise. “That was nice. I really wasn’t expecting anything…” She took the parcel and read the note:

To Hermione, in the hopes that even you will be able to find a use for it.

She unwrapped her present and gasped. It was a slide rule, but not just any slide rule. It was an incredibly complex circular slide rule made of lacquered wood with two dozen scales on it between the two sides, all set in rings that could be rotated freely and even flipped over, allowing the computation of all kinds of functions that normal slide rules couldn’t handle. She could easily tell that it was held together by magic, although she could pass it off as mundane.

“It’s beautiful…” she said. Things like this were probably easier to make in the magical world, but something this nice couldn’t have been cheap, or maybe Professor Vector made it herself. She wasn’t sure if it could actually improve her computation speed, but it would at least be fun to play with.

“Wow, this professor must really like you to send you something like this,” Grandpa said.

“Mm hmm…” Honestly, it was a lot more than she was comfortable accepting. Professor Vector wouldn’t be the first maths teacher to send her a Christmas gift, but it was a little less unexpected for an algebra teacher to send a little nine-year-old girl an inexpensive trinket than for a teacher to give such a fancy gift to someone who was only two years younger than her other students. “I’ll have to try to give her something back,” she mused. A calculator would be the most obvious choice, given the circumstances, but it wouldn’t work in Hogwarts. She’d have to think about it.

It took until the twenty-eighth of December for Hermione to notice the long row of books on the shelves of the Grangers’ library and open up the volume that said “Light—Metabolism.”

It was half an hour later when her parents found her sitting on the floor, cross-referencing “Light—Metabolism,” “San Francisco—Southern,” and “United—Zoroastrianism,” that they gave in and asked her what she was doing.

“Well, do you remember that three-headed dog I told you about?” Hermione said.

“I think you mentioned that somewhere between the troll and the Quidditch match,” Dad said dryly.

“Well, we think it’s guarding something…” And she explained about Harry’s trip to Gringotts with Hagrid, and the little package he saw, and their conversations with the Groundskeeper about it. “We’ve been looking up magical artifacts in the library to see if we can figure out what it is,” she finished. “You know, just for fun.”

“And are the teachers okay with that?” Mum asked. “It sounds like this is something really important and secret.”

“I’m a little concerned with the fact that they’re keeping whatever this is in a school,” Dad said.

“I’m sure it’s perfectly safe,” Hermione countered. “And Professor Vector said it’s fine if we just look in the library.”

“Well, that’s nice that you and your friends have something you can spend time on together,” Mum said, “but do you really think you’ll find anything in the Encyclopaedia Britannica?”

“It’s possible. From what I can tell, a lot of muggle notions of magic are distorted, but based on real magic. There’s all kinds of mythical creatures in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, like dragons, and griffins, and sphinxes. Maybe mythical artifacts work the same way.”

“But wouldn’t the books at school have that?”

“Yes, but they’re not very well organised. Most of them haven’t even caught on to the notion of indexes. I think muggles think in kind of different ways, so the muggle perspective might be useful.”

Hermione kept looking for a while after that. She learnt that muggles had many well-developed traditions of divination, more so than most other branches of real magic. Beyond that, traditional magic dealt a lot in amulets and talismans designed to cure illnesses, ward off danger, and the like. There was quite a lot more of that in myths than in real magic, but a particularly important mythical talisman could possibly be the answer.

Magic rings were another rare artifact that appeared more in fairy tales. Rings of invisibility, like in The Lord of the Rings, were fairly common, but Hermione had seen references to invisibility cloaks in the Hogwarts Library, so that probably wasn’t it. However, the Ring of Solomon was supposed to allow the wearer to control demons and speak to animals. And a ring of invulnerability existed in several Norse and Arthurian legends, which could well be valuable enough to be the mysterious artifact. Also from Norse mythology, there was the great sailing ship of the god Freyr, Skithblathnir, which could supposedly be folded up like cloth and stuffed in one’s pocket. That would be amusing, she thought, but impractical.

But when she dug into the “Accounting—Architecture” volume, Hermione started to wonder. This just seemed too perfect.

“Hmm, this is interesting,” she said. “The Philosopher’s Stone. Transmutes base metals into gold and produces the Elixir of Life. That could fit…”

“You think the dog’s guarding a Philosopher’s Stone?” said Dad.

“Well, it meets the requirements. It’s the right size, and it’s powerful enough to be worth all the trouble they’re going to. But I’m not sure. It seems like it’s too powerful to actually exist, even in the magical world. Hogwarts does offer an Alchemy class to the upper years, though. I can look up how real alchemy works when I go back, just to be sure. Hmm…if it is…” She frowned in thought.

“Is something wrong?” Mum asked, seeing her face.

Hermione was hesitant, but she answered, “Er, whatever the thing is, Harry and Ron think Professor Snape tried to steal it—and Professor Snape was acting kind of suspicious, but he seems to have some kind of feud going on with Harry, so I’m not sure that’s entirely fair. Anyway, if it is a Philosopher’s Stone, that would be a good reason for Professor Snape—or anyone, for that matter—to try to steal it.”

“Well, I would hope that a teacher would be responsible enough not to do something like that.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You’ll stay out of trouble if something does come up, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mum.”

The rest of Hermione’s break passed uneventfully, which was a refreshing change. She kept up with her reading and studying, of course, and she convinced her parents to get a hold of Mr. Andrews to give her a Calculus I final exam before she went back. (“It’ll be good practice for sitting the A-level next summer,” she said.) Naturally, she passed with flying colours.

Harry had sent her a thank you note for the chocolate frogs. Ron had also sent her a note a couple days later, though she suspected that was a result of Percy bugging him to do it. Meanwhile, even though her Mum had advised her that Professor Vector probably wasn’t expecting her to spend any money on a gift, Hermione managed to track down an old, mechanical “Magic Brain Calculator” for a good price. The little device was neither magic nor particularly brainy, but it was a brilliantly simple mechanism that would probably speed up an average person at arithmetic quite a bit, and she hoped it would be something that Professor Vector hadn’t seen before.

By the end of the break, Hermione was eager to get back to learning magic and, finally, really well-rested—which she hoped would stay that way.

“I hope your friends had a good Christmas even though they were stuck at school,” Mum said as she was packing up the night before the train ride back to Hogwarts.

“Ron had his brothers,” Hermione replied. “I’m sure Harry liked it. It sounds like almost anything would be an improvement for him.”

“What do you mean?” Mum said with concern.

“Well, I told you I thought he’s had a rough time at home…I’m a little worried about him, actually. You know the story of You-Know-Who and Harry’s parents?”

“You-Know-Who? From the books?”

“Yes. His name was Voldemort—I think—but he’s kind of like the Bogeyman, so everyone calls him You-Know-Who. Anyway, Harry says he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle after his parents died. And he said they don’t like magic, which is one thing, but he also said his aunt called him and his parents “freaks,” and they make him do all the chores, and they accused him of cheating when he got better grades than his cousin.”

Mum and Dad both stopped what they were doing.

“That sounds pretty awful,” Mum said. “Is he okay?”

“He seems okay most of the time. He’s actually happy to be away from his family, but he seems pretty normal otherwise, except…”

“Except what?”

“I didn’t think much of it at first, but he’s really small and skinny, too,” she said nervously. “I thought it was just because he’s one of the youngest boys in our class, and he eats fine at Hogwarts, but…”

“But that’s not a good sign,” Dad finished for her.

“I know. I don’t know what to do, though. I mentioned that he might look if he can find another place to stay for the summer, but any time I bring any of it up, he just brushes it off and says not to worry about it. I don’t want to push him too much or anything, though. I don’t think he likes to talk about it.”

“Has he told any of the teachers?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know. I feel like he wouldn’t really want to.”

Mum sat down beside her and put an arm around her. “Hermione, this isn’t something you should let go,” she said. “I’m not saying you should pressure Harry too much, but if you suspect something’s wrong, you really owe it to him to at least tell a teacher. He may not like it, but he’ll be better off in the end.”

“Hmm…I guess you’re right…” she admitted. Professor Vector was always easy to talk to, despite her reputation, so she could at least tell her. She tried not to think too much about her real worry: that Harry would be angry with her about it.

Hermione’s first few days back at Hogwarts were a whirlwind of activity: getting started with classes again, hearing all about her friends’ holidays, and catching up on the goings on in Hogwarts from Harry, Ron, and the Twins. (To her dismay, they had barely touched the library aside from Harry’s failed attempt to get into the Restricted Section.) She also wasn’t too happy with Harry’s and Ron’s nighttime escapades—she had a feeling Harry especially was still on thin ice from all his antics last term. His story of a mirror that could show you your heart’s desire was intriguing, though, if a little creepy. Knowing Harry’s history, Hermione had to agree with Professor Dumbledore that it couldn’t be good for him.

Meanwhile, Professor Vector was delighted and very touched by Hermione’s gift. Mechanical calculators hadn’t really been seriously tried in the magical world before, and the simplicity of the mechanism gave the professor ideas for a charmed version that could be used much more easily. In fact, she said, with a strange hint of concern in her eyes, she thought she might even be able to make it calculate faster than Hermione.

The following Saturday, they decided to try another spin in the library, but Hermione stopped them on the way out when she saw a new flier posted in the Common Room.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“This is interesting,” she replied. “Professor Babbling’s giving a special seminar: “Latin Letters as Runes.’”

“Babbling? What’s he do again?” said Ron.

“It’s a she, Ron,” Hermione huffed, “and she teaches Ancient Runes. We should go. We might learn something useful.”

“Really,” Ron whined. “We’re doing enough stuff already. I don’t know how you manage it with Arithmancy.”

“Because I don’t put off everything till the last minute. Besides, Harry’s got Quidditch, too, and I don’t see him complaining.”

Harry looked like he really didn’t want to be involved in the conversation.

“But Ancient Runes is an upper-year subject,” Ron said.

“‘Open to all years.’” Hermione pointed at the flier. “It’s probably an early introduction on a special topic—Come on, Ron, you’re the one who speaks four languages.”

“I speak two languages. I barely know the other two.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry what do you think?”

“Uh, sorry, what are runes, exactly?”

“Runes are used for powerful or long-lasting magic. Like the charmed objects Professor Flitwick talked about, except you write symbols on them that are empowered with magic. Then, it can maintain magic without having to use your wand.”

Harry’s face suddenly lit up. “It can?” he said. “D’you think that could get around the rule of not using our wands over the summer?”

Hermione paled slightly and bit her lip. She had some idea of why Harry might want to know that. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I’m not sure I’d want to try it.”

“It might,” Ron countered. “Lots of kids have charmed toys.”

“Well, I’m in, then,” Harry said excitedly. They both looked at Ron.

“Alright, I’ll go if both of you are going,” he conceded.

Hermione smiled and led the way to the library. Once there, Harry and Ron got back to skimming biographies, like they were doing before break, but Hermione made a beeline for the general magic section. She pulled out a very large volume that she’d skimmed earlier—one that gave an overview of many subfields of magic. Rejoining her friends at the table, she opened the book with a thud, causing her friends to stare wordlessly.

“So, uh…what’s this?” Harry asked when words came back to him.

“I was thinking about checking this out, but it’s kind of heavy reading, even for me—”

“Kind of?” Ron said incredulously.

“Anyway, I had an idea at home, and I wanted to check it out…” She flipped through the pages. Luckily, this book at least had a useful table of contents. “Ah, here we go: alchemy.” She started reading over the page, and to her surprise, there it was, right at the top: “Wow, it really does exist.”

“What does?” Harry and Ron said in unison.

“The Philosopher’s Stone.”

“The what stone?”

“It’s a famous very famous thing in alchemy. Even muggles know about it. Here, listen to this:

“The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.

“There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty eight).”

“Wow, if those Flamel people are over six hundred, it must really work,” Harry said.

“Right. The book talks some more about it…it’ll be small—small enough to fit in your hand. And if there’s only one, then it’s going to be very valuable and well-protected…It looks like there’s some pretty strong limitations on its power, but if you only wanted it for yourself, it would be all you ever needed.”

“Wait, so you think that’s what that dog’s guarding?” Ron said. “It’s the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Well, we can’t be sure unless Hagrid or somebody else lets it slip, but it fits what we know a lot better than anything else we’ve found. Some ancient artifacts would have a lot of historical value or even magical power, but none of them are anywhere near this one.”

“What about the Resurrection Stone?” he suggested. “Remember? From The Tale of the Three Brothers?”

“Yes, I remember, but I doubt it really exists. And even if it does, according to the story, it’s not really that useful.”

“It would make sense if Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry decided. “I mean, think about it: a stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying! Anyone would want it.” He frowned in concentration. “Flamel, Flamel, Flamel…I think I’ve heard that name before.”

“Where?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know. Something about him and Dumbledore…I don’t remember where I saw it.”

“Well, Professor Dumbledore teaches the Alchemy class here.”

“That’s it!” Harry exclaimed. “Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog card. I remember “cause it was the first one I ever got. Dumbledore worked with Flamel on alchemy.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Then it would all fit,” she said. “If Dumbledore and Flamel are friends, Flamel could have given Dumbledore the Stone for safekeeping because it wasn’t safe in Gringotts.”

“And the only place safer than Gringotts is Hogwarts,” Harry finished.

“Brilliant,” Ron said. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, we still don’t know for sure that’s what it is, but—” Hermione started.

“We could try to get Hagrid to admit it,” Harry suggested.

“That’s not very nice, trying to trick him like that,” Hermione said. “Anyway, I don’t think we need to do anything. I’m sure Dumbledore’s keeping it perfectly safe. After all, even if Snape was trying to steal it, he didn’t get past the dog.”

“But if he tries again…” Harry said.

“I’m sure Dumbledore will take care of it.”

“Yeah, mate, Dumbledore’s brilliant,” Ron said. “I bet he’s got a bunch of other stuff protecting the Stone too.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Harry admitted cheerily. “Well, I guess I’ll have more time for Quidditch now.”

Hermione silently agreed. They didn’t have a definitive answer, but they had a pretty good guess, and she really needed to focus her own spare time on learning integrals.

Chapter Text

Bathsheda Babbling was a middle-aged witch with an impatient look about her. Her skin was dark, and her reddish-brown hair hung in bangs down to her sharply appraising eyes and limply down her black robes. According to Cedric and Roger, though, she was friendlier than she looked, and Hermione was surprised to learn from Fred and George (with much assurance that it wasn’t a joke) that she was best friends with the batty divination teacher, Professor Trelawney. Perhaps opposites attracted after all.

There was enough interest that the special runes seminar was held in the Great Hall on a Saturday afternoon. Most of the attendees were pre-O.W.L. Ancient Runes students, of course, and there were only a few first years: Hermione, Harry, Ron, and a couple of Ravenclaws. Percy Weasley was sitting attentively in the front row, even though Hermione thought she had seen him making his prefect rounds at this hour.

A couple of minutes after the seminar was to begin, when it looked like no one else was likely to show up, Professor Babbling stood in front of some movable blackboards and addressed the group. “Thank you all for coming,” she said congenially. “I’m glad to see there’s such interest in non-standard magical topics. It’s true that today’s subject has little bearing on most day-to-day rune work, even in jobs that call for a lot of it, but I hope that it will be a good introduction into the wider world of what is truly possible with runic magic.

“I’ve never been very satisfied with the usual way of teaching Runes,” Babbling continued. “The standard curriculum for the Study of Ancient Runes is to learn the runic language first and then the magical applications of it. However, I’ve always felt that an early introduction to the magical aspects of the subject would both generate more interest and make it easier to learn advanced runic magic later. After lobbying unsuccessfully for a change in the Board’s curriculum, an early runes elective, and a rather ill-advised attempt at a Junior Runes Club a couple of years ago, I decided to ask Professor Dumbledore for permission to run a special seminar on non-Norse runes. If today is successful enough, I may be able to expand it into a series, or even a revived student club.

“For those of you who are new to the subject, runes are, in simplest terms, a form of magic writing. Runes can be written or inscribed on any object and are used to maintain spells that require more power, are longer lasting, or affect a wider area than is generally possible with ordinary charms or enchanting. Virtually all permanent wards are powered by runes, as are many of the systems the Ministry of Magic maintains, like the Floo Network and the Portkey Network. It may surprise some of the younger students to learn that portkeys cannot be created on a whim, but must have a connection to the large-scale magical energies of the land to function.”

That did surprise Hermione. She hadn’t read that much about magical transportation, but she was pretty sure that apparition required no such support—at least none that required Ministry maintenance. But then again, apparition had a more limited range if your name wasn’t Albus Dumbledore. She jotted down a note of that fact for reference.

“Most of the work we do with Runes here at Hogwarts—and, indeed, most standard runic magic—involves the earliest form of the Norse runes, or ‘futhark.’” Babbling indicated the angular alphabet written on one of the blackboards. There were a few scattered giggles from the less mature students over the word. “However, any form of writing can be used for runic magic, even pictographs—even pictures, for which the art transitions smoothly into ordinary enchanting. Many ancient cultures developed their own ancient forms of runic magic based on their primitive writing system—Aztec pictographs, Egyptian hieroglyphics, proto-Chinese characters, and on and on. Indeed, some of the earliest evidence of magic in Europe comes from clay amulets inscribed with runic pictographs that are a thousand years older than writing itself.

“Now, some writing systems work better for runic magic than others. Part of this is based on intent, just like other forms of magic. For example, languages that are traditionally considered “holy,” like Arabic, Hebrew, and Sanskrit, tend to be more powerful. However, the science of the Norse futhark is by far the most developed. This is because the Elder Futhark has the property, shared only with cuneiform among common writing systems, that it is written exclusively with straight lines.

“The position and alignment of runes is very important for advanced runecrafting, as even a small misplacement can significantly weaken the enchantment. To do it properly, the precise arrangement must be computed arithmantically, which is easiest to do with straight lines, making futhark ideal for most purposes. But this is not the only possible method. Scholars of Arabic magic in particular take the opposite approach. Because the Arabic alphabet is so curvy, they write the words with extremely ornate calligraphy, which, in the hands of an experienced artist, can work just as well as arithmantically-aligned futhark runes. However, this is very much an art, and not a science—done largely by feeling and practice, rather like the difference between analytic and experimental spellcrafting.” (Hermione had no idea what that meant, but she vowed to look it up later.)

“As it happens, the Latin alphabet—the one we use for the English language—is not particularly good for runic magic. While it is heavy on straight lines and is used for the roots of many incantations, the letters have different widths, and the kerning—the spacing between the letters—is inconsistent, which makes the alignment awkward. However, being able to write runes in one’s native tongue can be useful for “quick and dirty” runic magic, when you need to enchant something quickly that doesn’t need to last all that long.”

Professor Babbling lectured for a while about how runes could interact with the ambient magic in a manner analogous to the wand motions for spells. The energy, or something like it, of the spells was very important to keep in mind. Ordinary enchanting, which they were already learning the rudiments of in Charms class, could cause objects to move about on their own without a constant input of energy, just like Fred’s and George’s charmed snowballs that they were still setting whizzing about. But the energy still had to come from somewhere, usually from the caster’s wand, in which case the charms would wear off over time. For many charms, it was possible to draw on the ambient magic from the air for a more permanent result, but it could still be no more powerful than the caster.

With runes, however, this limitation was much diminished. Runic magic could draw much more strongly on energy from the air, from the earth (though the distinction wasn’t entirely clear), from the material it was written on, if it was magical (like dragon hide, for example), or from living things in the area, again, especially if they were magical. This meant that the effects could be made permanent—or last as long as the physical runes did, anyway—and be much more powerful. They could also push that energy back out into the magical fields of the earth, affecting a much wider area than was possible with simple spells.

There was a whole library of spells to manipulate, activate, and charge runes in various magical media, but Professor Babbling bypassed all that to focus on the main point of the seminar. Using Latin letters, she said, was useful because one could write out the names of spells directly and charge them to produce a more powerful or longer-lasting effect than simply casting them. They would not be on the level of Norse runes, but they were much easier and faster to work with. With a few choice words or mixed-language runes (a more advanced topic for another time, she said), it would be possible to cast spells repeatedly and automatically, which had applications everywhere from Auror training to intensive care hospital beds. Of course, for normal applications, Norse runes would still be used, but in an emergency situation, Latin runes could be a lifesaver.

After giving a brief sense of how the usual runic spells must be modified when working with Latin letters along with the various shortcuts that could be used and their trade-offs (“all of which are far too sloppy to be accepted as normal class work”), she deemed the group ready for a small practically exercise and began handing out slates and chalk to the students.

“Once again, this is the simplest form of runic magic,” Professor Babbling reminded them. “The slate and chalk are not magical at all. The runes are simply charged by your wands. This means that you will not get any more power out of the enchantment than you put into it directly, whereas a more magical medium will allow you more options. The transient nature of the medium will also make the magic itself weaker and less stable, but it is still an excellent tool for practice. For those of you who don’t know, we frequently use slates to practice runecrafting, since the runes can be changed and corrected much more quickly and easily than if they are carved or written in ink.

“For this exercise, we’ll be enchanting the slates to perform a simple Hover Charm,” she said once everyone was ready. “Set the slate flat on the desk in front of you. Place the end of the chalk flat again the slate, not at an angle, so that you’re writing with the whole end of the chalk. We want the letters to be nice and thick. Now, everyone write out “LEVIOSA” in nice, big block letters—all the way across the slate. Try to keep the size and spacing of the letters equal for best results.”

Hermione made mental tick marks on the slate to visualise where the letters needed to go and wrote them out with careful angles and her best mathematical curves. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked pretty regular to her. Ron made his first couple of letters too big and had to start over, but he got it well enough. Harry wrote a little too small and only filled three quarters of his slate.

This exercise was really incomplete, she thought. Almost nothing of practical use used only a single runic word or group. The pared-down version of Wingardium Leviosa would only make the slate float in midair, not move around, and without any activation or deactivation runes, it would just continue to hover wherever it was placed in the air until the magic ran out. By itself, that was an interesting property: one could set it up anywhere in midair as if on a stand and leave it there. Hermione immediately thought of making a book rest that way. But the lack of control was a problem. In fact, with just the one word on it, the magic would continue to run down even if the slate was lying flat on the desk.

That was one reason that Ancient Runes was an elective, from what little Hermione had read. (The challenge of learning the language was no small matter either.) Even the simplest runic magic required a lot of pieces to do it right. It was as complicated as Potions and much less hands on. From the mystified looks on Harry’s and Ron’s faces, it must all have seemed very esoteric by wizard standards, but it actually reminded of Hermione of her dabbling in computer programming.

“For this simple example, we won’t be using any of the specialised spells for runic magic,” Professor Babbling said. “Another reason Latin runes are easier to work with is that a simple modification of the spell to be cast can be used for the runes. Now, in this case, the incantation is “Leviosa Potentia,” and the wand motion is the same with the addition of a flick down to touch your wand to the runes. Everyone try that now, and be careful to touch the tip of your wand to the chalk of the first letter. If you’ve done it correctly, you should be able to see the letters glowing.”

Hermione performed the spell and was pleased to see all of her letters glowing, although the glow was less pronounced farther from her wand. To her surprise (not to mention his own), Ron got it to work on the first try. Harry only got his L to light up. Most of the Ancient Runes students found it trivially easy.

“Now when you’ve got it, hold your wand there. You should be able to feel the magic flowing into the letters. The younger students may not be used to this, so you need to concentrate on it. That’s another reason we usually start Runes in third year—so that you’ve become more accustomed to feeling your magic. But for the time being, if you’re having trouble, just focus on putting more energy into the spell. For a small, low power spell like this, a minute of serious concentration will easily power the runes enough for an hour of hovering. There are better and faster ways, of course, but this is more than enough for our purposes.”

Hermione focused on the letters. She knew that very intense magic could be felt, but it took a lot of practice to refine one’s magical senses. She could barely detect the energy flowing through her wand, but the letters did glow brighter as she concentrated.

“That’s enough,” Professor Babbling said after about a minute. “Let’s see how you’ve done. Pick up you slate and release it in midair, like this.” She let go of her own slate as if she were dropping it from about a foot over her desk, but it stayed floating in midair. All the students tried to do the same.

Immediately, there was a loud clatter as about a dozen slates just dropped to the desks. Some others sank slowly or drifted sideways until they collided with each other. Harry seemed disappointed as his flopped over and started swinging as if it were suspended only from the L. Hermione’s own slate stayed put, only drifting slightly in the air, although it was tilted to one side. She looked over and saw Ron looked very pleased with himself. He had pulled off the enchantment nearly as well as she had.

“Good job, Ron,” she said sincerely.

“Thanks…You too.”

“Yes, very good work for first years,” Professor Babbling said, pointing them out. “Five points each to Gryffindor.” She also looked very pleased with the results once she had tutored everyone in what they were doing wrong, and she announced that she would try to schedule another seminar to teach how to add activation and deactivation runes in Latin. All three of the first year trio were interested, and Harry convinced Ron and Hermione to help him practice his technique so he would be ready for it.

After the stress of the first term, Hermione was pleasantly surprised when the spring term actually settled into a routine. There were no near-death experiences, no dangerous-sounding mysteries to solve, she was consistently getting enough sleep, and it was just classes, homework, and time spent relaxing with her friends. Oh, and integrals. Lots of integrals.

That was the hard part of calculus. Differentiation followed lots of nice, neat rules. Integrals kind of did in principle, but they were more complicated, and it took a lot of algebra to beat the equations into a shape where you could use them. In practice, you learnt a few of the rules and then looked up in a big table all the different formulae for the ones that had to be manipulated with lots of algebra. Hermione’s calculus book had a few pages of those formulae in the back, but there were whole books of them to be found in muggle libraries.

In any case, Hogwarts was suddenly pretty much like a normal school, but with magic, which was to say, loads of fun for someone like Hermione, especially when she had several friends who were studious enough to keep up with her. This was the way things were supposed to be like, she thought, and she told Ron so one evening over a game of chess. (She played chess with Ron several times a week, and she was pretty sure she was improving. She even managed to beat him a couple of times, though he usually won out.)

Of course, when she said that, she must have jinxed it because in the next five minutes, Harry came in, panicking over Professor Snape suddenly deciding to referee the next Quidditch match, and then Neville flopped through the portrait hole, having been Leg Locker Cursed by Draco Malfoy. Well, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

The next two weeks were very nerve wracking. Snape was even meaner toward Harry than usual (with whichever one of his friends took the bullet and partnered with him dragged along for the ride). As disconcerting as it was, Hermione still couldn’t find any explanation for what happened at the first match other than that Snape had tried to kill Harry, and with him refereeing, it would be the perfect opportunity to try again, and Hermione nor anybody else would have much chance to save him this time. She more than once told him not to play, but stubborn Gryffindor that he was, he wouldn’t listen. She even tried to ask Professor Vector about it with an oblique question about Snape’s fairness as a referee, but Professor Vector merely assured her that he would remain professional.

But the day of the match came, and Harry marched out with the team…and caught the Snitch inside of five minutes. She screamed like a hopeless fan-girl when that happened, jumping up and down and hugging Parvati in the row in front of her, much to the other girl’s surprise. She didn’t realise herself how much tension she was under about the match until it was over, and her friend didn’t almost die…again.

In fact, the only people in danger in that match were Ron and Neville, who got in a fistfight with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Honestly, Hermione had half a mind to hex Malfoy herself after what he was saying about the boys (now that she actually knew some hexes), but of course she would never do that…well, in public, anyway. She did, however, tip off Fred and George to prank him, much to the surprise of all of her friends. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle all spent a day walking around with Weasley orange hair and green eyes like Harry’s, complete with glasses stuck to their faces, and they were each Leg Locker Cursed at least once. Hermione had to stick close to her older friends for safety from them for the next couple of days, but it was worth it.

On the other hand, Harry did manage to come back from the match with some disturbing news. Ron and Hermione were all excited for the party the Twins were setting up when Harry showed up half an hour late and immediately dragged them off to an empty classroom.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” asked Hermione when they were sure they were alone.

“I saw Snape going into the forest,” Harry told them, “so I followed him on my broom.”

“You what?” Hermione yelled. “Harry, you can’t do that. It’s forbidden—and dangerous—that’s why it’s called the Forbidden Forest.”

“Listen to me,” Harry hissed. “I had my broom, so I could get out fast, but I had to find out what Snape was up to. I heard him talking to Quirrell in the forest.”

“Quirrell?” Ron said.

“Yeah. Snape said it really is the Philosopher’s Stone that the dog’s guarding, and he was trying to get Quirrell to tell him how to get past it, and then he said something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus pocus.’”

“So Snape really is trying to steal it,” Ron said.

“‘Hocus pocus’?” Hermione said. “So there are other things protecting the Stone?”

“Must be,” answered Harry. “Probably loads of enchantments and stuff. Those are the only two I heard, but I think Snape was talking about some others, too, and he was trying to force Quirrell to help him get past them.”

“And Quirrell actually stood up to Snape?” Hermione asked nervously.

“Yeah, but I bet he won’t for long.”

“Not for long? The Stone’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” Ron said in horror.

“It can’t be that bad,” Hermione tried to assure herself. “If Dumbledore’s the one keeping it safe, I’m sure he’ll have given it more protection than that. I don’t think Quirrell and Snape will be able to get past all of it.”

“But Hermione,” Harry said, “Quirrell’s the Defence Professor and Snape wants to be. I’ll bet they know more about the Dark Arts than anybody in the school. Maybe they could.”

“Well, we still can’t do much about it, can we? I mean, we’re not even supposed to know about the Stone. And besides, Dumbledore’s really smart, too. I’m sure he has things under control.”

February wheeled into March, which was stormy and rainy, but at least the deep Highland snow was gone. Things were calm for a moment—the lull before teachers began gearing up for exams—and nothing much seemed to happen with Quirrell, except that the trio stopped making fun of his stutter. In the meantime, Hermione continued to visit the house elves every so often. She usually went alone, but they were still always happy to see her.

It was pretty clear that the house elves didn’t get many visitors in their dorms, and no one ever showed much interest when Hermione asked them to come. Ron, as tolerant as he was, still exhibited the pureblood tendency of not caring much about elves, and most of her other magical-raised friends were similar. Out of sight, out of mind was how they seemed to think of them, which was fitting, since the elves really took pride in their ability to go about their work unseen. Harry was a little more interested, but he usually had Quidditch practice during the elves’ downtime. Sally-Anne, on the other hand, just found them creepy. Fred and George visited a couple of times, too, but since the elves couldn’t help them break the rules, they mostly stuck to grabbing snacks from the kitchens.

To some extent, though, Hermione liked it that way. She sort of felt like visiting the elves was her thing. Of course, it would be great if she could encourage wizards and elves to be friends more, but still, it was nice to have something she could do on her own, even though she already had the maths.

And so she found herself playing a game of chess with Tilly one afternoon while Harry was at Quidditch practice and Ron was finishing his homework. Hermione was pleased to find that Tilly was actually pretty good at chess—not quite at her level, but enough to give her some competition besides Ron—and she shared Hermione’s love of unconventional moves. It seemed even the most conservative elves had a hidden depth of cunning, but maybe they had to to get by in this world. Her granddaughter exhibited this much more vividly, of course: Sonya was a real troublemaker by elf standards and, honestly, a bit of a card shark—one more reason to stick to chess.

Hermione picked up her castle and moved it into position. Since most of the elves had to make or scavenge most of their non-essentials, the chess pieces didn’t move on their own (and were, of course, elf-sized). Tilly looked over the board and captured the rook with her queen, but that’s what Hermione was hoping for. She checked Tilly’s king with her bishop, forcing the queen of capture it, leaving enough room for her to move in her knight.

“And checkmate,” Hermione said. “Good game, Tilly.”

“Thank you, Miss Hermione Granger,” Tilly squeaked. “Miss is a very good chess player. Tilly is thinking she should play against Professor McGonagall.”

“Oh, Professor McGonagall plays chess?”

“Yes, miss. Professor McGonagall was Hogwarts Chess Champion when she was being a student.”

“Really? I don’t think they even have a chess champion anymore.”

After the chess game, Tilly said that it was time for one of the elf children’s history classes. She rang a bell in the corner of the Common Room, and little elflings streamed out of the long hallway and headed for the staircases up to the next level of the attic space. With a start, Hermione was reminded of her original reasons for exploring the space.

“Tilly,” she called after the elf, “would it be alright if I sat in on the class?”

Tilly’s huge grey eyes grew even larger and gleamed like sickles. “Miss Hermione Granger is wanting to see Tilly teach?”

“Sure. It’s very interesting seeing how you do things up here. And actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you—I was wondering if you might show me around up here. I mean, it looks like you’ve got three floors here plus some little towers.”

“Yes, Miss Hermione Granger,” Sonya said from her side. “It is like having our own castle in the castle.” She giggled at that, and the two of them started climbing—or crawling in Hermione’s case, up the stairs to the “second” floor of the elf quarters.

It really was just like a miniature castle, Hermione realised. If the first floor held the bedrooms, the second floor must be the classrooms, and all the other essential facilities must be squeezed in around here somewhere. She pulled out a scrap of parchment and started making notes on the rooms.

“Is Miss Hermione Granger drawing our rooms?” Sonya asked.

“Well, sort of. I’m trying to finish my map. When school started last fall, I was getting lost so much that I decided to make a map of the castle. No one’s really done that because things change quite a bit, but I just wanted one that was approximate, so I paced off all the halls myself. That’s why I was looking for your dorms in the first place. I figured out what most of the other rooms were, but no one I asked knew you were up here.”

“You is knowing where all the rooms in the castle is, Miss?” Sonya said in surprise.

“No, just in the places where students are allowed—and even then only the ones that aren’t hidden. I was hoping I could figure out all of them, but I don’t have time to find them and work them out.”

“Sonya can help! We elves knows where all the hidden doors is and how to get through them.”

“You do?”

Sonya’s head bobbed eagerly.

“That would be great! Thank you!” Finally! she thought. I can finally finish my map! Hermione was so excited that she bent down and hugged the little elf, leaving Sonya looking like she was about to faint. Sonya had to go to her cleaning duties shortly afterwards, but she was grinning madly as she did. Elves definitely weren’t used to that kind of attention from humans. Meanwhile, Hermione sat through the history lesson and once again learnt much more from Tilly than she ever had from Professor Binns. (Much of it she had learnt from the textbook, but the elf perspective was quite interesting.)

It was the following weekend that Hermione and Sonya finally had enough free time together to start exploring. True to her word, Sonya showed Hermione all of the doors where students were allowed and how to get into them—and conspiratorially mentioned to no one in particular about some of the doors where students weren’t allowed (mostly storage for the less safe artifacts and such). House elves, Hermione had learnt, were quite good at reinterpreting orders to mean what they wanted them to mean. They really were clever creatures. In any case, the hidden doors were like many of the ones she already knew about, which only opened if you tickled them or asked them politely or could only be seen if you walked past them backwards on a Tuesday. The catch was that with the lesser-used doors, there were few other people she could ask about how to find them, so it really was a great help having Sonya along. There was even a hidden staircase that provided a shortcut from near Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised when, while they were out and about, Fred and George Weasley sauntered towards them, carrying arms full of she really didn’t want to know what.

“Hello, Hermione,” one of them said.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the other finished.

“Hello,” she said.

“You seem hard at work.”

“Uh huh.”

The Twins eyed her sketchbook where she was marking down all the doors and rooms. “By the look of things, I’d say you’ve taken up your mapping project again,” one of them said—George, she was pretty sure.

“And you’ve roped an elf into joining you.”

“She’s the one with the cards, right?”

“Yes, sirs, I is being Sonya,” the elf said.

“Sonya’s been showing me where all the hidden doors are,” Hermione explained.

“And you didn’t ask us?” Fred said. “I feel a bit hurt.”

“You had Quidditch practice. Plus, I want to make sure the information I get is accurate.”

“Us? Lie to you?” Fred said with mock indignation.

“We would never do that,” George said.

“Well, maybe omit some important details—”

“Like the impossibility of certain tasks—”

“Or what you might run into if you try them—”

“But surely not lie to you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“My point exactly,” Hermione said flatly.

“Well, have fun you two,” said Fred with a grin and hefted his parcels. “We have work to do. I wish we could get that kind of help.”

“Sadly, our pursuits are generally not quite virtuous enough for the elves,” George added. “Good luck with your map. Perhaps we should compare notes sometime—make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hermione said cheerfully. “I’ll let you know when it’s finished.”

Chapter Text

Toward the end of March, the homework began to pile up again. Final exams were on the horizon, and exams always tended to make Hermione tense. So she drew up a rigorous study schedule for herself and dove right in. It was only the memory of the state she’d worked herself into last fall that kept her from going completely crazy over it. Harry and Ron thought she had anyway.

“Alright, Hermione, calm down,” Alicia said one afternoon when she’d gone off at the study group. “Yes, the exams are important, but with your grades, you could do anything short of skiving them completely and still get promoted.”

“I know,” she said, “but Harry and Ron—”

“Will have to learn to handle themselves,” Alicia interrupted.

“It’s really not that bad,” Cedric assured her. “Hardly anyone ever fails the final exams. Even Snape lets most people squeak by with an A. It doesn’t reflect well on him to have too many people fail.”

“And even then, the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s are the only things anyone ever looks at after you leave school,” Roger added.

“Yeah, I know,” Hermione admitted. “I just wish I could get Ron and Harry to actually apply themselves.”

“Eh, boys. What can you do?” Alicia said with a grin.

“Hey!” Cedric and Roger said as Hermione and Alicia both laughed.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Cedric said. “Now tell us about this quadratic formula thing.”

“Negative b plus or minus the square root of b-squared minus four a-c all divided by two-a,” Hermione said automatically, just like every sixth former ought to be able to.

Cedric rolled his eyes. Roger sniggered and said, “Ask an obvious question, Ced.”

Hermione smiled warmly and explained it for real. “It’s just a formula that you have to memorise. I know I say that a lot, but that’s really how everybody does it in this case. Technically, you can derive it. Do you remember completing the square in class?” They nodded. “If you complete the square for the general a-x-squared plus b-x plus c equation, you get the quadratic formula—so that’s where it comes from.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for that,” replied Cedric. “So what’s it actually good for?”

Hermione suppressed a sigh. “The quadratic formula gets used all the time in more advanced maths. You need it to calculate the elements a lot of simple charms and jinxes. Look here.” She turned to near the back of Numerology and Grammatica and pointed out the many places where quadratic equations occurred. “And that’s just the start. You can approximate almost any more complicated formula with a quadratic equation—They do that in muggle physics all the time. So even a lot of more advanced spells use it.”

The three older students figured out soon enough that there really wasn’t that much difficulty to the quadratic formula. As Hermione said, it was really just a matter of remembering it, even if they couldn’t appreciate the usefulness of it, though she hoped they would in time.

“You know, Hermione, you’ve been a little bit on edge for a while, now,” said Alicia as they were getting ready to leave. “Is everything okay?”

It was true. Ever since the day of the Quidditch match, Hermione couldn’t stop herself worrying a little about the Philosopher’s Stone. But that was a real secret, not something she could bring up here. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind…like always.”

“Well, you know we’re here for you if you need anything.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

She tried her best to set the Philosopher’s Stone issue aside, but things definitely got a lot hairier when Hermione, Ron, and Harry ran into Hagrid in the library one day, and Hagrid asked them if they were still looking for what was on the third floor. That made the hair on the back of Hermione’s neck stand up. Hagrid must be really nervous about something if he thought of that before he thought of them studying for exams. He understandably got more nervous when Ron blurted out that they had found the answer ages ago. When Harry took the opportunity to ask about what else was protecting the Stone, Hagrid quickly shut them up and told them to come to his hut later. And as if that weren’t bad enough, Ron noticed that he was checking out books about dragons.

That couldn’t be a good sign, thought Hermione. Either the Stone was vulnerable, and they needed to bring in a dragon to help protect it, or…or Hagrid was illegally breeding dragons.

This wasn’t going to end well.

“So…yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?” Hagrid said as the trio sat down in his stiflingly hot hut. Even in this private setting, he still looked pretty cagey.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione jumped in front of him, thinking it might be better to butter him up a bit. “Well, Hagrid,” she said, “we know Professor Dumbledore must trust you a lot to help guard the Philosopher’s Stone.” Hagrid’s chest swelled with pride. “But we were thinking it would be safest if there were other people setting enchantments to guard it, too, so that no one person knew what all the protections were. We were just wondering if Dumbledore did something like that.”

“Aye, yeh are a bright one, aren’t yeh,” Hagrid grinned at her. “Ah, I s’pose it can’t hurt ter tell yeh ‘bout that. Dumbledore’s a smart man—came up with the same idea. In fact, it was just about all o’ the teachers who helped him. I don’t think Professor Kettleburn added another creature—didn’t have nothin’ tougher’n Fluffy—but everybody else who had anythin’ ter offer did somethin,” even Dumbledore himself. Yep, ain’t no dark wizard that can get past all o’ them.”

“Professor Vector added something?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah. Said she made sure no one could get past it without a whole team o’ curse breakers. Lot o’ the others did, too.”

“Did professor Snape?” Harry asked darkly.

“Well, o’ course he did.” Harry and Ron gave Hagrid a horrified look. “What, you’re not still on about Snape bein’ dark, are yeh? He’s helpin’ protect the Stone. He’s not gonna steal it.”

“Besides, Harry,” Hermione added. “No one knows what all the protections are, and I’m sure it’s safe with Professor Vector helping out.”

“But she was a Slytherin,” Ron protested.

“Not all Slytherins are alike, Ron. She actually keeps everyone in line, unlike Snape, and if she says no one can get through her protections, I believe her. Besides, I’m sure Professor Dumbledore came up with something even better than she did.”

Harry seemed to accept that more the time being, and it was only then that the children’s attention was drawn to the large, black spheroid that was sitting right in the middle of Hagrid’s roaring fire.

“Hagrid…is that a dragon egg?” Ron asked nervously.

“Ah…yeah, matter of fact it is,” Hagrid answered, fiddling with his beard.

“Where did you get a dragon egg?” Hermione demanded. “Aren’t they illegal to trade in most of Europe?”

“I won it. Fella down at the pub last night said he had a dragon egg, and we could play card fer it if I wanted. So I said, o’ course. An’ he did say he had ter be sure I could handle it, but I told him after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy."

The children all gave a start and looked at each other in horror. Hagrid’s face fell as he realised what he’d said.

“You told him about Fluffy?” demanded Harry.

“Well…yeah, I s’pose I did. Probably shouldn’ta said that…”

“You didn’t tell him how to get past Fluffy, did you?” Ron asked.

“Course not,” Hagrid said firmly. “I’d never give somethin’ like that away, even when I’d been drinkin’.”

“Phew, good.”

“There, you see. It’s perfectly safe,” said Hermione. “I mean, even if somebody else knows about Fluffy, it’s not like you can just play music for him or something—”

Hagrid yelled an exclamation and shot to his feet so fast that he tripped and fell onto his table, smashing it to bits. The children all screamed. Then, to their horror, Hagrid reached up and clapped an enormous hand on Hermione’s shoulder, knocking her to the ground hard and bringing her face close to his huge one. “How’d you know about that?” he growled.

“What?” Hermione squeaked.

“Let her go!” Ron yelled.

“About playin’ music to Fluffy. If you play him some music, he goes right to sleep. Nobody knew that but me an’ Dumbledore.”

“What!” Harry and Ron demanded. They tried to pull Hermione away from the huge man.

Hermione started crying. She’d only ever even heard of Hagrid getting truly angry once, and that was when he’d cursed Harry’s cousin with a pig’s tail. But he was so big it was almost as bad as the troll to see up close. “I-I didn’t!” she whimpered. “I didn’t think—I thought it wouldn’t—It’s the myth of Orpheus…”

“The what of what?” Hagrid said, starting to calm down.

“It’s an ancient Greek story—muggle story…a musician named Orpheus had to sneak past a three-headed dog to get into the realm of the dead, and he played music to put the dog to sleep. I didn’t think it was true because…” She braced herself with her arms blocking her face and whispered. “Because I thought it was too obvious.”

Hagrid let go of her, slumped back on the floor, and started crying loudly himself. “I’m sorry,” he bawled. In retrospect, she thought he had probably knocked her down by accident. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’ mean teh scare yeh like that. It’s just this is so importan.” Dumbledore’s trustin’ me teh keep the Stone safe from…”

“From who?” Harry said.

“I can’t tell yeh that. Dumbledore says someone’s after it—same bloke who tried teh steal it from Gringotts, probably. But I know it ain’t Snape. Dumbledore trusts him as much as me. We all worked together back in the—er—well, back in the war. Snape ain’t very nice, I admit, but he’s on our side.”

“But Hagrid, do you think Snape could know how to get past Fluffy?” Harry asked.

“He couldn’t!” Hagrid insisted. “There’s no wizards who know but me an’ Dumbledore—and don’t you tell nobody else, either.”

But Harry ignored him. “Hermione?” he asked.

“Well,” she said slowly, hating that she had to undermine her earlier argument, “it’s possible he could have read the story somewhere, and if he did…well, if I was desperate and just had to get past Fluffy, one of the first things I’d try would be playing music to him, because that’s what Orpheus did in the myth…But he still couldn’t get through the other protections,” she said quickly. “Not with Vector and Dumbledore and everybody else helping out. Right, Hagrid? I bet Professor Babbling came up with something really complicated with runes, and McGonagall probably transfigured statues to fight or something.”

“Yeah…” Hagrid said glumly. “They didn’t tell me, mind yeh, but I’m sure it’s somethin’ real tough like that. But Merlin, if I’d known other people knew how teh get past Fluffy…”

“I…I’m sure you did you’re best, Hagrid,” Harry said, patting him on the arm. It looked like everything was still okay…for now.

Two weeks later, though, Hermione couldn’t take it anymore and dragged Ron and Harry to a meeting in an isolated back corner of the library.

“We have to do something about Hagrid,” she whispered.

“Why?” Ron said. “I though you said the Stone was safe.”

“I’m not talking about the Stone. I’m talking about that dragon egg.”

Hagrid had ignored the trio’s (mostly Hermione’s) protests to his keeping a dangerous and illegal wild animal in his kitchen.

“Well, I know it’s not a great idea…” Harry trailed off.

“Not a great idea?” Hermione hissed. “Hagrid lives in a wooden house.”

“Well, yeah, but if it’s only a baby…”

“Hmpf.” Hermione reached into her bagged and pulled out a book she had checked out last week: From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper’s Guide, one of the few books on the subject Hagrid had left behind. She opened it on the table and flipped to the place she had marked. Here, listen to this: “‘Keepers who hatch dragons must remain aware that newly-hatched dragons grow magically fast. Many species will triple in length in the first week after hatching and reach ten times their birth length by the age of one month.’”

Ron, at least, looked appropriately frightened by this revelation. “Okay, that is bad,” he said. Harry just looked at his friends sceptically.

“Don’t you see?” Hermione continued. “With the size of that egg, if Hagrid keeps that dragon for even a month after it hatches, it’ll be as big as he is! We have to do something, or he’s going to get hurt or worse…I…I think we have to tell somebody.”

“But I don’t want to get Hagrid in trouble,” Harry said.

“He’ll get in more trouble when his house burns down. Come on, Ron, you know about dragons, right?”

Ron looked very much like he didn’t want to get between his two friends. “What if we, er, just get Hagrid to let it go when it hatches…” he suggested weakly. “You know, I don’t think the British Dragon Reservation is too far from here.”

“But Ron, you saw how Hagrid’s been the past two weeks. He won’t listen to reason. I don’t want him to get in trouble either, but if he won’t listen to us, what else can we do?”

“Well…” Ron said tentatively. “What if we talk to Dumbledore? He seems pretty, you know, friendly and understanding. My folks really like him—and so does Hagrid.”

“But if Dumbledore finds out Hagrid told a stranger about Fluffy…” Harry replied.

“Hmm…” Hermione had another thought. “We could try talking to Professor Vector.” Ron made a face. “I know she was a Slytherin, Ron, but I’ve never had a problem with her, and she’s friends with Hagrid. They always sit next to each other at dinner. Plus, she didn’t get us in trouble with the troll or looking up the Philosopher’s Stone. I think she might be okay with taking care of this quietly.”

“Well…maybe,” Harry said. Ron still looked uncomfortable, but he reluctantly nodded. “But I don’t want to go behind Hagrid’s back,” Harry added. “Can we talk to him one more time first?”

“Sure,” Hermione said.

But Hagrid still didn’t want to hear any criticism of his dragon-rearing skills.

“Hagrid, if you keep it too long, it’s going to be too big to hide,” Harry insisted. “You’re going to get found out sooner or later.”

“Besides, you can’t keep a dragon someplace as small as Hogwarts,” Ron said. “Charlie says they need lots of land to catch enough game to survive. I know you’re good with animals—” (Actually, that was debatable.) “—but the forest just isn’t big enough.”

And miraculously, that actually seemed to get through to the huge man. Gazing at the egg in fire, he bit his lip and said, “I—I know I can’t keep it forever. But I can’t just dump it. It deserves a chance to hatch and grow up.”

“We know, Hagrid,” Hermione said sympathetically. “But you’re not going to able to do that here. We, uh, we know you’re friends with Professor Vector. Do you think she’d be willing to help if we asked her? She’s been really nice with us. I don’t think she’ll ask too many questions.”

“Who, Septima? Ah, she’s a good woman, she is. Knew her when she was a student. Real curious ‘bout things, an’ a lot nicer than the other Slytherins. Hmm…well, I s’pose it’d be alright if you wanted to ask her to help.”

“Thank you, Hagrid.” She forced down her nerves and hugged him as best she could. It was a little difficult after their earlier confrontation, but she managed it. For everyone’s sake, she vowed to get this thing sorted as soon as possible.

“Ah, hello Hermione—and Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley. Is there something wrong?” Professor Vector said when she saw the trio’s nervous faces outside her office door.

“Professor, we need to speak with you in private,” her star pupil said.

Vector’s face fell. She had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. “Come in, come in.” She ushered the children in and sat them down. “What is it?”

“Well, ma’am…” Hermione started, “we have this friend who’s doing something dangerous…and we’re worried he’s going to get in trouble.”

“I see,” the Professor said warningly. “You have a friend?”

“It’s not one of us,” Harry jumped in. After a pause, he said, “It’s Hagrid…He’s trying to hatch a dragon egg in his hut.”

“What! Augh.” Vector pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Rubeus, what have you got yourself into this time? Dragon egg. Of all the—” she muttered. She stopped and took a deep breath. “Do you know when it’s going to be hatching?”

“Ron and I put our heads together, and we think it’s going to be another week or two, from the books,” Hermione said, thankful that she had a semi-dragon expert in her circle of friends.

“Yeah,” Ron added, “we just barely got Hagrid to say he’ll get rid of it, but now we don’t know what to do about it.”

“We were all hoping you could help out without…you know…” Hermione trailed off, not quite willing to say something so against the rules to a teacher.

“Without reporting him, you mean?”

The girl reluctantly nodded.

The professor sighed again. “Well, I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We’re going to hand that dragon off to a professional dragon handler, and the sooner the better—preferably before it hatches. Dragons are an endangered species, and the most important thing is to make sure it gets somewhere safe.”

“Hagrid’ll like that,” Harry said.

“I’m sure he will. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done. I can try writing some letters, but frankly, the British Dragon Reservation is barely functional as it is. Not enough space on the island. That’s why the biggest ones are in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union—ah, Russia, excuse me. Not to mention the difficulty of transporting one illegally.”

“Charlie!” Harry suddenly exclaimed. “Ron, couldn’t you just write your brother Charlie and ask if he can do anything with the dragon?”

“Maybe,” the redheaded boy said. “There’s still the illegal part, but I know they’ve got the space in Romania.”

“Good,” Vector said. “I’ll still write my letters, but you should write your brother right away, Mr. Weasley, and let me know as soon as you receive a reply.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As expected, Professor Vector’s contacts fell through pretty quickly, but Charlie’s reply, which came a week later, was more positive:

Dear Ron,

How are you? Thanks for the letter—I ’d be glad to take the Norweigian Ridgeback. The problem is that it’s not a good idea to transport a dragon egg this close to hatching. I don’t know how you got a teacher in on the scheme, but it’ll be a big help, since we’ll have to ship the dragon out under cover of darkness. I want you to write me again as soon as it hatches. The next Saturday night, I’ll send some friends to pick it up. Bring the hatchling up to the top of the Astronomy Tower at midnight to make the hand off. Will that work? Send me an answer as soon as possible.

Love,

Charlie

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Professor Vector said. “This will work very well. And if the dragon’s less than a week old, I should be able to move it without much trouble.”

“Will you need any help moving him, Professor?” Harry asked hopefully. Hermione could tell he was eager for a chance at being out after hours legitimately and was surely internally debating whether to tell the professor about his invisibility cloak.

But Vector gave him a firm, “No, Mr. Potter, I want you to stay well away from this. I could explain myself carrying a suspicious package through the castle on my own after hours, but not your presence with me.”

Harry wasn’t too happy with that, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Still, when the sun rose on the twenty-seventh of April, Baby Norbert (whom Ron was pretty sure was a girl dragon, but Hagrid wouldn’t listen) was on her way to Romania, and none too soon, because Draco Malfoy had spotted her when she hatched. Even so, Hermione, Ron, and Harry got to see a baby dragon, Hagrid got to take care of one for a couple of days, Hermione got to brush the whole thing off as a fun and minor diversion to her parents, and Malfoy got detention when Professor McGonagall caught him out of bed trying to catch what he expected to be three Gryffindor students smuggling an illegal dragon after hours, so everyone got what they wanted in the end. Hermione adopted a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding whether Harry and Ron had followed Professor Vector under Harry’s invisibility cloak, but at least they didn’t get caught, even if Professor Snape did make a few suspicious remarks to them afterwards.

Hermione had a bit of an extra spring in her step after that. All was right with her world…at least for the next couple of weeks.

“Hey, Hermione, we’re going to visit Hagrid. Do you wanna come?” asked Harry.

“I’ve got studying to do,” Hermione said exasperatedly. “And shouldn’t you by studying, too?”

Exams were one week away, and for Hermione, this was the prime time to be stressing out—certainly more than she was before. Her friends, while they were gearing up for finals as well, seemed much more laid back.

“Go on, Hermione,” said Lavender Brown, who was sitting nearby with Parvati. “It’s the last weekend before exams. You should take some time out to have fun.”

“Lavender, these exams are very important—” she started.

“And you could pass them in your sleep,” the blond shot back, putting her hands on her hips. “Everyone knows it.”

“But I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

“Hermione,” Parvati said gently, “you told us to help make sure you don’t lose it and break down again, and we’re telling you you need a break. You’ve been getting all moody and antisocial the past few weeks, and even we can tell you work a lot better when you don’t overdo it.”

Hermione sighed. Since when did her giggly roommates get so deep? Of course, she knew the answer. It was when, in her desperation, she specifically told them what to watch her for. And she hated to admit it, but her eyes had been getting tired far too early in the afternoon for the past few days.

“Alright, alright,” she groaned, “I guess I could do with a break.”

“Great,” Harry grinned.

“Thanks, girls,” Ron said as the trio ducked out. They could hear the girls giggling behind them.

If Hermione was feeling tired, it certainly woke her up when Hagrid opened the door to his hut and pointed a huge crossbow at them. The children all yelped in surprise.

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry,” Hagrid said. “There’s been some…it doesn’t matter. “Sgood teh see yeh. Come on in, I’ll make some tea.”

“Um, Hagrid…is something wrong?” Harry asked once they had sat down. He motioned to the crossbow.

“Oh, right, that,” Hagrid said darkly. “Nasty bit o’ business that. See, I found a unicorn dead in the forest on Wednesday.”

Ron gasped. Harry and Hermione didn’t know the full implications of that, but they both got a bit of a greenish tinge.

“Yeah, it weren’t pretty. Somethin’ had run it down, an’ that’s tough teh do. Unicorns are faster “n anythin.” I never seen one hurt by a predator before, an’ I’ve been here nearly fifty years.”

“But what could do that?” Harry said.

“Dunno. I’ll have teh try huntin’ it if it happens again.”

“Hunting it?” squeaked Hermione. “Isn’t that dangerous.”

“Yeah, but Fang an’ I can handle it. Besides I can’t let anything keep killin’ the unicorns. Yeh shoulda seen it—blood everywhere. The animals all stay away from it, but it kills the plants like anythin’.”

“It kills the plants?” Hermione said in surprise. “Unicorn blood is toxic?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Hagrid said. “It’s too pure an’ sacred for anythin’ but the unicorns. It’s powerful ancient magic. If it gets into your body, it can even save yeh from dyin,” but it’s so pure that it eats away at everythin’ slowly. Horrible fate—horrible. Yeh don’t want to hear any more ‘bout it, I’m tellin’ yeh.”

Hermione thought she had to agree. Her imagination and what she’s skimmed from her parents’ dental school textbooks were more than enough to put images she didn’t want in her mind. Ron looked equally green, but Harry looked oddly thoughtful—and worried.

“Hagrid…” he said. “Do you think…whatever this thing is could be killing unicorns…for their blood?”

“Don’ see how,” Hagrid muttered. “The animals all stay away from unicorn blood. It’s instinct. And as for humans, well, who’d be that desperate? Still, I can’t figure why anything’d be attackin’ them in the first place.”

Harry looked very much like he had more to say, but he didn’t mention it until they got back to the castle.

“Guys,” he said, “I’m worried about the unicorns.”

“Well, so are we, but I’m sure Hagrid can handle it,” Hermione said, if uncertainly.

“No, I mean I worried about whoever’s attacking the unicorns.”

“What about it?” Ron said.

“I think he’s after their blood.”

“But you heard what Hagrid said. The consequences are too horrible,” Hermione told him.

“Yeah, but what if he could get something else? Something stronger that could fix what the unicorn blood did?”

Ron just asked, “Like what?” But Hermione made the connection.

“You mean the Elixir of Life,” she said. “That might be stronger. Probably is, from what I’ve read.”

“Right. So if they get hold of the Philosopher’s Stone, they can be cured.”

“But who is it?” Ron said. “I don’t think any of the professors are dying or anything.”

“No, but there’s something else,” Harry said. “On Tuesday night, I got this really bad headache. It wasn’t like a normal headache. It was in my scar.” He pointed to his forehead. “And the same thing happened at the start of term feast when Snape looked at me. What if…” He gulped and shuddered slightly. “What if it’s Voldemort?”

“Don’t say that name!” Ron hissed.

“Vol—You-Know-Who?” Hermione whispered, seeing the look on Ron’s face. “It can’t be.”

“But it makes sense. Listen, people think Voldemort’s still alive out there somewhere, but weakened.”

“Stop saying the name!” Ron repeated.

“Maybe he’s drinking unicorn blood to stay alive, and the pain in my scar has something to do with him because I’m the only one he couldn’t kill. And then Snape’s working for him, and he’s trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone and use it to cure him so he can come back…” He shuddered again. “And then, Voldemort will come and finish me off.”

“Will you stop saying his name!”

“Harry, that’s crazy!” Hermione snapped. “Hagrid said Snape worked with Dumbledore against You-Know-Who.”

“So? Maybe he was a spy. He’s sure evil enough. And he tried to kill me, remember?”

“Bloody hell, I can see Snape as a spy,” Ron said.

“But if all that was true,” Hermione protested, “Don’t you think Dumbledore or somebody would have noticed by now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I just hope Snape really doesn’t know how to get the Stone.”

“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore is the only person You-Know-Who was afraid of,” she tried to comfort her friend. “With him around, You-Know-Who can’t touch you or the Stone. And besides, I doubt it’s really him out there. I bet it’s just some kind of rabid magical creature.”

“Yeah…maybe,” Harry said, forcing himself to smile.

But on Monday night, Harry came down with another headache in his scar, and, checking with Hagrid on Tuesday, they learnt that another unicorn had been killed that night. Nothing was going to convince Harry Potter at that point.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Harry were both very worried about exams, but for different reasons. Harry had become paranoid that Voldemort was going to burst in and kill him at any moment, and Hermione, in addition to wanting to pass her own exams, was worried that Harry’s paranoia would cause him to flunk. No matter how many times she assured him that nothing could possibly get him at Hogwarts, he couldn’t seem to shake his nervousness.

Admittedly, he was still getting headaches, although he stubbornly refused to see Madam Pomfrey about it (Boys, Hermione thought), insisting instead that they meant danger was coming. Even Ron told him to relax and not worry about it.

When the time came, Hermione, for her part, found the exams easier than she expected, for which she congratulated herself for her good study habits. Before she knew it, she was finishing up her last exam, Arithmancy (which was a little more challenging), while the boys were taking their History exam. Now, all she had to do was learn some of the more advanced integration techniques and revise for her maths A-level next month.

She had already wandered out to the grounds for a pleasant walk when she saw Harry and Ron running flat out towards her. She waved to them, but she soon realised that they weren’t excited that their exams were over. They were running as if Fluffy were after them, coming up to her with horror-stricken looks on their faces.

“Hermione!” Harry said breathlessly, “Snape’s figured it out…! He knows how to get the Stone!”

“What?” Hermione exclaimed.

“We heard it…” said Ron, panting even more heavily. “Quirrell…Snape…told him…”

“What are you talking about?”

“We were going past the staffroom—” Harry said.

“We heard Quirrell—” Ron started.

“He said he knew everything—”

“He didn’t want to tell him but—”

“Harry! Ron! Calm down and tell me exactly what you heard,” Hermione snapped.

The boys tried to collect themselves and recounted their tale. They had been hanging back a bit talking after their History exam, and as they were walking past the staffroom, they’d heard Professor Quirrell talking to someone they couldn’t quite hear. Quirrell was crying. From what Hermione could piece together, he said something like, “Please…please I can’t…yes, that’s everything, but…no, please…alright, alright!” The boys had taken this to mean that Quirrell had told Snape everything he needed to know about how to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, however far-fetched that seemed.

“Did you actually hear him talking to Snape?” Hermione asked astutely.

“We heard someone whispering to him,” Harry said. “We didn’t want to get too close in case Snape saw us, but what else could it mean?”

By now, Hermione was just about done arguing with Harry about this. “Well, if you’re so sure,” she said, “there’s only one thing to do.”

“What?” both boys asked.

“Go to Dumbledore.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and then they both smacked themselves in their foreheads and took off running back toward the castle.

“Hey, wait for me!” Hermione yelled as she sprinted after them.

The three of them dashed inside and started climbing the stairs. It was only after they had ascended several flights that Harry and Ron realised they had no idea where they were going. “Uh…where is Dumbledore’s office?” Harry said as they came to an intersection.

“Seventh floor,” Hermione replied. She pulled her quick-reference map from her robes. With exams to worry about, she’d only had time to explore the West Wing with Sonya, but she thought it would be good to carry a small map with the important places marked on it, just in case. “I ran into him when I was exploring the castle—almost literally.” She double-checked her orientation and pointed down one of the corridors. “This way—”

“What are you three doing inside?”

They turned around to see Professor McGonagall approaching with a large pile of books. She looked rather suspicious of the trio, but then, navigating the castle with a foldout map wasn’t exactly normal behaviour.

Hermione collected herself and said as calmly as she could, “We want to see Professor Dumbledore.”

“Professor Dumbledore?” McGonagall looked even more suspicious. “Why?”

“It’s sort of secret,” Harry blurted out. Hermione suppressed a groan.

“Well, I’m afraid it will have to wait, whatever it is,” the professor said. “Professor Dumbledore was urgently called away to the Ministry ten minutes ago.”

“He’s gone? Now?” Harry gasped in horror.

“The Headmaster is a very busy man with other duties beyond the school. I’m sure whatever this is can wait until tomorrow.”

“But this about the Philosopher’s Stone!”

McGonagall dropped her books with a loud crash that echoed through the empty hallways. “How do you know about that?” she whispered. Her whisper seemed to carry even farther.

“Professor, I think—I know—that Sn—someone’s going to try to steal the Stone tonight,” Harry said. “We have to warn Dumbledore.”

Hermione wanted to say something. To tell Professor McGonagall that Harry hadn’t been feeling well and was being paranoid. She must hear the desperation in his voice. Or to tell her all the strange goings on surrounding the Stone that were making him worry. But she just couldn’t think of what to say at the moment.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, “I don’t know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured that no one could possibly steal it. It’s far too well protected.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him, Professor,” Hermione said timidly. Harry and Ron both glared at her.

“But Professor—”

“You should listen to your friend, Mr. Potter. All of we teachers have taken the security of that Stone very seriously. Now I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy the sunshine.” An or else was clearly implied.

And if Professor McGonagall’s warning weren’t enough, Professor Snape’s, when they ran into him not two minutes later, was. “You shouldn’t be inside on a day this…nice…” the Potions Master said with a twisted smile, as if he could only guess what normal people would consider to be a nice day.

“We were just—” Harry started.

“You’ll want to be more careful, Mr. Potter. If you keep turning up in places you aren’t supposed to be, people are bound to think you’re…up to something.” Harry flushed bright red. “And you wouldn’t want to be expelled after only your first year, would you? Good day.”

“It’s definitely him,” Harry said. “He must know we snuck out with Norbert, too. He’s gonna try to steal the Stone tonight, and he’s trying to scare us off.”

“Harry, I still think you’re wrong,” Hermione said. “It’s probably just Snape being Snape. And besides, what can we do now?”

“We’ll split up and watch Snape and the forbidden corridor,” Harry said, as if it were obvious.

But that plan failed miserably after they were collectively told off by Flitwick, Snape again, and an irate McGonagall, who threatened them with a fifty point docking. It seemed that they were at least taking security against the students seriously.

“I’m sorry Harry, I did all I could,” Hermione said when they regrouped.

Harry grumbled at her, but she could tell he knew it wasn’t her fault. “There’s got to be something else we can do,” he muttered to himself. “Some way to stop Snape.”

“Harry, please try to calm down,” she begged, grabbing him by the shoulders. He flinched at the contact. “I keep telling you Snape couldn’t possibly get through all the obstacles. Maybe you heard Quirrell talking about something else.” Harry looked nervous, but as unconvinced as ever.

“Y-yeah, mate, Quirrell’s scared of just about everything,” Ron said, though he didn’t look too sure himself. “Now I think about it, that could’ve been about anything.”

“I know what I heard.” Harry screwed up his face and pushed Hermione’s hands aside.

“Look, Harry,” she tried. “If you’re that worried, we can go talk to Professor Vector. I’m sure she’ll at least listen, but I’m also sure she’s going to say the Stone is perfectly safe.”

Harry stopped and thought for a moment. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Let’s go.”

They managed to get to Professor Vector’s office without running into any other teachers, although they would have at least had a decent cover story this time.

Of course, when Professor Vector opened the door and saw who was there, she immediately said, “I’m afraid I don’t have your grade yet, Miss Granger.”

Hermione couldn’t completely suppress her sigh this time. Was she really that obsessive? “It’s not about that Professor.”

Vector cracked a forced smile. “Is there a dragon involved?”

“No, but it is important. May we please come in?”

“Alright, come on in,” she said, shutting the door behind the trio. “Now, what is this about?”

This time, Harry spoke up: “Professor, we think—ow!” Hermione stepped on his foot. “I think someone’s going to try to steal the Philosopher’s Stone tonight.”

If Professor Vector had been carrying a load of books, she would have dropped them. “So…you figured out what’s in there,” she said with just a little hostility. “And why, pray tell, do you think someone is trying to steal it, Mr. Potter?”

“Because I heard…some people talking about it, and today one of them said he’d figured out all the traps…”

“I see…I won’t ask you who you supposedly overheard, Mr. Potter, since it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what you think they said, but I assure that the Philosopher’s Stone is too well protected for anyone to steal it.”

“I know, but…I heard…it wasn’t students,” Harry blurted.

Vector’s eyes widened a bit. “You believe a teacher is going to steal the Stone?”

Harry nervously nodded. “I…We know most of the teachers did something to protect it, so…”

“Mr. Potter,” Vector said threateningly, drawing herself up, “if you are trying to get me to tell you what sort of obstacle I placed—”

“We’re not!” Hermione jumped in. “I’m sorry, Professor. It’s just that Harry’s been acting paranoid about this for weeks. Ron and I keep trying to tell him the Stone’s safe, but he won’t believe us.”

“Hermione!” Harry protested.

“Well, it’s true. We just wanted to try to convince him. He’s more nervous than ever because Professor Dumbledore’s gone, and Professor McGonagall didn’t have the patience to explain. I just thought—without giving it away—if you could tell him how well protected it really is…”

Vector sat down and sighed. She’d dealt with children with emotional issues before, most recently Hermione herself, but this level of paranoia was something she hadn’t seen since the war. “Miss Granger, I appreciate you trying to help your friend,” she said softly, “although there comes a point where Madam Pomfrey might be better to minister to something like this. I hope it does not come to that, however. Mr. Potter, you may find this difficult to accept, but we teachers have very good reasons to believe that the Stone is safe. My obstacle alone is probably adequate. I have told no one but Professor Dumbledore how it works, and I assure you that no one could possibly get through it without a special key that Professor Dumbledore keeps on his person at all times. There is only one key, which I gave directly to him, and not even he could get through without it. Professor Babbling’s obstacle is at least as strong as mine, and I’m sure the others are more than adequate as well. So I hope you understand that even a Hogwarts teacher would have no hope of getting through them all.”

Harry looked down at his shoes. He looked pretty well defeated. But even as Hermione thought he was about to sulk away, he set his face with a determined expression and tried one last line of attack. He looked Vector straight in the eye and said, “Professor, my scar’s been hurting.”

Hermione gave a small gasp.

“Excuse me?” Vector said to the non sequitur.

“My scar,” Harry repeated. “The one Voldemort gave me.”

Vector hissed at the name, and Ron yelped softly.

“It’s been hurting for the past few weeks,” Harry continued.

“Then you should see Madam Pomfrey.”

“I don’t think it’s a normal headache. I think it means danger is coming. It started happening when those unicorns were killed in the forest.”

“How did you—Hagrid,” Vector groaned.

Harry kept going before she could say anything else. “I think Sn…I—I think it’s Professor Snape, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? I think whoever is it is working for Voldemort, and he’s going to steal the Philosopher’s Stone so he can bring Voldemort back so he can kill me.”

“Will you stop saying that name, Harry!” Ron yelled.

Septima Vector tried to force her nerves down and wondered if her day could get any more surreal. Here was the Boy-Who-Lived—she hadn’t thought of him like that so much, but she couldn’t ignore it now—sitting in her office, lost in a child’s nightmare. It had to be hard for him, she thought, having lost his parents to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—she still couldn’t help but flinch every time he said that name. It was anybody’s guess whether he’d gone into fits like this before or if this was the first time, but she could actually understand it a little. It must be very nerve-wracking growing up with that kind of history, and paranoia wasn’t a totally unexpected result.

“Mr. Potter, I really do think you should see Madam Pomfrey about your headaches,” she finally said. “But I will ask Professor Dumbledore to speak with you personally about your concerns when he returns. I know this probably isn’t the answer you were hoping for, but I think it is highly unlikely that You-Know-Who is involved in any of this. In the meantime, I’m sure you’re very stressed after finishing your exams, and I think you’ll feel much better if you get some sun.” Now.

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said dejectedly. He stood up and weakly walked out of the office. Ron went with him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Hermione started to follow her, but Professor Vector called her back for a moment. Leaning down close to her, she said, “Hermione, I fear that your friend may need professional counselling.” Hermione nodded knowingly. She was starting to worry about that as well. “I will do what I can to make sure he gets the help he needs, but in the meantime, please try to take care of him.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” Hermione said quickly. That was the least she could do for him after that Halloween night.

Harry consented to being led outside, but he was irritable and fidgety the rest of the day. It was becoming clear that their chat with Professor Vector hadn’t had the desired effect. It didn’t help that he claimed his headache was getting worse, even though Hermione thought by now that it might be all in his head. He didn’t seem to want to talk to her all afternoon, and even his conversations with Ron seemed forced. As the day wore on, Hermione started to get a very bad feeling about that night, and Ron seemed to have the same idea because he asked Harry if he was going to bed multiple times, and the smaller boy just shook his head.

They both stayed up watching him until everyone else had gone to bed, which was when Harry finally closed the book he’d been reading, stood up and said, “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?”

“That’s what?” Hermione asked warily, rising to her feet.

Harry pulled out his invisibility cloak.

“Whoa, mate,” Ron said.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Hermione demanded. She stepped in front of the portrait hole, and Ron followed suit.

“I just know Snape’s going to go after the Stone tonight,” he said. “So I’m going to go down there and try to steal it first.”

“You’re mad!” Ron said.

“Harry, you can’t,” pleaded Hermione. “You heard what all the professors said.”

“I don’t care about being expelled,” Harry said, his voice rising. “Don’t you understand? If Snape gets a hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming back! The points and the cup and getting expelled won’t matter then. He’ll flatten Hogwarts, or turn it into a school for the Dark Arts. He killed my parents, remember? I’ll die whether I get caught or not if I can’t stop him, and then he’ll probably go after the other Gryffindors, too.”

“But he’s not going to get a hold of the Stone!” Hermione screamed, and prayed she didn’t wake anyone—or maybe hoped she did. “No one’s going to get through those obstacles.”

“He will! I can feel it.” Harry pressed the heel of his hand to his scar. “He’s going to get through.”

“Harry, let’s just say you’re right,” pleaded Hermione. “Say Professor Snape is going to try to steal the Stone tonight and knows how. You must know you don’t stand a chance against him.”

“I’ve got to try,” Harry insisted. “Nobody else will.”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron said. “You’re only a first year—”

“Well, you two could help me instead of just standing there,” he said angrily.

“We’re only first years, too!” said Hermione. “Don’t you remember the troll? One professor was miles ahead of all three of us together, and the obstacles are designed to be too tough even for them. Look, if I thought we had the slightest chance, I’d be right there beside you—if only to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed—but we’re only twelve. We’re so far out of our depth here…”

“Well, I guess I’m going alone, then.” He took a step toward them. As one, Ron and Hermione closed ranks

“Get out of my way,” Harry ordered.

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione said with tears in her eyes. “We can’t let you with this.”

“Ron, tell her to move.”

Ron shook his head. “Mate, I know you’re scared and all, but I’m not too dumb to see that there’s no way you can stop Snape or get through the traps. Bill’s told me the kinds of things he works with. He’s nearly been killed a couple times, and he’s had training for it.”

“I don’t care. Move.”

“Harry, stop. Really,” Ron stammered. “We just don’t want you to get hurt. We’ll…we’ll fight you if we have to.” He raised his fists and looked to Hermione.

Fight him? With fists? Maybe Ron, with his five older brothers. But me? I’ll need magic, Herimone thought.

Harry shook his head and turned to her. “Hermione. I’m really, really sorry about this,” he said.

Her hand went for her wand.

But Harry was faster. “Petrificus Totalus!” he cried.

Hermione’s eyes went wide with shock that Harry even knew that spell, and she registered just which book Harry had been reading earlier. That moment’s hesitation cost her dearly, as her arms snapped to her sides, her legs together, and she toppled over painfully against the wall, unable to even speak.

“Hermione!” Ron yelled. She wanted to tell him to look behind him as he ran over to her, but she couldn’t, and while he was distracted, Harry pulled on the invisibility cloak and vanished through the portrait hole.

“Hermione,” Ron said again, sparing only a moment to look up at the closing portal. “What did he do to you?” He drew his wand. “What do I do? What do I do?”

Unable to move anything but her eyes, Hermione did the one thing she could and repeatedly jerked her gaze toward the chair where Harry had been sitting. After an agonisingly long time, he made the connection.

“The book!” He ran over and picked up The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. “Come on, come on…” He flipped through the pages. “Perri…Petro…Petrine…” After an even longer time (though miraculously quick considering this was Ron trying to find an answer in a textbook), he managed to find the Full Body Bind and its counter-curse. A simple Finite Incantatem would work, of course, but would need a lot more power. He pointed his wand at Hermione and said, “Chalaro Soma!”

Nothing happened.

“Chalaro Soma! Chalaro Soma!” he said frantically.

Hermione’s mouth snapped open, and she gasped for breath. Her arms and legs remained stuck.

“Hermione?”

“Chala-ro Soma.”

“What?”

“It’s Chala-ro Soma,” she wheezed.

“Chala-ro Soma,” Ron incanted.

Hermione’s limbs came unstuck—not completely, but enough that she could shake off the rest of the jinx. “Thanks,” she said as he helped her to her feet. She picked up her wand where it had fallen. “I can’t believe he got me,” she said angrily.

“Sorry.”

“I could take him easy in a fair duel,” she insisted.

“Well, maybe you’ll get your chance,” he said. “We’ve got to go stop him.” He started to open the portrait hole.

“No, Ron, we have to tell a teacher.”

“What? Are you mad? After what Snape said, if they catch Harry trying to get in that corridor, he’ll be expelled!”

“And if he tries to get through all those traps on his own, Harry could get killed! And yes, Ron, that is worse!” Ron shut his mouth and nodded weakly. “We’ll go to Professor Vector. She doesn’t think Harry’s bad; she just thinks he’s sick—you know, mentally. I don’t know if he is or not, but I think she’ll go easy on him.”

“Are—are you sure…? We don’t have the cloak. What if someone else catches us?”

“We’d have that problem anyway. We’ll tell whoever catches us and hope they listen. I’ll go get my map so I can at least find places to hide.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

A few minutes and many stairs later, they were out in the corridors, following Hermione’s map to Professor Vector’s apartment. Hermione lit her wand dimly to see the paper.

“You know where all the teachers sleep?” Ron whispered.

“The ones who sleep in the castle,” she confirmed. “Each apartment is behind a portrait of a famous witch or wizard in their field.”

“Cool, so where—?”

“Shh!” Hermione strained to listen. “Someone’s coming,” she breathed. “Nox.” She grabbed Ron by the wrist and felt around for an unused room that was marked on the map nearby, one that Sonya had said you could only get into if you had your eyes closed. She opened it, and they ducked inside. She grabbed the small jar from her pocket and placed it against the door, pressing her ear to it to listen, though she could barely hear anything over her pulse pounding in her ears. Only when the footsteps passed by and vanished from her hearing did she whisper, “All clear,” and open the door again.

“Wow. I never thought you’d be sneaking around here like the Twins,” whispered an awed Ron.

“Yeah, and they’ll probably think they have to prank me again just to get back on top,” Hermione whispered back flatly. “Come on.”

They made it to the portrait of Bridget Wenlock without meeting anyone else, and then Hermione threw caution to the wind and pounded on the frame. “Professor Vector!” she yelled.

Bridget Wenlock woke up. “Tawht areh tho doaeng?” she shouted.

“Madam Wenlock, please tell Professor Vector to let us in. It’s an emergency. Professor Vector!”

“Stoadents areh not toe bay given occess toe thay apartments! Stoadents areh not toe bay oot pawst curfiu!”

“Please! It’s an emergency! Our friend could die! Professor—!”

Finally, a surprisingly dishevelled-looking Professor Vector opened the door, wearing a green nightdress, and glared at the two students. “Hermione, what’s wrong? What are you doing out of bed?”

“It’s Harry, Professor. He’s still convinced Professor Snape’s trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s gone in there to try to steal it first. We tried to stop him, but he jinxed us and got away!”

Professor Vector’s glare vanished as the colour drained from her face. “What? Is he mad? The dog—”

“He knows how to get past the dog. We figured out you have to play music to it from an old muggle story, and Hagrid let slip we were right.”

Vector went even paler. “You’re certain?”

Both children nodded emphatically.

“But if he can get past the dog, then…oh, no, the Devil’s Snare! I have to stop him! Go back to your dorms now. I’ll reverse any punishments if you get caught. I’ll get Potter.” She grabbed her wand and took off running in her slippers.

Ron and Hermione watched her go in amazement. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “So…what do you think,” Ron finally said.

“I…” Hermione glanced at the still-angry portrait behind them. “Away from her,” she hissed. They jogged down the corridor out of earshot. “What do you mean,” she asked.

“I still want to go after him,” Ron said.

“But Professor Vector said she’d bring him back.”

“I’m just kinda worried. What if he is right?”

“Oh, Ron, not you too!”

“I’m just saying to take a look, and if something happens, we’ll be able to get more help.”

Hermione wanted to protest, but it had been like pulling teeth all day to get anything sensible done, and even being the child of dentists couldn’t make that any easier. She was just too tired of it. “Oooh…” she whined. “Fine. But if we get eaten, I’m haunting you.”

They started off again, heading down to the third floor with the help of Hermione’s map.

“Do you know what Devil’s Snare is?” Ron asked on the way.

“It’s a plant that likes the dark and damp and tries to strangle you with its vines if you stumble into it.”

“Oh, lovely. So how do you get out of it?”

“Um…lemme think, uh—dark and damp…Of course, fire. So we just need some wood, and—” She stopped herself and tapped her wand to her head twice before Ron could make fun of her for her mistake.

A little farther down, Hermione had to pull Ron into a broom cupboard (there was something she didn’t think she’d have cause to do with anyone for a few more years, if ever) to avoid another teacher patrolling the corridors, and they barely managed to slip by Peeves, but somehow, they made it to the forbidden door. They looked at each other once.

“Alohomora,” Hermione whispered. The door clicked open.

There was Fluffy, growling at them, just as big and terrible as they’d remembered, but this time, they had a secret weapon. Hermione licked her lips and began to whistle as loudly as she could. She was only an average musician, but the simple tune caused the dog to step back and lay down, and its six eyes closed two by two.

They walked up to the trapdoor. It was already open. Hermione shot Ron a look as she kept whistling. “Lumos,” he said. But they couldn’t see the bottom by wand light, it must be a long way down. But she and Ron could both do the proverbial math on this. Professor Vector said that anyone who got past Fluffy would run into the Devil’s Snare. And that meant they had to survive the fall first. She motioned to Ron.

The unfortunate boy took a deep breath, made an unpleasant face, and jumped into the hole. After what seemed like ages, but was probably only long enough for him to fall to the sub-basement, she heard his voice calling back up, “It’s okay! It’s a soft landing.” She had already jumped down the hole when she heard his next sentence: “But I don’t like these vines!”

FLUMP! Hermione landed on something squishy and writhing. She felt uncomfortably like Indiana Jones in the den of snakes. But she had remembered to hold her wand arm aloft to keep it free. Wasting no time, she swung it down and said, “Lacarnum inflamari!” The blue flames made short work of the strangling plant, and they moved on, noting a single broomstick leaning against the wall as they approached the lone door in the darkened room. Apparently, the teachers were considerate enough to provide a way out if someone got stuck down here. They reached the door and opened it, not having any idea what they would find.

The next room looked like a war zone. It seemed to have been a bare, empty chamber save for a few torches along the walls, but now, it was filled with rubble. Huge chunks had been blown out of the ceiling. There were long, black scorch marks on the walls and deep gouges in the floor that were still glowing an angry red. The source of all this damage was clear. The wall at the far side of the room was completely filled with runes in at least a dozen different languages. Many of the runes were scorched, slashed, or blasted off the wall, but Hermione could still identify Norse, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Sanskrit, Chinese, hieroglyphics, and cuneiform, and there were a few others she didn’t know. She couldn’t even begin to guess what most of the runes did, but she presumed they were a mixture of locking spells and defensive spells. In fact, among the Latin runes, she did see some powerful curses written, like DIFFINDO and REDUCTO.

Her pulse quickened. Had Harry got caught in this devastation? But Harry was nowhere to be seen, and he certainly couldn’t have got past this on his own. Most of the runes looked to be damaged beyond repair by powerful curses shot back at them, presumably through heavy magical shields and interlocking booby-traps. (Ron’s brother could probably understand it.) More to the point, the single door in the middle of the far wall was standing open.

“This must be Professor Babbling’s obstacle,” Hermione said in amazement.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “And it looks pretty nasty, too. I hope Snape at least got cursed good when he broke through it.”

Hermione chose to ignore Ron throwing his lot in with Harry’s Snape theory and just said, “Come on, let’s go.”

They walked forward slowly and carefully, stepping over the glowing gouge marks on the floor, ready to beat a hasty retreat if things heated up again. But the runes seemed to have been completely disabled. A few were glowing or flickering, but not shooting spells. They reached the door and stepped through to see what was, on closer inspection, an even more worrying sight.

This chamber was also something close to a bare room. The only feature was a door in the far wall, and two stone statues standing on either side of it, holding a pair of wicked-looking battle axes crossed in front of the door. The statues were human shaped, if a little larger than life, except for huge bug eyes that seemed to be made of glowing crystals, which were continuously pulsing flashes of coloured light back and forth to each other. It was obviously some kind of code, Hermione thought, which meant that this was almost certainly Professor Vector’s trap.

But this room was not empty. There were already two people in here: Harry Potter and Professor Vector herself. And both of them were chalk white with fear, and with good reason. They, too, had seen that Snape—or someone—had got through the previous door, and was no longer here.

That meant that he had also got through Professor Vector’s trap.

Chapter Text

“Professor?” Hermione said tentatively.

Professor Vector whirled around in shock at the two new first years who had come into the chamber. “Miss Granger! Mr. Weasley! What are you doing here? I told you to go back to your dorms.”

Hermione paled under her teacher’s glare and looked to Ron. “Uh, we wanted to make sure you were okay,” the boy said nervously. “We were gonna go get help if something had gone wrong.”

Vector rolled her eyes. “That was very thoughtful of you two, but very foolish,” she said. “I’d dock quite a few points if we didn’t have bigger things to worry about.”

“The obstacles…” Hermione breathed. “Harry…?”

By now, she and Ron had both noticed their dark-haired friend glaring at them from Vector’s side. “I told you so,” he said.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry.” Hermione said. “I never imagined the Stone was in real danger. All the teachers were so sure their protections would work.”

“But they didn’t,” Harry said plainly. He sounded very calm, given the circumstances, but Hermione could see the anger and fear just beneath the surface.

“It’s not Miss Granger’s fault, Mr. Potter,” Vector said. “She made the best decision she could based on what she knew. Professor Babbling and I must both have made serious mistakes if our protections weren’t enough to stop the thief.”

“Do you think the others will be enough?” Hermione asked.

“I doubt it,” Harry said.

“I hope so,” Vector countered, “but unfortunately, there’s no way to know, and no way to stop the thief since I can’t get through this door.”

“But this is your obstacle, isn’t it, Professor,” Harry protested.

“It is, but Professor Dumbledore has the only key. There’s no way in without it.”

“Well, then Snape must have found a way.”

“We don’t know who the thief was, Mr. Potter. But in any case, I still can’t open the door.”

“Well, do you know what went wrong?” asked Hermione. “Maybe we can replicate it.”

“I have no idea. I thought I had guarded against all modes of attack. The statues certainly don’t look physically damaged.”

“What are they doing, anyway?” Ron asked, looking up at the statues that continued flashing colours between their huge crystal eyes.

“Well, they’re sending pulses of light back and forth, so it must be some kind of code,” Hermione said. She tried to think about what Vector was likely to come up with. “Does it involve factoring large numbers, Professor?”

Vector actually smiled a little. “Miss Granger,” she said, “I confess my original plan was to build a combination lock for which the combination consisted of the prime factors of a six digit number…Then I met you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Your prodigious mental arithmetic inspired me to look for a more secure method of protecting the Stone. I contacted some fellow arithmancers and technomancers in America for advice and also began reviewing the muggle literature as best I could. It’s not really the kind of material I’m used to, but I was able to figure out something useful called a “key exchange.”

That was a new one. Usually, it was Hermione surprising Professor Vector with her knowledge, but Professor Vector knew about key exchanges? Those were only about twenty years old, even in the muggle world. That was pretty impressive considering most wizards thought muggle appliances ran on “eckeltricity.” “Diffie-Hellman or RSA?” she asked.

“Huh?” Harry and Ron said at once.

Vector started. “Of course you would know about them. My obstacle uses a Diffie-Hellman key exchange.”

Hermione nodded. The Diffie-Hellman key exchange was a way for two people to communicate a secret code even if all their communications were being monitored. It relied on some relatively simple mathematics that turned out to be almost impossible to reverse, so an eavesdropper who didn’t have all the information wouldn’t be able to reconstruct it. But even from her limited dabbling with computer programming, she knew that there was almost always a way around these kinds of systems. She started to get an idea. “So, how exactly does it work?”

“Well, since we don’t seem to be going anywhere, Miss Granger…The two statues are Alice and Bob.” Now that she looked past the crystal eyes, Hermione realised that the statue on the left was a female warrior—she looked rather like Joan of Arc, in fact. Ron and Harry raised their eyebrows at the mundane names. “Every five minutes, Alice flashes a random prime number, p, between ten thousand and twenty thousand, and Bob flashes a random generator number, g, between one thousand and p. The flashes are coded like an abacus—red, yellow, green, blue, violet, and white are zero through five, respectively—most significant digit first.”

Hermione nodded again. “And then they each generate a random private key, raise g to the power of that number modulo p, and flash that number as their next message?”

Professor Vector’s face lit up with pride, despite the situation. “Quite right—at least if I understand your terminology. Each statue chooses a random secret number—a private key, as you say—which must also be between one thousand and p. But the resulting exponents are repeated every ten seconds for the five minutes, and if something goes wrong, the cycle immediately starts over.”

By now, Harry and Ron were looking back and forth between the two witches as if it were a tennis match. “So, is that some kind of advanced Arithmancy?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Is that even English?” Ron suggested.

“It’s modulo arithmetic,” Hermione said. “It’s like…it’s like doing math on a clock. You can add and multiply and stuff, but whenever you get to twelve, you have to start over at zero—except with a much bigger clock, and it’s a lot fancier.”

That was something of an understatement, Hermione knew. Professor Vector tried to explain it to the boys and did a little better, although it was hard, since they weren’t used to the idea of letters standing in for numbers. The two statues shared two numbers, p and g, and they each picked a secret number, raised g to that power, divided it by p, and took the remainder. Then they flashed that number to the other statue, which raised g to the power of that number, divided by p, and took the remainder. When it was over, the mathematical rules meant that each statue ended up with the same new secret number.

“If you flash that new secret number with your wand, it activates the statues and opens the door,” Vector finished. “But there’s no way to calculate what that number is fast enough. The only way through is with Professor Dumbledore’s key, which is connected to the statues by a Protean Charm.”

Harry and Ron still looked pretty well lost, but it all made perfect sense to Hermione, except for how someone had managed to get through it.

“Well, the thief certainly couldn’t have brute forced it,” she said. “It would take a minimum of four hundred arithmetic operations to figure out what the code is. Even I can’t do discrete logarithms that fast, even with a calculator.”

“Then it ought to have worked, since besting your skills was precisely my goal,” Vector said.

“Hmm…well, if he didn’t brute force it, the next most obvious answer is that it was a man in the middle attack.” Hermione stepped forward and stood in between the two statues. “He could have stood here, flashed his wand, and pretended to be Alice talking to Bob and Bob talking to Alice at the same time. Then he could just feed them the code he wanted.”

“But I thought of that, Miss Granger. I hope you don’t think I would be fooled by a simple man in the middle attack. That’s why Alice and Bob only wait ten seconds to flash their exponents the first time—that’s the fastest I could get the mechanism to compute them. Anyone who wanted to try such an attack would only have ten seconds to set it up.”

Hermione’s face fell. She worked through the procedure in her head and realised that even that would take twenty operations on four-digit numbers. There had to be a way to make it work, though. The thief had to have figured it out. Sure, maybe he’d just overpowered the statues with magic, but she felt like she was missing something—like there ought to be some way to make it easier—to do it with just a few calculations…

“Of course!” she yelled. “Harry, give we your wand.”

“What?” he said. “Uh…okay?”

Hermione took Harry’s wand in her left hand and ran back between the two statues.

“Miss Granger—” Vector started.

“Lumos!” Hermione cried. To her delight, both wands lit up. She pointed one of them at each of the statue’s faces.

Vector stopped short, her eyes wide. Two-handed casting was no easy feat in general, and especially for a first year.

But Hermione was just getting started. Professor Flitwick had taught them how to make coloured flashes of light in Charms Class, but at the time, it had just been a fun diversion. Now, she actually had a good use for it. “Gules, gules, gules!” she said. Both wands flashed three pulses of red light, or triple-zero, which scrambled Alice and Bob and forced them to start the cycle over. Hermione got ready to do some of her fastest mental math, and ten seconds later, it started.

First, Alice flashed her prime number, p, with the sequence yellow, yellow, white, blue, white, blue, white, green, which Hermione immediately translated to 11,887.

Bob’s number was next, the generator number, g: blue, violet, white, blue, yellow, or 3,481.

And then Hermione knew what she had to do. She had to square 3,481, divide the answer by 11,887, take the remainder, and translate it into colours, all in less than ten seconds. It was near the limits of her skills, but just in time, she managed it: 4,508. Keeping the two wands aloft, she yelled out, “Argent, Purpure, Argent, Gules, Gules, Argent, Azure!”

Time seemed to stand still as Alice and Bob processed this input. Even trying to wield Harry’s wand left handed, the colours had thankfully come out right, but she had no idea if the statues would accept them.

Then, Alice and Bob flashed a new pair of numbers: their exponents. Alice flashed white, violet, white, yellow, green, white, yellow, or 9,626, and Bob flashed yellow, yellow, blue, white, violet, or 1,139. Of course, Hermione didn’t know if those numbers were in response to her or to each other’s numbers, but she had to try.

It was a hard task, though. She had to do the same maths operations as before twice, all while still flashing her original number every ten seconds. She did her best to ignore Harry and Ron muttering to each other about how they had no idea what was going on and Professor Vector watching her sceptically as ten, twenty, thirty seconds passed. Finally, just after the forty count, she had the answers. If she was right, Alice’s password was 711, and Bob’s was 1,638.

Hermione lowered her left hand and kept her own wand raised toward Alice, praying this would work, and said, “Argent, Vert, Or, Or!” Then, she lowered her wand and pointed Harry’s toward Bob and said, “Or, Argent, Or, Azure, Argent, Azure!” She just barely avoided tripping over that last tongue twister.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and a grinding sound behind her. Professor Vector gasped loudly, and Harry and Ron started grinning. Hermione spun around and saw Alice and Bob lifting their crossed battle axes into an upright position, and the heavy stone door beyond slid open.

“Hermione…How…?” Vector said in disbelief.

“Easy,” she replied. “I just used two as my secret number. It’s not in the allowed range, but Alice and Bob wouldn’t know that unless you coded in a billion-entry lookup table, or they could perform discrete logarithms themselves.”

Professor Vector thought about how the maths on this worked out for a moment, and then hung her head. “You’re right, Hermione. I admit I hadn’t considered that possibility. But I thought I had also charmed the statues to only accept the light from the crystals for the exponents, so that attack still shouldn’t have worked.”

“Snape must’ve found a way around it, then.” Everyone jumped, as it was Harry who said this.

Vector sighed. “While I’m still not convinced of the identity of our thief, Mr. Potter, I’m afraid I have to agree with you on that. Some sort of spell must have allowed him to feed in his own number, just like Hermione did—and it would take more than a simple Confundus to do that.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go,” Harry insisted, starting toward the door.

“No!” Vector said. “I will go on and do what I can to stop the thief. You three need to go back at once and warn the castle. You’re small enough—the broomstick should carry all three of you.”

“No, I’m going with you,” Harry said.

“You most certainly are not.”

“I am, too!” said Ron, running up to Harry’s side. “I’m not leaving Harry behind again. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, mate.”

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, I am ordering you and Miss Granger to go back.”

“Then you can expel us later, Professor!” shouted Harry. “No one believed us before. You were the only one who would even listen. We’re the only ones who can stop the thief.”

“They’ll listen if you give them a good reason. Miss Granger, go to Professor McGonagall’s apartment—I assume you know where it is—and tell her we reached…” Professor Vector stepped forward and looked through the door, trying to make sense of what she saw. “Yes, tell her we reached the chessboard. This will be her obstacle. She’ll listen to that.”

“Chessboard?” Ron said excitedly.

“We have to play across?” asked Harry.

“Almost certainly. That’s just the kind of obstacle she would design.”

“Then you’re gonna need Ron,” Harry said.

“I doubt that Mr. Potter. You haven’t seen Professor McGonagall play chess. It’ll be hard enough for me to beat her. And if you remember your lessons, the transfigured pieces will be as smart as she is.”

“You haven’t seen Ron play chess, ma’am. You need Ron. And I’m coming with him. Hermione, are you in or out.”

Hermione went pale as all eyes turned to her. Should she continue to be the voice of reason? But things had gone so mad already, what was the voice of reason anymore? “I…” she started fearfully. “Ma’am, we can always go back without any trouble, right?” she asked. “We could go for help anytime?”

“Yes,” Vector admitted. “Professor Dumbledore insisted that we not allow anyone to become trapped down here.”

“And he was okay with the ‘very painful death’ at the start?” Ron demanded.

“Well, it’s not that hard to escape,” Hermione said. “We got away from it the first time.”

“When did you…” Vector started. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Look, I don’t like this, but we’re going to have to reach a compromise. I have to go on, and quickly. I can’t force you three to go back because I won’t be able to get back through this door on my own. There should be three or four more obstacles, including the chessboard. I’ll permit you to help me work through those if you can, but I want you to promise me that if we run into the thief, or if things become too dangerous, you’ll go back immediately and call for help.”

“I promise, ma’am,” Hermione said at once.

“Yeah, Harry and I will, too,” said Ron.

Harry was frowning at the three of them.

“Harry, you know how much better a fighter Professor Vector is than we are,” Hermione reminded him. “You’d only slow her down. Besides, if it is you he’s after, you’re better off getting away and letting someone older handle it.”

Harry looked like he really wanted to tell off his friends. It made him all the more annoyed that he couldn’t fault her logic. “Fine,” he grumbled. “We’ll do it.”

“Harry, I really am sorry,” Hermione repeated. “I never thought we could get this far.”

“Yeah, me either,” Ron added. “I had no idea what was going on back there with the arithmancy stuff. I don’t know if even Bill could’ve made sense of it.”

“It’s alright,” Harry said halfheartedly. “Let’s just stop Snape.”

They walked forward into the next chamber.

“What is this place?” Hermione whispered.

It was another torch-lit room, this one considerably dimmer, since there was so much stuff in the way. They were behind the black pieces of a huge chessboard, which stretched from wall to wall. The pieces were life-size and larger, with the pawns being about five-foot-six, and the two kings at least seven feet tall. Far across the board, all the white pieces were glaring at the intruders. There was a large gap behind each end of the board, but the strangest part was the ceiling. The ceiling was completely covered in razor-sharp stalactites, which hung down nearly to the pieces’ heads and were constantly waving back and forth with a soft grinding sound like upside-down grass in the wind. There was certainly no room to get through above or around the board, and, to top it all off, there was a heavy feeling of magic in the air.

Professor Vector waved her wand for a moment and then put it away. “The charms in here are very thick,” she said. “I believe Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall worked together on this obstacle. We’re very limited in the magic we can do safely.”

“Makes sense if have to play,” Ron said. He walked up to the Black King. “Do we, er, have to take your places to get across?” he asked.

The King turned around and nodded, and then all of the King’s Side pieces turned and walked off into the gap behind the board.

“Alright, then.” Ron squared his shoulders. “Professor Vector, I think you should be the king—”

“No, I think you should be the king, Mr. Weasley,” she countered. “It’ll be safer for you that way.”

Ron should his head. “No, you’re the one who needs to go on, right?”

“Yes, but you have to able to finish the game.”

“Professor,” Hermione said, “What happens when a piece is captured?”

“I don’t know, other than that they won’t be able to go on. You’ll have to be careful about captures, Mr. Weasley. If it’s too dangerous, we’ll have to turn back.”

Ron nodded. “Uh huh, but you still need to be the king, Professor. The game doesn’t end in this room. If you’re the one going forward, you’re the most important piece to protect.”

Vector considered protesting again, but she stopped herself. The logic was sound. “Very well. I will take the king’s square.”

“Good,” Ron said. “Harry, you take the bishop’s square. I’ll be the knight. Hermione—the castle…Let’s play.”

No sooner were they all in position, than White’s d-pawn, a life-sized armoured knight with a sword on his hip, confidently strutted forward two squares.

Ron nodded at the move and then called out, “Pawn to d5!”

An identical black pawn strutted forward two squares, coming nose to nose with the white one. The human players noticed that, unlike normal wizard’s chess, the pieces were all silent. Then, White’s c-pawn also moved two squares forward.

Ron turned to Hermione when he saw the new position. “Queen’s Gambit,” he said. “What do you think, accept or decline?”

“Or something else?” Hermione replied. “I don’t know; you’re the better player.”

“I suggest decline,” Professor Vector said. “We need to play a defensive line, and that’s one of the strongest ones.”

“Hmm…good idea,” Ron agreed. “Pawn to e6!”

The e-pawn moved forward one square. Then, a little to Ron’s and Hermione’s surprise, McGonagall’s pieces continued playing the Orthodox Line to their Queen’s Gambit declined, with one of the White Knights moving to c3. Ron, however, decided to take the game off the Orthodox Line. “Harry, e7,” he said. Harry moved one square forward along his diagonal.

White took advantage of the opening, and the white c-pawn stepped forward to make a capture. The human players all gasped as he bent down and grabbed their d-pawn by the wrist and ankle, lifted the statue that must have weighed five hundred pounds high in the air, swung him around for a full revolution, and then threw him over the heads of the other pieces, the stalactites folding out of the way, until he slammed into the back wall of the room behind them and slumped to the floor as if unconscious.

“That…doesn’t look good,” Hermione squeaked.

“Nothing for it, though,” Ron said grimly. “We’ve got to keep playing.”

“Professor?” Hermione said nervously.

Vector thought for a long moment. “Given the seriousness of the circumstances, I suppose I’ll allow it. But do be careful. That doesn’t look lethal, but it will probably put you in the Hospital Wing should you be unfortunate enough to be captured.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” Ron said determinedly.

They played on. It was a conservative game for a while, mostly deploying pieces, making a few captures on both sides. But then, it Harry’s turn to capture a piece.

This was a problem they hadn’t thought of before. The White Pawn didn’t move as Harry walked up to it, standing on the corner of its square. “Well, move!” he ordered, but the statue remained motionless with its arms folded across its chest.

“Maybe we have to throw it, somehow, like the other pieces do,” Hermione suggested.

“But I can’t do that!” Harry protested. “Shouldn’t the magic take care of it or something?”

“Not on its own,” Vector said. “I suspect that’s part of the challenge. But a Levitation Charm might work. I think the charms on the room may allow it.” She pointed her wand at the White Pawn, and said, “Wingardium Leviosa.” With a great effort, she lifted the statue up into the air and tipped it on its side. Sure enough, the waving stalactites folded out of the way, giving her room to move it over the heads of the other pieces. She clutched her wand in both fists as the weight of it took its toll. With her arms shaking and sweat dripping down her forehead, she finally released her spell, and the pawn fell to the floor behind the board with a mighty crash. She slumped in her square, barely keeping her feet. “Phew. Let’s hope we don’t have to do that too many times.”

But a few moves later, Ron had to capture a bishop—a nasty looking creature with a real Cardinal Richelieu look. Standing six feet tall plus the full clerical robes and mitre, it was quite a bit heavier than the pawn. Professor Vector still tried to lift it, as before. She stood on her square, huffing and puffing and clutching her wand tight, but she could only make the Bishop rattle from side to side, lift a couple inches in the air, and then crash back down onto its feet. The statue smirked at them silently.

“I’m sorry. It’s too heavy,” Vector said. “I don’t know how else we can move it.”

“Wait!” Hermione jumped in. “Remember the troll? We can lift it if we work together. Everyone cast the spell at once. One…two…three…”

The Bishop got a satisfyingly dismayed look on its face as it lifted into the air. It was hard to lift. Hermione’s legs were wobbling from the effort, and Harry started sweating so much his glasses looked like they might slide off his face. Hermione could feel why Professor Vector had so much trouble as she felt the energy drain out of her, but they managed to move the Bishop off the board.

“Blimey, that was tough,” Ron exclaimed. “I hope we don’t have to do that with the King.”

“Yeah, me too,” Hermione wheezed.

The game seemed to get even tougher after that. Ron needed a long time to consider his moves. Hermione and Professor Vector offered bits of advice at times, but they could see that Professor McGonagall and Ron were both out of their league. “A transfiguration can only do as much as the caster can visualise,” McGonagall had drilled into them. Unfortunately, she could apparently visualise a lot when it came to chess.

“Harry, there’s something I’ve been wondering,” Hermione said to pass the time as she watched from her spot on the back row.

He turned around to look at her. “What’s that?”

“How did you get past the Devil’s Snare?”

At that, to her surprise, Harry actually smiled. “Well, the vines grabbed me,” he said. “And I didn’t know what they were, but I didn’t like the look of it, so I just thought, “What would Hermione do?’”

Hermione turned bright red. “And…?” she said nervously.

“I used that blue fire spell you’re always using.”

“The Bluebell Flames?” she gasped, and then smiled herself. “Harry, I didn’t know you could do that spell.”

“Uh, yeah…me either.”

“Oh…” Hermione said. “Well…it’s a good thing you got it, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Potter,” Professor Vector said. “When I didn’t see you before I reached the Devil’s Snare myself, I feared the worst for a moment.”

“Hmm…Professor,” Hermione said curiously, “Since ordinary fire repels it, Devil’s Snare doesn’t seem like much of an obstacle to an adult wizard, now that I think about it.”

“That’s because it wasn’t an obstacle. It’s there to provide a soft land to anyone trying to enter legitimately. When dried, Devil’s Snare makes for excellent matting.”

“Oh.”

There was a loud crash as Ron directed their other castle to make a capture.

It was a tough game. They lost the Black Queen while managing to capture both of the White Bishops. Hermione was a little annoyed that Ron seemed to be holding her back. She was still stuck on the back row, facing down a White Rook on her diagonal.

Hermione was also starting to really dislike the White Queen. Well over six feet tall and cast in gleaming marble with an elaborate crown and flowing royal robes, Hermione thought she would fit perfectly as the White Witch from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She also looked more and more smug and condescending each time she picked up a pawn and threw it like a rag doll behind the board.

And then, Hermione realised, Ron stood one move away from an easy checkmate, but unfortunately, it was on the wrong tempo. The White Queen noticed this, too and she stepped forward and threw yet another pawn behind Hermione’s head, attacking the square where Ron needed to go. Worse yet, Harry was on the same row and was also under attack.

“Uh, Ron…?” her friend said nervously.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” the redheaded boy said.

Hermione surveyed the scene. They needed to block the White Queen’s attack on Harry and reopen their line of attack to the White King—and be wary of the consequences. This was a tough problem. She wasn’t certain she could work that many moves ahead correctly, but one look at Ron’s face as it grew more and more grim told her all she needed to know. There were only two choices, and she knew which one he’d make.

“Ron,” she said worriedly, “please tell me you’re seeing something I’m not.”

“No, “fraid not,” he replied.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“We can win, but…” Hermione started pointing at the pieces. “Our other rook goes to c3, queen takes rook, knight checks king…queen takes knight, bishop checks king, queen to e3, bishop takes queen and checkmates.”

Harry could barely follow that, but he saw where Hermione’s finger was pointed in the middle of that sequence. “Ron, no, you can’t!” he yelled.

But Ron shook his head. “It has to be done. You’ve got to make some sacrifices in chess.”

“But—”

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”

“Ron—”

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Weasley?” Professor Vector asked, although she was pretty sure she could see the same thing.

“Definitely.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s right, ma’am,” Hermione answered. “The only other choice is rook c3, queen takes rook, bishop checks king, queen takes bishop—” She was pointing at Harry. “—knight checkmates.”

“I’ll do it!” Harry said at once.

“No!” Ron stopped him. “Harry, I told you the game doesn’t end in this room. You keep saying if You-Know-Who…” he gulped. “If he does come back, he’ll come after you, and you’ll be better off if you’re not the one stuck in the Hospital Wing. Just remember, once I check the king, all of White’s moves are forced. You’ll have to play it out.”

“Mr. Weasley, I will try to cast a Cushioning Charm on you,” Vector said. “Unfortunately, I can’t be sure that it will work. Be sure to brace your head with your arms.”

“Thanks, Professor,” said Ron uneasily. “Rook to c3!”

The Black Rook moved forward two squares, interposing itself between Harry and the White Queen. But the White Queen just flashed a wicked smile, lifted the Rook up, and threw it behind the lines before gazing down at Harry triumphantly.

Ron took a deep breath. “Well, here I go…”

“Wait!” Hermione yelled. “We win in three moves! Stand aside!”

Nothing happened.

“It was worth a shot.”

Vector drew her wand and pointed it at Ron. “Pulvinus,” she said, but it wasn’t clear if it did anything. “That’s the best I can do, Mr. Weasley. I only hope it’s enough.”

Ron nodded. He was shaking as he stepped two squares forward and one to the left.

The White Queen whirled around as if she’d been offended and angrily strode toward Ron. The boy started screaming, and the other children weren’t far behind as she picked him up by one wrist and one ankle, swung him around in a circle, and threw him toward the back wall hard. And then, something happened that they didn’t expect: the door back into Professor Vector’s chamber slid open, and Ron flew straight through it. There was just enough time for them to hear a thud and an anguished scream of pain before it slammed shut again.

“Ron!” Hermione yelled. She started to move.

“Don’t move!” Harry ordered. “We’re still playing!” He pulled back to c5 to check the White King. The White Queen, looking distinctly nervous now, moved into Harry’s line of fire—her only legal move, if a futile one. Harry moved toward her spot on e3, glaring at her. But then, as he drew his wand, he realised there was a problem. The Queen was even heavier than the Bishop, and there were only three of them now. “D’you think we can lift her?” he asked. A mocking grin appeared on the White Queen’s face at his uncertainty.

“We’ve got to try,” Hermione said. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Two other spells joined her own, and the White Queen started to rattle on her feet, but stayed in place. Her grin grew even wider. Hermione was tiring fast. She was putting so much power into the spell that it felt like she was sprinting flat out, and it wasn’t enough. She dropped to one knee, both her hands gripping white-knuckled, and poured out all her anger at what the White Queen had done to Ron into her wand. Distantly, she saw Harry also drop to his knees, and Professor Vector looked like she was wavering. But finally, the White Queen lifted into the air, a look of horror crossing her face. The trio pushed with all their might, and she flew back behind the enemy lines and crashed to the floor.

“Take that!” Hermione choked out.

Harry was panting hard as he pushed himself to his feet and took his place on the e3 square. Praying they wouldn’t have to do that again, he faced the White King and yelled, “Checkmate!”

To everyone’s immense relief, the White King took his crown from his head and, with a frustrated expression, threw it at Harry’s feet with a loud thud, and both the white and black pieces stepped aside to let them pass.

“Yes!” Harry whooped, pumping his fist in the air. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Harry, what about Ron?” Hermione called from behind him.

Everyone looked at each other. “He was alive—and conscious. I don’t think he landed too hard,” Vector said, though she didn’t sound too certain. “But just the same, one or both of you should probably go back to help him.”

“But what if the other obstacles need all three of us again,” protested Harry.

Everyone was silent for another moment.

“How many more are there, Professor?” Hermione said slowly.

“There should be two: Professor Quirrell’s and Professor Snape’s. I know Professor Quirrell brought in another troll.” (“Eep!” said Hermione.) “I don’t know what Professor Snape did.”

“Quirrell didn’t use an anti-dark magic spell?” Harry said in surprise.

“He might have done. If he’s any kind of competent—though I’m not convinced of that—he’ll have charmed the troll to be resistant to magic. Now, if you two insist on coming along, let me look first, please.” Vector walked unsteadily to the door, pushed it open slowly, and peaked inside. Then, she sighed with relief and turned around. “The thief’s knocked it out. That should just leave Professor Snape’s obstacle…So I’ll let you come and take a look. If we can solve it, I’ll go on, and you two go back. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” both children replied.

“Good. Come quickly.”

They walked into the next chamber, still shaking a bit from their ordeal on the chessboard, and were immediately hit with a familiar and very disgusting odour. They held their noses as they tiptoed across the room past a mountain troll that was probably a good fifteen feet tall and even uglier than the one they had met on Halloween, thankfully out cold with a bloody lump on its head.

To their surprise, the door at the far side of the troll’s chamber was not closed. Instead, as soon as they walked through the archway, bright blue flames sprang into existence behind them, filling the doorway from floor to ceiling. At the same moment, black flames that seemed to emit darkness and not light appeared in the doorway on the other side of the room.

“We’re trapped!” Harry said.

Hermione tentatively reached out a hand toward the blue fire behind them. “Bluebell Flames,” she said with relief. “We can get back alright.”

“Not forward,” Professor Vector said. “That’s cursed fire and very hot.” It was true—they could feel the heat radiating from it. The only other thing in the room was a table with seven potion bottles and a roll of parchment on it.

“This must be a clue,” Hermione said, and she opened the parchment. “Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind…” She read over the poem. “Oh, it’s a logic puzzle! Three bottles are nettle wine, three are…poison, and one will protect the drinker to move ahead. Yes, that’s brilliant. Snape’s always saying how a lot of the greatest wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic. This should be easy, then. Just give me a minute…” She started muttering to herself and pointing at the bottles. It wasn’t long before she said, “Got it. It’s this one.” She pointed to the third bottle in the row.

“Are you sure, Hermione,” Vector asked.

“Positive.”

“No. I don’t think so,” Harry jumped in.

“What…?” Hermione said in disbelief. He hadn’t even seen the riddle. “Why not?”

“It’s too easy. Even if most wizards couldn’t figure it out, and even if Snape’s not the thief, do you really think he’d make it that obvious? It must be a trap.”

“Harry, I know you and Snape have had problems, but I still think you’re overreacting.”

“Actually, Hermione, I have to agree with your friend on this one,” Vector said, to her dismay. “That is the sort of thing Professor Snape would do. And besides, there’s always the danger that the thief mixed up the bottles.”

Hermione deflated. “Then how do we figure out which one is safe?”

“I dunno,” Harry said grimly. They were so close, he thought. There had to be a way. “Is there a way we can test them with magic?”

Vector shook her head. “Not with what we have here.”

Harry sighed. Was there another way? Had Snape thought about if someone legitimately tried to get in, and the bottles had been mixed up if? Did he even care? He looked around the room for anything that might be useful, but there was nothing. The room was empty.

Wait, no! There was something. With his Seeker skills, he noticed some things fluttering around the blue flames behind them, and several more of them lying motionless on the floor beside the door.

“That’s it!” he cried. He ran back to the door and jumped up in the air, as if snatching for a Snitch. Then he seemed to catch something and ran back and dropped his prize on the table: a very dazed gypsy moth. “We can test the potions on these.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. She didn’t much care for animal testing, but under the circumstances, she could make an exception. “Harry, that’s brilliant! We just need a drop of each bottle. Quick, try to catch some more. I’ll test the potions.”

Professor Vector watched with interest as the two children became like a well-oiled machine. Harry put his Quidditch skills to good use while Hermione picked up the first bottle and tipped it carefully, letting a single drop of potion fall onto the moth. The insect immediately collapsed and lay still.

Hermione frowned, but quickly moved on to the second bottle, since Harry already had another moth ready. She was soon very grateful that he had thought of the idea to test the potions as not only the first three, but the first five bottles she tested, including the one that was supposed to send the drinker forward, turned out to be poison. On the sixth bottle, one of the ones that Hermione had thought was poison, the moth shuddered, but kept beating its wings when the potion was dripped on it. So that wasn’t poison. Now, how to test it in the fire?

But Harry already had the answer: “Wingardium Leviosa.” The moth beat its wings futilely against the magic. Hermione grimaced as Harry directed it forward through the air until it passed into the cursed flames. But when he pulled it back, the creature was still fluttering and not even singed.

“Well, that’s it then,” Vector said solemnly. She picked up the potion bottle. “Mr. Potter—Harry, I owe you an apology. I didn’t think it was possible, but it seems all these obstacles were not as secure as we thought.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said reluctantly. “Just be sure to stop Snape—or whoever it is.”

She nodded. “Hermione, there are not enough points to take away for how reckless you were in coming here tonight.” Hermione paled considerably. “And there are not enough points to give back for your displays of brilliance here—that goes for you and your friends. Please pass that along to Ronald for me.”

“I will, ma’am,” she said, flushing.

“This is where I must take my leave of you. Go back, help your friend, and get all three of yourselves out of here. Them find Professor McGonagall, tell her whatever you have to to make her listen, and owl Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry nodded in understanding. Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at her favourite teacher and threw her arms around her. “Oh, Professor, please be careful,” she sobbed.

“Always…Now, go!”

Septima Vector watched as the two children turned and passed through the blue flames with a silent prayer that they would make it back alright. Then, she swallowed the protective potion and felt its icy tendrils flowing through her body. She took a deep breath, drew her wand, and stepped forward through the cursed fire.

Chapter Text

The thief was there, standing in front of an ornate mirror in his purple turban.

“Quirrell!” Septima Vector hissed.

The man whirled around, and to her surprise, he was smiling rather than twitching with fear.

“I should have known,” Septima said. “It’s always the Defence Professor.”

“Why, Septima, what a surprise.” Not only was Quirrell not stuttering, but his voice was smoother than it had ever been as the Muggle Studies Professor. “I was rather expecting to meet young Harry Potter here.”

“And you might well have, with the way you left half the doors open. Fortunately, his friends are slightly more responsible than he is.”

Quirrell laughed at that. “I would not have expected that, given his house. But no matter, my Master will deal with him soon enough.”

Septima paled. “Your Master?”

Quirrell’s smile curled wickedly. “Oh yes, Septima, you and our other colleagues did do good work. I could never have got through all those obstacles on my own. But of course, how could you have stopped me when I had Lord Voldemort on my side?”

It was all Septima could do to keep from screaming. Potter was right? It was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who wanted the stone? She tried to focus on anything else to not lose her head. “H-h-how did you get through mine, then?” she asked.

“Ah, that was the most difficult one.” He said. “Some sort of muggle code, I’m sure. You always were far too enamoured of them. Luckily, my master found a very obscure charm to make the statues colour-blind. And even that didn’t work by itself, but changing the colour-blindness from grey to red did the trick.”

Which would have been interpreted as all zeros, Septima thought. And then the code zero would open it. But I didn’t think something like that was even possible. Almost any red filter should have changed the blue and violet to near-black.

“I assume you simply had a key, since the charm should have worn off by now,” Quirrell added.

And it nearly had, Septima realised with a start. But their vision was still just distorted enough for Hermione to fool them. “S-s-something like that,” she lied.

Quirrell nodded. “Of course, I set an easy task for myself.”

Of course he did. “So it was all an act, then?” she said, her anger rising. “The stuttering, the incompetence, being scared of your own shadow, all of it?”

Quirrell’s smile turned condescending. “Of course. After all, who would ever suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”

“And the troll at Halloween?” she made the connection. “That was just a distraction?”

“Certainly. Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around, Snape still had the presence of mind to stop me. But enough of this nonsense. I need to examine this interesting mirror.” He began tapping around the mirror’s ornate frame. “I know the mirror is the key to finding the Stone. Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this. I need to get the Stone to my Master before he returns.”

And that was enough for Septima. Drawing on her boiling anger and pushing aside her fears of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, she raised her wand and yelled, “You son of a bitch! You nearly killed my favourite student! And if you want that Stone, you’ll have to go through me! Stupefy!”

If this were Stuttering Quirrell, Septima thought, she could have beaten him easily. But this Quirrell proved to be supremely competent. He whirled around and deflected the Stunner with a single wave of his wand.

Septima hadn’t duelled in ages. She’d been fairly good at it in her youth, like most good arithmancers, but she was long out of practice. She threw up shields and cast standard hexes to capture and incapacitate, but she was no match for Quirrell, who was throwing out dark curses like candy. It was barely have a minute before a Bludgeoning Hex got past her shield and threw her into the wall, and then everything went black.

“Ron!” Hermione and Harry ran across Professor Vector’s chamber where their redheaded friend was sitting and clutching his right arm.

“Ron, are you alright?” Harry asked.

“No,” he winced. “I think my arm’s broken…I don’t think that Cushioning Charm worked…where’s Vector?”

“She went to stop the thief,” Hermione said quickly. “We got her past the rest of the traps, but we have to get help.”

“Can you walk?” said Harry.

“I think so…Ow! I think I’m just…bruised everywhere else.” He staggered to his feet. He was limping slightly and had a nasty bruise on his wrist where the White Queen had grabbed him, but he laid his good arm on Harry’s shoulders for support.

The trio high-tailed it back to the room with the Devil’s Snare where the lone broomstick rested against the wall.

“Up!” Harry ordered. The broom sprang into his hand, and he straddled it. “Ron, get in the middle so you can hold on. Hermione, will you be okay in the back?”

No, she thought. “Do I have a choice?”

Ron climbed on the broom, again wrapping his good arm over Harry’s shoulder. Hermione got on the back and wrapped her arms tight around Ron’s waist. The boy winced in pain again, but sat still.

Then Harry kicked off and tipped the broom nearly vertical, sailing up toward the trapdoor high above.

“Oh, no—I don’t like this! Oh, I really don’t like this—Ahhh!” Hermione screamed, but the flight was mercifully short, although it was probably only Fluffy’s surprise that kept him from snatching the broom out of the air with his massive teeth before they managed to open the door.

“Phew, that was close,” Harry said.

“You’re telling me,” Ron added.

“Harry, please put us down,” Hermione pleaded.

“There’s no time. Where’s McGonagall’s apartment.”

Hermione pulled her map from her robes and checked it over. “Sixth floor, right below Gryffindor Tower, but—Aaaiiieeeeee!” She screamed much louder than before as Harry started flying through the corridors at blatantly unsafe speeds.

“Snape!” Ron yelled as they zoomed through the fourth floor. And it was Snape. Harry nearly flew into a wall when he realised the Potions Master wasn’t the thief. Snape shouted words Hermione had never heard a teacher utter before and started shooting spells after them as they passed, but Harry was too fast for him.

On the fifth floor they blew past Filch and Mrs. Norris. Filch was also too slow to catch a broom, but the scrawny cat was hot on their tail. Then on the sixth floor, Harry very nearly ran them into a sight they had never expected and were overjoyed to see. Professor McGonagall was already out in the halls, speaking with none other than Professor Dumbledore.

“Professor!” they all yelled as they skidded to a stop. Of course, the moment they landed, McGonagall blew her top.

“What the blazes is the meaning of this!” she shouted. “Fifty points each from Gryffindor and detention the rest of term!”

At this point, they completely ignored the punishment, and not only because Professor Vector would (they hoped) reverse it. Harry jumped off the broom and turned desperately to Dumbledore, saying, “Professor, someone’s trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone!”

“What!” Dumbledore and McGonagall both exclaimed.

“Professor Vector’s still down there,” Hermione cried.

But before anyone could respond, there was another shout, and a dark figure ran toward them, his black robes billowing behind him. “Potter! Weasley! Granger!” Snape roared. “Fifty points each from Gryffindor and detention the rest of term!”

“I already said that, Severus,” McGonagall snapped. “And if you three are on about that blasted Stone again—”

“Were not lying, ma’am!” Hermione said. McGonagall started talking again, but she yelled over her. “Professor Vector went in the last chamber. We got past the chessboard, and Quirrell’s troll, and Snape’s cursed fire and everything!”

The three professors all stopped cold.

“You know about the chessboard?” McGonagall whispered.

“And the cursed fire?” Snape said most suspiciously.

“I think you had all better explain exactly what happened,” Professor Dumbledore said gravely.

Harry took a deep breath. “Ron and I heard Quirrell talking to someone about stealing the Philosopher’s Stone—” He carefully left out who he’d thought that someone was.

“And none of you lot would believe us,” Ron said, before shrinking back nervously.

“So I went and tried to stop him,” Harry added.

“And we went to Professor Vector and tried to stop Harry—” said Hermione. And they went back and forth, quickly summarising what had happened until they got to the part about Professor Vector going into the last chamber. As they spoke, all three professors grew increasingly pale, even Dumbledore. It seemed that none of them had considered the Stone to be at any risk either.

“Enough,” Dumbledore said, with visible apprehension. “Take Mr. Weasley to the Hospital Wing. I must stop the thief. Fawkes!” Suddenly, there was a blinding light. Something big and winged and seemingly made of pure fire flashed into existence above the Headmaster’s head. Then, the fire seemed to engulf him, and in a wink, he was gone. Hermione marvelled at what she was pretty sure had been a real live phoenix, while McGonagall and Snape stood still with shock.

“Well…you heard him…” McGonagall said, tight-lipped. “Hospital Wing.”

The two professors escorted the three children to the Hospital Wing. Harry kept taking nervous glances at Snape over his shoulder. When they reached the Hospital Wing, McGonagall quickly alerted Madame Pomfrey, who looked quite displeased to have to be dealing with an injury as this hour. But she’d barely got to looking at Ron, when the great golden flame flashed into existence again, depositing Professor Dumbledore on the floor with a beautiful red and gold bird on his shoulder as he knelt over a semi-conscious Professor Vector.

Hermione gasped and squeaked, “Professor!” and rushed to Vector’s side.

The arithmancer slowly blinked awake. “Hermione…?” she said feebly.

“Albus, what happened?” McGonagall said fearfully.

Dumbledore offhandedly levitated Vector onto a bed. “She’d been attacked in the Philosopher’s Stone’s chamber,” he said quickly. “The thief, whom I’m almost certain was Quirrell, had already left, and he’d taken the entire mirror with him.” McGonagall gasped. “He was already out to the third floor and gone when I got there. We must search the castle at once, Minerva. Rouse the other teachers, and inform all the ghost and portraits. Quickly!” The three professors started to leave.

Hermione got an idea. “Wait, Professor—”

“Miss Granger, there is no time—”

“Please, sir, what kind of mirror is it?”

Suddenly, Professor Vector coughed and rasped out, “Big…heavy…” Hermione leaned close to her. “Eight feet…bronze frame…”

“Perfect! That means it’ll slow him down, and it won’t fit out the windows.” She pulled out her map and spread the pages out across the next bed, where Ron was sitting.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall snapped, even more impatiently.

“Wait look! I’ve been exploring the castle all year. There’s only two ways out into the grounds from the West Wing, here and here. And there’s only four ways into the East Wing. And with all the stairs around here—”

“There. The Clock Tower,” Ron pointed. “If he came out on the third floor, that’s the only exit on that level.”

“Of course. Excellent deduction,” Dumbledore said. “Severus, come with me to the Clock Tower. Minerva, rouse the teachers to cover the other exits.”

The three professors turned to leave.

“You-Know-Who!” Vector coughed.

McGonagall stopped cold. “What?” she gasped.

“Quirrell…working for…You-Know-You…”

“I suspected as much, Septima. Get some rest,” Dumbledore said, and he was gone, followed by his two colleagues.

“I knew it!” Harry said. Hermione sighed and hung her head.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “I thought I had everything figured out. All the professors were so sure, and there was no reason to think your scar meant anything until…well…I’ll try to not dismiss what you say from now on.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, still cradling his arm. “We’re sorry we thought you’d gone nutters. I guess you know your dark lords, huh.”

Madam Pomfrey had also paled at Vector’s revelation, but she remained professional: “Lie down, Mr. Weasley. I’ll get to you in a moment.”

Hermione stood by Vector’s side as Madam Pomfrey continued mending her ribs. “Professor, what happened?” she asked.

Vector tried to take a deep breath and grimaced in pain. “Bludgeoner to the chest,” she whispered. “Knocked me out cold. Must have run for it, then…” She smiled a little. “That really was great work, Hermione.”

“Thanks,” she said absently. “But why do I feel like I’m missing something?”

Everyone frowned. Was there something else? Harry was sitting on a nearby bed pondering the same question, then it came to him: “Hey, if that mirror was so big, how did Quirrell get it up through the trapdoor?”

Something ice cold clenched in Hermione’s chest. “Oh, Merlin! He couldn’t have done—not before Dumbledore caught him. And we took the broom. He must have had another way.” She started frantically flipping through the pages of her map looking for any other way out. “Come on, come on, come on…Ron, you’re the chess master. If you were Quirrell, what would your strategy be for getting something big and heavy out of the castle without someone noticing if you were stuck below ground?”

“Huh? I don’t know,” Ron said, sounding a little dazed. “Er…however he got the troll in?”

“Drainage tunnels.” The words came from Professor Vector.

“What?”

“Quirrell was getting the trolls in through the drainage tunnels under the castle,” she whispered.

“Of course, that’s the perfect way, isn’t it,” Ron said proudly. “No one ever goes there, so we wouldn’t think of them like the regular exits. And he’s already down there.”

Harry leaned over her shoulder and looked at the map. “Where are the tunnels?” he said forcefully.

Hermione flipped to the page for the dungeons and tried to remember where anything was that might go down from there. “Um…the plumbing all goes into the lake…they must come out there, next to the boathouse,” she said.

“Thanks, Hermione.” Harry snatched the page out of her hand and ran out the door.

“Harry? Harry stop!” she yelled, running after him. But he wouldn’t answer, and he was faster than she was. “Will—you—stop—that—oh, Locomotor Wibbly!”

Harry went down hard, and she finally caught up with him. “Hermione!” he shouted angrily.

But she snatched the page from her map back and grabbed him hard by the wrist as she cancelled her Jelly-Legs Jinx. “Will you think for once, Harry? Professor Vector got clobbered down there. You can’t stop him by yourself. We have to warn Dumbledore. Come on, the Clock Tower is closest, anyway.”

Harry glared at her, but allowed himself to be dragged along as she ran off in the other direction. With her excellent knowledge of the castle, they were at the exit in record time…

Only to be blocked by an angry wall of Snape. “What is it now, Potter,” the Potions Master growled.

“Professor, we were wrong,” Hermione said, a phrase that made Snape blink in surprise, coming from her. “Quirrell couldn’t have flown the mirror out of the trapdoor. It’s too big, and we took the only broom. He has to be in the drainage tunnels. You have to send someone to where they let out.”

“Oh my word,” Dumbledore said from behind Snape. “How could we have missed that? Severus, stay here. I will go. Fawkes!” The Headmaster vanished in another rushing blaze of fire, leaving the children and Snape staring at each other.

No one moved for a moment.

“Are you quite finished?” the Potions Master grumbled.

Hermione and Harry nodded slowly before turning and walking back to the Hospital Wing. Harry was definitely sulking, Hermione saw, but it was better than him charging off into danger again. It was true that he was the only reason they’d found out Quirrell—and she was still having trouble believing it was poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell—but ultimately, all this was the fault of the teachers, as much as she hated to admit it. She hoped there would be a good explanation for everything when it was all over.

Quirinus Quirrell did not like the wet, musty drainage tunnels underneath Hogwarts Castle, but he certainly seemed to spend a lot of time here. Guided by the light of his wand, he dragged the Mirror of Erised over the rough ground, being careful not to let it tip over, just as his Master had ordered.

His plan was simple: follow the drainage tunnels to the end, steal a boat from the boathouse, and sail across the Black Lake outside of the anti-apparition wards so he could get the damn thing out of the area. No one would find him down here. His Master had a good deal more sense than most wizards.

Unfortunately for him, Albus Dumbledore was not most wizards. For there he stood silhouetted again the tunnel’s exit, wand drawn. “I’m very disappointed in you Quirinus,” he said simply.

“Dumbledore!” Quirrell hissed. “How—?”

“When I reached London to find that no one had actually summoned me, I took a more expedient way back. Surely you must have anticipated such.”

Quirrell dashed behind the edge of the Mirror to use it as a shield. He knew there was no way he could face Dumbledore in a fair fight, and so did his Master. It was only by using the Mirror and the Stone inside as a cover that he would have a chance to get away.

“Please reconsider, Quirinus,” Dumbledore said calmly. “You do not need to serve Lord Voldemort.”

“But I do,” he hissed. “He has bound me to him. I cannot disobey. I must have the Stone for him.”

“Then I am afraid that Voldemort will be disappointed. I am ashamed to say that we allowed you to get much closer than we ever expected. But I cannot allow you to take it.” Then Dumbledore did something Quirrell had not expected. He stepped forward and gazed directly into the Mirror. A moment later, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red crystal. “I have the Philosopher’s Stone, Quirinus. If you turn back now, I may yet be able to help you.”

Quirrell’s blood ran cold. Dumbledore had the Stone in hand, and would certainly never let him near it again. He had failed!

At the same moment, the other presence in Quirrell’s head evaluated the situation with a rarely-felt emotion: fear. The Stone was out of his reach, likely permanently. Quirrell was not strong enough to face Dumbledore, and Dumbledore was too fast to let him escape. There was only one chance left, and a slim one at that: his secondary target—something more valuable to Dumbledore than the Stone itself to offer in exchange. But he could never get there fast enough with that damn songbird on the old wizard’s shoulder. However, Lord Voldemort was nothing if not crafty, and he had a plan.

“Kill the bird!” The voice was only a whisper—a high pitched hissing from under Quirrell’s turban that Dumbledore hopefully wouldn’t be able to make out, even if he knew who it was.

“Master, I can’t—” Quirrell whimpered.

“Do it!” And then, propelled by a will not his own, Quirrell’s arm pointed at Albus Dumbledore’s left shoulder, and he incanted, “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a sound of rushing death, and a green light shot from Quirrell’s wand. In the cramped tunnel with nowhere to hide and nothing to shield with, Dumbledore tried to dive to the side and conjure a barrier at the same time, which would have worked just fine—had Quirrell been aiming for his chest. Instead, momentarily distracted by the motion, Fawkes took the full force of the curse. He burst into flame and then flopped onto Dumbledore’s sleeve, small, wrinkled, and, most importantly, flightless.

“Run!” the voice ordered.

Quirrell banished the Mirror of Erised at Dumbledore and took off running. Without Fawkes to carry him back, the old wizard would not be able to catch him. He ran through the tunnels back to the castle proper, discarding his outer robes to run faster and get out of range of Dumbledore’s spell fire.

The voice beneath his turban hissed one more time: “If you wish to redeem yourself, you must do one thing: find Harry Potter!”

Septima Vector lay in a Hospital Bed, heavily bandaged, but stubbornly refusing a Dreamless Sleep Potion until the situation was resolved. She was engaged in a deep arithmantic conversation with Hermione about just how she had built her Diffie-Hellman Key Exchange puzzle and how Quirrell had got around it, which went right over Harry’s and Ron’s and even Madam Pomfrey’s heads. Hermione was dismayed that she hadn’t fully solved it, but Vector assured her that her solution was still brilliantly devised and executed.

Ron and Harry were both sitting on the adjacent bed, speaking to each other in hushed tones. Harry was understandably still very nervous and would be until he was sure the Philosopher’s Stone was safe from Voldemort. Ron tried his best to reassure him, but for his own part was mostly annoyed that Madam Pomfrey was keeping him overnight. His broken arm was mended, with just a couple of drops of Skele-Gro administered, as was standard, to make sure the bone healed just as strong as before, but he was still pretty banged up.

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. With a loud bang, a figure burst through the doors: Professor Quirrell, clad in his uniform shirt and trousers, the sash of his turban trailing behind him. Before Madam Pomfrey or Professor Vector could react he took one look at Harry and yelled, “Potter!” At the same moment a high, sibilant voice hissed, “Seize him!”

Harry jumped off the bed in terror, but Quirrell was too fast for him. With an energy and determination that the children had never seen from him, he rushed forward and grabbed Harry by the arm.

But then, both of them screamed in pain, and they fell apart. Harry was clutching at his forehead, where, to Ron’s and Hermione’s horror, his scar had turned red and inflamed. Quirrell was even worse, clutching his hand, which looked like it had been burnt.

But the hissing voice yelled louder, “Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” Quirrell lunged again, this time, wrapping his hands around Harry’s throat. Both of them began screaming again. Harry flailed with his hands and knocked Quirrell’s turban off, revealing quite possibly the most disturbing thing Hermione had ever seen, and after everything that had happened this year, that was saying something.

There was another face on the back of Quirrell’s head—a face with glowing red eyes, chalk white skin, and mere slits for a nose. The face was screaming. Vector, Pomfrey, and Ron all screamed, too, and Hermione let out a terrified whine as she realised that that face, somehow, must belong to Voldemort himself, the wizard whom most wizards feared even to name.

Quirrell pinned Harry to the ground with his knees and pulled his burning hands off the boy’s neck. Harry’s scar was bleeding. “Master—my hands! My hands!” Quirrell whimpered.

“Stun him, you fool,” Voldemort’s face ordered.

Quirrell drew his wand, but Harry reached up and grabbed his face. Both of them screamed even louder, and it was then that Hermione realised what she had to do. Maybe everyone else was too scared of Voldemort to move, but Harry had him pinned as much as he had Harry. Hermione grabbed her wand from the bedside table, angled to get a clear shot, and screamed, “Petrificus Totalus!”

Quirrell went stiff as a board, and as he did, Harry pushed himself out from under him with the last of his strength. Hermione ran to him and started pulling him away.

“Ron, help me!” she cried. A little to her surprise, Ron snapped out of his terror and helped her to lift Harry onto a bed. The boy groaned and squinted around to see what had happened.

Then, just when they thought things couldn’t get any worse, a black mist rose up from Quirrell’s body and shaped itself into a semblance of a human form. It flew towards the trio, but it couldn’t seem to touch any of the three while they were touching Harry, although Hermione felt Harry’s arm get strangely hot under her fingers. But then, there was a blast of light from the door, and the dark form was banished, streaming through the window like a ghost.

Everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore, his wand raised high, panting in the doorway. Professor Snape stood over his shoulder, and there was a tiny peeping sound coming from the Headmaster’s pocket.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry breathed. “Thank God, that was close…It was—it was—”

“Voldemort, Harry, I’m afraid so.

Vector, Pomfrey, and Ron again squeaked in horror.

“Sir, the Stone—!” Harry said.

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched upward, and he delicately pulled a large red gem from his pocket. “The Stone is safe for the moment, Harry,” he said. “Severus, I think we should see to Quirinus. I don’t think Poppy is quite in the condition.” Indeed, Madam Pomfrey was slumped against the wall, trying to get her hands to stop trembling.

All eyes turned to the prone Defence Professor, his extra face gazing up lifelessly. But even as Dumbledore and Snape rushed over to investigate, the Body Bind broke without warning, and Quirrell’s petrified limbs flopped to the floor. Snape jerked his hand back as if he’d been burnt, Dumbledore’s breath hitched, and Hermione made of horrified “Eep!” sound. She knew she’d cast the spell better than than that. There was only one reason for it to suddenly fail. “Is he…is he…? She squeaked.

“I…I’m afraid so…” Dumbledore breathed.

“Dead…?” Harry whispered, clutching at his chest. Ron gasped. “But you mean I…I killed him?” Harry stammered.

Harry? Hermione thought. But no, I did it! I was the one who cast the Body Bind and made…whatever happen.

But Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes snapped towards both of them and seemed to bore into them. “No, Harry!” he said sharply, though Hermione could tell he was addressing her as well. “It was Voldemort who killed him. He possessed Professor Quirrell, and that alone was enough.” His features softened, and the Headmaster suddenly looked older and more tired than they had ever seen him. “I’m very sorry you had to see that, children,” he said grimly as he levitated the professor’s body to the bed at the end of the row and covered it with a sheet. “You are far too young to bear such a burden. Please believe that none of you bears any responsibility for his death. He was already lost to us. You were merely protecting yourselves and your friends in any ways you could.”

“Professor…” Harry said weakly. He was starting to cry, and Hermione wasn’t far behind. Ron was still frozen with horror.

“I think a Calming Draught and a Dreamless Sleep Potion for all four of you.” He motioned to Vector. “And perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate in between. I find that always helps me in trying times. We will reconvene in the morning to discuss precisely what happened and what went wrong. There will be no punishments for what happened tonight. You have all, I think, acted as well as could be expected, given these very difficult circumstances. For now, just get some rest.”

Hermione downed her Calming Draught quickly before she could completely break down and drank the hot chocolate and then the Dreamless Sleep Potion almost as fast. She had never thought she would be so glad for a mind-altering substance.

Chapter Text

The meeting that convened in the Hospital Wing after breakfast the next morning was impressive. In additional to the three children and Professor Vector, Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Snape, and Babbling were all there, along with Hagrid, sitting in a large circle. Madam Pomfrey was tut-tutting in the corner at her space being so invaded. Hermione and Ron were all mended and sitting up in chairs, but Harry and Professor Vector were still stuck in bed. Harry and Ron were worried about the Quidditch final tomorrow, but Madam Pomfrey told Harry that if he behaved himself, he’d be able to play. Hermione couldn’t fathom how the boys could be worried about Quidditch after everything that had happened, but she knew enough about Harry by now to realise that for some strange reason, that was how he dealt with stress.

“I believe that I should elaborate on the announcement that I made at breakfast,” Dumbledore began. “The full story of what happened is that Professor Quirrell was, sadly, possessed by the spirit of Lord Voldemort.”

All of the other adults plus Ron flinched. Snape discreetly rubbed his left arm.

Hermione only half-listened as Dumbledore described the events of the previous night, but she clutched at the arms of her chair as the images flashed through her mind. She was sure that the Dreamless Sleep Potion was the only way she’d got any sleep at all. Even now, she could see Quirrell’s body slumping to the floor if she closed her eyes.

I saw a man die!

She pushed the thought into the background as best she could and tried to focus on the conversation.

“Have you informed the Minister that You-Know-Who is back, Albus?” McGonagall asked nervously.

“I have, Minerva. However, it seemed to me that Cornelius did not want to listen,” he said flatly. “Fortunately for us, Voldemort’s confrontation with Harry left him badly weakened. I do not believe he will show himself against for some time. But back to the matter at hand: we must understand exactly what went wrong with our protections.”

The teachers went around the circle, each explaining as best they could how their obstacle had failed. The main problem seemed to be that they had underestimated their enemy. No one seemed to have expected that Voldemort would risk coming into the castle personally.

Snape, however, seemed to be more surprised that Vector, Hermione, and Harry had got past his trap. As he put it, “A know-it-all like Miss Granger should have ‘solved’ the riddle in one minute flat and then promptly drunk the Draught of the Living Death.”

Oh, so that’s what that was, Hermione thought. Professor Vector looked like she was about to tell off Snape, but Hermione forced down her own anger and said, “It was Harry, Professor. He thought the riddle was too easy and decided it was a trick. And he was the one who thought to test the potions on the moths.”

A look of real surprise crossed Snape’s face, and he appraised Harry carefully, before it turned back to his usual scowl. “Well, Mr. Potter,” he ground out. “I can hardly believe it, but you have shown more common sense than ninety-nine wizards out of a hundred. If only this diligence could carry over to your class work.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Dumbledore cut him off. “That will do, Severus,” the old wizard said. He then went on to explain his own trick of hiding the Philosopher’s Stone in a mirror where Quirrell could not get it out. Unfortunately, Quirrell just responded by stealing the mirror. They then heard Professor Vector’s account of last night, followed by Dumbledore’s confrontation with Quirrell in the drainage tunnels, and finally Quirrell running back up to the Hospital Wing, where his last attack failed, and Voldemort left him to die.

I saw a man die!

I can ’t think about that right now. I have to get through this meeting.

“My scar hurt really bad,” Harry said timidly as he described that final confrontation. “And my hands, but it was like I burned Quirrell when I touched him…Why couldn’t he touch me, Professor?”

“Because he was possessed by Voldemort, Harry,” Dumbledore explained. “Your mother died to save you from Voldemort, and such a great act of love leaves its own mark—not a scar, but a protection of love in your blood and in your skin, a protection that works specifically against Voldemort to this day. For if there is one thing he cannot understand, it is love, and he could not bear to touch someone marked by something so good in opposition to him.”

“So then I did—”

“You did not kill Quirrell, Harry, though you did, in self-defence, injure him rather severely. Nor did you, Hermione,” Dumbledore added, as if he was reading her thoughts. “You cast a simple charm to incapacitate in defence of your friend, nothing more, and Voldemort would most certainly have killed Quirrell in any case as soon as he had outlived his usefulness.”

Hermione digested that. It wasn’t enough to make the sense of guilt completely go away, but it helped, though she was still left with the plain horror of what she had seen.

I saw a man die!

I saw a man murdered!

By Voldemort!

And I hexed Voldemort!

I had to do it. He was trying to kill Harry—or hurt him, anyway.

She tried to think what she might have done differently, and she couldn’t come up with anything. It was just a bad situation, and she did what she had to do. But she was still a nervous wreck right now.

They backtracked a bit, and Professor Snape explained his suspicions about Quirrell from the beginning of the year—suspicions that, unfortunately, he had never been able to substantiate. Harry fell clean out of his seat when he learnt, amidst much grumbling, that Snape had tried to save him from Quirrell’s jinx at the first Quidditch match, not the other way around. Hermione was mortified as she remembered setting his robes on fire, but luckily, the trio all managed to keep their mouths shut about that.

They were safe now, Dumbledore assured them when the meeting ended. Voldemort had been banished from the castle, and he would not be able to pull that possession trick over on anyone again. The Philosopher’s Stone would be removed, and he would have a long talk with the Flamels about whether to keep it around at all. A new Defence Professor would be hired as soon as he could find one brave enough to apply for the job. He and the other teachers left Ron and Vector to get some rest. Most of the room look relieved that they wouldn’t have to keep listening to him say Voldemort’s name.

Only Professor McGonagall lingered behind. “I must apologise to you three,” she told the children. “I’m afraid that, in my overconfidence, I was guilty of ignoring the concerns of my students. I hope you can forgive me for failing in my duty to serve you as your head of house. You three made better Gryffindors than I did last night.”

Ron’s eyes went wide. This was sure to be a story to tell his family. Harry just gave McGonagall a reassuring look and slowly nodded. Hermione also nodded, even though she didn’t think she deserved the praise. She’d spent most of last night trying to drag Harry away from doing dangerous and Gryffindor-ish things.

“And Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall added sternly before leaving the room.

Ron gulped nervously. “Yes, Professor?”

“I demand a rematch.”

Ron laughed nervously.

McGonagall left, and Hermione slumped in her chair between Harry’s and Professor Vector’s beds, not really interested in going anywhere else. She felt exhausted, and being left alone with her thoughts was only making it worse. She felt…strange, wrong. She wasn’t even sure if she should be crying. She’d cried a lot over a lot less in the past year, but this wasn’t exactly an apples-to-apples thing. Part of her wanted to, just to work it out of her system, but the tears didn’t come. She just felt this awful hollow feeling in her chest, right behind her breastbone. All she could think was that she shouldn’t have to deal with something like this.

I ’m only twelve!

It took a minute—it was only when she looked around and saw all eyes in the room were on her that she realised she had screamed it out loud instead of just thinking it.

“Sorry,” she squeaked. She could feel her face flushing and looked down at her feet.

“No, Hermione,” Professor Vector said. “It’s perfectly understandable.” She pushed herself, with difficulty, back into a sitting position and swung her feet over the edge of the bed to face her.

“I just…How did something like this happen?” Hermione burst out. “How…?” She choked as she finally started crying.

She wasn’t aware of Ron looking away in embarrassment, or the uncomfortable look crossing Harry’s face. They were affected just as much as she was, but being boys, they had their own ways of dealing with it. She was only aware of a hand laid gently on her shoulder. She practically jumped at the touch and heard a grunt of pain as she bowled into her teacher, but she soon felt Professor Vector’s arms wrap around her, and she just cried into her shoulder for a while.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Vector said softly. “You should never have been involved in this. If we had really been doing our jobs right, you wouldn’t have had to. Unfortunately, sometimes these things just happen, and you can’t escape them…I know. I’ve seen times when it was much worse. I saw a lot of children hurt very badly in the war, and I lost friends myself. Hardly anybody didn’t…Look, I won’t pretend it’s an easy thing, or a quick one, but you’ll get through this. You’re stronger than you think, Hermione. Yes you are,” she added when the girl tried to shake her head. “It took a true Gryffindor to do what you did last night.”

Hermione shook her head again and looked up. “I was just trying to stop Harry from getting hurt,” she sniffed. “I only did it because I had to.”

“Now, I know you’re smarter than that, Hermione.” Vector smiled weakly. “That’s the real meaning of Gryffindor courage—doing what you have to, even when it’s frightening. Do you think just any first year could have faced that chessboard? I’m ashamed to say few of my own house would risk getting in as much trouble as you did just to leave your dorm after hours.” And hexing You-Know-Who himself was left unsaid. “The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason, and you’ve proved that’s where you belong. You’ll get through this in time, and you have a lot of wonderful friends and family around you to help you.”

Hermione shuddered once and started to relax. The hollow feeling in her chest started to fill in. But then, there was something else she had to worry about.

“Professor…What am I going to tell my parents?” she said, sitting back in her chair.

“You’re still going to tell your parents?” Ron cried from across the room. “Are you nuts? I’m not even gonna tell my parents.”

“I think you should, Mr. Weasley,” Vector said. “While the Headmaster may want some degree of secrecy as to what happened, the rumours are going to get out. I think your parents would much rather hear it from you than from somebody else.”

Ron shut up and looked down nervously.

“I…I don’t want to lie to them,” Hermione said. “And I told them I wouldn’t keep things from them, but this…they were really freaked out by the troll incident. I think they would have rathered I transferred instead of coming back here.”

“Well…I told you my feelings on the subject after Halloween,” Vector said. “And I will add that your parents will be receiving a form letter informing them that Professor Quirrell has died, though not one mentioning any details or your own involvement in the incident. Sadly, Quirrell isn’t the first Defence Professor to die in recent memory—many people believe the position is cursed. Your parents will likely want a further explanation.”

Hermione whined softly. “That’ll be a cheerful letter,” she said bitterly. “Dear Mum and Dad, remember how I said an evil psychopath wasn’t going to get into the school and try to kill somebody?”

Vector made a small snort that sounded like she was choking down a laugh, then sighed. “If you like, I can help you again in dealing with your parents,” she said. “Actually, perhaps it might be better if you were light on details in your letter, and then I can sit down in person with you and your parents after the term ends to tell them the whole story.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “You’d do that for me, Professor?”

“That much and then some, Hermione. I can honestly say I have no idea where you’re going with that mind of yours, but I certainly don’t want to miss it.”

Hermione pounced on her teacher again. “Thank you! Thank you, Professor! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could get by.”

Hermione gave the Gryffindor girls a brief account of her ordeal that night—as much as she was comfortable talking about. This was more than enough to evoke squeals of horror and as much frightened sympathy as she could handle. It was hard enough for some of the other girls just hearing about a teacher’s death, let alone an eyewitness account.

She dutifully attended the Quidditch final the next day. Harry was still reeling from the Quirrell incident himself, but flying seemed to be the one thing that gave him real joy, so she wasn’t about to take that away from him. It was a close game. Ravenclaw’s Chaser squad had a leg up on Gryffindor, but Harry caught the Snitch in time to win. There was a big party in the Common Room that night. After all, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup for the first time in six years, and, if they could hold on to their ten-point lead for the next two days, they would take the House Cup for the first time in seven years. They managed that, too, which made for another party following on the end-of-year feast.

Hermione did her best to join in the fun, egged on by her friends, but the points seemed a lot less important now than they had at the start of the year. Truth be told, she was in a bit of a daze for the rest of the term, even though Ron, at least, seemed to have bounced back quickly from their ordeal. (Harry was just hard to read.) She spent quite a bit of time visiting Professor Vector, discussing calculus, arithmancy, and life in general. In the end, though, her professor was right: it was hard, and it would take time, but she was slowly getting better.

Harry and Ron decided to spend their time lounging in the sun in the remaining days of the term while they waited for their exam results to come out, and Hermione joined them, though she brought her calculus book with her. They’d all earned it. That much was sure. Harry, predictably, was not at all looking forward to going home again, while Hermione, like most of the students, decided it would be nice to be home again, except for the not being allowed to use magic part.

Meanwhile, with all the chaos and parties, it was the day after the House Cup was awarded when Fred and George finally caught up with her.

“Hermione,” they said, leaning on either side of her chair.

“We’ve been looking—”

“—everywhere for you.”

“Sorry,” she sighed, not sparing the energy to react to their usual bizarre selves. “I’ve been kind of out of it lately.”

“Oh, dear, you sound kind of out of it, too,” George said sympathetically.

“Where’s our regular unbridled enthusiasm Hermione?” asked Fred cheerfully.

“She’s in therapy,” Hermione groaned. “She should be back in the fall.”

“Ah, I think I see a spark of something in there,” Fred replied with a grin.

George, however, turned uncharacteristically serious. “Look, we don’t want to bring up painful memories, but Ron’s been telling us some pretty wild things about what happened with Quirrell.”

“Come to think of it, so’s Alicia and some of the other girls,” Fred chipped in.

“Right. So you were really there when Quirrell…” George trailed off.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Yeah, I was. I…I saw the whole thing,” she said shakily.

“Wow,” George sounded awed. “We’re sorry about that.”

“Yeah, you didn’t deserve that,” Fred added. “Still, was Quirrell really possessed by…” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “…by You-Know-Who?”

Hermione shuddered and nodded once. “Yeah, there was…an extra face growing out of the back of his head.”

“Wicked! So is it true that you used a Body-Bind on him?”

“Uh huh. He was attacking Harry. It was the only thing I could think of.”

“Okay, so this might be not the kind of thing you want to hear right now,” George said, “but just to be clear, technically, that means you hexed You-Know-Who to his face.”

“Don’t remind me,” Hermione replied. She leaned back and covered her face with her hands. She still felt her heart race every time she thought about it. Hexing the most feared and vicious dark wizard of the past half century should not be on a first year student’s resume. But then, a thought struck her: “Wait a minute, remember that snowstorm in December? When you kept hitting the back of Quirrell’s turban. Technically, you repeatedly hit You-Know-Who in the face with a snowball.”

Fred’s and George’s eyes went saucer-sized instantly, and they looked like they might faint. “We hit You-Know-Who in the face—” Fred started.

“Repeatedly—” George said.

“With a snowball.”

“I don’t know if that makes us the kings of pranksters or dead men walking.”

“Or both. Especially once Mum gets involved.”

“Bloody hell, we haven’t even heard from her about Ron’s part in all this yet. She must really be flipping out if it’s taking her this long.”

“Better be prepared for that one, George. Anyway, Hermione, Ron also told us some interesting things about your skills at sneaking around the castle at night.”

“Um…”

“Oh, yes, something about pulling our little brother into a broom cupboard.” George wagged his eyebrows.

“Oh, no,” Hermione groaned.

“And at only twelve years old, too. They certainly start early these days.”

“Can we just not mention that?” she pleaded.

“Oh, no, this is too good to pass up, isn’t it Fred?”

“I should say so.”

“Or how about you don’t mention that, and I’ll pretend it really was Peeves who booby-trapped all the doors on the sixth floor with dungbombs,” Hermione threatened.

“You wouldn’t!” Fred gasped.

“How did you—?” George started.

“Sonya and I noticed when we were exploring. Did you know Professor McGonagall’s apartment is on the sixth floor?”

The twins stared at each other so intently that Hermione wondered if they were communicating telepathically. “We did,” Fred replied, “and I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that you do, too.”

“Well then, Hermione, it seems you’ve outwitted us again,” George said. He was trying to sound offended, but his face was cheerful.

Hermione smiled. “In the muggle world, that’s called ‘mutually assured destruction.”

“You know, you’re scary sometimes,” George said.

“Yeah, brilliant, but scary,” Fred finished.

“You know something else,” George continued. “We thought it would be great if you could come and stay at our house for a few days this summer.”

“Yeah, Ron thinks so, too,” said Fred. “We’ll invite Harry, too, while we’re at it.”

“Really?” Hermione squeaked. “But your Mum—”

“Ah, she’ll come around. She loves house guests. And Dad’ll bring her around if she gives any trouble.”

“Dad’ll probably want your folks to stay, too. Mad about muggles, he is.”

“Well, that…that would be great!” She’d never been invited to stay at a friend’s house overnight before. “I’ll ask my parents if I can come.”

“Excellent—”

“We’ll send our owl—”

“If he doesn’t keel over first.”

“Um, sure, thanks.”

Hermione may have been excited, but the coming summer was still weighing heavily on Harry, to the point where, the next day, she found him sitting alone in a shaded part of the Common Room, working feverishly with his wand and quill over some scraps of wood.

“Come on, come on, Initium!” he muttered. He picked one of the wood scraps up and let it go. It clattered to the table. He groaned in frustration.

“Harry?” Hermione said.

Harry jumped and tried to cover up what he was working on until he saw who it was. “Oh, Hermione, it’s you.”

“Harry, what are you doing?” she said.

“I…I was just…” He looked down guiltily.

“What?”

“Well, it’s like when Professor Babbling told us how runes can store spells to use later. I was trying to enchant something so I could use spells this summer.”

“This summer? Harry, you mustn’t. We’re not allowed to use magic over the summer.”

“I know, but I thought…I know we’re not supposed to use our wands, but Ron’s allowed to fly and stuff, so I thought if I could enchant something with a spell so that it’ll activate without using a wand, I could still use it.”

“I don’t think you should,” she said, even as she started wondering about the same possibility herself. “What if you get caught? You could get in big trouble.”

“I have to try it, though.” Harry started writing another combination of words. In the seminars, Professors Babbling had taught them to use “INITIUM” and “FINIS” runes to activate and deactivate a spell using wand taps, but most activation patterns that didn’t use wands were much more complicated.

“But what for?” Hermione pressed. “You weren’t going to hex your relatives, were you?”

Harry looked even guiltier. “Not bad,” he said. “Just enough to scare them a little. My aunt and uncle don’t know I’m not allowed to use magic outside of school, but they might get suspicious if I don’t use any all summer.”

“But…but…but wouldn’t your aunt know from your Mum?”

Harry stopped and looked up. “I…I don’t know…She talked about my Mum doing magic at home, though. Maybe they just give us a warning the first time, or something.”

“Hmm…well, I still don’t like it. I think you should talk to Professor McGonagall about your problems.”

“I don’t want to bother her about it,” he muttered. “Come on, Leviosa!” The runes again failed to activate.

“It’ll bother her more if you get in trouble.” He didn’t respond. She leaned in closer and whispered, “Harry, I didn’t want to bring it up before…but if your relatives are abusing you, someone in charge needs to know about it.”

Harry nervously looked her in the eye again. He seemed to consider this for a moment, but he whispered back, “They’re not. We just can’t stand each other. They don’t hit me or anything—well, Dudley does, but he’s a bully to everyone.”

“But even if you just can’t stand each other, that’s not a good situation to be in,” Hermione insisted.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Harry said. “I can take care of myself.”

Hermione sighed and stood up. “I do worry about you, Harry,” she said. “A lot of us do, even if we don’t say it. And even if this works, it’s not going to solve your problems.”

Harry just shrugged at that. Hermione gave up talking to him and made for the portrait hole. She gave him one last look before leaving the Common Room and whispered, “I’m sorry Harry,” too quietly for anyone but her to hear it.

She walked straight to Professor McGonagall’s office.

“Miss Granger, the exam grades will be out tomorrow,” McGonagall said when she opened the door.

Hermione gave her an exasperated sigh. Why did everyone always think that was want she wanted to ask about? “It’s not about that, Professor.”

“Oh. My apologies. How may I help you?”

“I…well, it’s kind of sensitive, ma’am.”

“Please come in, then. Have a seat.” She closed the door and at across her desk from Hermione. “Miss Granger, I know we haven’t got on as well as I would like this year,” she said, “especially with my being your Head of House. But I hope you know that you can confide in me, and I will do the best I can to help you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Professor. I do know that. But this is actually about Harry.”

McGonagall’s face fell. “Has he gone and done something else, now?”

“No! Well, sort of, but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. He’s trying to make some of those rune-based spells that Professor Babbling taught us to use at home, and I want to make sure he won’t get in trouble.”

McGonagall’s mouth became a thin line. “Did Mr. Potter say why he wished to attempt this sort of magic?” she asked sternly.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about…” Hermione took a deep breath. “I’m worried about Harry’s life at home, Professor.” A very knowing look of concern crossed McGonagall’s face, and Hermione told her what Harry had said over the past year: that his aunt and uncle didn’t like magic and thought it was “freakish,” that they blatantly favoured his cousin over him, that she was a little worried that he didn’t get enough to eat there, and, most tellingly, that Harry talked like he was absolutely miserable there and wanted to jinx his relatives just to scare them into treating him better. When she finished, McGonagall made a noise like an angry cat.

“Miss Granger, I wish you would have brought these concerns to me sooner. I had some worries of my own, but I had very little to base them on until now,” she said. “I can’t tell you much of what I would like to for confidentiality reasons, but I promise you that I will speak to the Headmaster about this and see if we can’t do something to help Mr. Potter this summer.”

Hermione sighed with relief. “Thank you, Professor. I know I should have told someone sooner. It’s just that Harry doesn’t like to talk about his home life, and—”

“That’s not uncommon in these kinds of situations. I do understand. However, please write to me at once if anything leads you to believe that Mr. Potter is in danger at home.”

“Yes, ma’am. What about those spells, though? I don’t want him to get in trouble for using magic.”

McGonagall seemed to wrestle internally for a bit on that one. Finally she muttered, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt…Alright—I’m only telling you this because I know you to be responsible, Miss Granger. I won’t ask you not to act on it because both you and your parents are far too intellectually curious for that. But I must urge you to be careful and to respect the Stature of Secrecy. And that goes doubly so for Mr. Potter.”

Hermione nodded intently.

McGonagall laid the cards on the table: “The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery is one of the most poorly-written and poorly-enforced laws in the wizarding world, and deliberately written with many exceptions that benefit pureblood wizards. Obviously, accidental magic is not restricted, since you cannot control that. But the use of magical artifacts is also not restricted because many magical children play with magical toys, do chores with magical cleaning implements, and of course ride brooms—though those fall under a separate provision. I doubt that the pureblooded wizards who wrote the law considered the possibility that a muggle-born would buy such artifacts, must less make them, but while it may go against the spirit of the law, these rune spells would not go against the letter, and moreover, there is no enforcement mechanism to deal with them.”

“Really?” Hermione said, wide-eyed. “So Harry—or I—could do magic with these runes, and it would be okay?”

“That is correct. As long as you don’t use your wand over the break, you would not be disciplined. However, I will stress again that you must obey the Statute of Secrecy. If you fail to do so, you could easily be charged on both counts.”

“I understand, ma’am. Thank you.”

Much relieved by her conversation, Hermione reported back to Harry what she had learnt about the runes, and her curiosity got the better of her regarding his little project. She roped in Ron, who was eager to have some way to get back at Fred and George after their mother inevitably confiscated their wands, and the trio put their heads together. Just in time for the end of term, they got it. Ron worked out that the most important words they needed were “SOLVO” (release), “LOQUITUR” (speak), and “TENET” (hold); and Hermione figured out a circular pattern to use them in. When they were done, they had a runic circle that would store one spell written in the middle with the Potentia incantation, plus the one Professor Babbling had shown them to empower control runes, and release it when the person holding it spoke the name of the spell. At least that was the theory. Hermione warned that it probably couldn’t store very powerful spells, and it might lose its “charge” over time, like a battery. But when they tested it with a Hardening Charm, it successfully turned a soft cushion stiff and starched—not perfect, but it was enough for Harry, who thanked them both profusely.

“I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer,” he said.

The day before the Hogwarts Express returned to London, with the packing mostly done, and Hermione’s own repertoire of runic spells ready to show off to her parents, there was just one thing, in her mind, that was left to do.

“Oof, how do you climb through this place all the time?” Ron demanded as the the trio crawled up the tiny staircase off the Great Hall.

“Honestly, Ron, it’s not that hard,” Hermione said from up front. In truth, she had got pretty good at navigating the elves’ living space by now.

“I don’t see why we have to do this anyway,” he complained. “They’re just house elves.”

“They’re not just house elves, Ron. They cook all that food you love so much. The pick up the rubbish, and they do your laundry—and that’s got to be pretty brave of them’

“Hey!”

“They don’t get much contact with humans, and it’s only friendly to say goodbye for the summer,” she finished.

“Makes sense,” Harry said. “It’d be nice if I got some thanks for doing all the chores at home.”

Ron grunted and kept climbing.

Soon they came out into the long hallway that led to the elves’ Common Room. As they crawled down it, a small elf came out of one of the bedrooms and spotted them.

“Hermione Granger!” he squeaked. “And Harry Potter! Harry Potter!” The elf ran down to the Common Room, calling, “It’s Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter!”

The trio stepped out into the square, yellow Common Room to what looked like a heroes’ welcome. The elves were jumping up and down and reaching to shake their hands more eagerly than they had since they first met. Hermione soon spotted a familiar pair of cobalt blue eyes as Sonya pushed her way through the crush.

“Miss Hermione Granger! Is it true, miss? Is it true?” the blond elf squeaked.

“Er, sorry, Sonya?” Hermione said.

“We have heard tell that Harry Potter and his friends met He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named here in the castle—” The elves all shuddered. “—and they escaped him alive.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “Yeah, we did. He was possessing Quirrell.”

The elves all shuddered again.

“Harry Potter and his friends are valiant and bold to face such dangers, miss,” Sonya said.

“Well, we were just doing what we had to do,” she insisted.

“Miss Hermione Granger is too modest,” sounded a creaky voice they had not heard before. Silence fell over the other elves, and they parted to let the newcomer step forward: a wrinkly old female elf with white hair growing more from her ears than her head. She wore a tea towel toga that was fancier than all the others and carried herself with the closest thing an elf could have to a regal bearing.

“I is Flory, the head elf,” the old elf said. “I is being most pleased to meet Harry Potter, sir, Hermione Granger, miss, and Ronald Weasley, sir. We elves is owing you our thanks. You has done a great service to all magical Britain by banishing the Dark Lord from Hogwarts.

“Well, thanks,” Harry said. “But Professor Vector and Dumbledore helped, too.”

“Yes, sir. It is very good to see wizards standing against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before he becomes strong again.” The other elves chirped in agreement.

“Will you tell we elves what happened, sir?” Sonya asked reverently.

“Erm, I guess,” Harry said.

They sat down and relayed most of the story of what had happened that fateful night, excepting only the most sensitive parts, from Harry’s initial suspicions to Quirrell’s death. All three children still quivered at bit at the last part, especially Hermione.

“It was pretty awful,” she said. “I’ve…I’d never seen…”

“Miss Hermione Granger and her friends are very brave,” Sonya assured her.

Then, to her surprise, Tilly reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “It is hard to be seeing death, miss,” the grey-eyed elf said. “We elves see much of it. We live longer than wizards, and we can feel our masters’ magic. Since we is bound to the castle, we all felt when Professor Quirrell died, even the elf children. But we takes comfort in our families, miss, be they wizards or elves. It will be different for witches and wizards, but it helps we elves to have someone else to care for. And you should not be letting fear or pain keep you from what you care about, miss.”

That was news to Hermione. That had to be pretty bad when the little elf children felt a professor die. And her advice was actually pretty good, allowing for the species difference. “Thank you Tilly. I’m sure I’ll feel better after the summer,” she said.

“You is leaving for the summer tomorrow, miss?” Sonya asked.

“Mm hmm. We just wanted to visit you one more time, since we won’t be back till September.”

Many of the elves squeaked at that. “Miss Hermione Granger and her friends are very kind. Other wizards never visit we elves in our home.”

“I should really introduce the more of the muggle-born students to you,” Hermione replied. “I think some of them would be interested. Muggles think it’s important to learn about other cultures.”

“Maybe…” Sonya said timidly. “Maybe you could teach the other wizards more about that.”

Some of the older elves looked a little scandalised at the presumption, but Hermione thought it was a good idea: “Yeah, they could probably use it if all those goblin rebellions are any indication.”

They spoke a little longer about their plans for the summer—or rather Hermione and Ron did. Harry didn’t have any plans. Then, they said goodbye to the elves, and before they knew it, it was the next day, and they rode the boats back across the lake to the train station. A few hours after that, they were back at King’s Cross, saying goodbye to each other. (The train had pulled in twelve minutes late by Hermione’s watch, but, of course, right on time according to the station clocks.) Hermione caught a glimpse of Ron’s mother and little sister, both as redheaded as he was, and Harry’s family: a large, purple-faced man who eyed Harry contemptuously, a scrawny, horse-faced woman who gave Hedwig a disgusted look, and a very fat blond boy who, to Harry’s delight, looked terrified of his wizard cousin.

Then, she spotted her own parents and ran over and hugged them tight. Now that she finally saw them again, it was all she could do to keep from breaking down crying.

But she was saved when Professor Vector came over to meet them (on Hermione’s advice, wearing a muggle dress, if an antiquated one). “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, a pleasure to meet you again,” she said.

“Likewise, Professor,” Mum said. She and Dad both shook the professor’s hand.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am in Hermione’s performance this past year,” she continued as Hermione turned quite pink. “Highest marks in the class by a considerable margin.”

“Well, thank you, Professor,” Dad said. “But your letter—”

“Yes, as I said, the incident that led to the unfortunate death of our Defence Professor—Would you permit me to buy you dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Granger? I think we may need to have a long conversation.”

Chapter Text

Minerva McGonagall paced the Headmaster’s office like a caged tiger while the students were on their way back to London, for she had recently heard some very unsettling words about one of her charges.

“Did I not tell you Albus, eleven years ago and again last year, that those muggles are wholly unsuitable as guardians?”

“You did, Minerva,” Albus Dumbledore replied with aggravating calm. “And as I told you on both of those occasions, I am aware that it is not an ideal environment, but there are circumstances which require Harry Potter to live with his mother’s blood relatives.”

“And just what circumstances are those?” Minerva snapped. “I think it’s time you levelled with me and explained just what is so important that you would place a young boy with guardians who, at best, strongly dislike him. And may I add: you’d better have a pretty good answer to convince me that I shouldn’t take this up with the Ministry.”

“Very well,” said Albus. “The reason is Voldemort.” Minerva let out a tiny yelp. “And the fact that he has once again appeared in Britain makes this all the more important. You should remember well from the war that Voldemort could get through almost any wards if he made a concerted effort. Harry could not reasonably be raised under a Fidelius Charm, so I used the next best thing. Lily’s sacrifice made it possible to place blood wards on the place where her blood dwells through her sister and nephew. No wizard intending Harry harm can hurt him there, and Voldemort himself cannot breach them. He must at least be there to recharge them each summer so that we can send him there in case of an emergency.” And here, Albus spread his hands wide. “If you know of another way that young Harry can be kept as safe, I would be happy to hear it.”

Minerva deflated and sat down. Of course she didn’t know any other way—not unless she could pull enough strings to let Harry stay at Hogwarts over the summer, and that would be a long shot. Besides, Albus could think circles around her on that sort of thing. The question was whether this protection was worth it, and…well, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was right there in the castle not two weeks ago.

“Very well, Albus,” she said. “I will continue to trust your judgement on how to keep Harry safe, for now. But I will not continue to ignore him in that house, as we have both been guilty of doing for the past eleven years. I asked Miss Granger to inform me if she feels the boy is at risk, and I will pay him a personal visit if she does so—and perhaps even if she doesn’t.”

She was happy to see Albus nod in support. “Of course, Minerva,” he said. “I think that is a fair point. And do inform me if you learn anything more.”

“I certainly will.”

Daniel Granger took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then said, “I need another drink.”

Septima Vector poured him another shot of Firewhisky, which the two elder Grangers described as tasting “like Scotch mixed with hot sauce and gunpowder.” It was a mark of how serious the situation was that it was Vector who recommended the Firewhisky when she bought the family dinner in a private room at the Leaky Cauldron.

Dan downed the shot with a grimace and immediately followed it up with a gulp of water. Emma was leaning heavily on his shoulder while Hermione held her free hand. “So, just to review,” Dan said harshly, “your Defence Professor was possessed by the disembodied spirit of a wizard so evil that you fear to speak his name. He let the troll into the castle on Halloween as a distraction to try to steal the Philosopher’s Stone to bring this evil wizard back to life. Then, he recently tried again, and you, Hermione, and her friends tried to stop him—and I understand you tried to keep the children away from the action—but this incident ended with her friend being attacked and that teacher…” He hesitated to repeat it in his daughter’s presence. “…being murdered in front of them…Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Hermione said softly. “I think you got it.” There was one thing she had left out of the story, not least because she wasn’t too sure of it herself: it very well might have been the case that Voldemort had tried to possess her (or Ron) but couldn’t touch them because of the protection on Harry. That would certainly explain why his skin felt blisteringly hot for a moment. But she wasn’t sure she believed it, and she certainly didn’t want to, so she didn’t mention it.

“So do you want to tell us again why we should trust your school to keep our daughter safe?” her father said.

Septima licked her dry lips and glanced down at the table for a moment. “Simply put, Hogwarts’s safety record is still quite good, despite this incident,” she explained. “I told you after Halloween that these sorts of incidents are very rare, and I still stand by that.

“However, when I told you about Hogwarts’s strong safety record, I admit that wasn’t entirely accurate. What I did not mention before is that bad things tend to happen to Defence Against the Dark Arts Professors in particular. This isn’t anything intrinsic to the class, mind you, and it hasn’t affected the students before, but it’s increasingly believed that the job was cursed by You-Know-Who in order to weaken his enemies. No Defence Professor has been able to teach for more than one year since my first year as a student. They always seem to be involved in some scandal, or they sustain an injury, or they have to leave the country suddenly, or they’re just incompetent and get sacked. Some of them have died in the post, although this incident is the first murder on the grounds. There were a couple of war deaths over summers, and the others were accidents and illnesses—the Dragon Pox epidemic of 1979 claimed two in a row, in fact.

“I tell you this because I hope you can understand that despite these problems, the students at Hogwarts have been kept quite safe. This year was the first year since I began teaching that any students were seriously endangered by anything other than their own foolishness. In addition, Headmaster Dumbledore will be taking greater pains from now on to ensure that people who are possessed are unable to get into the castle.”

Dan and Emma gave Septima a hard look. “You’ll forgive us if we don’t feel so confident about that without seeing some results,” Dan replied. “After all, we were told that the troll was an isolated incident.”

“I understand your concern,” she replied. “Not having any family myself, I can only really say that I myself have no reservations about continuing to work at Hogwarts, in spite of what’s happened.”

“We do appreciate your opinion, Professor,” Emma said. “But please understand this is still a difficult decision for us…Now, Hermione, what do you have to say for yourself in all this?” she asked her daughter with a stern look that made Hermione think she would rather face McGonagall’s White Queen again.

“What?” she said nervously. “I…I was just doing what I had to.”

“I understand you felt like you had to help your friends, but was cavorting around at night like that really the best way to do it?”

“Mum, I tried. Harry didn’t give us much choice.”

“Mrs. Granger, please don’t be too hard on Hermione,” Septima interrupted. “She’s been through a difficult time, and…well, frankly, your daughter is a hero. She saved her friend’s life possibly as many as three times that night—no mean feat, even if her friend hadn’t been Harry Potter. And she may very well have helped us stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from returning to power and prevented a war that would have devastated the magical world. She tried to act responsibly throughout her ordeal. I consider her only really questionable decision to be coming down after us instead of returning to her dorm, but even that may well have helped to stop Quirrell from stealing the Stone.”

Emma backed off and blinked back a few tears. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” she said. “It’s just hard to see our little girl…caught up in something like this. We sent you to school to learn magic, and here you’re having to save your friends from evil wizards…”

Hermione squeaked and hugged her mother tight. Dan wrapped an arm around both of them.

Finally, Emma broke away and made a futile attempt to smooth out her daughter’s hair. “Look, we’re…we’re proud of you. We are. From the sounds of it you did really well…But can you honestly say you want to go back to Hogwarts after everything that’s happened?”

“I do, Mum.”

“But—”

“Mum, a friend of mine told me that I can’t let fear and pain keep me from what I care about. I care about my friends, and I care about Hogwarts—I love it there when there’s not a psychopath involved. This past year has been the best year of my life. Please don’t make me start all that over at a different school.”

Emma cupped her face with one hand: “Oh, Hermione…when did you grow up?”

“I think it was about four years ago, and we didn’t want to admit it,” Dan said with a weak smile. “Hermione, we don’t have to decide just yet. Actually, Professor, what is the deadline to decide where she’ll be going?”

“Normally, you have until the end of July, although under extraordinary circumstances, a transfer could be made even in the week before term starts.”

“Okay, we’ll decide for sure by the end of July, then,” Dan said. “And I know we all would have preferred to meet under better circumstances, but it does mean a lot to us that you took the time to come down here and explain things.”

“Yes, and thank you for dinner, too,” Emma added.

“It was really no trouble, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. I sometimes think a more hands-on approach would benefit a lot of our students. Now it’s getting late, and I know you need to—what is it, drive home? Hermione, I do hope I will see you again in the fall.”

“I’ll do my best, Professor,” she replied.

Dan and Emma exchanged a look that said, We’re doomed, aren’t we?

“Good night, Professor,” Dan said, shaking Septima’s hand.

“Good night.”

They said their goodbyes, and the Grangers piled in the car for the drive back to Crawley. As they drove along, Hermione waited a while until she felt it was safe enough to mention her other news.

“Mum, Dad, you know how that letter said I’m not allowed to use magic outside of school?” she asked.

“Yes,” her parents said warily.

“Well, I talked to Professor McGonagall, and it turns out that’s not precisely true…”

Harry Potter explored his room, looking for someplace to hide his school books. Uncle Vernon had locked his school trunk, containing his books, robes, wand, cauldron, broomstick, and runic spells, in the cupboard under the stairs the minute he’d got home. All of the spells he was hoping to use to get some concessions out of his relatives were in there—almost. Luckily, he’d anticipated this possibility and kept one small scrap of wood with Latin runes inked on it in his pocket.

After a careful inspection, he discovered a loose floorboard under his bed that opened into a space large enough to keep his books in. Then, he just had to wait. A few days later, when Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all out in the yard, Harry snuck down the stairs, took the scrap of wood out of his pocket, held it up to the cupboard door, and whispered, “Alohomora.”

The spell was released from the runes, and the lock clicked open. Harry grinned with satisfaction. As quick as he could, he grabbed his textbooks, ink, quills, and parchment, and the other scraps of wood on which he had written runes, and carried them upstairs. He didn’t have many of these spells on hand, but he hoped they would be enough. He left his wand—he couldn’t use it anyway—though he hoped he wouldn’t come to regret that decision.

The one problem was Hedwig. She’d been padlocked in her cage to prevent Harry from sending any letters to his friends. He only had two more Alohomoras—he should have made more—and he suspected he would need one to get the rest of his things back when he left for Hogwarts. That meant he could let her out at night once, but she’d be locked up again as soon as Uncle Vernon found out. He hated to see her cooped up in her cage, but he decided he would only use that spell in case of an emergency.

Oh well, at least his relatives were too scared to try anything so far. And he could get his homework done.

“So all you have to do is hold up the rune circle and speak the name of the spell—at least in theory.”

“In theory?” Emma Granger said nervously.

“Well, I don’t actually know if it’ll work for you,” her daughter replied. “Some magical artifacts work for muggles, and some don’t.”

“Oh…okay, then, but it’s not gonna, I don’t know, explode or something?”

“I don’t see how. The worst that could happen is that maybe it would backfire, but it’s only a Levitation Charm, so what harm could it do?”

Hermione had had to sit her maths A-level exam three days after returning home, which she found challenging, but quite manageable. Now, she only had her summer homework from Hogwarts to worry about while she waited for the results to come in August. With her schedule freed up, she began showing her parents the limited bits of magic she could do at home. But this, she thought, was the most interesting test of it: whether her parents could, themselves, cast spells with the use of the runes.

Her mother looked uneasy as she held up a square of wood with a runic circle written on it, but she was willing to try. She waved it at a small book sitting on the table and said, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The book hopped up and hung in midair, shakily following the motion of her hand. Emma was so surprised that she nearly dropped the rune, but she squealed like a little girl with excitement, “It worked! It worked!”

“You did it, Mum! You did magic!” Hermione said, and they both started laughing.

“Brilliant, Hermione!” her Mum said, kissing her on top of her head.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day,” Dad said as he watched. “So how many more of those things do you have?”

“A few,” Hermione said, and she retrieved another rune for him to try.

“Aunt Petunia…I have a question for you.”

The response to this was just about what Harry expected: slowly turning around from preparing lunch and glaring at him. Harry had waited until a time when Uncle Vernon was at work and Dudley was out with his friends to confront his aunt, but he was still breaking one of the most important unspoken rules of Four Privet Drive: don’t ask questions.

“Just one question,” he added, as Aunt Petunia looked about to tell him off.

She glared at him a little longer. “Well, spit it out, boy.”

“Did my mother ever tell you there was a war going on?”

The colour drained out of Aunt Petunia’s face so fast that it couldn’t be healthy. She staggered back against the counter. “Wh-wh-what?” she said fearfully.

“Did my mum tell you and your parents there was a war going on in her world? That people were dying left and right? That she was being specifically targeted because of her ‘normal’ family? Why she and my dad had to go into hiding?”

“That’s enough!” She forced her trembling hands to stay still and did her best to collect herself. “If you must know, boy…no. Lily mentioned some bad things going on—I suppose there might have been enough to piece together that there was a war. But no, we never knew how bad it was until they dropped you on our doorstep with nothing but that letter telling us what happened.”

“And I don’t suppose you ever bothered to ask her, did you?”

“I said that’s enough! Go to your room!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Strangely enough, Harry wasn’t mad. Even though he’d probably miss lunch, now, it was worth it. He had a lot to think about. He’d have to tell Hermione once he actually got a chance to write to her.

“Now, you have to be careful with this stuff,” Hermione warned. “It’s like concentrated hydrochloric acid to most things. It’s drain-safe, but you have to flush it with a lot of water.”

“And they let eleven-year-olds handle it?” Dan asked.

“Believe it or not, it’s safer than having untrained witches and wizards try to use their wands on potions.”

It had taken a special trip to Diagon Alley to buy potions ingredients to be able to do this at home. There were only a handful of potions that could be made without the use of wands (how Hermione wished she’d thought to make some runes with potion-making spells), but why waste the opportunity? The few that could be made this way were rather like cooking or chemistry, aside from the strange ingredients, and her Mum was eager to try it out after the rune demonstrations.

At Hermione’s direction, Emma carefully added bundimun secretion to the cauldron that was simmering on the stove, crushed the snake fangs, stewed the horned slugs, and so on, all using Hermione’s potions kit, so as not to get magical grime all over the kitchen.

“Good. Now turn off the heat before you add the porcupine quills. Neville messed that up and…it didn’t end well.”

“Right. Burner off…” The porcupine quills went in and slowly dissolved into the mix.

“It’s just so weird seeing things dissolve that normally shouldn’t,” Emma mused. Hermione just shrugged. By now, it looked pretty normal to her.

It wasn’t much longer before they reached the final step. “Good, good,” Hermione said. “Now, just mix in the blueberry paste. That neutralises the corrosive effects.”

“If you say so.”

The potion thickened as Emma stirred and turned a soft light blue, a little bit greyer than the sky on a sunny day, just the colour the textbook said it should be.

“That means I got it right?”

“Yes…Well, Mrs. Granger,” Hermione imitated Snape’s acerbic voice. “I suppose you’ve exceeded expectations on the assignment.”

“Ugh. He’s not really like that all the time, is he?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t think he even likes teaching…or children.”

“So why is he teaching children?” Dan asked.

“I wish I knew. Anyway, we need to be careful cleaning up, too. Bad things can happen if the ingredients get contaminated.”

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I ’m getting worried about Harry. It’s been a month since the end of term, and I haven’t received any letters from him, even though I wrote him three times. Ron says he hasn’t heard from him either. I think his relatives might be keeping him from writing. Could you please check on him and make sure he’s alright? Thank you.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

Minerva patted the note in her pocket as she walked up to the door of Number Four Privet Drive. It was entirely possible that Harry was being lazy about writing or was otherwise occupied, but her instincts said no. If there was one thing she had noticed about that boy, it was his dedication to his friends. Either way, she would get to the bottom of this.

She rang the bell, and a few moments later, a very large blond boy opened the door. “Hello?” he said.

“Good morning. You must be Dudley,” she said. “I would like to speak to Harry Potter.”

Dudley Dursley got a terrified look on his face and ran away yelling, “Mum! Dad!”

Minerva sighed. She had a feeling she would need a dram or two after this visit.

In a few more moments a horse-faced woman and her over-sized husband stormed up to the door. “You!” the woman spat. “What are you doing here?”

“As hospitable as ever, aren’t you Petunia? I’m checking up on Harry. I’d like to see him right away, if you please.”

“And what gives you the right—” Vernon Dursley growled.

“Vernon, please, she’s one of them,” Petunia whispered, tugging on his arm.

“I won’t have any more of them in my house.”

“Vernon, you won’t get rid of her,” Petunia insisted. “They won’t take no for an answer. It’s the same as those dratted letters.”

Vernon paled as he remembered Hagrid’s dramatic entrance last year. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But make it quick.” He stomped over to the stairs and hollered up, “Boy, get down here!”

There was a thud and a scrambling sort of sound, and soon, Harry Potter appeared at the base of the stairs. “Professor!” he said in surprise. He ran over to the door. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Only if something is wrong here, Mr. Potter,” Minerva said gently. “Your friends have been growing worried about you. They haven’t heard from you all summer.”

“Well, Uncle Vernon won’t let me let Hedwig out…but it doesn’t matter. Ron and Hermione haven’t sent me any letters, anyway,” he said gloomily.

“What? That’s not true, Mr. Potter. Miss Granger has informed me that she wrote to you three times. Are you saying you haven’t received any of her letters?”

“No, I haven’t heard from anyone.”

Minerva whirled on the Dursleys. “Have you been keeping Harry’s mail from him…again?” she added, as a good guess of what had happened last year.

But Vernon shook his head emphatically. “We haven’t seen any bloody owls besides his. It’s not our fault if they can’t find their way here.” And he grumbled under his breath about his dislike of “freaks’ sending post by owl.

“And the regular post?” she pressed. “One of Harry’s friends has been writing by your post system.”

“Nothing’s come for Harry,” Petunia insisted. “You think we wouldn’t learn our lesson after last year?”

Minerva frowned. She was far from convinced of such a thing, but still, there was no reason for the owls not to go through. She drew her wand.

Dudley screamed and hopped away backwards with his hands covering his large bottom. Petunia also took a few steps back, but Vernon shouted, “Now see here! I won’t have you doing any of that…that…in my house!”

“I will do what I please, Mr. Dursley, thank you very much,” she shot back. “And if your post system is being disrupted, I should think that would interest you, too.” She waved her wand around the door and muttered some incantations, looking for any spells or wards that would interfere with the mail, but she found only Albus’s blood wards. “Hmm…very strange,” she said as the Dursleys sputtered. “I don’t know why your mail hasn’t been delivered, Mr. Potter, but hopefully your own owl will be able to carry letters both in and out of the house, and you will at least be able to contact your friends.” Then, she turned back to the Dursleys: “It’s very unhealthy to keep an owl confined for this long, and there’s really very little trouble that Harry and his friends can cause by their correspondence, so I implore to allow him to let her out.”

Vernon looked like he was gearing up for another rant, but Petunia managed to hold him back. “Fine, we’ll do that. But there’d better not be any trouble. Was there anything else?”

“That depends on Harry, Mrs. Dursley. Mr. Potter, have you been having any other problems?”

“Er, no,” he said hesitantly. “I’m doing alright.”

Minerva just gave him a stern look and said, “Very well. Please don’t hesitate to write me if you need anything. Good day to you all.”

Uncle Vernon continued the grumble after the professor left, but soon enough, he stomped up the stairs to unlock Hedwig’s cage, muttering about “no-good, nosy freaks’ the whole way.

“And you’d better only let it out at night, when nobody can see,” he warned Harry.

Harry just smiled when he was left alone in his room again. He patted a very eager Hedwig on the head to calm her down and started writing his letters to Ron and Hermione.

A week later was Harry’s birthday. Hedwig was out for the night—he hoped collecting presents from Ron and Hermione. For his part, Harry was being thoroughly ignored, as usual. He was expected to be not seen and not heard while the Dursleys entertained some big name clients of Uncle Vernon’s. That was fine by him. He didn’t care for those sorts of disingenuous, over-the-top dinner parties, anyway. As he climbed up to his room, he figured he’d spend a quiet evening reading. There was just one complication.

There was a house elf standing on his bed.

Harry thanked Merlin that Hermione had introduced him to the elves at school, or he probably would have cried out and ruined everything in that moment. This wasn’t a Hogwarts elf, though. He was dirtier, his wrists were bandaged, he had a couple of scars on his face, and he appeared to be wearing a pillowcase instead of a tea towel. His nose was very long, and his eyes were precisely the shade of green of tennis balls.

“Er—hello,” said Harry nervously.

The elf hopped down off the bed and bowed so low that his nose touched the floor. “Harry Potter!” said the elf in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir…Such an honor it is…”

“Th-thank you…um…Dobby…” Harry replied. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“Dobby has a message for you, sir…it is difficult, sir…” The elf started pulling on his ears.

“Look, Dobby,” Harry whispered, “it’s nice to meet you, but this really isn’t a good time. Can you at least, you know, make it quick?”

Dobby looked discouraged, but he replied, “Yes, sir. Dobby has come to give Harry Potter a warning, sir. His masters must not know, but Dobby must warn you, sir…Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon ’s voice.

“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back. You don’t know what it’s like here. The only friends I have are at Hogwarts. And besides, Hermione says it’s already too late to switch schools for this year.” To his delight, Hermione had managed to convince her parents to let her return to Hogwarts in September.

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Not too late for Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter is famous. Any school will teach him. He must go to another school, where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“Why?” said Harry in surprise.

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall. “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” he shouted.

Harry sprang forward and pulled the struggling elf away from the wall. “Stop! What are you doing?” he hissed. He forced him to sit on the bed.

Dobby looked at Harry cross-eyed and said, “Dobby had to punish himself, sir. Dobby almost revealed his family’s secrets, sir…”

“Punish yourself?”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself, sir. Sometimes, his family is reminding him to do extra punishments. If they knew Dobby was here, sir…” He shuddered like he was about to run at the wall again.

“But that’s horrible,” Harry said. “The Hogwarts elves never do that—”

Dobby’s eyes grew wide. “You is knowing the Hogwarts elves, sir?”

“Yeah, my friend Hermione likes to visit them. They’re pretty nice—”

To Harry’s horror, Dobby burst into noisy tears.

“I’m sorry!” he hissed. He thought he heard the voices downstairs falter. “Please be quiet. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend Dobby?” the elf choked. “Dobby has heard of Harry Potter’s greatness, sir, but never his goodness. Harry Potter is even a friend to the house elves.”

“I’m not that great—all that’s just exaggerated stories,” he said. “Hermione’s way better at magic than I am—But Dobby—do all wizard families treat their elves like that? Aren’t there rules or something?”

Dobby started pulling on his ears again. “Elves is property, bound to their families, sir,” he whined. “Each family can manage their elf as they sees fit.”

“And what family do you serve?”

The elf shuddered and then leaped up and banged his head against the wall again.

Harry sprang into action and pulled him back. “Stop that! They can’t know you’re here.” He pointed at the floor. “Look, maybe you should go see my friend. Her name’s Hermione Granger. I think she lives somewhere in Crawley—hang on, I’ve got her address.” He ran over to his sock drawer and pulled out Hermione’s recent letter. He showed Dobby the return address. “See, this is where she lives. She knows loads more about elves than I do. Maybe she can help you.”

A moment later, Harry rather wished he’d kept his mouth shut as Dobby burst into wails of gratitude. He really must be in bad shape compared with the Hogwarts elves, the way he kept carrying on. “Please be quiet,” he begged. “I’ll be in big trouble if the Dursleys hear anything. Look, I’m sorry, but you really can’t be here tonight. Hermione’ll be more useful to you—probably more useful on that mortal danger thing, too.”

Dobby stopped crying and sat very still, his green eyes bulging. “Oh, no, sir,” he squeaked. “This danger is too great for Harry Potter, sir, and his friends. Dobby has heard tell of their great deeds, but this danger is far too great. Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts.”

“But I can’t leave my friends—” He looked down again at the envelope in his hand. “Wait a minute. Were you the one stopping my letters?”

Dobby looked down at his dirty, bare feet. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby,” he said. “Dobby thought that if Harry Potter’s friends had forgotten him…Dobby tried to stop Harry Potter’s mail, sir, but his friends were worried about him and told the Professor to check on him.”

“Well, you see, I’ve got good friends at Hogwarts. Hermione saved my life last term. I’m not going to leave them to face mortal danger on their own. Besides, Dumbledore said he’s stepping up security. Nothing’ll get past him.”

Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t…powers no decent wizard…”

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps. And then it all went downhill from there. Harry managed to stuff Dobby in the closet for long enough to deflect Uncle Vernon’s anger, but no sooner had he left the room than Dobby started arguing with him again not to return to Hogwarts, and when he refused to listen, the little elf dashed downstairs and ruined Aunt Petunia’s prized pudding, then vanished. Then, an owl swooped in and dropped a letter onto the head of Mrs. Mason, who just happened to have a phobia of birds, and worst of all, that letter was a warning from the Ministry of Magic about his using magic outside of school. His cover was blown, and he didn’t even do anything.

Uncle Vernon was beyond furious when he saw that letter. Indeed, he got a mad gleam in his eyes like a very fat cat that had just cornered a mouse, and he started laughing like a maniac: “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy…I’m locking you up…You’re never going back to that school…never…We’ll shoo that bloody bird of yours away from the house, and we’ll tell those freaks from the school you ran away. And you can’t magic yourself out, or they’ll expel you!”

Harry knew the jig was up. He had just once chance to scare them off now. His hand dove into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of wood he kept there for emergencies. “Oh can’t I?” he said threateningly. He held up the rune to Uncle Vernon. “Flipendo!” he roared.

Nothing happened.

“Damn.”

Hermione had warned him it might not hold a charge that long. Unfortunately, that stunt earned him a good, hard punch in the stomach, and Uncle Vernon picked him up and threw him into his room instead of just dragging him. A padlock went onto to window to keep Hedwig out, and the bedroom door was locked from the outside.

Harry stayed awake late that night, waiting until he was sure the Dursleys were all asleep. Then, he pulled up the loose floorboard and found the two Unlocking Charms he had kept in reserve. The Knockback Jinx might have lost its charge, but there was a chance these hadn’t. If either one of them still worked, he could get out of his room and sneak out to somewhere he could send for help, maybe intercepting Hedwig when she got back.

“Alohomora. Alohomora.”

It was no good. Both of the runic circles had lost their charge. He was trapped.

Chapter Text

Dobby did not go to see the great Harry Potter’s friend, Hermione Granger. He had been away from his masters for too long already. But Dobby had memorised Hermione Granger’s address. Harry Potter had said, “She knows loads more about elves than I do. Maybe she can help you.” Maybe she could help him. But no, Dobby couldn’t do that. Not yet. If Dobby went to see Hermione Granger, she might become suspicious and help Harry Potter go back to Hogwarts again. No, Dobby would wait until Harry Potter was safe, and then he would talk to Hermione Granger.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I think something ’s wrong. Hedwig returned my birthday present to Harry unopened, and she seems really agitated. I think she can’t get to him for some reason. Could you please check on him again. I’m worried he might need to get out of his relatives’ house. The Weasleys said they’d like him to visit this summer, so maybe he can stay there for a while.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

Minerva McGonagall was extremely uncomfortable having to wait two days after she received that letter to check on Harry Potter, and not just because Hedwig kept pecking at her. But Albus had insisted that by whatever bizarre means he had that he knew Harry wasn’t in serious (physical) danger and had strongly advised her to line up a place for Harry to stay before taking any action. To be honest, she was surprised he even agreed to that much. So Minerva had done some corresponding and found that the Weasleys were willing and eager to take Harry in for the rest of the summer if need be. At least that was good news.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been so surprised when the Dursleys opened the door to her, and Petunia said, “If you’re looking for the boy, he’s not here.”

Minerva’s eyebrows shot up. “Not here? Why ever not?”

“He ran away, the ungrateful whelp,” Vernon said far too smugly. “And I say good riddance. That boy’s been nothing but trouble from the start.”

“Ran away? I find that hard to believe, not after he put up with you for the first half of the summer. I would suggest you tell me where he really is at once.”

“We don’t know,” Petunia spat. “We can’t help it if he’s a brat who won’t do as he’s told. Tried to keep him in line for years and nothing worked.”

And just what did you try? Minerva thought, but that was a discussion for another time. “Mr. Potter would not leave without telling his friends first,” she continued. “His friends are quite worried about him. Their birthday presents were returned unopened, and his owl has been quite agitated for the past three days.”

“Well, better you than us,” Vernon grumbled. “That dumb bird of his kept trying to get back in. Took all day to make it go away.”

“Oh, really? We have ways of locating an underage wizard, Mr. Dursley, and that ‘dumb bird’ is one of them, as your wife would know if she had ever paid attention to her sister. Post owls always know where their owners are, and Mr. Potter’s has indicated quite clearly that he is still here.”

Both of the Dursleys’ faces paled upon realising they’d been found out. Minerva tried to push past them, but Vernon launched into a tirade.

“He won’t be going back!” the large man bellowed. “He ruined our dinner with—with magic and lost us a top client. Got a warning letter from your lot and everything.

“And he tried to curse Vernon,” Petunia added. “We’re only lucky it didn’t work.”

“If you don’t mind,” Minerva said dryly, “I’d like to hear your nephew’s side of the story for myself.” She drew her wand. “Stand aside, please.”

The Dursleys shrank back in terror. Minerva swept her eyes over the room, looking for any sign of Harry’s presence. When she didn’t find anything, she started up the stairs. The upstairs had four bedrooms and a bathroom and looked, just like the downstairs, like quite a nice place, except that one of the doors was double-locked from the outside and, even more oddly, had cat flap installed. On a hunch, she waved her wand, and the door sprang open.

It was a sorry sight that awaited her. A small twelve-year-old boy was lying on a threadbare bed in a daze. The rest of the room was bare save for an empty owl cage, a broken-down dresser, and a dusty bookcase. The window, unlike the rest of the house, had bars across it, and she doubted it was to keep burglars out.

Harry Potter sprang upright at once when he heard the door open. “Professor! Am I glad to see you,” he said.

“And I you, Mr. Potter.” She watched with concern as he stood up. The boy looked skinnier than he had been in the spring, and he was no heavyweight to start with. He also looked very tired and unsteady on his feet. However, when she told him, “Pack your things at once. The Weasleys have offered to take you in for the rest of the summer,” he sprang into action with his Seeker’s speed. Minerva barely had time to blink before he dove under his bed, fumbled with something that sounded like a loose floorboard, and emerged with a heavily-laden pillowcase slung across his back.

“The rest is in the cupboard under the stairs,” he said breathlessly. Minerva noticed there were tears in his eyes.

The older witch nodded and led Harry back down the stairs. She continued to notice him walking unsteadily behind her, as if light-headed. “Mr. Potter, have you been eating?” she asked with concern.

“N-not as much as usual,” he replied timidly.

Minerva pressed her lips together. She suspected that the usual wasn’t much. “Well, not to worry. I’m sure Mrs. Weasley will give you all you want and then some,” she said stiffly.

They reached the cupboard, and she unlocked it and removed Harry’s trunk and his owl’s cage. As it happened, Minerva did not notice any signs that that cupboard had once been occupied by Harry himself. Vernon had been smart enough not to leave a mat inside, though if she had been in a state to look closer, she might have noticed a child’s scribbles on the wall. Harry loaded the pillowcase into his trunk while Minerva wheeled on the Dursleys.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, I must say that your treatment of your nephew is atrocious, nearly as bad as what you’ve done to your own son.” She eyed the fat boy who was cowering in the kitchen. Worse, more like, but this will offend them more.

“How dare you—!”

“I cannot fathom how Lily Evans was stuck with such a poor excuse for a sister. Mr. Potter will be leaving for the remainder of the summer, and if he is quite lucky, he will need to see very little of you for the duration of his schooling.” The conflicted looks of anger and delight on the Dursleys’ faces at the prospect would have been amusing if they weren’t so appalling. “Come along, Mr. Potter.”

Harry ducked out the front door of Four Privet Drive behind his professor, and it slammed shut behind him.

“Thank you so much, Professor,” he said, his voice catching.

“No trouble at all, Mr. Potter. You aren’t the first student to have family difficulties.” Minerva walked out to the curb.

“Oh, Professor, I’ve just remembered,” Harry said. “I found out what happened to my mail.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, some weird house elf named Dobby was stealing it. He showed up on my birthday and tried to convince me not to go back to Hogwarts—said it was too dangerous—some kind of evil plot going on. Actually, he didn’t look too good. He was wearing a pillowcase, and he kept trying to “punish himself.” Do you know what any of that was about?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, that kind of treatment of elves is not uncommon among the darker families. As for the warning, it’s entirely possible this ‘Dobby’ was sent by his master to try to scare you out of returning to school. You may want to be watchful, but you should not put too much stock in it. Now, as for yourself, I understand you got a warning letter from the Ministry for underage magic?”

“That was Dobby!” Harry said quickly. “He used a Hover Charm on Aunt Petunia’s pudding. I used some of those runic spells we made at the beginning of summer and didn’t have any trouble with them.”

“What?” Minerva said in confusion. “The underage magic detectors triggered for a house elf? That would be highly irregular. How did this elf get in and out of the house?”

“Well, he just…appeared and disappeared like they do. Why didn’t that set it off?”

“Because it’s not supposed to. Elf magic is nearly unrestricted by law. If what you say is true, I don’t see why that Hover Charm would have been noticed.”

“Huh…Maybe Hermione would know.”

“Perhaps.” The Granger girl might know more about house elves than any other witch in Hogwarts by now simply by virtue of being the only one who paid them any attention, Minerva thought. Oh well, they had placed to go. “Now, since you’re underage and carrying luggage, Mr. Potter, your best option for travel will be the Knight Bus. I should warn you, though, that it’s…rather a bumpy ride.”

Harry didn’t have time to ask what any of that meant before his professor stuck out her hand to the street as if hailing a cab, and then—BANG! A giant, purple, triple-decker bus appeared out of nowhere and screeched to a halt on Privet Drive. He looked around nervously to see how the Dursleys or the neighbours would react to such a thing happening in broad daylight, but no else one seemed to notice anything.

A man in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and called out, “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard—” He noticed Minerva and took a nervous step back. “W-why, hello, Professor. Di’n’t “spect t’see you on the Bus.”

“I’m escorting a student, Mr. Shunpike,” McGonagall replied. “Two to the Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole.”

“Tha’ll be twenty-two sickles, ‘less you want some snacks.”

McGonagall handed over a galleon and five sickles to the young man. Shunpike looked to be fresh out of school, though Harry didn’t remember seeing him around Hogwarts in the past year, and, judging by his reaction, he had been on the wrong side of the Deputy Headmistress a few times. Just then, he noticed Harry, and, predictably, his eyes flew straight to his forehead.

“Hey, Ern! Ern! Look “oo it is!” he yelled. “‘E’s ‘Arry Potter! I can see ‘is scar!”

“That will be quite enough, Mr. Shunpike,” McGonagall said in a voice that made her former student quail. “We must be going at once. Come along, Mr. Potter.”

Harry sighed and dragged his trunk onto the bus. He was startled to see not the normal seats of a muggle bus, but a bunch of folding chairs set up on the floor. From the disarray they were in, he started to get an idea of what that “bumpy ride” was like, which soon turned out to be even worse than he expected as the Knight Bus BANGed all over the country, picking up and dropping off witches and wizards. Despite how hungry he was, he was glad he hadn’t gone for the snacks.

A harrowing hour later, the Knight Bus screeched to a stop on a hill at the outskirts of a grassy field in Devon. In the distance, Harry could see a very tall, crooked house that must have been held up with magic. Just the look of it seemed to say “Ron,” or maybe “Fred and George” would have been closer. He thought it looked perfect compared with the proper boxy accommodations on Privet Drive. Glancing around, down the other side of the hill was another tall house that looked like a chess rook, and there was a large, manor-style house closer to the village.

McGonagall led Harry down a winding path toward the Burrow, past a couple of sheds and a chicken coop and some piles of rubbish. The house itself was run down, patched up, had rooms built on at random, and looked more like a real home than anything the Dursleys could ever comprehend. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the door, smiling, and flanked by Ron and the Twins to complete the picture.

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said sweetly. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

Harry’s heart leapt at the prospect of his first quality meal in six weeks, and he bounded up the front steps. “Thank you so much for taking me in, Mrs. Weasley—” he started.

“Oh, no trouble at all, Harry. The boys have told us so much about you. Come on in. Come on in.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said as he stepped inside.

“Not a problem, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said. “Do keep me informed if you need anything else.”

Harry nodded and vanished into the Burrow. McGonagall smiled and turned to leave. Her work here was finally done—at least for this summer.

Life at the Burrow was the happiest time of Harry’s life, and considering he’d spent a year at Hogwarts, that was saying something. He had never seen before how a normal family—no, the last thing the Weasleys were was normal—but how a loving family was supposed to operate. And unlike at Hogwarts, where he was mostly just admired for his fame, everyone at the Burrow actually seemed to like him. Well, there was Ginny, who couldn’t say a word to him without it coming out as a squeak, usually accompanied by knocking something over, but he hoped she’d come around eventually. He tried not to laugh at her predicament.

His first night at the Burrow, Harry had been warmly greeted by Mr. Weasley, who peppered him with questions about the muggle world, and at dinner, he had shocked everyone by eating more than Ron. When asked how awful the muggles had been, he awkwardly muttered something about them keeping him holed up in his room without going into too much detail. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were spending equal time fawning over Percy, who had just been informed that day that he had received an astonishing twelve O.W.L.s. Percy himself looked mostly relieved and seemed much calmer and less high-strung than he had for the past year. Ron told Harry that night that he had, in fact, been very worried about him and confided that he had been considering rescuing him with Mr. Weasley’s flying car before Professor McGonagall had contacted them.

Over the next two weeks, Harry lived in comfort. He helped with small chores like de-gnoming the garden, but no one had to do all that much with so many people in the house to share the work. (What a novel concept!) He played Quidditch with Ron, Fred, and George, and he was regaled with tales of Mr. Weasley’s raids on misused muggle artifacts in the evenings. Soon, the Hogwarts letters arrived with their new book lists, mainly books by some famous dark creature hunter named Lockhart, but Harry had another reason to be excited: Hermione wrote them and told them she’d convinced her parents to let her stay at the Burrow for a week after they met in Diagon Alley on the nineteenth. Hermione was the one who had asked Professor McGonagall to save him from the Dursleys. He had a lot to thank her for.

Of course, his good luck had to run out sometime, and when they went to Diagon Alley, Harry managed to Floo himself into Knockturn Alley instead.

Hermione eagerly pulled her parents through Diagon Alley toward Gringotts on the nineteenth of August. Her parents were understandably uneasy. After all, they had never had a close encounter with wizards that hadn’t come off as strange, at best, though they were much calmer than they had been at the start of the summer. Hermione was very glad that her parents had made her see a counsellor over what had happened last spring. It had been a real job coming up with a story that got the gist of it across without mentioning magic, but talking with a professional about her trials had definitely helped her come to terms with what had happened, and the nightmares had mostly stopped by now. In any case, her parents her eager to meet her friends, who, to hear her tell it, were quite exceptional themselves: Ron Weasley, the chessmaster, and Harry Potter, the Quidditch prodigy. Granted, they were troublemakers with a knack for rushing into danger, but they were boys, so what did you expect?

However, at the moment, neither Harry nor any Weasleys were to be seen in Diagon Alley. They must be early. Mum and Dad decided to go up to Gringotts first to get some money changed before looking around for them. It was only as they were ascending the marble steps that Hermione turned around and happened to see a huge man with a wild, black beard and hair, and she stopped her parents in her tracks.

“Mum, Dad, there’s Hagrid,” she said. She looked closer. “And Harry! Harry! Harry! Over here!” she called, and she ran down the steps toward him. But she slowed as she approached. He was covered in dust and soot, and his glasses were snapped clean in two. “Harry, what happened to you?”

“Um…Floo Powder accident,” he muttered.

Hermione chose to let this go. “Oh, hello, Hagrid,” she said brightly. “It’s wonderful to see you two again. These are my parents—” She was aware that her parents were standing behind her, staring up slack-jawed at Hagrid’s enormous face.

“Harry—oh, thank goodness!” came a yell, and there was a commotion as a large mass of redheads came sprinting up the crowded street and immediately set upon Harry. “We thought you’d gone to the other end of the country!”

The Grangers all watched curiously as Mrs. Weasley brushed Harry off with a large clothes brush that she just happened to carry around while Mr. Weasley magically repaired Harry’s glasses. Through the confusion, it eventually emerged that they had all travelled to Diagon Alley by fireplace, like Hermione had read about, but Harry had mispronounced the location and come out in the seediest part of magical London by mistake. By coincidence, he had seen Draco Malfoy’s father selling what were presumably dark artifacts, something Mr. Weasley was very pleased about. Finally, they got everything sorted out so Hermione could introduce her family.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” she said primly, shaking the elder Weasleys’ hands. “I’m Hermione Granger, and these are my parents, Daniel and Emma.”

“And you’re muggles,” Mr. Weasley said delightedly. “Such an honour, it is. We’re very excited to have your daughter over for the week. The boys have told us so much about you,” he added to Hermione. “It sounds as if you’re even better at Arithmancy than our son, Bill, and he got an O on his N.E.W.T.”

“Well…” Hermione started, turning pink.

“It’s very generous of you have Hermione over,” Mum replied. “We’re glad she’s met such good friends at Hogwarts.”

“Well, anyone who can get Ron to buckle down and do his work…” Mrs. Weasley said.

“Oi, Mum!”

“In fact,” she continued, “we were hoping the two of you could come for dinner tonight. Then you can see where Hermione will be staying.”

“I—we—thank you,” Mum said in surprise. “If it’s not any trouble—”

“No trouble at all,” Mr. Weasley replied. “Molly loves having house guests. You can just Floo back to the Alley afterwards.” He saw all three Grangers cast a nervous eye at Harry. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s really quite safe if you pronounce your destination correctly.”

“Well, we’d be happy to come, thank you,” Dad said.

The large group split up after leaving the bank and wandered around the alley. Harry treated Ron and Hermione to ice cream as a thanks for getting him away from his relatives, and he explained his predicament with Dobby the house elf. Hermione agreed that it sounded very strange and suggested that they ask Tilly about it when they got to school. Hermione took care of her own shopping—she mostly just needed quills, ink and parchment, besides the books, and they met up with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan in the joke shop.

“Hello, Hermione,” George said. “Good to see you.”

“Uh huh. You, too,” she said.

“I take it you’ve been a good girl and stayed out of trouble this summer?” Fred said with a grin.

“Yes, I have,” Hermione said, turning up her nose a shade. “I take it you two haven’t?” She eyed the fireworks they were stocking up on suspiciously.

“Naturally,” Fred replied.

“As we’re not girls,” George added.

“Do we want to know—?” Mum started.

“No,” all of the students said at once.

Finally, they reached the book shop, where a surprisingly large crowd was gathered. A banner above the entrance explained why: GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

“Gilderoy Lockhart?” Hermione squealed. “Mum, Dad, he’s the one who wrote all those defence books. He must be completely brilliant. We can actually meet him!” She eagerly pulled her parents into the line. She was so excited that she barely even noticed that most of the crowd seemed to be middle-aged witches. Mrs. Weasley seemed almost as excited as Hermione as she joined the line, but the boys all looked put off by the whole thing.

Gilderoy Lockhart slowly came into view. He was a handsome young wizard with wavy blond hair and a dazzlingly—perhaps magically—white smile. Hermione thought he looked dashing in his forget-me-not blue robes, with his pointed hat cocked at an angle, smiling and winking at the crowd, just like the pictures that graced his many book covers.

But as she drew near, it was Harry who grabbed Lockhart’s attention. Lockhart pulled him out of line, posed the dazed-looking boy for the Daily Prophet, and took the opportunity to announce that he would be this year’s Defence Professor at Hogwarts. Hermione squealed even more loudly at the news and cheered along with the rest of the crowd. Quirrell may have been incompetent and possessed, but surely Lockhart would be an excellent Defence teacher. After all, who could be better than a teacher who wrote the books on defence? Harry, however, looked annoyed by the encounter, and he immediately handed his stack of books off to Ginny, who, unseen by him, froze wide-eyed at the gift.

But just then, Hermione heard a voice that made her blood run cold.

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter? Famous Harry Potter, can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered to her parents, not taking her eyes off the blond boy.

“Is he the one who jinxed you?” Dad whispered back.

“Uh huh.”

Her father looked like he wanted to go over and give Malfoy a piece of his mind, but she put up a hand for him to stay back. It would be no good trying without magic, plus Malfoy’s father was sure to be lurking around somewhere.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”

Ron, Fred, and George all started toward Malfoy, but Harry, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley held them back.

“And Granger,” Malfoy added. “I thought I smelled your stink around here.”

Her father grumbled something equally impolite and took a step towards Malfoy (and so did Ron), but he was interrupted by the arrival of a wizard with long, blond hair and an identical sneer to Draco’s.

“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley,” Malfoy Senior said smugly.

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. “All those raids…I hope they’re paying you overtime?” He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. “Obviously not. Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

The Grangers hadn’t really expected anything different, but it was still jarring to see that Draco’s father was just as bad as he was. Hermione pushed her parents back a step as they watched the exchange.

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said.

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy. He turned to face Hermione’s parents directly. Draco had surely told him they were muggles. “The company you keep, Weasley…and I thought your family could sink no lower—”

Hermione fumed at the insult, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. She hoped that her parents would bear it, too, but the point was soon moot, since Mr. Weasley didn’t take so kindly to someone insulting his guests. He lunged at Mr. Malfoy, and they both fell back into a bookshelf. The Grangers all jumped back. There was confusion as Mr. Weasley’s children egged him on, while his wife tried to stop him, and more shelves toppled over. But suddenly, a deep voice boomed over the fray.

“Break it up, there, gents, break it up—” Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old Transfiguration book.

He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice. “Here, girl—take your book—it’s the best your father can give you—” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

“Terribly sorry about that, you three,” Mr. Weasley apologised after brushing himself off and being thoroughly chastised by his wife. “You shouldn’t have had to see us fighting like that. Of course, you shouldn’t have to deal with people like Lucius Malfoy, either—think they’re better than everyone else, magic and non-magic alike.”

“Joke’s on them,” Ron spoke up. “Hermione got better marks than Draco Malfoy in every class.”

Hermione turned pink and said, “Yes, but that’s the reason he’s so mad at me.”

“Well, just don’t let him control your life,” her mother said. “That’s the best thing you can do about a bully.”

“I quite agree,” Mrs. Weasley said, giving sharp looks to her sons.

They reached the Leaky Cauldron, and the elder Weasleys explained how to use the Floo—more carefully than they had apparently told Harry. Mr. Weasley stepped through to set the wards for visitors, and then the rest of the party followed. Thankfully, this time, it went without a hitch.

Chapter Text

The Grangers arrived at the Burrow to find and even stranger magical environment than Diagon Alley. As the Weasleys stepped out of the fireplace, seven hands on a large clock shifted one by one from “Travelling” to “Home.” On closer inspection, each hand proved to have the name of one of the Weasleys on it. Two other hands, belonging to Bill and Charlie, were pointing at “Work.” There were moving pictures on the walls, a disturbing howl coming from someplace high above, and a mirror in the kitchen that verbally greeted the guests. A bird that looked more like a feather duster than an owl sat sleeping on a perch in the corner. The smell of baked chicken was wafting through the house.

They quickly hauled Hermione’s trunk up to Ginny’s room and then settled into the kitchen. It was a tight fit, but it seemed as if the Weasleys were used to it, as they set the table, laid out the food and took their seats like a well-oiled machine. (Not without a bit of complaining and quarrelling, but they really were practised at it.)

Before they sat down, Hermione whispered to Fred and George, “If you prank my parents, you will regret it. Remember, girls can get into the boys’ dorms at school, but not the other way around.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hermione,” Fred replied.

“Yeah, they’re guests in our house, after all,” George added.

“And they haven’t done anything to…provoke us.”

“Good,” Hermione said. “Let’s see it that it stays that way.”

Once everyone was seated around the table, Mr. Weasley declared, “Tuck in,” and that’s exactly what they did. The food was all extremely good. Ron had more than once boasted that his mother’s cooking was even better than the Hogwarts food, but Hermione hadn’t believed it. The Hogwarts food was always good quality, being made by dozens of house elves who were specifically trained in cooking and were the equivalent of professional chefs, so she’d no reason to believe Ron’s claims—until now.

“This is wonderful food, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said.

“Mm hmm. Definitely,” her mother added. “How ever did you do it?”

“It’s simply magic,” Mr. Weasley said with a grin.

“Oh, Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley chided him. “Just a little something I threw together.”

It was more than “a little something,” though. Mrs. Weasley was modest enough about her cooking, but the Grangers (and Harry) were impressed. It emerged that she had slaughtered the fattest chicken that morning, plucked it, stuffed it, and baked it with vegetables and gravy especially for the occasion. All the other ingredients were kept as fresh as possible under preserving charms, and she surely had used some more magic to prepare such an elaborate dinner for eleven in a single day and still have time for shopping.

Inevitably, the conservation turned to each other’s lives. It was quite rare for wizards to be able to catch up with muggles, even when their children were good friends. Mr. Weasley had an astonishing number of questions about how the muggle world worked. It was entertaining, but his level of ignorance was disturbing, especially for a wizard who was supposed to work with muggle artifacts. Then again, Hermione’s parents were just as ignorant about the magical world, although they had the Statute of Secrecy as an excuse.

“So, Hermione, what have you been up to over the summer?” Fred asked interestedly.

“Well, one of the first things I did was take my A-level in maths. That’s like a N.E.W.T…I got an A on it,” she said happily.

Every one of the Weasleys gasped, from Arthur all the way down to Ginny. Clearly, her reputation had preceded her.

“That’s like an O at Hogwarts,” she clarified as Harry and her parents laughed.

“Oh,” they all sighed with relief. Hermione Granger getting a mere Acceptable in maths would be a disaster. Being happy about it would be a sign of the Apocalypse. Fred and George grinned and discreetly raised their glasses to her for that one.

“So are you done with muggle maths, now?” Ron asked.

“Oh, heavens, no. There’s loads more at university level.”

“Yes, she started right in on vector calculus after that,” Dan said, to no one’s surprise.

“But it’s been very good to have her at home,” Emma added. “Hermione’s even showed us how to make a couple of potions that don’t require a wand.”

That raised some eyebrows around the room. “You can do that?” Ron blurted.

“Sure,” Hermione said, “if there’s no wand work, all the magic’s in the ingredients…Although, actually, I think it might be possible for muggles to brew a lot of the standard potions using runes, since the spells are so standardised.”

The Weasleys looked on with astonishment.

“But you can’t—but that’s—” Mrs. Weasley stammered, but she couldn’t seem to think of an actual objection.

“Really?” Mr. Weasley said. “That’s quite interesting. I never really thought of it that way before. I can’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t work, though, if the runes can replace what the spells do.”

Then, to her surprise, Percy spoke up: “Hermione, if you can actually demonstrate that, you should write it up. I’m sure The Practical Potioneer would love to see new developments coming from a bright young student.”

“Really? She squeaked. “But I’ll only be a second year.”

“Professor Dumbledore was in all kinds of journals when he was still a student,” Percy said importantly. “And I think you have the potential to follow in his footsteps if you apply yourself to it.”

Hermione was in a daze at this compliment, but suddenly, Ron started laughing. She glared at him, but he said, “Merlin’s beard, can you imagine the look on Snape’s face if he sees your name in his journal. You gotta try it.”

Hermione imagined it and laughed in spite of herself. He’d have to give her points then…or else he’d find an excuse to take about fifty away out of spite. Harry, Fred, George, and even Ginny all thought it was hilarious.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley noticed Fred and George getting very interested looks on their faces and decided to nip that in the bud. “Don’t even think about it!” she said. “Whatever you’re thinking about, just stop it.” This caused the rest of the children to laugh even more.

“So what about you, Arthur?” Dan asked. “What is it that you do, exactly?”

“I work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic,” Mr. Weasley replied eagerly.

“Misuse of Muggle Artifacts?”

“Yes, you see, the regulations on enchanting muggle artifacts are actually quite strict because they could be accidentally sold or given to muggles, and my office is the one that enforces them. Of course, the big trouble is what we call “muggle-baiting.” Some wizards will deliberately sell an unsuspecting muggle prank items like vanishing keys or biting doorknobs, and, of course, a muggle who doesn’t know about magic would never tell anyone because no one would believe them.”

“Oh, I can see how that would be a problem,” Dan replied. “It’s good to know someone’s looking out for us, then.”

“Father recently successfully lobbied the Wizengamot to pass a Muggle Protection Act to more uniformly punish muggle-baiting and other crimes against muggles,” Percy said. He hadn’t shown that much pride in his family at school, but apparently even he thought that passing something through the Wizengamot meant something, and if it was anything like Parliament, the Grangers had to agree.

“Really?” Emma said in surprise. “That can’t have been easy. It sounds like you’re doing good work.”

“Well, I like to think so. Mind you, most of us are perfectly friendly people. There’s some who don’t think muggles are worth the trouble, but I do. And besides, I enjoy my work, and that’s really what’s important, isn’t it?”

“Of course, Arthur, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said sincerely.

“And what about you two,” Mr. Weasley asked Dan and Emma. “They boys tried to explain what you do, but I don’t think they quite got it.”

“Oh, we’re both dentists,” Dan replied.

“And what is a dentist, exactly?”

“We repair people’s teeth. You see, when someone’s teeth are damaged or rotted, we can’t just fix them with a spell…” This led into perhaps the strangest dinner conservation the Grangers had had with a non-dentist. Mr. Weasley looked fascinated as Dan and Emma explained the process of digging out the rotted part of a tooth and filling it in with metal. Fred and George also looked fascinated for what Hermione feared were more sinister reasons. The rest of the Weasleys, Mrs. Weasley especially, turned green at the description.

“That sounds rather painful, though,” Mr. Weasley said cluelessly. “Do people have trouble going to the dentist when they need it?”

“Oh, yes. A visit to the dentist can strike fear into the hearts of the strongest men,” Dan said, practising his “protective father” look on the boys at the table, who winced. “Unfortunately, that’s something of a drain on our business,” he added.

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Weasley said uneasily, before quickly changing the subject.

After dinner, the Grangers thanked the Weasleys again for hosting and said their goodbyes, and Mr. Weasley carefully led Dan and Emma back through the Floo, soon reporting, to Hermione’s relief, that they had made it to London safety.

By then, it was just about time for bed. Hermione followed Ron’s painfully shy little sister up to the third landing, where she would be kipping on a camp bed for the week. She was pleased to see that Ginny’s room, like her own, was not too pink and girly, though it was more oriented towards Quidditch than academics.

But the moment the door closed, an amazing change came over Ginny. She heaved a huge sigh of what seemed equal parts relief and exasperation, and then she seemed to relax and brighten for the first time all day. “It’s really good of you to come stay with us, Hermione,” she said quickly. “It’ll be nice having another girl around to talk to. There’s only Luna here in the village, and she’s a little—” She whistled a “cuckoo” sound.

“Um, sure, Ginny,” Hermione said. “I’m glad to be here. Um…Are you okay, though? You barely said a word all through dinner, and now…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just get so nervous around Harry. I’ve wanted to meet him my whole life, and now he’s here, I can’t say two words to him,” she said frantically. “You’re friends with him. Can you tell me what he’s like?”

Famous Harry Potter again, she thought. Hermione marvelled at how not shy Ginny was at all when her favourite celebrity wasn’t around.

“I guess, but hasn’t Ron told you all about him?” she said.

“Ron’s a boy. He doesn’t notice the important things.”

That much she could agree with. “Well, the first thing that comes to mind is…Harry is really impulsive. And stubborn. He took off on a broom after Malfoy when he was told not to, and he’d never even flown before. Then he went traipsing off to a wizard’s duel at midnight that same day. He was wandering the castle after hours on Christmas. And I had to stop him charging after a dangerous thief at the end of term.”

“But he actually stopped You-Know-Who? Again?” Ginny interrupted excitedly.

“Well, kind of by accident, but yeah—but Professor Dumbledore and I helped.”

“That’s amazing!” she squeaked.

“Not so amazing if you were there,” Hermione countered. “It was really scary.”

“Oh…but still, not many people have faced You-Know-Who and lived.”

There was an awkward silence. Hermione usually tried not to think about that.

“So…all my brothers say you’re really brilliant,” Ginny changed the subject.

Hermione blushed. “In Arithmancy, sure,” she said. “I mean, Professor Vector’s never had anyone test in early before. But—”

“But didn’t you get top marks in all the other classes, too?”

“Well, yes—”

“That’s really amazing. Bill and Percy did things like that. I hope I can—”

“I’m sure you will, Ginny. It sounds like it runs in the family.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” she smiled weakly. “Say…Can you…introduce me to your friends we I come to Hogwarts?” she suddenly sounded nervous.

“Sure,” Hermione replied. “Of course, you already know Harry and Ron—”

“Thank you,” the redhead sighed with relief. She seemed unexpectedly somber as she nearly whispered, “I…don’t really have any friends—just my brothers. They’re really great—well, some more than others—but it’s hard being the only girl in the family.”

“You don’t have any friends?” Hermione said worriedly. “But what about in the village?”

Ginny shook her head. “There’s so few magical children around here, there’s hardly anyone my age. And we can’t really bring muggles over with all the magic we use here.”

“Well, I suppose not. But you must have some friends,” Hermione insisted. She couldn’t believe someone as outgoing as Ginny could be as lonely as she was all through primary.

“Well, Luna’s kind of my friend, but she really is a little nuts.”

“She can’t be that bad.”

“No, I mean it. I’ll introduce you if she stops by, but I haven’t seen much of her since her mum died.”

“Oh—?”

“Yeah, it was really sad. Some kind of accident a couple years ago. She spends most of her time with her dad, now.”

“Oh my…Well, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make plenty of friends at Hogwarts.”

Ginny brightened at that, and they talked inconsequentially for a while longer. Finally, it was time for bed. Ginny put everything in its place and emptied out her shopping bags, taking care to stow her new wand in a place of honour on her dresser.

“Hey, is this yours, Hermione?” she asked as she went through her supplies. She held up and old, black, leather-bound diary.

“Nope, not mine.”

“Huh. Mum must’ve got it for me.” She put the diary back on her stack of books and was soon ready for bed. “Good night, Hermione.”

“Good night, Ginny.”

A couple days later, the boys decided to go practice Quidditch in a paddock hidden by the trees—except for Percy, that is, who claimed he was busy. Hermione was pretty sure he’d only come out of his room for meals since she’d arrived.

“Hey, Hermione, do you wanna play,” Ron asked on the way out.

“No thanks. You know I’m rubbish on a broom.”

“I’ll play!” Ginny said.

“No,” Ron said. “You can’t even fly.”

“I can too. You just never let me play.”

“You’ve never been on a broom.”

“Harry had never been on a broom before, either, and he’s a great flier,” Hermione observed.

“Yeah, but he’s Harry.”

“Honestly, Ron. Ginny might as well get a head start. She’ll be learning at Hogwarts in a few weeks, anyway.”

“So let her learn it there.”

“You all learnt to fly before you went to Hogwarts,” Ginny said angrily. “Just because you never let me use your brooms—”

“That’s not very nice,” Hermione chided. “Maybe she’s a really great flier.”

“Let’s just go, guys. We don’t need her. She’s just a—” Ron started, but he wilted under Hermione’s death glare.

“A what, Ron?” she practically growled. “A girl? You asked me to play, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a girl. And all the Chasers on the Gryffindor team are girls, too.”

“And don’t we know it,” Fred said suggestively. “But, really, Ginny doesn’t have any experience, and we’ve already got four without Percy.”

At this, Ginny gave Hermione a pleading look that she must have been practising on her parents and older brothers for years. It proved difficult to resist.

The things I do for my friends, Hermione thought. “Fine, I’ll play with you, too. Ginny can’t be any worse than I am, so it’ll be even.”

After that argument, the boys had no recourse but to grudgingly let the girls join them, though Harry, at least, didn’t seem to mind. He went to get his Nimbus Two Thousand, and then the rest of the group went to the broom shed, where they retrieved five brooms that looked even more beat up than the old brooms at school. Hermione was liking this idea less by the minute, but she bravely slung Bill’s broom over her shoulder and followed the boys out toward the paddock.

Suddenly, Mrs. Weasley came running out the back door. “And just where do you think you’re going, young lady?” she called.

“To play Quidditch with the boys and Hermione, Mum,” Ginny replied nervously.

“Ginny, you can’t fly!” Mrs. Weasley yelled frantically.

Ginny screwed up her courage and gave her mother a disdainful look. Then, without a word, she hopped on her broom and took off. Mrs. Weasley screamed. After three laps around the house that looked to be straining the ancient broom’s capabilities, she flew in close, flipped upside down for good measure, and came face to face with her mother, her long hair hanging below her head.

“Bloody hell!” Ron, Fred, and George all said at once. Harry and Hermione didn’t speak, but they were both thinking the same thing.

“Ginny…how…?” Mrs. Weasley stammered.

“I guess I’m just a natural flier,” she said. She flipped over and landed on her feet.

“Well…well…don’t go scaring me like that again!” her mother chided, but she looked too proud to be very angry.

“Yes, Mum.”

“Keep a close eye on her, you three,” she told her sons.

“Ginny, why didn’t you ever tell us you could fly like that?” George said.

“Why didn’t you ever let me on a broom?” she replied defiantly.

“That was really great, Ginny,” Harry said softly.

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Ginny squeaked once and nearly tripped over her own feet. She found herself unable to speak for the rest of the walk. It was only when they had reached the paddock that she hung back and whispered, “Thanks, Hermione. I’ve been wanting to do that for years…I’m not really a natural flier. I’ve been sneaking my brothers’ brooms out since I was six.”

They had to fly low around the paddock to stay below the trees, which suited Hermione just fine. They also couldn’t play with real Quidditch balls, so they just tossed apples to each other, or, in Fred’s and George’s case, threw them at people when the fluidly shifting positions of the three-on-three game made them Beaters. Hermione regretted coming out here from the moment she was in the air. She could fly without hurting herself, and she really did try, but she was completely outclassed by all of the boys and Ginny. Granted, Ginny was inconsistent. She was a good flier in principle, but she froze up whenever she got close to Harry, which was bad where they were on opposing teams and downright dangerous when Fred and George tried putting them on the same team.

They’d been flying for about any hour, and Hermione was really wishing she could sit out the rest of the afternoon, when her prayers were answered: a tall, handsome boy with a nice, quality broom slung casually across his shoulders came strolling out of the trees.

“Cedric!” Hermione said excitedly and flew down to meet him. The rest of the players followed close behind.

“Hello, Hermione,” Cedric said. “You should have told me you’d be in the village.”

“Oh, you live around here? I didn’t know that.” Blame the Weasley boys, she thought.

“Hey, Diggory,” Fred said when he landed. “What’s going on?”

“I just thought I’d swing by. Your dad mentioned to my dad that you had guests. Do you mind if I join your game?”

“Not at all! You can take my spot,” Hermione said quickly.

“Really? You sure, Hermione?”

“Yeah, really. I more of a ‘both feet on the ground’ type. Oh, have you met Harry, Cedric?” she introduced her friend.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve seen you fly,” Cedric told Harry, shaking his hand. “You’re really good, Potter. Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks. Um, you’re Hufflepuff reserve Seeker, right?”

“That’s right,” Cedric said brightly. “Or I was last year. I probably will be again this year, but I think I’ve got a good chance at Captain next year. Maybe then I can take you down on a real pitch.”

“Uh, sure…Looking forward to it.”

“Great. So, what do you reckon? Three on three?” he asked the Weasley boys.

Fred and George got calculating looks on their faces and whispered to each other. “Alright, Diggory,” said Fred. “How about you, Ron, and Ginny versus us and Harry,” they proposed, sticking him with (it was hard to deny) the two weakest players. But Cedric graciously accepted the arrangement, and the two teams took off while Hermione watched.

Yes, it was definitely more fun on the ground.

Despite Ginny’s inconsistency, Cedric was impressed with her flying skills. “You never told me Ginny could fly,” he said to the Twins after a while.

“Yeah, uh, we didn’t really know,” George replied.

“She really pulled one over on us,” added Fred.

“Serves you right for never letting me on a broom before,” Ginny said. Then, she laughed evilly and buzzed both of their heads at once with her feet.

They ducked, and Fred yelled after her, “Of course, you know that this means war!”

The day before she was to go home, Hermione was sitting out on the back porch, reading up on how to calculate tangents and normals to vector-valued functions. (It was a rather tedious and complex process that would probably be better done with a computer, but that was no good in the magical world.) Percy had finally come out of his room to ask her some questions about basic trigonometry, since he was studying up for sixth-year Arithmancy, and Ginny was de-gnoming the garden.

Tiny grunts of “Geroff me!” filled the air as Ginny tossed gnomes over the hedge. It seemed disturbing to treat a creature that could speak so callously, but despite their large heads and their ability to say “Geroff me!” in context, the one time Hermione had tried to speak to one of the potato-like creatures, it had just muttered at her incoherently and bit her finger, and she was forced to conclude that it had no more brains than a parrot.

They were all so engrossed in what they were doing that it took a while before anyone noticed a girl with long blond hair wandering up the garden path, looking around dreamily, as if she were watching for interesting shapes in the clouds, but once you noticed her, it was hard to look away. She was a dotty-looking little thing, wearing clashing colours and corks on a necklace.

“Hello, Ginny,” the girl said in a high, ethereal voice. And then, as if noticing the flying lumps for the first time, “Oh good, you have gnomes!” She bent down to pick one up.

Ginny looked up: “Oh, hello Lu—”

“Ouch!” the gnome bit the girl’s finger, and she shook it off.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, very much so,” she replied airily. “Gnome saliva is excellent for boosting creativity and musical talent.”

Hermione looked to Ginny for an explanation. She didn’t remember feeling especially creative or musically inclined after she’d been bitten.

“Hermione, this is the girl I told you about, Luna Lovegood,” Ginny explained. “She’s starting Hogwarts this year, too. Luna, this is Hermione Granger. She’s in Ron’s year—except she’s already taking fourth-year Arithmancy.”

Luna cocked her head to one side. “Hello, Hermione Granger,” she said. “I suspected that you might be academically gifted. Your excess hair should ward off wrackspurts quite well.”

“P-pleased to meet you, Luna,” Hermione stammered. “Um, what are wrackspurts?”

“Tiny creatures that float through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy. But they would get tangled in your bushy hair and learn to stay away from you.”

Ginny started giggling.

“I…don’t think there is such a thing,” Hermione said slowly.

“Just because you’re never seen one,” Luna said indignantly.

“So what are you doing here, Luna?” Ginny asked before Hermione could make a scene.

“I was following a blibbering humdinger, and it led me here,” Luna said dreamily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hermione stared at Ginny again. Ginny twirled her finger around her temple when Luna wasn’t looking. Hermione didn’t think that was very nice of her, but it was hard to disagree with that assessment. Luna wandered around the garden for the rest of the morning, and Hermione didn’t think she even once said something that fully made sense. Still, she seemed like a nice enough girl. She was probably just more isolated than Ginny was. Hopefully, for her sake, some normal social interaction would tone her down.

The next day, Hermione packed her things to go home for the last five days of the summer.

“It’s been wonderful having you over, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I know Ginny really enjoyed it. You’ll have to come again next summer.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Weasley. I’d love to come back sometime.” Truthfully, Hermione had liked having Ginny around, too. Despite the Quidditch obsession and the even stronger Harry obsession, they seemed more alike than most of the girls she knew—although she wasn’t sure what Ginny was getting up to with that diary of hers the past couple of days.

“Yeah, um, thanks for coming,” Ron said awkwardly.

“Yeah…and thanks again for telling McGonagall to get me away from the Dursleys,” Harry added.

“I’m glad I could,” Hermione replied. “You know I’ll help you if I can, right?”

“And me too, mate,” Ron chipped in.

“Yeah, I know. I’m glad I have friends like you two,” Harry said simply.

In the corner, no one noticed Ginny looking on longingly.

“Alright, all ready to go, Hermione?” Mr. Weasley said as he stood by the fireplace.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley. I’ll see you all on Tuesday.”

“See ya.” The boys waved back.

And with that, Mr. Weasley escorted her back to Diagon Alley to meet her parents. Despite the mess at the end of last term, this was quite possibly the best summer she’d ever had.

Chapter Text

Hermione got to King’s Cross Station on the first of September with plenty of time to spare. She found a compartment with Neville Longbottom and chatted with him about their respective summers. But as the minutes ticked by, it seemed the Weasleys were running very late. At ten fifty-five, she began to worry that they might not make it. In fact, it was ten fifty-nine—she could hear the steam puffing from the scarlet engine—when Percy, Fred, George, and Ginny came running up to the train and threw their trunks on board.

“I thought you were going to miss the train,” Hermione admonished.

“Yeah, that was a close one,” George said.

“We had to go back for Ginny’s diary,” added Fred.

“And your broomstick and fireworks,” Ginny shot back.

“So where’s Ron and Harry?” Hermione asked.

They looked around and saw the other boys were nowhere to be found. “Huh. Dunno,” Fred replied. “They were right behind us.”

“Hope they didn’t get left behind,” George said.

“Probably just found another compartment. They’ll turn up.”

“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed at Ron as he pounded on the solid barrier between Platform Nine and Platform Ten.

“The barrier’s sealed itself somehow,” Ron said. “I don’t get it. It’s never done that before.”

“How do we get through,” Harry said, pushing more frantically.

“I dunno…” Ron looked up at the clock. “Oh, no! It’s no good. The train leaves at exactly eleven o’clock. We’ve missed it.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I dunno…” he repeated. “What if Mum and Dad can’t get back to us either? Do you have any muggle money.”

“Ha! No. The Dursleys never gave me pocket money.”

Ron pressed his ear against the barrier. “I can’t hear a thing,” he said.

Harry glanced around at all the muggles staring at the two boys and an owl who were behaving so strangely. “Uh, Ron, maybe we should wait by the car,” he said.

“The car? Harry, the car!”

“What about it?”

“Dad enchanted it to fly!” Ron whispered with a gleam in his eyes. “We can fly it to Hogwarts!”

“What? But we don’t know how.”

“I can work it out. Dad talks enough about it.”

“But—”

“Look, we’re stranded here, right? No muggle money, we don’t know when Mum and Dad’ll get back, and we have to get to school, right? This is an emergency.” He started off toward the car park.

Harry was about to protest again, but then, a brain wave hit him—a fragment of a memory spoken to him a month earlier: stranded…emergency…emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard.

He caught up and grabbed his friend by the arm. “Wait, Ron! I’ve got an idea!”

Harry led Ron past the car park and out to the street. Then, he braced himself, prayed this would work, and stuck out his right hand.

BANG! A purple triple-decker bus appears at the curbside, pushing several parked cars out of the way.

A moment later, to Harry’s delight, a young man in a purple uniform jumped out and said, “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor today.”

“That’s bloody brilliant!” Ron said. “You can take us to Hogwarts, then?”

“‘Ogwarts?” Stan Shunpike said, looking confused. “Why don’ ‘choo take the train?”

“We missed the train,” Ron said.

“‘Choo miss the train for?”

“We didn’t miss it on purpose,” Ron replied testily. “Can you take us or not?”

“Course we can. Might take a while, tho.” Busy day today. That’s eleven sickles each, but for fifteen, you get a peanut butter an’ jelly san’wich.”

“I’ve got it,” Harry muttered, pulling out the correct change.

“Great. Let’s go,” Ron said.

“Fred, George, I don’t think Harry and Ron are on the train,” Hermione said in exasperation. “They must have missed it.”

Draco Malfoy seemed to be thinking the same thing. He had wandered in around lunch time to needle Harry and instead found a perfect opportunity to gloat over his supposed expulsion from school, but Fred and George quickly chased him out.

“Well, it’s not that bad, is it?” said Fred. “Mum and Dad’ll take care of them—once Mum’s done yelling at Ron.”

“They’ve probably Flooed straight to Hogsmeade by now,” George said.

“They’re probably having a grand old time sipping butterbeer—”

“Eating fish and chips—”

“Chatting up Madam Rosmerta.”

“I’m sure they’re doing just fine.”

“Well…if you say so,” Hermione said.

“AHHHHHH!”

Harry and Ron screamed and dove for cover as the Knight Bus zoomed treacherously along the very edge of the Cliffs of Dover for the benefit of some deranged magical sightseer. BANG-ing around the country like this all day was making them both terrified and nauseous, so much so that even Ron didn’t have the stomach for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Next time, we’re taking the car,” he yelled to Harry. “At least that way, if we crash, it’ll be our own fault.”

By now, Harry was starting to agree with him.

“Firs’ years this way!” a familiar voice cried. In the dusk, a dark figure with a lantern towered over the students. The first years nervously moved towards Hagrid as they gazed up at his huge form. Hermione remembered how awed she’d been the first time she saw him.

“Well, that’s me. Wish me luck,” Ginny said, clearly trying to sound more confident than she was. She walked over to join the crowd. Luna Lovegood came and stood next to her, watching Hagrid with a serene smile.

“All righ,” Hermione?” Hagrid called over to her. “Where’re the other two?”

“They missed the train,” she said. “We thought they’d be waiting for us here.”

“Ah, probably gone up teh the castle already. Yeh’d better go on ahead.”

“Well…okay, see you later, Hagrid.”

“Or else Ron drank too much butterbeer,” Fred suggested.

“Come on, you two. Let’s get a carriage,” said George.

The Twins led Hermione and Neville a short way up the road from the station to where several dozen stagecoaches stood to take the students up to the castle. But the two younger children froze when they came close, staring that the things that were pulling the stagecoaches. They looked like horses, but they were scaly and skeletal. They had dragon-like heads complete with sharp teeth and huge, bat-like wings folded against their sides. Their eyes were solid white, but they appeared to be looking around as if they could see. They had an eerie, otherworldly aura about them that made Hermione and Neville shiver.

“You okay?” George asked.

“What are those things?” said Hermione, pointing at the unsettling animals.

The Twins looked where she was pointing. “What things?” asked Fred.

“Pulling the carriages.”

The Twins looked confused. “There’s nothing pulling the carriages,” Fred told her.

“Yeah,” George added. “The carriages pull themselves. Always have.”

“You pranking us, now?” asked Fred.

“No—What are you talking about? They’re right there!” Hermione said, pointing again. “They’re big horse-dragon things. Neville, you see them, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah…” the shy boy stammered. “I can see them…” He screwed up his face as he often did when he was trying to remember something he’d forgotten.

“I think the ickle second years have gone mad, Georgie,” said Fred. He started to walk around the front of the carriage. “There’s clearly nothing—”

“Watch out!” Hermione yelled, a half-second too late. Fred walked directly into the flank of one of the beasts and went sprawling on the ground.  The creature bucked and let out a shrieking cry like a bird of prey. Several more of the things returned the cry from the other carriages, making many of the students who were milling around jump.

“Bloody hell!” the Twins said in unison, and Hermione realised that unless they were pulling a very good (and risky) act, they really couldn’t see the things. But they could definitely hear them. George came around the other side of the carriage, extended his arms in front of him, and cautiously stepped forward. Soon, he made contact with another of the creatures.

“Whoa!” he said. “This is wicked. It’s invisible!” He looked back at Hermione and Neville. “But you two can see them?”

Comprehension dawned on Neville’s face. “I remember!” he cried. “They’re called thestrals. My Gran told me about them. They’re a wild type of winged horse, except…” He grew pale, and his voice dropped to where the others could barely hear it. “…except only people who have seen death can see them.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, followed only a split second later by the twins, and she gave a tiny “Oh!” of surprise. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them only had a few lines about thestrals, and it hadn’t mentioned that particular aspect of their nature. She’d just assumed they could appear and disappear at will. But with this trait, probably only a few of the students could see them.

“Ohhh…” said Fred. “So when Professor Quirrell…”

“Yeah,” she said quickly.

“Are you doing okay, Hermione?” asked George.

“Mostly,” she said. “It still hurts sometimes…Neville, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said shakily. “We should go.”

The four of them climbed aboard the carriage, and it started rattling up the road to the castle.

“It was my granddad,” Neville said after a minute or two of silence. “The whole family was with him in St. Mungo’s when he…when he went.”

Hermione patted him on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry about what happened last spring,” he told her. “I know it’s not the same…It gets easier, though.”

“I know…” she said. “Thank you, Neville.”

“Alright, enough moping,” Fred complained. “We’ve got pranks to plan…”

They reached the doors of the castle and filed into the Great Hall. Hermione kept looking around for Ron and Harry, but they were still nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, she took a seat near Neville and the Twins, who confidently saved a seat for Ginny in addition to Harry and Ron, and waited for the first years to arrive.

“There you go,” said Stan Shunpike. “Gates of ‘Ogwarts. Thanks for ridin’.” And before Harry and Ron could speak another word, there was a deafening BANG! And the Knight Bus zoomed away.

“Well, that was bright idea,” Ron grumbled, nursing bruises from a full days’ riding on the absurd bus. Even Scabbers seemed to be squeaking in protest.

“At least it got us here,” Harry said wearily. “Come on, let’s get up to the castle before we miss dinner.”

Ron didn’t argue with that. The two boys dragged their heavy trunks and Hedwig’s cage up the path to the main doors of the castle.

“Harry, I think the Sorting’s started,” Ron said, peering in a window. Harry came up alongside him. Scabbers poked his head out of Ron’s pocket as if to watch.

Indeed, the golden plates on the long tables were still bare, and a line of first years was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, waiting for Professor McGonagall to place the ragged old Sorting Hat on their heads. Ginny’s hair stood out brightly in the candleight.

“Creevey, Colin,” McGonagall called, and a tiny, mousy-haired boy ran forward almost as eagerly as Hermione had done last year. Harry scanned the High Table where Dumbledore sat, cheerfully watching the sorting, looking quite unconcerned about his two missing students. Indeed, none of the staff seemed to have noticed, except two. At the far corner of the Great Hall, Professor Vector and Hagrid were not watching the ceremony. Harry followed their gazes and spotted Hermione, sitting by several empty seats. It made Harry feel a little better to see that Professor Vector had not forgotten what happened one other time a student was mysteriously absent from dinner. In the meantime, he noticed something amiss at the other end of the High Table.

“GRYFFINDOR!” The Sorting Hat shouted.

“Hang on, there’s an empty seat,” Harry said. “Where’s Snape?”

“Huh, maybe he’s ill,” Ron said.

“Maybe he left.”

“Maybe he’s been sacked!”

“Or maybe,” a cold, wicked voice sounded behind them, “He’s waiting to hear why you didn’t arrive on the train.”

The two boys turned around slowly. There was Professor Snape in his billowing black robes, grinning down at them evilly. “Well…?” he growled. Scabbers ducked back into Ron’s pocket.

“Th-the barrier at King’s Cross sealed itself, sir,” Harry said. “We missed the train…We came on the Knight Bus.”

“A likely story. Follow me.” Snape led them up the front steps and into the echoing Entrance Hall, though mercifully not down to the dungeons. “Let’s call that minus twenty points each for tardiness—yes, Mr. Weasley, I can do that before the terms starts. And before dinner, too. I do believe that’s a record. Not even your father managed that, Potter.” Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Snape cut him off: “Oh, and detention. And get inside before I reconsider my generosity. The elves will attend to your luggage.” With that, he pushed open the doors to the Great Hall.

“Lovegood, Luna,” McGonagall called, but she froze with the Sorting Hat hanging from her hand as all eyes turned to Harry and Ron as Snape led them in. Only Luna herself seemed oblivious as she skipped up the front of the Hall and sat on the stool, swinging her feet.

“Just a late delivery, Minerva,” Snape said with a sneer. “Carry on.”

Hermione finally saw a red-faced Harry and Ron walked dejectedly up to the Gryffindor Table. She’d been getting more and more worried when they never showed up to the Welcome Feast, and Fred and George started joking that they’d been expelled for trying to fly Mr. Weasley’s enchanted car to school. She jumped up and hugged each of them, whispering. “There you are! Where have you been? Are you alright? What happened? Why weren’t you on the train? Come on, sit down.”

Harry and Ron sat and whispered back to her and the Twins about their ordeal starting that morning. That the barrier would seal itself seemed very strange, but she didn’t know what might cause that. She paled, and the Twins laughed, when Ron said they actually did consider flying the car to Hogwarts. Looking up at the staff table, she saw Hagrid smile and wave, and Harry waved back. Professor Vector nodded to them with a very relieved expression.

Through all of this, Hermione kept one eye on the Sorting. Luna was taking a long time, but unlike most of the students, who might mutter a few nervous words in exchange with the Hat, the strange blond girl was smiling and looked to be having a pleasant conversation with it. Finally, she was sure she heard the Hat chuckle softly before it called out, “RAVENCLAW!”

Luna, still smiling, skipped down to take a seat at the adjacent table. Hermione wonder what she possibly could have talked about so long with a hat. She also remembered her own Sorting, when the Hat had nearly put her in Ravenclaw, and then changed its mind. Perhaps she should keep an eye on Luna Lovegood, she thought.

The rest of the Sorting went quickly. It was a small class this year. Finally, Ginny was standing alone in the middle of the Hall with all eyes on her. She looked resolute, but Hermione had a feeling she was really frightened inside. After all, she had a lot to live up to.

“Weasley, Ginevra,” McGonagall said at last.

Ginny stood up straight and walked forward calmly to sit on the stool. The Sorting Hat barely even touched her head before it shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The entire Gryffindor table stood and applauded. The Weasley Family’s reputation in that house was legendary by now. Ginny ran over and hugged each of her brothers in turn and took the empty seat between Fred and George. Ron leaned close to Harry and Hermione and said, “Figures she’d be the most Gryffindor of all of us.”

With Ginny sorted, Dumbledore initiated the feast in his own eccentric way. It was as good as Hermione remembered. The house elves may not have quite had Mrs. Weasley’s personal touch, but they certainly did good work. Hermione chatted with Harry, the Weasleys, and some of the other second years and had a lengthy conversation with Percy and Alicia Spinnet about fourth year Arithmancy.

Thankfully, nothing out of the ordinary happened the rest of that night (at least by Hogwarts standards). Dumbledore made his start of term announcements—no forbidden corridors or “very painful death” this year. Gilderoy Lockhart was introduced as the new Defence Professor and made a long speech about how pleased he was to be returning to Hogwarts, flashing his winning smile out across the Hall. Hermione sat with rapt attention, barely aware of the smirks the boys were giving her. Of course, many of the other girls were staring at least as much as she was.

When Lockhart finally finished, the students were dismissed, and Hermione trudged up the fourteen flights to her dormitory. (That was one thing about Hogwarts that she hadn’t missed.) Her roommates filed in one by one. Sally-Anne Perks didn’t immediately pass out on her bed this year, but she did immediately change out of her robes and, after hugging Lily Moon in greeting, climbed into bed and was fast asleep. Hermione still couldn’t understand how she was that much of a morning person and wondered how she would be when her night owl teenager phase hit. Lily sat on her bed for a little while, playing with her cat, Wendelin, trying in vain to tire her out so that she wouldn’t tear up the dorm in the night.

“Can you believe we’re actually getting Gilderoy Lockhart as a professor,” Lavender Brown said excitedly.

“I know!” Parvati Patil gushed. “Did you see his smile?”

“Most Charming Smile Award five years running,” Lavender said.

“He’s amazing,” Parvati said. “I wonder how he gets his hair like that.”

“Occamy egg yolks,” Hermione said. “It says so in Break with a Banshee.”

“Wow, he’s even daring when he does his hair,” Parvati said. “Occamy eggs are really dangerous to get. Mother says they’re only used for very special amulets and potions in India.”

“Oh, he’s completely brilliant,” Hermione said excitedly. “I’m sure he’ll be a great teacher. I wonder what creatures he’ll cover first.”

“Wow, he’s even better than I thought,” Lavender teased. “He’s even got Hermione noticing him.” Parvati giggled.

“Well…” Hermione blushed.

“Come on, you can admit it to us,” Lavender said, flopping back on her bed. “I mean, he’s got brains and good looks—the perfect combination. Any witch would want him. I think I’m in love already.”

At this point, Hermione couldn’t help but giggle at her roommate’s antics. “Well…” she said, “he does have nice eyes.”

“Oh, I know—forget-me-not blue and everything. Of course…” Lavender rolled over and faced her with a mischievous grin, “Harry has pretty nice eyes, too.”

“Eep!” She honestly hadn’t even noticed Harry’s eyes that much. She supposed objectively…but he was just too…Harry. He was a good friend, but he was still the boy who kept charging off into danger without thinking about what he was doing. Still, she quickly changed the subject to Gilderoy Lockhart’s dream of harmony between magical and non-magical peoples as told in Wanderings with Werewolves.

But even so, Hermione never would have thought a year ago that she would be able to join in with one of Lavender’s and Parvati’s gossip fests. It was actually a little disturbing how well she fit, but she could worry about that later. For now, she had her girlfriends, and she was ready for the coming year.

Her last thought before she fell asleep that night was, It’s good to be back.

By the next morning, things seemed to be back to normal for Hogwarts. Harry and Ron were enjoying their breakfast and chatting while Hermione sat quietly to get some last minute reading done in Voyages with Vampires. She barely managed to pull the book out of the way when the Weasley family owl crashed into the table, carrying a red letter that was puffing out smoke ominously.

“Oh, no!” Ron groaned.

“You’d better open it,” Neville said. “It’ll be worse if you don’t.”

Hermione wondered what all the fuss was about as Ron opened the envelope with shaking hands.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”

Hermione screamed and clapped her hands tight over her ears. Mrs. Wealsey could pitch quite a fit in person, but the voice that came screaming out of the letter was amplified by at least twenty decibels, which Hermione knew meant it was flirting with the level that could cause actual ear pain and hearing damage.

“HOW DARE YOU RUN OFF WITHOUT SO MUCH AS LEAVING A NOTE? YOUR FATHER AND I WERE WORRIED SICK WHEN WE SAW YOU WERE GONE—LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, SAID YOU’D TAKEN THE KNIGHT BUS OF ALL THINGS—COULDN’T BEAR TO WAIT FOR US TO GET BACK, COULD YOU? WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP BEHAVE LIKE THIS, AND IF YOU STEP ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, YOU WILL REGRET IT.”

And as if the screaming weren’t enough, the letter then burst into flames. Hermione cautiously pulled her hands away from her ears. Her ears were ringing.

“What was that?” she demanded, her voice piercing the silence of the Hall, kicking off the babble of talk once again. She was too stunned to even admonish Ron and Harry for not leaving a note.

“A Howler,” Neville said sheepishly. “I got one from my Gran once, but I ignored it…It was horrible.”

“How are those things even legal? You could really hurt someone with it being that loud.”

“I dunno,” Neville replied. “I’ve never heard of anyone getting hurt by one. They’re just really scary.”

Hermione didn’t have anything to reply to that, and further talk was cut off as Professor McGonagall began handing out course schedules to the prefects. “Miss Granger, I have your schedule here,” she said as she approached. “You’ll be pleased to hear that you’ll be able to take all of your classes with your house mates this year.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Hermione looked over her schedule: Double Herbology, Transfiguration, Defence, and Double Arithmancy today. Excellent. She ran up to her dorm to get her books and made it to the greenhouses in plenty of time.

Professor Sprout surprised the class by taking them into Greenhouse Three, where all the really dangerous plants were housed. It looked like they were jumping in the deep end this year, which soon proved to be even more true than she realised.

“We’ll be re-potting mandrakes today…” Professor Sprout started. But Hermione didn’t hear the rest of it because she felt like she might actually be having a heart attack.

Mandrakes?! Was she insane? Professor Sprout might as well have said, “We’ll be assembling fully-functional nuclear weapons today,” and it would have had about the same impact. Hermione swooned in her spot and gripped the table hard for support. Ron and Harry looked at her, very puzzled.

“…The mandrake is also, however, dangerous. Can anyone tell me why?”

“The cry of the mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it!” Hermione burst out without even raising her hand.

“Precisely. Five points to Gryffindor.” Professor Sprout replied happily.

“But professor,” Hermione pleaded, “doesn’t that make them far too dangerous to keep anywhere near people?”

“What do you mean, Miss Granger?”

“Well, I’m sure the cry can carry a long way. If someone wasn’t careful they could wipe out an entire village just by mishandling one, let alone with malicious intent. And if it had an amplifying charm on it, like a Howler—”

Most of the class gasped, and the muggle-raised students, who had some idea about the scales involved with nuclear weapon analogs, started to swoon just like she had.

“Miss Granger! How could you think of such a thing?” Sprout demanded.

“Because it’s obvious, Professor! I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be morbid, but muggles are very concerned with that kind of thing falling into the wrong hands. In the muggle world, anything that powerful and deadly is called a “weapon of mass destruction.” They’re incredibly tightly controlled; all the things that are used to make them are tightly controlled, and only major governments can have them. If anyone else ever got hold of one, it would be an international crisis, and they’re kept behind security that makes what you put on the Philosopher’s Stone last year look like child’s play…ma’am.”

“Please calm yourself, Miss Granger,” Sprout said impatiently, as most of the class was now backing away from both Hermione and the mandrake seedlings. “Mandrakes, while very rare and carefully controlled, are not nearly so dangerous as that. First, the cry is not instantly fatal, and is not fatal at all at a long range. Although it is rapidly debilitating, a swiftly applied Silencing Charm will save you from harm. Secondly, as a magical sound, the cry is only dangerous in its natural state. Recordings of the cry are not dangerous, and, thank Merlin, no dark wizard has ever succeeded in increasing its lethality with an amplifying charm.

“Sorry, professor,” Hermione said. The class calmed down, but they still eyed her warily. She knew she wasn’t exactly the person whom people expected to talk about things as morbid as weapons of mass destruction.

“Quite alright,” Sprout replied. “Now, as our mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries can’t kill yet, but they could certainly knock you out for several hours before anyone noticed with their earmuffs on, so do mind them carefully.” She then had the students divide into teams of four, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry were joined by a muggle-born Hufflepuff named Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Justin smiled as he shook her hand: “You’re Hermione Granger—always on top in everything, aren’t you? You know, I was wondering that about mandrakes myself. I had a job convincing my Mum that magic was handy to have around, but even I hate to think what wizards could do with what might as well be ready-made nukes. Ron looked at the two of them in confusion, but neither of them had time to explain the finer points of muggle nuclear physics or geopolitics, since Professor Sprout told everyone to put on their earmuffs and get to re-potting.

So Herbology got off to an okay start. Then, after spending Transfiguration class changing beetles into buttons and a quick lunch in which the little first year, Colin Creevey, started a scene by asking Harry for his autograph, the three of them headed off to Defence.

The first Defence lesson with Professor Lockhart did not go as well as Hermione had hoped. Lockhart spent half the class on a “little quiz” which was actually about him rather than his books. Even if she was (though she would never admit it) a little smitten when he flashed her his winning smile and awarded her alone full marks, it didn’t exactly seem like the most practical idea. And the practical part of the class wasn’t planned out that well, either. Releasing a swarm of the pixies on the classroom and then diving behind his desk wasn’t exactly the best way to give them hands on experience. But then again, even the most brilliant people weren’t necessarily that good at teaching—just look at Professor Snape. But she hoped that Professor Lockhart would get better with practice.

“Here. Watch carefully. It’s Immobulus,” she told Harry and Ron as she froze one of the pixies and stuffed it back in its cage.

“Immobulus,” Harry repeated, and to her relief, he got the charm to work.

“Great,” she said. “I’m really sorry about this, but can you take care of the rest? I have to get to Arithmancy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said unenthusiastically. Ron just grumbled as he fought a pixie that was trying to bite him on the nose.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Hermione said. “I owe you one.”

Hermione made it to Professor Vector’s classroom just in time and took her familiar seat in the front row between Alicia Spinnet and Roger Davies. Professor Vector nodded to her and stood up to start the class. Hermione idly wondered how long she would wait to start if she were, late, but she wasn’t about to test it. No one said anything about Hermione’s presence this year, except for a few “Welcome backs.” Even Graham Montague, the irascible Slytherin, gave her his grudging respect after learning she’d taken top marks in the exam.

“Good morning, and welcome back to fourth year Arithmancy,” Vector greeted them. “I’m pleased to see that nearly everyone stuck with the class from last year.

“I think you will find that this year’s class will be very different from last year’s and, for most of you, much more interesting. Last year, we focused on developing the mathematical tools and techniques that all arithmancers need. While we found some important applications, like numerology and prognostication, we did very little that had to do with the main thrust of arithmancy, which is, of course, spellcrafting.

“Now, we still won’t be getting much into proper spellcrafting this year, but we will be developing many of the magical tools that go into it. A big part of this year will involve learning to detect active spells, analyse their arithmantic components, and remove or reverse them. You may think of this as a very simplified, low-level introduction to the techniques of curse-breaking, although we won’t get to actual curses at O.W.L.-level, since curses involve differential equations. We will also be learning how to reverse-engineer simple charms, do minor spell modification, and construct arithmantic inverses for counter-charms. Along the way, we’ll be covering more the advanced algebra and geometry that we will need for these techniques. Any questions?”

No one raised their hand.

“Excellent. We will begin with a review of how the algebraic and geometric components of a charm relate to its effects…”

Thereafter followed a very enjoyable lecture. Yes, Arithmancy was still Hermione’s favourite class, and it was only going to get better.

Two hours later, she got a chance to talk to her three older friends together for the first time: “So, study group on Tuesdays and Thursdays after classes?” Cedric asked as they packed up to leave.

“Um, Tuesdays and Fridays might be better,” Hermione said. “I have Double Potions on Thursdays, and I might not get out before one of you has Quidditch practice.”

“Hmm…Friday,” Alicia grumbled. “Well, I guess I can make that work. What about you two?”

“Works for me,” Roger said.

“Tuesdays and Fridays it is, then,” Cedric said. “See you later, Hermione.”

“See you.”

She started to leave herself before Professor Vector called after her, “Miss Granger?”

She turned around. “Yes, Professor?”

“It’s good to see you back.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s good to be back, ma’am.”

“So how was your summer, Hermione?”

“Very good, Professor. I got an A—that’s the highest grade—on my maths A-level.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Are you still continuing your maths education?”

“Of course, ma’am. I’m studying vector calculus now. I want to try to take the exam for that over Christmas through The Open University and then cover differential equations in the spring.”

Septima Vector wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get used to a twelve-year-old cheerfully talking about learning what she knew as N.E.W.T. and Masters-level arithmancy techniques, but that was Hermione Granger, alright. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said with a chuckle. “Do come to me if you need any help. Vector calculus is a speciality of mine.” Hermione laughed out loud. “And what about the rest of your summer?”

“It was really nice. I spent a week with the Weasleys—that was a lot of fun. And I even taught my mum to make a couple of potions—you know, ones that don’t use a wand.”

She’s experimenting in potions, now? Of course she is, Septima thought. “That’s…very impressive. From what I can gather, most muggle-born families wouldn’t bother.”

“Oh, Mum and Dad were very interested. Actually, that reminds me, ma’am. I was thinking about doing some more experiments at Christmas, and Percy Weasley suggested I write them up to submit to The Practical Potioneer. I have a feeling Professor Snape wouldn’t be that helpful, so I was wondering if you could help me with that.”

Septima needed a few moments to realise that her mouth was hanging open—just when she thought the girl had run out of ways to surprise her. She actually thought that Severus might be agreeable to an independent study with a good enough student, even a young Gryffindor, but imagining the look on the man’s face when her name showed up in print was too much. She chuckled and said, “Hermione, do you realise that if you could get such a paper accepted this year, you would quite possibly be the youngest author to have a scholarly paper published since Professor Dumbledore himself?”

Hermione looked a little uneasy, as if she weren’t entirely sure if that was a compliment or an admonishment, but she collected herself and replied, “Only because no one seems to bother with muggles, ma’am. It’s really pretty obvious when you think about it.”

“Well, unfortunately, in our society, people too frequently miss the obvious.” Myself included. “I’d be happy to help you write up a paper. You might also look up back issues in the library to get a feel for the style.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll look into that.”

Septima nodded. “So how have you been feeling lately?”

Hermione’s expression grew a little more sombre. “Much better,” she said. “I saw a counsellor over the summer—I couldn’t tell her what really happened, but she still helped me a lot. I’m just hoping for a normal year, now.”

“As am I, Hermione. As am I.”

Chapter Text

Thursday meant Charms and Potions, plus Astronomy late that night. Most of the teachers were settling back into their usual routines. Snape was as unpleasant as ever, but he did, to Hermione’s surprise, provide the class with a little bit of interesting information: most notably, that they were expected to apply more herbology skills in Potions class this year, since, he explained in his backhanded way, one of the most important reasons for Herbology as a class was that it served as intermediate and advanced Potions prep. That actually made a lot of sense, she thought. Most potions were majority-plant-based, after all. Astronomy was actually the odd class out at Hogwarts. While interesting and fun—and its astrology aspects were some preparation for Divination and Arithmancy—it really didn’t have that much practical value, especially to wizards, who didn’t have space travel.

Friday was Transfiguration again in the morning and Double History in the afternoon, which everyone but Hermione slept through. Secretly, she only paid half-attention herself. No one ever passed history by listening to Professor Binns’s lectures. Reading A History of Magic for an hour was worth a month of sitting through that class, and listening to Tilly’s history lectures for an hour would be worth at least that if wizards were open-minded enough to put house elf history on the exams.

She needed to visit the elves, too, she reminded herself. She was sure they would be excited to see her again, and she still needed Sonya to help her finish her map of the castle. Maybe she could introduce Justin to them. Or some of the first years—that Luna Lovegood would probably be interested.

Harry was back to his usual antics in the first few days, namely, trying to avoid his annoying fans, like Professor Lockhart and that little Colin Creevey, who followed him around with his camera. Ron was also back to his usual antics of being generally lazy and trying to convince Hermione to “check over” his homework. Well, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Before she knew it, it was the weekend. Harry had suggested to her and Ron that they visit Hagrid on Saturday morning—the trouble was, Harry didn’t show up to breakfast.

“Early Quidditch practice,” Ron explained through bites of toast. “Wood’s gone even more mental than usual. We can go out to the Pitch and wait for him to finish.”

That sounded like a good idea on paper, until they got to the Pitch and spent half an hour with Colin Creevey bugging them for information on the finer points of Quidditch. This led Ron to adopt the “every man for himself” strategy and push him off on Hermione by mentioning her advanced maths skills.

“Oh, wow, so can you multiply big numbers in your head, like Matilda?” the tiny first year asked excitedly.

“You’ve read Matilda?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Hasn’t everybody read Matilda? So can you multiply two hundred thirteen by three hundred seventy-nine?”

“Eighty thousand, seven hundred twenty-seven.”

“Cool! So can you move things with your mind?”

Hermione blushed. She’d tried to do that for months after she’d first read that book, but she was never able to do the magic consistently without a wand, and she had eventually convinced herself she was imagining things.

Ron was less polite than she: “Blimey, Colin, are you a wizard or not?”

“Oh, right…”

“Anyway, Hermione got her…N.E.W.T. or whatever in maths this summer,” Ron bragged.

“A-level,” she corrected.

Colin’s eyes bugged out even more than usual. “You got an A-level? But people take those when they’re, like, eighteen. You must be really good.”

“Well, I try…”

“About time!” Ron yelled suddenly. The Gryffindor Quidditch Team was taking the field in their scarlet robes. “Aren’t you finished yet?”

“Haven’t even started,” Harry called back. It seemed Wood really had gone mental.

The team kicked off the ground, and Colin started eagerly taking pictures. But this only lasted a few minutes before the Slytherin Team strutted onto the field.

“Uh oh, Malfoy’s with them,” Ron said. “I smell trouble. Let’s go down there.”

Hermione followed them down. Malfoy turned out to be the new Slytherin Seeker, although his actual skills were in question, since he had bought his way onto the team with a full lineup of Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. The same old mistake, Hermione thought, remembering the Quidditch stats all her friends kept quoting at her, putting the Keeper on a faster broom instead of a more manoeuvrable one. She didn’t even really like Quidditch beyond her friends’ participation in it, and even she could see what so many teams missed. But maybe that was just her own mathematical analysis.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when Malfoy singled her out: “Granger? What are you doing here? I figured you would’ve run home scared after what happened last spring.” The other Slytherins sniggered leeringly.

Hermione felt herself turn red, but she held her ground and defiantly said, “I’m not that easy to get rid of, Malfoy.”

“Tut tut, you should have stayed home,” Malfoy shot back. “One of these days someone’s gonna put you in your place.”

Hermione turned up her nose slightly and tried to keep her hands from trembling.

“And just what is that supposed to mean, Malfoy?” demanded Alicia.

“You stay out of this, Spinnet,” he spat. Marcus Flint moved to step in front of her.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Hermione said.

Malfoy scowled at her: “Don’t tell me what to do, you filthy little mudblood.”

Hermione still fumed at that insult whenever Malfoy threw it out, but she at least had the sense to ignore it. But this was the first time he’d called her that in front of witnesses, which proved to be a bad move.

“How dare you!” Alicia shrieked. Fred and George gasped in shock and charged Malfoy, only to be blocked by Flint, but Ron went straight for his wand.

“You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” he yelled, waving his wand furiously. “Slugulus Eructo!”

There was a loud bang, and a flash of green light hit Malfoy in the face, and he collapsed. The other Slytherins drew their wands, but Fred and George already had theirs out. There were twin flashes of red light, and Flint’s and Bletchley’s wands came flying out of their hands. Hermione, Harry, and the rest of the Gryffindor Team drew their wands, and, now outnumbered nine wands to four, the Slytherins realised discretion was the better part of valour.

Suddenly, there was a loud retching sound. All eyes turned to Malfoy has he sat up on the grass with a sick look on his face. Then, he gave a loud belch and spat several black slugs out of his mouth. The Gryffindors roared with laughter.

Malfoy staggered to his feet and yelled, “My father will hear about—!” But he was unable to finish the threat as he retched again, and several more slugs came dribbling out of his mouth. In response, he pointed at Ron even more furiously, and yelled, “I’ll get you for this, Weasley! You and Granger!” And then, taking advantage of his predicament, he reared back and spat a slug directly at Hermione’s face. She just barely managed to dodge it.

“Why you—!” Ron shouted, and raised his wand again, but Katie and Angelina held him back, and the Slytherins closed ranks around Malfoy and pulled him away to take him up to the Hospital Wing.

The Gryffindors all stared after them, not quite sure what to do.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Ron,” Hermione said. “You’ve already got one detention.”

“Do you know what that word means, Hermione?” he snapped.

“Yes, I know what it means. It’s not like that was the first time he’s called me that.”

“What! That little—”

“Uh, sorry,” Harry said timidly, “but what did he call you?”

“Mudblood,” Hermione said dispassionately. “It means dirty blood—it’s a really foul name for a muggle-born witch or wizard, like me.”

“You know, non-magic parents,” Ron clarified. “Malfoy thinks he’s better than everybody else because he’s ‘pureblood,’ as if anyone’s really pureblood anymore. It’s about the worst thing you can call someone.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Hermione huffed, “but really, I can handle it. And now, there’s no telling what Snape will do to you.”

“Still worth it,” Ron said proudly. “Someone’s gotta show that ponce sometime. He deserves worse than that for spitting at you.”

Hermione sighed and smiled a little. “That was a pretty tricky curse,” she admitted. “How did you learn it?”

“Charlie taught it to me,” Ron said proudly. “He thought I needed something to defend myself from Ginny after Bill taught her his Bat-Bogey Hex.”

Hermione shook her head and made a mental note not to get on Ginny’s bad side.

As it turned out, it was a very angry Professor McGonagall who caught Ron as they reentered on the way back from Hagrid’s hut and informed him that he would be serving a second detention the next night. Hermione could sympathise with both boys on the first one—that had just been Snape being unfair—but Ron really brought that second one on himself. Anyway, for that night, Ron was to clean the Trophy Room without magic, while Harry, which he inexplicably thought was even worse, had to help answer Professor Lockhart’s fan mail.

Hermione didn’t hear until the next day that Harry had started hearing voices. Well, so much for a normal year, she thought.

After their late nights, Harry and Ron were both having a lie-in, and Hermione didn’t think she was quite ready to bring anyone else on her little excursions, so she tucked her papers containing her map of the castle into her robes and proceeded to the Great Hall alone. She knocked four times on the now-familiar wooden panel behind the High Table, and the little, elf-sized door popped open. She climbed up the miniature stairs and crawled down the hallway—it was a little more cramped than last year, but still easily passable—and arrived into the excited house elves’ Common Room.

Many of the elves were delighted to see that she had come back after the summer. Her closest elf friend, Sonya, looked just like Hermione remembered her: a little shorter than the others, with short-cropped blond hair, cobalt blue eyes, a snub nose, and her tool belt cinched tight enough around her waist to show a figure through her tea towel toga. The teenage elf ran forward and hugged Hermione around the legs when she saw her. Her grandmother, Tilly, shook her head, her large ears flapping, at Sonya being so forward, but Hermione loved it.

The elves all wanted to know how Hermione’s summer had gone, and she gave them a full account. The elves’ summer was apparently the same as always: doing a thorough cleaning job and repair work on the castle in preparation for the fall term. Tilly explained that a small group of elves still cooked and cleaned for those professors who lived in the castle over the summer: Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and Trelawney were there the most. They also helped Professor Sprout tend the greenhouses and Professor Kettleburn and Hagrid tend the various creatures on the grounds, including the thestral herd.

When asked how her friends were doing, Hermione said, “It sounds like Ron had a pretty good summer. He was just staying with his family. And Harry…well, the second half of his summer was good, anyway. His relatives were really awful to him, but Weasleys let him stay with them for the month of August, especially after…Actually, I was meaning to ask you about that. Do any of you know an elf named Dobby?”

The elves all looked at each other, muttering “Is you knowing Dobby?” to each other. Most of them shook their heads no.

“Is Dobby being a Hogwarts elf, Miss Hermione Granger?” Tilly asked.

“No, we think he belongs to a family.”

“Many families is not letting their elves out except for breeding, miss,” Tilly explained. “What is Dobby looking like?”

“I didn’t see him myself. Harry said he had yellowish-green eyes and a long, pointed nose, and he was…oh probably around Vanny’s age, give or take.”

Suddenly, and elf further back in the crowd squeaked in surprise. The other elves’ huge eyes turned in that direction, and an elf matching that exact description, except with hazel eyes, stepped forward. “I is Nibs, Miss Hermione Granger,” the elf said. “I is thinking Dobby is Nibs’s half-brother.”

“He is?” Hermione said excitedly. “Do you know which family he works for?”

“I is not knowing, miss. Nibs’s father is never talking much about Dobby, miss.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed. She supposed it wasn’t a surprise. She knew that elf children in families were raised by their mothers, and if it was a strict family, Dobby’s father might never have even met him. “Well…listen, I know you don’t get out of the castle much, but if it’s possible for you to find out, could you please do it?”

“We can by trying, miss,” Nibs said. “Is something wrong with Dobby, miss?”

“Well, it’s a long story. Harry can explain it better when I can get him to come up here, but Dobby showed up in Harry’s house this summer.” The elves’ eyes grew wide, and they started twittering softly. In a strict family, it would be surprising that Dobby even left the house. “He tried to tell Harry not to come back to Hogwarts because something bad was going to happen here this year.”

There were several squeaks of fear. After what had happened with Quirrell last spring, none of the elves wanted a repeat incident.

“Could it be a trick, miss?” Sonya asked in no more than a whisper. “Could Dobby’s masters be telling him to say it?”

“We don’t know. That’s what Professor McGonagall thought.”

“We elves will watch for this Dobby and for the bad thing, Miss Hermione Granger,” Tilly said. “It is being our responsibility to help make sure the students is safe, miss.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “And please tell me if you find anything—if you’re allowed, that is. There was something else, though. Apparently, Dobby performed a Hover Charm in Harry’s house, but it was Harry who got in trouble with the Ministry for underage magic.”

The elves gasped loudly.

“Dobby is getting Harry Potter in trouble for underage magic, miss?” Tilly said in horror. “But that means he is knowing old elf lore.”

“He is knowing what?” Hermione squeaked, so surprised that she momentarily slipped into the elves’ vernacular. “I mean, he knows what? I thought elf magic was different from wizards.” I mean, Harry said Dobby disapparated from his house, and that didn’t set it off.”

“It is, miss,” Tilly explained. “It is not normally being a problem for underage magic. Wizards cannot be telling who cast a spell, but they can tell different kinds of magic, miss. They can tell magic with wands, magic without wands, and magical creature magic, like elf magic. They might be able to tell other kinds, too, miss, but elves is having special control of magic, miss. We can make elf magic look like other types, but it is hard to be doing, and only a few elves knows how.”

“You can?” Hermione said in awe. It seemed like there was always more to magic—and elves—than met the eye. “Who would know how?”

“It is old elf lore, miss. There is not being much use for it, but it is passed down in old elf families, miss. They lives more with old wizard families.”

Old wizard families, she thought. Probably a Slytherin then—not guaranteed, but more likely than not. Of course, she’d half-expected that already. “Wait a minute! If the Ministry can’t actually track who performed a spell, then children in wizarding households…” She grumbled some rather rude things under her breath. Of course, it was another exception the purebloods would have carved out for themselves from the underage magic laws. And she really shouldn’t be surprised at that either, not with the rumours of Malfoy’s under the table duelling training, not to mention all the hijinks Fred and George got up to at home.

“Well, anyway, I’ll bring Harry to tell you all about it once I can get him to come up here,” she finished. “Hey, Sonya, do you still have the before-dinner shift off?”

“Yes, Miss Hermione Granger.”

“You know, I never did finish making my map of the castle last spring.”

“Oh, Sonya can be helping again today, miss. You needs to know the rooms in the East Wing, miss?”

“That’s right. And thank you. Could you meet me at the covered bridge to the East Wing at three o’clock?”

“It is being a deal, Miss Hermione Granger,” Sonya said. She shook Hermione’s hand, another human-ish gesture she had picked up. However, this time, Hermione noticed something strange.

“Sonya! Your hands!” she exclaimed.

Sonya squeaked in surprise. “Is something being wrong with them, miss?”

Hermione gently turned the tiny hand over, examining it. “You only have eight fingers!”

“Oh,” Sonya giggled, “all elves is having eight fingers, miss.”

Hermione looked around at some of the other elves’ hands. “I can see that, but…I can’t believe I never noticed that before. My parents have so many medical textbooks; I ought to know something about anatomy and physiology.” At the same time, she wondered if any rich purebloods ever looked close enough at their elves to notice that little detail.

Sonya and Hermione slowly walked around the ground floor of the East Wing. (Hermione decided that she didn’t want to risk the dungeons her first week back.) Just like old times, the elf was pointing out the locked doors and the hidden doors that Hermione had missed when drawing up her map the first time.

“This is being an empty room now, miss,” Sonya said. “It was being used for duelling practice when duelling was being taught here. To get in, you must speak the password, Populus est summum.”

Aspen is highest, Hermione thought. She’d read references to aspen being a popular duellist’s wand wood. A little ways farther down the hall, they came to a door she didn’t recognise.

“What about this door?” she said. “It’s not on the map.”

“Oh, that is just being a spare classroom, miss.”

“A spare classroom? But it can’t be. I’ve got all the classrooms on this map.”

“It is being a classroom, though, miss,” Sonya insisted. She pushed the door open, and Hermione peaked inside. The she nearly tripped over Sonya to rush in and pace off the room. Taking account of the location of the door, she cross-referenced against her map of Hogwarts. There was no mistake. This room overlapped with two other rooms on the map.

“But how…? According to the map, this room wasn’t here last year.”

Sonya giggled like she always seemed to do when Hermione was being dense. “Sonya is thinking it is a new room this year, miss,” she said. “The castle makes them sometimes.”

“The castle makes—” Hermione remembered what practically everybody had told her last year: “‘The castle changes too much to make a map.” Argh! It doesn’t just change size; the rooms change around, too! I’ll have to redo the whole map, now.”

The elf stepped back worriedly: “Sonya is sorry, Miss Hermione Granger. The castle is very magical and changes a little every year.”

“It’s not your fault, Sonya,” Hermione replied wearily. “I was just hoping I could have a reliable reference.”

At that, Hermione backtracked and paced off the adjacent rooms, the ones with which the new classroom was supposed to be overlapping. Both of these classrooms were much smaller than before, and she wondered if they would get squeezed out by some other change in the castle, especially since they were much less useful at that size.

“So if the classrooms change every so often, why hasn’t that old duelling room disappeared in the past century?” she asked.

“Sonya is not knowing why, miss. It might be that a powerful wizard put enchantments on it to make it stay. Or maybe the castle is wanting to keep it.”

The castle wanting to keep it? Well, Hogwarts, A History did talk about the castle having a mind of its own. Wow, this was even more complicated than she’d thought.

Sonya was patient enough to wait for Hermione to pace off the rooms again, but it was slow going. She’d be better off pacing off all the rooms she could get into once again—or maybe just the ones that looked different—before asking about the hidden ones more.

As they walked, they heard a high, sing-song voice wafting through the corridors. Turning around a couple more corners, they saw an odd sight: Luna Lovegood was skipping down the hallway, but before they could react, she turned to a portrait hanging on the wall and started talking to it intently. The portrait, a seventeenth century wizard wearing a lion’s skin, sounded like he thought Luna was a little odd, just like everyone else, but he was happy to have a conversation partner who was three-dimensional for a change.

Hermione never had that much luck asking the portraits for anything important. Not that she was surprised. They weren’t really alive, after all. But they were easily just as bad as the ghosts. They were just so…well, two-dimensional.

“Oh, hello, Hermione,” Luna said, breaking away from her conversation. “How are you?”

“Uh, I’m doing alright, Luna,” Hermione replied. “How are you?”

“I think my roommates are infested with wrackspurts, but I’m fine, otherwise,” the strange first year said. “Who is your friend?”

Hermione actually needed a moment to realise that Luna was talking about Sonya, simply because Luna was the first person she’d met who didn’t point out that her friend was a house elf, much less make an issue out of it. “This is Sonya, Luna. She’s helping me explore the castle. Sonya, this is Luna Lovegood.”

“Hello, Miss Luna Lovegood,” the elf squeaked. “Sonya is pleased to be meeting you.”

“Hello, Sonya. It’s very nice of you to help Hermione explore the castle. What are you exploring?”

“Well, I made a map of the castle last year,” Hermione explained, “but I have to redraw it because some of the rooms changed. Sonya’s showing me where all the hidden doors are.”

“That sounds very interesting,” Luna said. “I hadn’t thought of mapping the castle. May I come with you?”

“Um, sure, I don’t see why not.”

So Hermione and Sonya started off again, with Luna skipping beside them, although the girl kept wandering off to talk to portraits and prattling on about creatures that probably didn’t exist, to the point where Hermione was glad she could concentrate on her map, or else she probably would have snapped and say something she regretted.

“So did you just come out here to talk to the portraits?” she asked at one point.

“Oh, yes. They’re quite fascinating. And many of them know interesting history. Unfortunately, History of Magic class is not very useful because Professor Binns is unable to overcome his affliction of ectoplasmic backup, which prevents all original thought from entering his lectures.”

“You mean he’s dead?” Hermione said in confusion.

Luna cocked her head curiously. “I believe that is what I said.”

Hermione giggled. “You know, Luna, the elves know a lot of history, too. I could introduce you to the rest of them sometime.”

Luna’s large silver eyes grew even wider than normal. “I would like that, Hermione,” she said. “It will be very interesting to see house elves in their natural habitat.”

Hermione and Sonya glanced at each other and silently agreed not to reply to this.

“So, Luna,” Hermione said after a while, “if you don’t mind my asking, what did you talk about for so long with the Sorting Hat?”

“We had a very nice conversation about which house I should go to, of course,” Luna replied. “The Hat said that my best quality was my intelligence—” That was a little surprising to Hermione given how…non-standard the girl’s intelligence was. “—However, it was strongly of the opinion that Hufflepuff would be better for me than Ravenclaw.”

“Really? It said the same thing to me about Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, but it didn’t really give me much choice. It just put me in Gryffindor.”

The younger girl stared at her again with those disconcerting silver eyes: “Which house did you want to be in?”

“I wasn’t sure…I guess I thought Gryffindor was a little better.”

“Then that’s probably why, since you didn’t mind the choice. But I told the Hat that I really wanted to be in Ravenclaw, like Mummy and Daddy.”

“And what did the Hat say to that?”

“The Hat said that I could be gifted in any house, but that I would most easily find friends who supported me in Hufflepuff. It also said that I am a very loyal person, which would be valued in Hufflepuff.”

Hermione had to wonder just how the Sorting Hat had read her. How did it know how courageous she was a year ago, when the most courageous thing she had done was to skip a grade in school? And how did it know how loyal Luna was when she was so socially isolated? And why did the Hat have an elaborate conversation with Luna and no one else?

But Luna continued, “After this, we began discussing the other students who I know—you and Harry and Ginny and the other Weasleys—and the Hat suggested that I might do well in Gryffindor.”

“Did it offer you Slytherin, just to complete the set?” Hermione asked with a bit of a smirk.

“No, and I was rather put out when it told me that finding the crumple-horned snorkack was not a proper ambition.” Hermione had to try hard not to laugh. “But in the end, I insisted on Ravenclaw, and it agreed to put me there.”

“Well…I’m sure you’ll do great there,” Hermione said.

When Hermione led Luna up to the elves’ common room the following weekend, they hit it off quite well…or at least it seemed like it…or at least Luna liked the elves straight away and didn’t bat an eye at their quirky behaviour. Luna’s own quirks, on the other hand, left the elves just as bewildered as Hermione. She was nice enough, but none of them really had any idea what to do with her.

Chapter Text

The days passed quickly that fall and (mercifully) normally. At the end of the third week of term was Hermione’s birthday, for which Lavender, Parvati, and the Weasley Twins had insisted on getting her a cake from the kitchens. They wanted to make it special since it was her thirteenth. That would have been more pleasant if the Twins didn’t leave her looking over her shoulder all evening.

“Honestly, we wouldn’t mess with you on your special day,” George told her.

“Yeah,” added Fred. “Becoming a teenager should be a big enough prank on its own. See, now you have to worry about boys.” Hermione felt herself turn red

“And clothes,” said George.

“And hair.”

“Well, maybe not hair.”

“You’ve got your own unique style there.”

“I’ll leave all that to Lavender and Parvati for the time being, thank you,” she told them. Thirteen she may be, but her main worries about boys still involved them nearly getting themselves killed.

“How was your birthday, Hermione?” Lavender asked later than night. “I know we didn’t know about it last year, so we tried to make it up.”

“It was nice,” Hermione said. “Much better than last year. It’s too bad I couldn’t spend it with my parents, but that’s the cost of going to boarding school.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Lavender. “Harry’s lucky he has a summer birthday.”

“No, he’s really not,” Hermione said. “His relatives hate him.”

“What? But he’s Harry Potter.”

“Yes, but they’re muggles—and not nice ones, either. They can’t stand magic.”

Lavender and Parvati both looked offended that anyone could hate magic or the Boy-Who-Lived—well, anyone outside of Slytherin for the latter.

“So you and your parents always did something special for your birthday?” Parvati changed the subject.

“Yes, at home, my parents would always take me to a fancy restaurant for my birthday. The last couple years before Hogwarts, we went to this really nice Indian restaurant. They had the best chicken tikka masala.”

“Ooh, you like chicken tikka masala?” Parvati said excitedly.

“I love chicken tikka masala. Lots of British muggles do. It’s too bad we can’t get it here.”

“Oh, I know,” Parvati griped. “I get so tired of all the British food here. Just give me some tikka masala or traditional curry once in a while—either one. Padma complains about it, too. She always wants her mango juice.”

“Yes, but I’ve been saying the magical world is behind the times,” Hermione said. “I mean, muggles don’t use quills and parchment anymore either, and they’ve got better technology than the wireless. It figures it would be the same with food.”

Parvati pushed herself up on her bed to get a better look at her. “I wonder if we can do anything about that,” she said.

Hermione sat up and raised an eyebrow. Most witches and wizards rarely seemed like the type to take action on things like that. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ve thought about it once in a while. Who controls the menu here?”

“Isn’t it the house elves?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never asked. It might be. They’re probably the only ones who have any idea what things they can actually cook. I did write down a recipe for chicken tikka masala over the summer, but I’m not sure how good it is. Do you know a good recipe, Parvati?”

Parvati gave her a look that Hermione realised must be the same one she herself gave people who asked her obvious questions.

“FRED! GEORGE!”

The two redheads sniggered as the littlest Weasley came storming into the Great Hall at dinnertime the next Friday night on a royal tear. The Hall erupted into laughter at the sight, but those nearest to her soon stopped laughing when faced with her glare.

“Hello, Gin-Gin,” the Twins said in unison.

“There’s something different about you—” Fred started.

“—but we can’t quite place it,” George finished.

Ginny’s hair was bright pink.

“Change it back, you imps!” she yelled.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” said Fred.

Ginny pulled her wand on them.

“Whoa, sis,” George stopped her. “We, uh, we kinda never actually tested the counter-spell.”

“WHAT!”

“It’s okay, Ginny,” Hermione said from her vantage point a couple of seats down. “They did the same thing to me last year, except it was Weasley-red. It should wear off overnight if it’s the same trick.”

Ginny glowered for a moment and then hissed at them: “I’ll get you two for this.” This actually seemed to be enough to make Fred and George nervous.

She sat down, squeezing in between Hermione and Parvati, and looked around the table nervously. She whimpered almost inaudibly and seemed to shrink back into herself when she saw Harry and Ron trying not to laugh at her. (Ron wasn’t trying very hard.) Hermione shot them an exasperated look.

“I need to think of a way to get them back,” she said to no one in particular a little later. “I could always try Bill’s Bat-Bogey Hex, but I don’t know if I could get them both at once. Maybe I could ask T…” she trailed off with a nervous glance at Hermione.

Hermione didn’t know whose name started with a T whom she would ask, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl. She was new here, after all, and that was hard enough. And Fred’s and George’s idea of good clean fun didn’t quite line up with normal people’s. So as she looked down at her plate, she started thinking… “Actually, Ginny,” she said. “I think I might have an idea that fits in with something I’m working on.”

Ginny looked up inquisitively, and Hermione whispered the upshot of her idea to her. Ginny got a mischievous smile on her face, which made Fred and George a good deal more nervous.

“That looks about right,” said Padma. “Go ahead and take it out of the broiler.”

“But Miss Padma Patil, the chicken is not being all cooked,” the little elf said.

“I know that,” Padma snapped. “The last step is to simmer the chicken in the sauce to finish cooking.”

Hermione frowned. Not unexpectedly, her pureblood friends were not as polite as she was with the house elves. It didn’t help that she didn’t know these elves as well as the others. Most of the ones she knew best were on the cleaning crew, although they rotated occasionally.

“How’s the sauce coming, Parv?” Padma said.

“The sauce is ready, Pad,” Parvati replied. “That was a good idea crushing the coriander leaves instead of chopping them, Hermione. I don’t know why, but it tastes better that way. How did you come up with it?”

“I didn’t,” Hermione said. “My mum has a friend who’s a caterer, and she says she always prepares it that way.”

“Maybe it’s like potions,” Padma suggested. “The way the ingredients are prepared can affect things in weird ways.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Hermione said. That started her thinking about potions and how various modifications could affect them. Of course, potions were so idiosyncratic and unintuitive that it was hard telling what even small changes would do. Snape might not be very good at teaching, but she had to grudgingly admire his reputed talent in the field.

“Alright, so we just simmer the chicken in the sauce for about ten minutes,” Padma said as she directed the elves to combine the ingredients.

“That seems like an awful lot of sauce, Miss Patil.” Professor McGonagall was supervising the entire process, as per the school policy.

Tilly and some of the other elves had explained it when Hermione asked her: “We is choosing the menu, Miss Hermione Granger, but all new recipes needs the approval of the Headmaster or Deputy Headmistress.”

“A lot of Indian food is like that, Professor,” Padma replied. “You can mop up the extra sauce with the flat-bread.”

“Sometimes,” Parvati added. “It can depend on the meal, but that’s close enough for here at Hogwarts.”

“Plus, I always like lots of sauce on the rice, ma’am. Plain white rice always tastes too bland to me,” Hermione said. Hermione was nominally helping to steam the rice, but that was simple enough that the elves had it in hand. Of course, her main contribution had been the samples of several spices that her bemused parents had sent her in a care package that week. Hogwarts didn’t stock half of what the Patil Twins said they needed for a proper masala sauce, and their own parents were oddly less interested in the whole affair, perhaps thinking their daughters should be fed perfectly well at school already.

“Hmm, how unusual,” McGonagall said. That really described the whole scene, she thought—three second year students teaching the house elves a new and exotic dinner recipe. “Well, I can honestly say this is something I haven’t seen before,” she said. “You seem to have a talent for the unusual, Miss Granger.”

“Um…thank you, ma’am.”

Suddenly, there were excited squeaks from the other elves in the kitchens. Hermione looked and saw Professor Dumbledore walking toward them jovially. The elves all bowed low as he passed. “Good afternoon,” the Headmaster muttered to the elves. “Good afternoon, Minerva,” he added as he approached, “and Misses Patil, Patil, and Granger.”

“Good afternoon, Albus,” McGonagall said. “What brings you down here today?”

“Well, I was informed that there was a lovely new recipe being prepared in the kitchens, and I thought I would stop by to sample it for myself.” He leaned over the simmering chicken and sauce and inhaled deeply. “Ah, chicken tikka masala. Excellent. It’s been far too long since I’ve had the modern fare.”

And, of course, no matter how provincial most British magicals were, Albus Dumbledore knew all about Indian food.

In a few minutes, the food was done, and, at the Headmaster’s direction, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the three children sat at the duplicate High Table in the kitchens, and the elves dished up a small portion for each of them. It was a little surreal for Hermione. She had never taken a meal (or a snack, in this case) with the Headmaster, although he always looked like perfectly pleasant dinner conservation from across the Great Hall.

But Hermione thanked the elves and took a bite. She smiled at once. Yes, Hogwarts definitely needed more Indian food. She really appreciated Parvati’s and Padma’s recipe and the elves’ skill in following it at sight. The Patil Twins looked equally pleased, and Professor Dumbledore, who seemed easily delighted by novelty, nodded to them appreciatively.

“An excellent recipe,” Dumbledore said. “My compliments. What do you think, Minerva?”

McGonagall swallowed a little uncomfortably. “Certainly not like anything I’ve tasted before, Albus,” she said. “Much spicier than I’m used to. I’m afraid I’m not as well-travelled as you are. But I must say, it actually tastes quite good, though I think we may wish to reduce the spiciness for the students’ sakes.”

Hermione, Parvati, and Padma sighed inwardly and suppressed the urge to roll their eyes. Oh well, Hermione thought. That’s why I asked for hot sauce.

“Mm hmm,” Dumbledore said. “I commend all of your efforts. I think this will make a fine addition to our menu.” The children smiled, and the elves all cheered in excitement. It was rare to make any major changes to the menu. He turned to the nearest elf and said, “Dolly, when might you be able to prepare a dinner with this dish?” Hermione was not at all surprised that Dumbledore knew the elves by name.

“We will be needing to order the ingredients, Professor Dumbledore, sir, but we can be making it for next weekend,” Dolly said.

“Excellent. Perhaps Sunday night, then. I think it will be an educational experience for all.”

Hermione was back to spending part of her weekends pacing off the castle. It didn’t take as much of her time as it had last year, since she soon determined that the shape of the castle as a whole hadn’t changed beyond its usual fluctuations. To be honest, she was being a bit lazy about it, but it was better than running herself into the ground, like last year. She had reached an uneasy truce with her sleep schedule, which still slipped on occasion, and that was about it, so it was probably wise to take it easy when she could.

Today, she was re-mapping the second floor of the West Wing, unused classrooms and all. It was a lonely endeavour: most of the students spent the weekends in their dorms or outside, or in the case of many Ravenclaws, in the library, so few people ever came by here. Even with the occasional greeting from a portrait or a suit of armour walking around in the distance, it was very quiet.

Given the stoic silence, it was perhaps a little surprising that Hermione didn’t hear the sound sooner: a faint keening sound wafting through the halls. She didn’t pay it much mind. Strange sounds weren’t that uncommon around here, and Hermione could get a little oblivious when she was focused on something else. But presently, she found that she had to use the loo, and when she made her way to the nearest one, and opened the door, she suddenly became painfully aware of the sound.

There was a girl crying in the bathroom, and loudly.

“Hello? Can I help you?” Hermione said, but the wailing girl didn’t seem to have heard her. She walked down the row of stalls to pinpoint the girl’s location. From the sound, she was clearly in the last stall, although Hermione didn’t see any feet beneath the door. Either the girl was trying not to be seen or she was a tiny first year whose feet didn’t touch the floor.

Hermione really felt like she needed to help out, now. She knocked on the stall door and said, “Hello?”

“AHHH!” The girl’s voice shrieked, and there was the sound of a splash in the toilet.

“Sorry, are you okay?” Hermione said.

“What do you want?” the voice said in an accusatory tone.

“I wanted to see if I could help.”

“Well, you can’t, so go away.”

Hermione sighed. Of course, the girl would say that, but it didn’t sound like going away was what she needed right now. “Are you sure?” she said. “If you just want to talk—”

“I said go away!” the girl screamed so loud that Hermione took a step back. She started wailing again.

Hermione stayed rooted to the stop for a minute, trying to decide what to do. Finally, she said, “I feel kind of bad leaving someone crying in here alone, though. Do you mind if I check up on you later?”

“Why do you care?” the voice sniffed.

“Well, I guess it’s kind of silly, but this happened to me once last year, and I was nearly killed by a mountain troll.”

“Nearly killed?!” the voice screeched, and, suddenly, the face of a rather squat and, to be honest, unattractive girl came through the stall door and right up to Hermione’s own. “Oh, that’s great for you!” the ghost yelled. “Nearly killed!”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know—” Hermione started.

“Oh, of course you didn’t know. No one ever bothers to ask about miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle!” And with that, she gave a load moan and drifted back into the stall, where there was a loud splashing sound, and water trickled out under the door.

That’s strange, Hermione thought. Ghosts are supposed to be intangible.

There was a flushing sound, then a gurgle, and then more water came pouring out from under the stall. The ghost appeared to be trying to clog the toilet to chase her away.

“Myrtle?” Hermione called as she took a step back. “Myrtle, please come back out. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m a muggle-born, and I’m not really used to ghosts, yet.”

Surprisingly, the sounds of water stopped, as did Myrtle’s moaning. Her face poked back through the stall door with a look of interest. “You’re a muggle-born?” she asked.

“Yes…”

Myrtle came all the way through the door and floated in front of Hermione. She looked to be about Hermione’s age. (How had she died so young?) And she was wearing old-fashioned looking school robes with a Ravenclaw crest on them. “I was a muggle-born, too,” she said.

“Y-you are—were—are—?” Hermione said nervously.

Myrtle seemed to take pleasure in Hermione’s uneasiness. “Oh, yes. I was so excited when I found out magic was real. I didn’t have many friends at home, and I thought things would be so wonderful here. I loved all my classes. It was such fun. But then…” Myrtle started to sniffle and whine again. “Then all my roommates started making fun of me. They called me fat and ugly, and Olive Hornby always made fun of my glasses. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t afford better ones. And then the pimples started…” She let out a long moan and started swaying back and forth where she hovered.

Hermione felt herself turn red. That story already sounded far too familiar for her tastes. Myrtle must have drawn the short straw for roommates, though. With her hair and teeth and know-it-all attitude, she had plenty for her own roommates to make fun of her about, but they hardly ever did.

“I don’t think your glasses look that bad,” she tried to comfort the ghost. “In fact, my friend Harry wears practically the same kind.” Probably because that’s all his relatives will pay for, Hermione thought. Myrtle’s glasses looked like bargain bin round frames, very like Harry’s, except pearly white instead of black.

But Myrtle just whined, “They’re hideous. I wish I’d died wearing something nicer. And that Tom Riddle—he wasn’t so bad himself, but all his Slytherin friends called me an ugly mudblood and laughed at me behind my back.”

“Oh, those types,” Hermione said darkly. “I’ve got Draco Malfoy. He says it to my face. And if I run into him alone, he always tries to hex me.”

“Ooh, Tom Riddle had a friend named Abraxas Malfoy. He was one of the worst ones.”

“I’m not surprised. The Malfoys go way back.”

“It’s awful how those purebloods treat everybody else. And I can’t even haunt them properly. I haunted Olive Horby for years, but…” Myrtle sniffed. “But she just took out a restraining order against me.”

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again. Yes, that was exactly the kind of thing wizards would do. “That’s…um…that’s too bad,” she said. “Why are you haunting a bathroom, now, though?” Hermione asked. “There’s plenty of better places in the castle.”

That proved to be the wrong thing to say, as Myrtle took offence. “Like where?” she snapped.

“Well…um, if I were a ghost, I’d probably haunt the Library,” Hermione replied whilst wondering how she had got to the point of saying that.

“Well, that’s well and good for you,” the ghostly girl whined. “You’re a Gryffindor. All my roommates spent all their time in the Library.” She started sniffling again. “I like it better in here. It’s more private, and no one complains if I cry in here. Everyone just stays away from Moaning Myrtle.” And with that, she started crying loudly and back into her stall, where there was a splashing sound of her diving into the toilet.

“Myrtle? Myrtle, I’m sorry. You can…you can haunt wherever you want,” Hermione called, but there was so response but some more splashing and gurgling. At that point, she didn’t see much good in keeping this up, so she just said, “Well…I’ll try to check up on you sometime,” and left the bathroom, thinking that maybe she needed to do some more research on ghosts to be able to have a sensible conversation with them. It was too bad. Myrtle’s story seemed disturbingly similar to her own—and to die at such a young age, and as a muggle-born, it had to have been terrible, and here she was, what looked like decades later from her clothes, and she was still crying in the bathroom. Hermione shuddered, thinking, There but for the grace of God go I.

It was only as she left that Hermione noticed the OUT OF ORDER sign on the bathroom door.

On Sunday evening, Hermione made sure to remind Fred and George to be on time for dinner, and the Twins “chivalrously” escorted her and Ginny down to the Great Hall together. Once there, Hermione made sure they sat in the right arrangement, with herself, Ginny, and Parvati circled around the two boys at optimal angles. That Harry and Ron sat down on her other side, somewhat distracting them, helped.

When dinner appeared on the long tables, there were gasps and confused murmurs throughout the Great Hall, for this was definitely not the usual fare. Or, rather, some of it was, but at intervals along each table were a large bowl of white rice and another filled with something that proved to be cubes of chicken drowned in an unfamiliar orange sauce.

“What the heck?”

“What is this stuff?”

“Have the elves gone mental?”

Only a handful of people in the Hall looked happy with the new selections, disproportionately muggle-borns, who quickly began explaining the dish to their less worldly peers. Of course, Professor Dumbledore was beaming, and, Harry informed her later, for some reason, Professor Snape looked oddly satisfied with the meal.

“Now this is what I call a real dinner,” Parvati said excitedly as she dished a large spoonful of rice onto her plate.

“Definitely,” Hermione agreed as she went for the chicken.

Fred and George looked with interest at the two younger students who were happily serving themselves food that they had never seen before.

“And just what kind of dinner is this, exactly?” asked George.

“Chicken tikka masala,” Hermione and Parvati said in unison.

Fred and George looked back and forth between the two girls in surprise.

“It’s a British muggle adaptation of traditional Indian food,” Parvati explained. “Broiled chicken and steamed rice in a sauce made with tomato, coriander, yogurt, and Asian spices.”

“Tomato and—”

“—yogurt?” the Twins said in confusion.

“In a sauce?” said Fred.

“Are you having one over on us?” asked George.

“No, that’s really the recipe,” Hermione said. “We taught it to the house elves last weekend. You should try it. It’s really good.”

Fred and George shrugged their shoulders and dished themselves up two plates.

“Huh, not bad,” George said when he took a bite.

“Yeah, weird, but not bad,” Fred added.

“You were right, Hermione this is good,” Ginny said appreciatively.

“Uh huh, can you give our mum the recipe?” asked Ron.

“We’ll think about it,” Parvati told him. “Hey, Hermione, did you bring the hot sauce?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hot sauce?” Fred and George asked.

Hermione uncapped a small bottle of red sauce and dribbled a little bit of it onto her food, then handed it to Parvati. “Professor McGonagall wanted the food mild, but it’s really supposed to be spicier, so I had my parents send me some spicy sauce to add to it. Ginny, do you want to try it?”

“Sure, I’ll try it,” the younger girl replied innocently. She took the bottle and added a few drops to her plate.

But when Hermione took it the bottle back, she carefully palmed it and swapped it with another bottle that she had transfigured to look identical on the outside. She offered this bottle to Fred and George, saying, “Do you two want any? A real connoisseur takes it at least medium-spicy.”

Not to be outdone by their little sister, the Twins took the bottle and drizzled a generous amount of sauce on their chicken tikka masala. They each took a large bite and grinned in satisfaction, but those smiles quickly turned to winces as they grunted, “Water, water, water!” and each chugged a goblet full.

Hermione, Parvati, and Ginny started laughing, and Hermione high-fived Ginny.

“Bloody hell, woman, what did you give us?” Fred demanded whilst coughing.

Hermione withdrew the other bottle from her sleeve and set it on the table. Then, checking to make sure the teachers weren’t watching too closely, she drew her wand and tapped the bottle she had given the Twins, causing the label to change back. “It’s habanero sauce,” she told them. “It’s ten times spicier than normal hot sauce.”

“In other words,” Ginny clarified, “you fell for a muggle trick.”

“A muggle trick, Freddie,” George wheezed. “We’re losing our touch.”

“We’ve got to get back on top, Georgie. We can’t have Hermione and Ginny thinking they can unseat the school’s best pranksters.” And they gave the two girls an evil but painful grin.

Hermione paled. “Why did I let you talk me into this?” she muttered to Ginny, who didn’t look too enthused by the idea of payback herself.

After the main course was over, Professor Dumbledore, to the surprise of many, stood up and addressed the Hall: “Well, I think this has been an interesting new experience. The new dish tonight was chicken tikka masala, a more modern British dish in the Indian style, and I am most pleased to see that it has been such a great success.” Indeed, looking around the Hall, a solid majority of the students seemed to have liked it, though the very traditional Slytherins less so. “We have three students to thank for this new offering, who took it upon themselves to teach the recipe to the house elves on their own time. For this show of initiative and cross-cultural interest, I award ten points each to Hermione Granger, Padma Patil, and Parvati Patil.”

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws cheered, while the Hufflepuffs politely applauded. The Slytherins seemed displeased, but that could have been about either the points or the food. Hermione noticed, across the Hall, that Draco Malfoy in particular was glaring in her direction.

On the fifth of October, Hermione woke up and immediately knew that something was wrong. Another person whose body reacted differently might have dismissed it for a while, but she knew better. She felt a burning sensation creeping up just behind her soft palate, and that could only mean one thing: the common cold.

She’d dodged that bullet last year—about the only thing she’d managed to dodge—but it was too much to hope for a second year in a row, not with the damp chill and pounding rain seeping into the castle. A cold always meant the same thing for her. She was in for three days of miserable throat pain, followed by three days of hacking and sniffling, and then a lingering cough that could run clear through next week. And her with no paracetamol.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Parvati asked as Hermione staggered stiffly out of bed.

“No…I’m getting a cold,” she groaned.

“You should go to Madam Pomfrey, then. A Pepperup Potion will clear that up right away.”

Hermione stopped and stared at her roommate: “You mean wizards actually have a cure for the common cold?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not perfect. It’s actually an energy potion, but it works—if you don’t mind having steam coming out of your ears for a few hours…”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but then closed it again. Of course it makes steam come out of your ears for a few hours. “Thanks, Parvati, I’ll do that.”

An hour later, Hermione was in the unusually crowded Hospital Wing. Apparently, the sickness was going around.

“Hello, Miss Granger, can I help you?” Madam Pomfrey said.

“Uh yeah, Parvati told me you had something that can cure colds?”

“Ah, yes, another one. You aren’t looking too poorly, though, Miss Granger.”

“I know, ma’am, but I can always tell when one’s starting because the first thing that happens is I get this burning in the back of my mouth.”

“Alright, then, that’s simple enough.” Madam Pomfrey made a note of who was being treated and why, and then uncapped a small bottle of potion. “Here, drink this.”

The Pepperup Potion tasted so hot that Hermione could barely drink it. She jumped as the warmth flooded her body. She felt like she’d just downed a double espresso, and the burning in her throat ceased immediately. “Wow, thank you ma’am,” she said.

“Not a problem, Miss Granger. Come back if the steam doesn’t go away by dinner time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sure enough, she felt puffs of steam pouring out of her ears and leaking out from under her hair. She must look completely ridiculous, and within minutes, her hair was an unmanageable frizz. Still, she went down to breakfast and took her usual seat. Thankfully, a number of other students in the hall and even Professor Sinistra also had steam puffing out of their ears as well, so she didn’t look too out of place.

A few minutes later, a dishevelled-looked Ginny Weasley collapsed into a seat nearby. Hermione squealed when she saw her. With her bright red hair, Ginny looked even worse than she did—rather like her whole head was on fire.

“Oh, hi, Ginny,” Hermione said. “Pepperup, too?”

“Yes, Percy made me take some. He said I wasn’t looking too good.”

Actually, there was something to that. Ginny’s robes were all crooked, there were a few strands of hair plastered to her face, and though she looked wide awake now, she was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Well, you are looking pretty out of it, even with the potion. Have you been sleeping alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said defensively. “It’s just…getting use to classes and stuff, you know.”

“I understand. Just don’t overdo it. I made that mistake last year. You can come talk to me if you need any help.”

“I can manage,” Ginny said, and she focused her attention on her food for the rest of the meal.

The most difficult part of mapping the castle was the dungeons, both because of the maze-like structure and because of the company.

“What are you doing down here, mudblood?”

Hermione groaned softly and clutched her notebook to her chest. Why did she keep running into him whenever she explored the dungeons? Did he have people reporting to him? Well, maybe he did. She fingered the handle of her wand. “Do we really have to do this again, Malfoy?” she said. “I have as much right to be down here as you have.”

“You don’t have any right to go spying for our Common Room,” Malfoy spat. “You ought to just stay in your tower if you know what’s good for you.”

“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You know where our Common Room is, so there’s no reason yours should be a secret. I still couldn’t get in without the password.” She didn’t mention that she already knew where the Slytherin Common Room was, just around a couple of corners from here—if it was still in the same place Sonya had pointed out last year.

Malfoy didn’t take kindly to her use of logic. He drew his wand, but Hermione was quicker on the draw than she used to be, having practised this past summer after Harry managed to hex her. She had her wand trained on him before he could cast a spell, though she still started backing away.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he growled.

“Yes, you’ve already told me that,” Hermione replied as calmly as she could. “But I didn’t let a mountain troll and a possessed teacher keep me away, and I’m not going to let you keep me away, either.”

Malfoy actually hissed at her: “One of these days, Granger, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Hermione sighed theatrically. “What’s your problem, anyway, Malfoy? There’s plenty of other muggle-borns in this school. Is it just because I get better marks than you?” She chuckled at him with false bravado. “Because I’ve been dealing with people who are jealous of my grades my whole life.”

“No mudblood can beat a Malfoy! Calvorio!”

Hermione jumped to the side and dove against the wall, but the jinx caught her in the arm. She felt a strange itching sensation, and when she shook out her sleeve, she found that all of the hair had fallen off of her arm. She considered her options. She quashed the urge to say, “Take Arithmancy, and then we’ll talk,” and decided against shooting a spell back at him if she could help it. Instead, she just backed away faster, keeping one eye on him until she made it around the next corner. Well, that wasn’t so bad, she thought. A Hair-Loss Jinx is tame for him.

Chapter Text

“A deathday party?” said Hermione. “That sounds fascinating. I’ve been reading up on ghosts lately. They have an entire division at the Ministry of Magic, but there’s really not that much written about them.”

“Maybe “cause they can’t write,” Ron joked. Hermione gave him an annoyed look.

Nearly-Headless Nick had apparently roped Harry into attending his five hundredth deathday party after saving him from Filch. Why ghosts would want to celebrate deathdays instead of birthdays, even in the afterlife, she didn’t know. Maybe it was a cultural thing. The one downside was that it was during the Halloween Feast, but still, a cultural experience like that (especially a five-hundredth) probably didn’t come around very often.

“They can write, though,” Harry said. That headless ghost wrote a letter to Nick.

“He did?” Hermione said in surprise. “Was it a regular letter or a…ghost letter?”

“A ghost letter, I guess. Nick had it in his pocket.”

“But…but how? If ghosts only have what they had on them when they died, how do they get quills, ink, and parchment to write ghost letters with?”

Harry shrugged. Of course, he was muggled-raised and wouldn’t know, and Ron didn’t seem interested.

“Well, anyway, it’ll be really interesting to see how ghosts live…or, erm…after-live?”

“I doubt it,” Ron countered. “Sounds dead depressing to me.”

Hermione groaned: “Maybe you should leave the jokes to Fred and George, Ron. I’m serious. No one bothers to look into how the house elves live, and yet they have a whole society of their own. I wonder if it’s the same for ghosts.”

“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out, like it or not.”

For the boys, it turned out to be closer to “not.” On Halloween, Hermione was starting to think she’d rather go to the feast herself, but a promise was a promise, and she insisted on making sure Harry got down to the dungeons for his promised visit to Nick’s party.

Hermione’s first impression of what she took to be the ghost “culture” was not a good one. It seemed to be focused on being as eerie as possible and as dreary as possible at the same time. The presence of so many ghosts by itself gave an icy chill to the dungeon, and Hermione mentally kicked herself for not thinking to wear her cloak. The tall, black candles burning with blue fire (possibly the cool bluebell flames) did nothing to warm it, but just gave a disturbingly ghostly pallor even to the faces of the living. There was an “orchestra” consisting of thirty ghosts, all playing musical saws—and not playing them very well, she thought. You would think they would be better, having Merlin knew how many years to practice—unless they were trying to make it sound like a ghostly wail…which they probably were. Either way, most of the hundreds of ghosts in attendance had no problem waltzing to the dreadful sound.

Harry suggested they keep moving in order to keep warm, which seemed like a good idea. They wandered the large dungeon, weaving in between the ghosts both out of courtesy and to avoid their icy “touch.” All three of them started to think coming here had been a mistake when they saw the food, even if Hermione hadn’t been expecting much to start with.

“I thought they might have something edible,” she said when she saw, or rather smelled, the table that was laid out. “You know, for the living guests.”

“What living guests?” Ron said. “We’re it.”

It almost seemed like a pantomime of a party for the living, trying to “relive” the old days instead of finding something new to do. The meat and vegetables were obviously left out to rot since September, maybe even August, and the cakes looked like they’d been set on fire for a while, all to give them a flavour strong enough that the ghosts could “almost” taste it.

The most interesting part of the party was meeting all the ghosts from outside the castle, like the Wailing Widow from Kent, even though a lot of them acted clinically depressed. Of course, Hermione was starting to feel depressed herself in this atmosphere. They were still making the rounds when the ghost of a glum-looking girl with thick glasses and lanky hair hiding her face glided over to them.

“Oh, hello, Myrtle,” Hermione called to her. “How are you? It’s nice to see you out of your toilet.”

Myrtle sniffed morosely.

“Harry, Ron, this is Myrtle…er, I don’t think I got your last name. She haunts the girls bathroom on the second floor.”

“You haunt a bathroom?” Ron blurted out.

Myrtle started keening softly and said, “It’s none of your business where I haunt.”

“Don’t upset her, Ron,” Hermione told him. “She likes her privacy. No one ever goes in that bathroom.”

“Because she keeps flooding it!” an obnoxious voice cackled, and Peeves the poltergeist swooped in on the conversation dressed all in bright orange. In fact, he was probably the brightest thing in the room.

“Peeves, don’t,” Hermione said.

“Oh ho? Finally made a friend, have you, Myrtle. You like Moaning Myrtle, do you?” Peeves said, gliding up in Hermione’s face.

“Erm…” she backed away from the poltergeist. “I just think she needs a little help.”

“Oy! You hear that, Myrtle? You’re the charity case!” Peeves yelled.

“No! That’s not what I meant!”

But Myrtle was sobbing, now, “I don’t need your help,” she cried. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Myrtle, don’t listen to Peeves. He’s like that to everyone.”

“But everyone else is the same. Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Moaning Myrtle!”

“You forgot pimply!” Peeves cackled.

Myrtle gave a loud wail that made the Wailing Widow blush and fled from the dungeon with Peeves zooming behind her.

“Oh dear. She really deserves better,” Hermione told Ron and Harry. “She was bullied for being muggle-born when she was alive, and now she has to put up with Peeves.”

“Yeah, well, so do the rest of us,” Ron said.

The party didn’t get any better from there. Nearly-Headless Nick was just about to give his speech when the Headless Hunt rode in on a dozen ghostly horses. Nick’s resentment of the properly-beheaded ghosts was clear, and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore looked like he was loving it. To add insult to…well, injury, they completely ignored Nick’s speech and played Head Hockey the entire time. Apparently, even ghosts had bullies.

By then, Ron and Harry had had enough, and Hermione had to agree, so they made a quick exit.

“Honestly, I don’t understand why he keeps trying,” Hermione said once they were out of earshot. “I mean I know he’d very much like to join, but it’s a sporting club that he’s not physically capable of participating in—or, I mean…you know what I mean. You’d think that after five hundred years, he’d find something else.”

“Eh, who knows? I didn’t understand anything they were doing,” said Ron.

“And where do the ghost horses come from, anyway?” she continued. “Horses aren’t magical creatures.”

But Ron and Harry didn’t know any more about ghosts than she did. She’d have to look it up later.

“Feast is probably over by now,” Ron said glumly.

“Come on, we’re going to the kitchens,” Hermione said. “When I realised the party was at the same time as the feast, I went up and asked Sonya to save our food for us—EEK!” She squealed as Ron grabbed her in a hug.

“You’re brilliant, Hermione!” he said.

“Thank you,” she said primly. “Only took you a year to notice.”

“Hey! Did not.”

They turned in the direction of the kitchens, but suddenly, Harry stopped and started looking around fearfully.

“Harry, what is it?” Hermione said.

“Quiet, it’s that voice again,” he whispered. “Listen…”

She did. “I don’t hear—”

“Shut up a minute…” he cut her off rudely. Then, he started running for the stairs. “This way!” he yelled.

Hermione and Ron had no choice but to follow. They didn’t know what had got into Harry, but Hermione, at least, hadn’t forgotten what happened the last time her friend had gone this crazy. She had her wand at the ready. Harry sprinted past the Entrance Hall and up to the first floor with his friends struggling to keep up.

“Harry, what’s going—” Ron started.

“SHH!” Harry hissed. “It’s going to kill someone!”

“What!” Hermione yelled, but Harry didn’t hear her. He sprinted up the next flight and clear around the second floor. Hermione had a brief vision of what had happened last Halloween and how Quirrell had tried to kill someone then—namely her. Was it happening again? Was Professor Lockhart evil, too, maybe, Merlin forbid?

They turned into a dead end. The last passage ended with no sign of whatever murderous thing Harry had been chasing. The only thing down there was Myrtle’s bathroom, and…

“Look!” Hermione yelled. There on the wall, in crimson, foot-high letters, was written:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN

OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

“What’s that?” Ron said nervously.

For a moment, Hermione thought he meant the large puddle of water on the floor, but as they walked closer, Hermione realised it was something else: Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was hanging motionless by her tail from a torch bracket, stiff as a board.

“We gotta get out of here,” Ron hissed.

“But can’t we help her?” said Harry.

“And get caught by Filch? No way!”

But it was too late. The feast had just let out, and half the school was coming up to this corridor from the Great Hall. In seconds, the trio was surrounded.

Suddenly, there was a commotion, and Draco Malfoy pushed to the front of the crowd, his face flushed. He took one look at the message and the frozen cat, and then he grinned evilly and pointed directly at Hermione saying, “Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, mudbloods!”

Hermione stared at Malfoy like a deer in headlamps and tried to keep her breathing even. She had a sudden urge to run away, but she was cornered by Filch and then by several teachers. The next few minutes were something of a blur. She barely registered Filch threatening to kill Harry, Professor Dumbledore arriving and leading them to Professor Lockhart’s office, and Professor Lockhart sounding suspiciously like he was bluffing about knowing what was going on. Her mind was spinning, trying to figure out what Malfoy meant and how he was involved. She was coming up empty. The Chamber of Secrets bit sounded familiar, though.

“I didn’t touch Mrs. Norris!” Hermione snapped out of it when Harry spoke up for the first time. She had barely caught that Mrs. Norris had not been killed, but petrified by some dark magic unknown. “And what’s a squib, anyway?”

“You know! You saw my Kwikspell letter!” Filch snarled.

Wait, Filch is a squib? Hermione thought. She knew all about the blood purity categories from her reading. That would explain a few things. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the wheels of her mind started turning…

“…but the circumstances are most suspicious.” It was Professor Snape, stepping out from the shadows, his robes billowing behind him, even in the still air. (How did he do that? Hermione wondered absently.) “Why weren’t the three of you at the Halloween Feast?”

They explained about the deathday party and that there were hundreds of witnesses to where they were, albeit none of them living. “…we were heading to the kitchens to get some real food when…” Ron started, but Harry elbowed him in the side.

“The kitchens?” Snape said triumphantly. “Then why were you on the second floor?”

“Because…because…” Harry grasped for an explanation.

“Because it was freezing in that dungeon, and we went for a walk to warm up,” Hermione jumped in, wiping the grin off Snape’s face.

Snape frowned and tried a few other tactics to get them in trouble, but Dumbledore let them go soon after that, with an assurance that a draught made from Professor Sprout’s mandrakes could cure Mrs. Norris, although it would have to wait until spring.

“Come on, curfew’s late tonight,” Hermione said. “We still have time to get dinner.”

“D’you think I should have told them about the voice?” Harry whispered along the way.

“No,” said Ron. “Even in the wizarding world, hearing voices isn’t a good sign.”

“But you believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course we do, Harry,” Hermione said soothingly. “You were right last year, weren’t you? It must have something to do with whoever did that to Mrs. Norris. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“And what on earth is a Squib?”

“The opposite of a muggle-born,” Hermione explained. “A person from a wizarding family with no magic.”

Ron started sniggering: “Yeah, I reckon Filch must be a squib if he’s trying to learn magic from Kwikspell. Explains why he hates the students so much and always makes us clean stuff without magic.”

“It’s too bad,” Hermione said. “He really seems to like that cat.”

“Too bad for us, you mean,” Ron countered. “He’ll be even worse than usual, now.”

Hermione sighed and gave it up. They reached the kitchens, and she tickled the pear in the painting of the bowl of fruit to open the door.

“Oh, hello, sirs and miss,” squeaked the first elf they saw. “Sonnitt, they is here! They is here!”

“Miss Hermione Granger! And Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, sirs,” Sonya squeaked, running over to them. “We has your food ready for you. It is being over here.” She led them to the duplicate high table.

“Thank you, Sonya,” Hermione said as she sat down at her plate.

“Yeah, thanks, Sonya,” Ron barely had time to say before he dug in.

“You is being very late, sirs and miss. Was you enjoying the ghosties’ party?”

“No, the party was pretty dreadful, honestly,” Hermione said. “We got held up afterwards. Something…something bad happened.”

Sonya’s large eyes grew wider than usual. “Is this the bad thing you was warning us about, Miss Hermione Granger?”

“It might be,” Harry said, remembering Dobby’s warning. “Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris, got…petrified, somehow. Filch and Snape thought we did it, but we didn’t. And…and there was a message on the wall. It said, “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.’”

Most of the elves within earshot gasped. A few of them even dropped their cleaning implements. They all started whispering to each other, “The Chamber of Secrets! The Chamber of Secrets!”

“The message is saying the Chamber of Secrets?” Sonya asked. Hermione wasn’t sure she had ever seen the little elf more frightened, except maybe when she mentioned freeing the elves when they first met.

“Yes. Do you know anything about that? I think I remember reading something about it in Hogwarts, a History.”

“It is being an old story for elves, and wizards, too, miss. Sonya’s grandmama knows it best. Sonya will gets Grandmama Tilly.” And she popped away.

The children stared at each other. “Well, something’s got them riled up,” Ron said.

About a minute later, Sonya popped back down to the kitchens with Tilly in tow. Even the normally-calm Tilly looked disturbed, and she ran up to the table and said, “Harry Potter, sir, is the message really saying the Chamber of Secrets has been opened?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s what it said. What is the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Oh, it is being a long story, sir,” Tilly said.

“Can you have a seat?” Hermione asked, patting the table beside her. Tilly hesitantly climbed up and sat on the table so that she could speak to them at eye level. Sonya followed suit and sat beside her.

“You is knowing about the Founders of Hogwarts, sirs and miss,” Tilly began, “Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. Gryffindor was being a most powerful warlock and was being friends with Hufflepuff, who was a great healer. Ravenclaw and Slytherin was the greatest enchanters of their age. Gryffindor and Slytherin was not liking each other much, but they was working together to protect wizards from dark lords and witch-hunting muggles.

“The Founders was not starting a school at first. They each was having their own special magic, and they each gathered apprentices to teach them their magic. But then, the Dark Lord Foul came and tried to take over all magical Europe, and they was needing a castle to protect themselves and their apprentices. They was choosing here in Scotland to build the castle because there is more magic here than anywhere else in Europe, except in Russia—or Tilly is thinking it was Russia. It might be in one of the new countries. But Lord Foul was wanting this place, and they was not wanting him to get it.

“The Founders worked together to build Hogwarts Castle. Ravenclaw and Slytherin made the best stone circle in the world to build the foundations and tap the earth magic, and Gryffindor was designing the battlements, and Hufflepuff was designing the living space. At first, it was just being the West Wing, but Helga Hufflepuff was buying many house elves from masters who…did not treat them well…to work at the castle, and she made her own elf, Hooky, the Head Elf.

“The Founders was fighting Lord Foul for many years, and he was besieging the castle, but they was keeping him out, and Slytherin was knowing the most about Lord Foul’s dark magic and defeated him. After Lord Foul was defeated, the Founders stayed at the castle. They was learning from their apprentices that many young witches and wizards was orphans from the war, and many more was needing a safe place to learn magic, far away from witch-hunters, so the Founders started teaching all the children who was needing it, and soon, there was so many children that they decided to turn the castle into a school for all the witches and wizards in Britain and Ireland, and they built the East Wing for all the classrooms, and that is being Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“Yah, this is all real fascinating,” Ron said, “but what’s it got to do with the Chamber of Secrets?”

Tilly shrunk back timidly and said, “Tilly will explain, Ronald Weasley, sir. Salazar Slytherin was disagreeing with the other Founders from the start. Slytherin was not liking muggle-born witches and wizards. He was worrying they were loyal to their muggle families and was not trusting them. He never picked them for his apprentices or students, and he was thinking the other Founders should not, either, but Godric Gryffindor was saying they should, and Slytherin let him for many years, until 1058.”

“1058?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Yes, Miss Hermione Granger.”

“What’s so special about 1058?” asked Ron.

“That’s the year after Macbeth died, when Malcolm III became King of Scots.”

Harry and Ron gave her blank looks.

“Don’t you read Shakespeare in the wizarding world? Macbeth was aided in taking Malcolm’s rightful throne by three witches, and I’m sure Malcolm didn’t like that.”

“Ohhh,” the boys said.

“That is being right, Miss Hermione Granger,” Tilly continued. “The witch hunts grew much worse under King Malcolm, and Slytherin was wanting to expel all the muggle-borns from Hogwarts so they could not tell their families about it. Gryffindor was not wanting to. He said purebloods should be friends with muggle-borns, and then they would be loyal. They could not agree, and at the end, they duelled over it. They was old men, then, as old as Professor Dumbledore. Rowena Ravenclaw was dead, and Helga Hufflepuff was sick and could not duel anymore, but Gryffindor and Slytherin duelled like Professor Dumbledore. The whole castle and grounds was shaking, and Slytherin was using dark magic. They duelled so hard that they knocked down the first Astronomy Tower.”

The children gasped. What kind of duel would that have been like?

“Gryffindor fought Slytherin to the edge of the wards because Gryffindor wanted to expel Slytherin from the grounds. But they was stopped there, and he could not do it. But then Helga Hufflepuff sent Hooky to help, and Hooky pushed Slytherin out of the wards when he wasn’t looking, and he was banned from Hogwarts forever.”

“Good for Hooky,” Hermione said.

“That still doesn’t explain about the Chamber of Secrets,” said Harry.

Now, Tilly lowered her voice a little: “That is being the legend of Slytherin, Harry Potter, sir. The stories says that Salazar Slytherin was knowing for years that the witch-hunters would come, and that Godric Gryffindor would ban him from the castle. So Slytherin built a secret chamber deep under the castle without telling the other Founders, and he put something inside to purge all the muggle-borns from the castle.”

Hermione froze, her eyes wide. “Purge?” she squeaked.

“Yes, miss.”

“What’s in the Chamber?” asked Harry.

“The stories says it is being a monster, sir, that can be preserved for many centuries and that only the Heir of Slytherin can control it.”

“Enemies of the Heir beware,” Hermione whispered. “Tilly, is the Chamber of Secrets real?”

“None of we elves has ever seen it,” Tilly said. “And no Headmaster has ever found it. But Hogwarts is always having more secrets. Salazar Slytherin would not have wanted elves or Headmasters to gets in, only his heirs. The Chamber of Secrets could be here somewhere still.”

Hermione lost her grip on her knife and fork with a clatter.

“Is you okay, Miss Hermione Granger?” Sonya asked worriedly.

Hermione realised her hands were shaking: “It was Malfoy…He said…“You’ll be next, mudbloods.” And muggle-borns are the enemies of the Heir.”

“Malfoy,” Ron breathed. “You think he’s the Heir?”

“I don’t know. It seems too obvious. He’s from a well-known and well-documented family, but…Harry, Dobby said there was a plot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe Malfoy’s in on it. Maybe he knows something.”

“Yeah, I bet he does,” Ron chimed in. “Who else thinks muggle-borns are scum as much as he does? So what do you want to do about him?”

Hermione sank back in her seat: “I don’t know.”

The sounds of conversation in the kitchen ceased, leaving only the scrubbing of pans and the mopping of floors.

Finally, Harry said, “Say, Tilly, when Dobby came to my relatives’ house, he didn’t look like he was being treated very well by his masters. Is there anything we can do to help him?”

Tilly frowned as curious whispers broke out among the other elves. “Sometimes wizards is buying elves who is not treated well, like Helga Hufflepuff, but some wizards is not selling their elves so they cannot reveal their secrets.”

“I bet Dobby’s masters wouldn’t sell him, then,” Harry said. “He had to punish himself when he almost revealed their secrets.” Several of the younger elves, including Sonya, whined in surprise at that, but Tilly and many of the older elves nodded knowingly. Apparently, that wasn’t unheard of.

Finally, they finished dinner and said good night to the elves. They had just enough time to get back up to the tower before curfew. Hermione tried to hide the fact that her hands were still trembling.

“Wow, I never knew Slytherin was the one who started all this pureblood junk,” Ron said as they walked.

“Right,” Hermione replied uneasily. “The funny part is he wasn’t like Malfoy, just thinking the purebloods were better. He was worried about the witch-hunters.”

“Yeah, but it’s still his fault. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I would’ve just got back on the train and went home.”

Hermione didn’t respond to that, but she saw a very uncomfortable, maybe even scared look cross Harry’s face, and she remembered a certain conversation she’d had over a year ago. “Harry…” she started, but he just shook his head.

“What? You okay mate?” Ron asked.

Hermione shot him an ugly look.

“What? What’d I say?”

Harry seemed to shrink into himself even further.

“Harry, I told you then it’s okay,” Hermione said, cautiously putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’re nothing like them.”

“Huh?” Ron said.

Harry looked up and faced his friend nervously: “Ron…the Sorting Hat did try to put me in Slytherin.”

“What?!” Ron bellowed. “What happened? Why didn’t it?”

“‘Cause I told it I wanted to go anywhere but Slytherin, and it put me in Gryffindor. I didn’t even know about the pureblood stuff. I just knew Voldemort and a bunch of dark wizards were from there, and Malfoy was there.”

“And you didn’t want to be anything like them,” Hermione assured him.

“But sometimes I still wonder…” he started.

“You’re not, Harry,” she said fiercely. “You proved you’re a Gryffindor one year ago tonight when you saved me from a mountain troll. And you’ve proved it again and again since then—you almost got yourself killed four times last year, and those are just the ones I know about.”

And then, to both Harry’s and Hermione’s relief, Ron broke into a smile: “Yeah, Harry, can you imagine Malfoy taking on a troll? He’d probably wet himself.”

Harry started laughing: “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, guys.”

The next few days were some of the most unpleasant Hermione had had in quite some time. Everything seemed to be falling apart again. She never thought she would be one to go paranoid, but she found herself looking over her shoulder frequently, in case Malfoy should show his face. She wasn’t the only one, either. Justin Finch-Fletchley seemed to be scared of Harry all of a sudden. Being found at the scene of the crime, some people were starting to think he was the Heir of Slytherin, as absurd as that was. Also, Ginny was looking more pale and nervous than before her cold (Ron claimed she was a great cat lover), and Fred’s, George’s, and Ron’s attempts to cheer her up fell flat.

Hermione didn’t tell her parents about Mrs. Norris in her letter that week. She felt a little guilty about that, but she pushed it off by writing, Something strange happened, but things are mostly fine, now. I’ll tell you more when I know what’s going on. That should be good enough for the short term.

She spent all of her spare time the rest of the weekend in the library, followed by reading in the Common Room until the wee hours of the morning. As per her own advice, Lavender and Parvati had tried to make her come to bed, but she actually told them off this time. She was trying to find out what kind of horrible spell or monster or demon could petrify a cat like that, but as always, finding anything obscure in the Hogwarts library was like looking for a needle in a haystack. In the meantime, she noticed a lot of people putting their names down on a waiting list for Hogwarts, A History, and she thanked her lucky stars for Tilly. She’d had to leave that book at home to make room for Lockhart’s tomes and would have been most unhappy that she couldn’t get hold of it.

Remembering that they’d found Mrs. Norris near Myrtle’s bathroom, Hermione asked Myrtle if she’d seen anything, but the distraught ghost had been crying too much to pay attention to anything at the time. The one other odd thing the trio noticed was that the spiders were behaving very strangely (and that Ron was arachnophobic), almost as if they were leaving the castle en masse, despite the approaching winter. What that could have to do with anything they didn’t know, but Hermione mentally filed it away for future reference.

It was in this high-strung and sleep-deprived state that she sat down with her Arithmancy study group on Tuesday afternoon.

“Alright, properties of triangles, everyone,” Roger Davies said as he joined the table in the library.

“Right, simple enough,” Hermione said, and immediately regretted it. For the most part, she had curtailed the urge to say things like that around her classmates, but as she presently was trying to make her brain focus enough to understand triple integrals on the side, it slipped out.

“Yes, well…do triangles get used that much in spellcrafting?” Roger asked.

“Not so much directly, but trigonometry does,” Hermione replied, absently leaning her head on her hand.

“Say, you don’t look so good, Hermione,” Alicia Spinnet said. “Are you feeling alright?”

Hermione was about to brush it off and say she was fine, but she decided at the last moment that she really ought to be honest: “No, it’s this whole Chamber of Secrets business.”

“Oh, that. Are you worried about it?”

“Yes. Did you hear what Malfoy said?”

Alicia growled softly: “Yes, practically everybody heard what he said. You think he’s involved.”

“I think he might know something.”

“What is the Chamber of Secrets, anyway?” Roger asked.

Hermione briefly summarised the story Tilly had told her. “…And, supposedly, the Heir of Slytherin will come back someday and purge all the muggle-borns from the school.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty nasty story,” said Cedric Diggory. “But I wouldn’t worry about Malfoy too much. He’s probably just posturing, like always.”

“Maybe, but Cedric, something happened to Mrs. Norris, and even Professor Dumbledore couldn’t fix her.”

“Yeah, um, about that—So you were with Harry the entire time on Halloween?” Cedric asked nervously.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “We didn’t know anything had happened until we stumbled on Mrs. Norris, and she was already petrified.”

“Okay, well, I’ll try to make Justin understand. He’s been really worried thinking Harry is the Heir of Slytherin, but I really didn’t think he would do something like that.”

“No, he wouldn’t. But apparently, there’s someone around here who would. I don’t like it…I’m worried. It’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I just wish I could do something.”

“Like what?” asked Alicia.

“I don’t know. I need more information, really—better information. But only the Slytherins would have a chance of that.”

“Well, good luck getting anything out of them,” said Roger. “Slytherin’s all about secrets and lies.”

“I know, I…oh, let’s just get to work. Triangles, right?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe we should skip down to the part about breaking down the arithmantic components of the Softening Charm,” Cedric suggested. He smiled at Hermione. That was a little more up her alley. She smiled weakly in return and helped them through the procedure.

Hermione’s mind was taken off the recent events for a little while, but no longer. The stress was getting to her pretty badly, but as she lay awake in her bed that night, things changed. Something that Professor Snape, of all people, had said in an offhand remark a few weeks ago came back to her, and a plan started to form in her mind—an insane plan. An impossible plan. There were at least three things she needed to get hold of to have even a chance of making it work. But then again, as she thought about it, none of them seemed insurmountable. Even so, it was dangerous, desperate, and very against the school rules, if not outright illegal.

And right now, she was too worried about the Heir of Slytherin to care.

Chapter Text

“Veritaserum?” Ron and Harry said together.

“It’s truth serum,” Hermione said. “Just three drops will make someone tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about anything you ask them. There are ways to resist it, but you have to know it’s coming in advance.”

“So we grab Malfoy, give him three drops, and ask him about the Chamber of Secrets!” Ron said excitedly. “That could work.”

“No it won’t,” Harry said. “When he gets out of it, he’ll run off and tell Snape.”

“Oh, right.”

Hermione bit her lip.

“What?”

“He won’t if we slip him a Forgetfulness Potion and a Sleeping Draught when we’re done,” she said. “If we combine the two, he won’t remember anything for the past half hour, or if he does, he’ll think he dreamed it.”

“Whoa,” Ron said. “You know you’re really scary sometimes, Hermione.”

“I’m just doing what I have to,” she replied. “I’m not going to take Malfoy’s crud lying down anymore.” Her friends stared as they saw the fire in her eyes, a fire they had seen only once before, when she had dismantled Professor Vector’s “impenetrable” protection on the Philosopher’s Stone. Beneath that bookish exterior, they realised there was a person they did not want to cross.

“Ooo-kaaay, so we can get that stuff…” Ron said uneasily. “But where do we get Veritaserum?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part,” she said. “We’ll have to make it.”

Harry and Ron exchanged an uncomfortable look. Both of them were mediocre at Potions.

“Okay, I’ll have to make it,” Hermione clarified. “But there are some problems.”

“Like what?” Harry said.

She laughed coldly: “You mean aside from the fact that it’s illegal to use on minors? Well, for one, we’ll need a place to brew it. For that, I was thinking Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“But that’s a girl’s bathroom,” Ron protested.

“That no one ever uses. It’s the last place anyone would look. The second problem is that it’s a really advanced potion. That means it’ll be very dangerous to get wrong, and it’ll probably need ingredients that aren’t available to students.”

“Well, that’s no good. Where’re we gonna get those?” said Ron.

But Harry looked thoughtful: “Would Professor Snape have what we need?”

“In his private stores, almost certainly,” Hermione replied with a sigh. “We’d have to steal some.”

Ron gaped at her: “Dangerous and breaking all kinds of rules, and now stealing from Snape? Have you gone mad, Hermione? He’ll kill us if he finds out.”

She crossed her arms: “Hmph. You think I like this, Ronald? I’m talking about breaking the law, here. But I am not going to wait for Malfoy to come after me…” She fought to keep her voice from quivering. “He was pointing at me, remember? And the professors were no help. If you two Gryffindors are gonna chicken out, you can just forget I said anything, but I’m going to do it with or without you. If you’d like to stick around and help me think of a plan, Mr. Chessmaster…”

“Okay, okay, I’m in,” Ron said quickly. “I think the world’s gone barmy with you breaking rules, but I’m in. So what do we need to take from the greasy git?”

“That’s the other problem,” Hermione said. “I need the book that says how to make it. Snape said it’s called Moste Potente Potions, but I’m sure it’ll be in the Restricted Section of the library.”

Harry’s and Ron’s faces fell. They would need a note from a teacher, usually signing off on the specific book, to take anything out of the Restricted Section. Hermione was close with Professor Vector, but not that close.

“How can we get it, then?” asked Harry. “The teachers will know we want to make a potion.”

“I was thinking maybe we could tell them we just wanted to know about the theory…”

“Oh come on,” Ron burst out. “Even I wouldn’t fall for that. What teacher would be that thick?”

Suddenly, Harry got an excited grin on his face.

Harry’s plan worked like a charm, but Hermione’s estimate of Professor Lockhart was starting to fall. A little flattery was all it took to get the Defence Professor to sign her note without even looking at it. The bad news was that the Veritaserum took a month to brew. However, the instructions were very detailed, and she was confident that she could do it if she had the ingredients. But breaking into Snape’s private stores wouldn’t be easy, and the boys, predictably, were more worried about the next weekend’s Quidditch match.

True, Hermione could get into it, too. She really wanted Harry to wipe that smirk off Malfoy’s face.

“It’s not going to be as easy as last year,” Hermione told the team when they asked her for her Arithmantic assessment. Even Oliver Wood seemed interested in what she had to say. “I know you girls are good, but the Chaser squad is going to be at a real disadvantage going against Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. The good news is that Harry’s a much better flier than Malfoy, and his broom is almost as fast, so if you play a hard defence, you’ve got a better than even chance, but I’d have to put it at only about sixty, maybe sixty-five percent.”

“Hmm, perhaps a morale boost is in order, then,” suggested Fred. “That can always help one’s advantage.”

“Oh no, what did you do?” Hermione asked.

“Nothing against the rules,” George said.

“Well, not the important rules,” Fred clarified.

“Yeah, but they’ll be back to normal all too soon.”

“Shh, quiet, George. It should be happening right about…now…”

Everyone looked over at the Slytherin table, where the Quidditch Team, already in their green robes, were sipping orange juice and discussing the upcoming match. But as they talked, their faces rapidly flashed through confusion, fear, and then rage as laughter started to spread around the Hall. Soon, they were on their feet and shouting, or rather trying to shout, as their predicament became clear. The entire Slytherin Quidditch Team were emitting strange, vaguely horse-like squeals every time they opened their mouths.

“Yes!” Fred exclaimed.

“Worked like a charm,” George said.

“Or rather like a potion,” Fred smirked.

“It did?” said Hermione. “Just what are they supposed to sound like?”

“Zebras, of course,” the Twins replied in unison.

“And now for phase two,” Fred added. “Come on, everybody,” he motioned to the Gryffindor Team. The two of them linked their arms and each swallowed a swig of their own orange juice, and, with a matching pair of grins, the Weasley Twins stood up and let out a loud pair of lions’ roars to the Great Hall. This caused the enraged Slytherins to shout even more, filling the air with more frightened zebra sounds. Pretty soon, Ron goaded Harry into drinking the spiked orange juice, and the three Chasers soon followed. Only Oliver Wood refused. Professor Snape had already silenced the Slytherin Team and was investigating the orange juice.

“That had better be temporary,” Wood confronted them.

Fred held up ten fingers, and George made an M shape with his hands.

“It lasts for ten minutes?”

They both nodded.

“I will hold you to that Messrs. Weasley.” Professor McGonagall appeared, standing over their shoulders. “As amusing as this might be—” And she did look a little amused. “—this is quite inappropriate behaviour. Detention with me Monday night.”

Fred and George nodded, but mouthed, “Worth it,” to each other behind her back. Sure enough, ten minutes later, both Quidditch teams could speak normally again.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Ron told his brothers. “Lions and zebras. I never would’ve thought of that.” Even Ginny looked like she’d liked that one. She seemed cheered up a bit compared with the past few days.

“Well, not everyone can be us,” said Fred.

“I hate to say it, but that was really impressive,” Hermione told them. “How did you get potions to do that?”

“That, our dear Miss Granger—” Fred started.

“—is a trade secret,” George finished.

Hermione lay awake in her bed that night, wondering how everything kept going wrong.

The Quidditch Match had been a near-total disaster. Gryffindor had won, but that was the only bright spot. She could still see it clearly in her mind: the Bludger deviating from the opportunistic course it was supposed to follow and going after Harry again and again, no matter how hard Fred and George hit it. Just like last year, it looked like someone was tampering with the equipment, and just like last year, she’d grabbed a pair of binoculars and started scanning the crowd, but this time, she couldn’t find anyone jinxing the Bludger—nothing in the teachers’ box—that was the first place she’d looked. Then, the stands, but she never saw anything there, either. She had to just sit there, watching Harry almost get killed again and again and not able to do anything about it.

Hermione had a feeling Malfoy was involved with this somehow. As the new Slytherin Seeker and a much inferior flier, who else would have more reason to try to knock Harry off his broom? But he hadn’t looked like he was doing anything at the time, and she doubted there would be much chance to prove it after.

Things only got worse as the rain grew heavier and the visibility fell. Harry, idiot Gryffindor Quidditch nut that he was, refused to stop playing, even after George called a time out. He kept zooming around the Quidditch Pitch in a kind of aerial ballet, keeping a step ahead of the less manoeuvrable Bludger with his tight turns. For a while, it looked like he had things almost under control, but Bludger nailed him in the end.

Hermione had screamed when the iron ball slammed into Harry’s arm. He went reeling on his broom, and the Bludger turned around again, this time aimed at his head, but he dodged and charged Malfoy. She’d thought for a moment that he had got fed up and decided to attack the Slytherin directly, but no, he was going for the Snitch, snatching it from practically under Malfoy’s nose with his one good arm.

He’d landed hard, tumbling off his broom. Even then, the Bludger made another pass at him, but Fred and George grabbed it and started wrestling it back into its box. For a moment, it had seemed like the worst was over.

And then, Professor Lockhart he tried to fix his broken arm. He might be brilliant at defence, she thought, but his healing spells left a lot to be desired. Instead of repairing the bones, he somehow managed to vanish every bone in Harry’s arm. Hermione felt sick. All those ligaments and tendons had to be hanging loose, now, sliding around. She was sure Harry was going to lose his arm, but Madam Pomfrey assured them not to worry. That was the magic of Skele-Gro. It fixed everything up on its own, and Harry would be fine in the morning.

She wanted to defend Lockhart—to say it was just an honest mistake—but it was getting harder and harder. The longer she watched him, the more she was starting to think he had no idea what he was doing. He never really taught anything in class. He just acted out scenes from his books, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him perform any but the simplest spells correctly.

So that left her with three separate problems: the Chamber of Secrets, the rogue Bludger (although both of those might have been Malfoy), and Professor Lockhart, and none of those problems lent themselves to obvious solutions. And she’d been having a pretty good year so far, too.

As she drifted off to sleep, Hermione wondered if anything else could go wrong.

Little did she know.

Harry woke in the dead of night and immediately yelped in pain. The numb, rubbery feeling in his arm had been bad enough, but now it felt like it was full of large splinters, and worse still, he could feel his tendons crawling under his skin to attach in the right places.

His arm was so distracting that it took him several seconds to realise that someone was sponging his forehead in the darkened Hospital Wing.

“Ahh! Get off!” He yelled. He flailed with his good arm and managed to flip on the bedside lamp. A huge pair of goggling green eyes stared up at him. “Dobby!”

A single tear ran down Dobby’s nose. “Harry Potter came back to Hogwarts,” the elf whispered. “Dobby warned him not to come back, sir. Why did Harry Potter do it? Why did he not go back home when he missed the train?”

“Missed the train?” Harry said. “How did you know—?”

But before he could make the connection, there was a loud crack, almost deafening in the quiet ward, and another, much younger elf appeared beside the bed.

“Sonya?” Harry said in confusion.

Sonya took one look at Dobby and said. “You! You is Dobby! You is getting Harry Potter in trouble! We is watching for elves who is not supposed to be here—”

Dobby, whom Hermione said had probably had very little contact with other elves, quailed and took a step back. “Dobby is trying to save Harry Potter,” he said. “Save him from the dark deeds that are planned at Hogwarts. Dobby tried to keep Harry Potter away, but nothing Dobby did would make him leave.”

“What dark deeds?” Sonya demanded. “Tell Sonya. We must be warning Professor Dumbledore of all dark deeds.”

“Dobby cannot speak of them, even to fellow elves. Dobby mustn’t tell. Harry Potter must go home. Dobby has tried three times, but he will not listen.”

“Three times?” Harry said. “It was you! You made Ron and me miss the train. And you sent the Bludger, too?”

The elf whimpered: “Dobby thought his Bludger would—”

Suddenly, there was a flash of light and a bang, and Dobby was thrown headfirst into the wall. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his head, only to be faced down by an enraged teenage elf. “You tries to kill Harry Potter!” Sonya screamed. Harry was sure she would wake Madam Pomfrey and maybe the whole wing. “You is a bad elf, Dobby! We shoulds have been watching the grounds for you, too! Sonya will take you to Magical Creatures Department for this!” She launched herself at Dobby, but there was another flash of light, and she was thrown against the opposite wall with a squeal.

“Not kill Harry Potter,” Dobby said. “Never kill him. Better for him to be sent home grievously injured, than remain here, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—” He froze, horror struck, and then grabbed the water jug from the bedside table and smacked it against his skull. “Bad Dobby!” he yelled. “Very bad Dobby.”

Sonya had started to take another run at Dobby, but she skidded to a halt and clapped her tiny hands over her mouth at the sight.

But Harry was on top of things. He grabbed Dobby by the wrists and said, “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?”

“It is being opened before?” Sonya echoed.

“Dobby can say no more, Harry Potter sir. He must not speak about such things.”

“But Harry Potter is not being muggle-born,” Sonya said. “It is Hermione Granger who is in danger. Dobby will tell Sonya!” Then, she took a flying leap and jumped on Dobby’s back. Dobby yelped, and they both tumbled off the bed. The two elves began rolling around the room in a blur of limbs, squeaks, and flashes of light, seemingly locked in some sort of wandless duel.

“Dobby will tell Sonya! Sonya will protect her friends—Eek!”

There was a louder bang than the others, and Sonya was thrown up onto one of the empty beds. Then, Dobby waved his hands, and the sheet levitated into the air with her on it, then wrapped her up tight so that she couldn’t get away.

“Dobby, let her go!” Harry said, but Dobby ignored him.

“Dobby is not wanting to hurt Sonya,” the elf said, “but Dobby is knowing old elf lore, and he will use it to protect Harry—” He froze and listened. Harry and Sonya heard it, too. There were footsteps coming from outside the Hospital Wing.

“Intruder!” Sonya screamed. “Is being an intruder!”

“Dobby must go!” The intruding elf popped away with a crack, and Sonya fell to the bed.

“Dobby? Dobby!” she screamed in anger.

At that moment, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were walking into the ward, carrying what looked like a statue. Sonya disentangled herself and ran up to them, babbling, “Professor Dumbledore, sir, there was being an intruder here. He was an elf and was being the one who tampered with the Bludger, and…” She stopped and staggered backwards, clapping her hands to her mouth again when she saw what it really was that the professors were carrying.

“Hey, did you hear about that little first year? Creevey, I think.”

Hermione turned to a shaken-looking Alicia Spinnet in confusion. Had Harry gone round the twist and stolen the boy’s camera or something? “No, what happened?” she said.

“Petrified,” Alicia replied. Hermione gasped. “Just like Mrs. Norris. They say he was sneaking up to visit Harry when something got him.”

“What…? But…how?”

“I don’t know. You can ask Harry. He told Fred he saw him brought in.”

“Right, um, I will.” Hermione turned and walked out of the Great Hall. She saw Draco Malfoy sending her a smug smirk as she left. As soon as she got out the doors, she broke into a run and didn’t stop until she got to Myrtle’s bathroom. She ran into the first stall and sank to the floor.

Her brain and heart were both racing. Her hands were shaking again, and she wrapped her arms around herself to stop them. She tried to piece together what she knew. The Chamber of Secrets had been opened—or so the message claimed. There had been a cat and student petrified by an unknown force in two separate incidents. Malfoy had implied to her more than once that he had been expecting this all year. That pointed to the fact that someone—Malfoy or otherwise—really had opened the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed the horror within to purge the school of muggle-borns. She didn’t know why Colin had been petrified and not killed or injured badly enough to be removed from the castle, but it hardly mattered. If it was Malfoy, he probably wouldn’t be above killing, and if it was someone else, she was still in danger of being turned into a statue until spring.

She had to get that potion made.

With that resolution, she left the bathroom and climbed up to her dorm to get her supplies and the instructions she had copied from Moste Potente Potions. (She had copied a couple of the other recipes, too. That Polyjuice stuff looked like it could be useful.) It had taken some doing to get a spare cauldron, but that was the easy part. Returning to the bathroom, she set up her rig. A ceramic basin mounted inside a toilet bowl held bluebell flames that would be just hot enough to simmer the potion and would only need to be refilled once per day. The cauldron sat over top of it after she filled it with water from the sink. The instructions said the final product had to be distilled, and she still wasn’t sure how she would do that, but she’d think of something.

But that was as far as she got at the moment. Her hands were still shaking, and she didn’t dare try to start brewing in that condition. She knew it wasn’t from the cold, but she tried to run them under hot water from the sink anyway. She found it somewhat soothing.

Things weren’t looking good. Merely the threat of this could scare her parents into withdrawing her (and she probably wasn’t alone in that). Politically speaking, that might be even worse—letting Malfoy win without a fight. But how was she going to spin this one? Dear Mum and Dad, Remember that boy who keeps hexing me and calling me racial slurs? I think he may be actively plotting to kill me.

Someone knocked on the door: “Hermione?”

“Ahhh! R-Ron?” she stammered.

The redheaded boy entered the bathroom. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You ran out at breakfast.”

“Did you hear about Colin?” she said, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah. I heard McGonagall telling Flitwick about it. Why’d you run out, though?”

“I…I just wanted to start the Veritaserum right away. It doesn’t look like the Heir is wasting any time. Can you…can you give me a hand with it?”

Ron shook his head: “I’m rubbish at Potions.”

“I’ve got the instructions,” Hermione replied. “Just do what I say, and it’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay.”

Hermione drew her wand, took a deep breath to steady herself, and applied the appropriate charms to the cauldron. They weren’t the ones they usually used for the simpler potions in class, like the Dissolving Charm, since several of the ingredients had to stew for a while instead of dissolving. “There, now that one first,” she pointed shakily to one of the jars of ingredients.

“Hermione, your hands…” Ron said.

“I’m fine, Ron, just open the jar.”

They worked in an uneasy silence after that, except for Hermione giving instructions. Ron tried to ask if she was okay a couple more times, and Hermione tried to make a bit of small talk, but it fell flat.

They barely heard when the bathroom door opened again until Harry said, “It’s me.”

Hermione jumped so hard that she narrowly avoided toppling the cauldron and ruining the potion. She peeked through the gap in the door to make sure it was really him. “Harry!” she said. “You scared me half to death. Come in. How’s your arm?”

The three of them could barely fit in the tiny space. “It’s fine,” he said. “But I have to tell you—last night, Colin Creevey was petrified.”

“We know,” said Ron. “When Hermione found out she wanted to start the potion right away.”

“Good thinking. But there was something else.” And Harry related Dobby’s midnight visit, his admission that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before (“I bet it was Malfoy’s dad,” said Ron), and his fight with Sonya. Hermione smiled for the first time all day when he told how the elf had tried to defend her. And after that was when Dumbledore and McGonagall brought in Colin, frozen with his camera still in his hands. “But when they opened it, the inside was all melted,” he reported.

“Melted?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Yeah, what’s that mean?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a clue. Whatever did this petrifies people and melts cameras.”

“Unless it was a spell,” Ron said. “Someone’s controlling the monster, right?”

“Right,” Hermione sighed. “The sooner we can finish this thing and interrogate Malfoy the better. Ron, we need to get those ingredients.”

“I still don’t know how you think you’re gonna them from Snape,” Ron grumbled.

“Well, I was hoping you could help me,” she snapped. “You too, Harry, if you have any ideas.”

“I don’t know,” Ron complained. “Look, do you even know what these ingredients look like?”

“Of course I do, Ron. I can get them out of Snape’s storeroom with no trouble. I just need to be sure he won’t see me go in there.”

“So we need a diversion?”

“Exactly. Just think of it like a chess game.”

“Oh sure, like a chess game,” Ron mumbled, but his wheels started turning just the same: “What if…what if we stage a potions accident that he has to clean up.”

Hermione’s and Harry’s eyebrows shot up. It was an obvious, though risky solution. “That could work,” Hermione said. “We couldn’t sabotage one of our own potions, though, or Snape might know it was us. And we have to decide which potion to sabotage. It can’t be anything too dangerous; we don’t want anybody to get hurt, but it needs to be something that’ll take him a while to clean up.”

“But we don’t even know what potions he’s going to assign,” said Ron.

“I might be able to figure it out. Meet me in the library this afternoon.”

The boys agreed, and they dispersed after that. Hermione immediately went to the library to pursue her potential lead. She asked a number of older Ravenclaws in different years if they still had their second year Potions notes. It took a while, but her efforts finally netted her a good set of notes from last year and from three years ago, which allowed her to work out Professor Snape’s syllabus. It was nearly identical between the two and so far matched this year as well. Hermione wrote out a list of the potions they were would be making up to Christmas and waited for Ron and Harry.

“Whoa, how’d you find all this? Ron asked in disbelief when he saw the list.

“Snape doesn’t put a lot effort into his lesson plans. Now, we just need to pick the potion that gives us the best opportunity.”

“How about the Sleeping Draught?” Ron suggested. “Put everyone to sleep, and Snape’ll have to wake them up.”

Hermione thumbed through her Potions book: “No, the Sleeping Draught has to be ingested. It’s too easy to clean up.”

“Hmm, Alihotsy Draught?” said Harry. “Make everyone go crazy and hysterical?”

“No good. It has unpredictable emotional effects in the intermediate stages, and we’d risk being exposed to the fumes.”

“What if we blow up someone’s Swelling Solution?” Ron said. “Snape’ll have to cure anyone who’s swollen up.”

Hermione thought about this and looked over the recipe for any contraindications. “That could work,” she said. “But we won’t be making it until December. If we have to wait that long to get the ingredients, the Veritaserum won’t be ready until Christmas.”

“Well, unless you want to try one of the others…”

She looked over the list again, biting her lip. She didn’t want to admit it, but there really wasn’t anything they could use sooner. She sighed and said, “I guess not. But still, Christmas…I mean, I guess I can tell my parents I want to stay over so I can do some more research, but I don’t want to leave them alone.”

“We can try something else,” Ron said apologetically.

“No, no, people are in danger here. This is more important. We’ll do it.”

Dear Mum and Dad,

I ’m sorry to have to give you bad news, but something disturbing has been going on here. There have been two attacks in the castle. The first one was only a cat, but the second one was a first year boy. The weird part is that they weren’t normal attacks. They were "petrified,” like statues—I don’t mean transfigured, just frozen and apparently unconscious, sort of like a magical coma or suspended animation. No one can do anything for them right now, but the professors say they should be fine in the spring after Professor Snape can make a mandrake restorative potion for them.

No one knows who did it or how, but we think it has to do with something called the Chamber of Secrets. You can read about it in the copy of Hogwarts, A History that I left at home. There ’s a legend that Salazar Slytherin, one of the Founders of the school, built a secret chamber with a monster inside that’s going to get rid of all the muggle-borns someday. Supposedly, only the Heir of Slytherin can control it. Draco Malfoy’s been acting like he knows something about it all year. This weird house elf who keeps popping up knows something, too, but he can’t tell us.

I ’m being careful, and the teachers are trying to find out who did it, but it is kind of scary. I’m sure Malfoy would like nothing better than to see me get attacked. Both of the victims were wandering alone, so I’m making sure not to do that. I’m really hoping they can solve it soon. If we’re lucky, all of this will be sorted out before Christmas. I’ll keep you posted the best I can.

Love from Hermione

Hermione didn’t mention that she wanted to stay for Christmas yet. She had plenty of time to decide that for certain, and if there were no more attacks for a while, they would both feel a lot better about it.

Hermione was very tired by the time she got out of Arithmancy on Monday, and she still needed to get back to the Veritaserum. It was tricky to set things up so that she didn’t need to be there at inconvenient times during the day, which slowed down the brewing process. Luckily, it had been trivial for her to work out the numbers and put together a reasonable schedule for it.

After a long day of Potions, Herbology, and a thoroughly unhelpful double Defence lesson, Arithmancy was a refreshing break, but even so, she was tired and a bit distracted throughout the lesson, and people were starting to notice, so she probably shouldn’t have been surprised when Professor Vector asked to speak with her after class. “Hermione, are you feeling alright?” she said gently. “You look like you’ve been losing sleep again.”

Hermione looked down sheepishly and shook her head. For a few moments, she couldn’t muster up the will to speak. “Not for lack of trying, ma’am,” she said softly. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping.”

“Is something wrong?”

Hermione forced herself to look up. “It’s this Chamber of Secrets thing. At first I thought maybe Mrs. Norris could have been a cruel prank or something, but now Colin’s been petrified…” She clenched her hands into fists, determined not to let her teacher see them shaking.

“Oh, dear…” Vector stepped forward and placed an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried myself. Nothing like this has happened before in my time at Hogwarts, as a teacher or a student. If some creature—or some person—is targeting students, and we can’t track it…well, I confess I’ve been losing sleep over it, too.” She didn’t say it, but she was especially worried about Hermione, the muggle-born with such a brilliant intellect, boundless curiosity, and her knack for getting in trouble. It didn’t need to be said between them.

“Professor, you were a Slytherin,” Hermione said eagerly. “Do you know anything about the Chamber?”

“No more than you do, I’m sure, and probably less—at least for anything certain. True, it’s a popular legend in the Slytherin dorms. I must have heard a hundred different versions of the story in my seven years there, all of them different and probably none of them true. One of the most popular versions back then was that Slytherin’s monster was an acromantula. In fact, that’s still the official story of what happened that year. But acromantulas can’t petrify people—don’t worry, I checked.”

“And no one ever had any idea who the Heir of Slytherin was?”

“No. People talked, of course—claimed they knew who he was. Even little bitty first years would come in saying their father knew him or some such nonsense. But mostly they just talked about how they’d like to know who he was. I had one roommate who kept saying she wished Slytherin’s Heir would come back and—if you’ll pardon the phrase—‘just get rid of the mudbloods, already’…I never liked her.”

“She wasn’t Draco Malfoy’s mum, was she?” Hermione asked.

Professor Vector blushed a little: “No, I’ve got a few years on Narcissa Malfoy and her sisters. Why? Has Draco Malfoy been giving you trouble?”

Hermione nodded. “He’s been telling me since the beginning of the year that I shouldn’t have come back. And when Mrs. Norris was petrified, he said…he said, ‘You’ll be next, mudbloods.’”

The professor grumbled. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Hermione. I’ve been trying to raise the standards in Slytherin and in particular take a stand against that word for twenty-one years, but it’s a lonely fight. I’ll try to keep a closer eye on Draco Malfoy for you when I can.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve just been so worried…”

“I know. I won’t bother telling you not to worry because I know you will. And honestly, it’s something that’s worth being careful about. But you have good friends, Hermione. Remember that, and stick close to them. There’s safety in numbers.”

“I will. Thank you, professor.”

“Good. How are your other studies coming along?”

Hermione lit up at that: “Well, Jacobians are a pain in the neck to compute, but I’m on track. And I think I’ve got a good framework for that potions paper. I was hoping I’d be able to start doing experiments over Christmas holidays, but…but I’m not sure I’ll be able to. It’s not a matter of it being too difficult, I’m just not sure if I can work it into my schedule.”

Suddenly, Professor Vector started laughing.

“Professor!” Hermione complained. “What? What is it?”

“Oh, Hermione, I’m sorry,” she replied. “It’s really not that funny, given the circumstances. It’s just that only you could be lying awake at night worrying about the Heir of Slytherin and still speak so…so offhandedly about doing cutting edge potions research on the side.”

Hermione started giggling; it was a little funny. “Thank you, Professor,” she said. “I think I needed that.”

“You’re quite welcome. Take care of yourself, and keep safe. That’s the best thing you can do right now. Oh, and don’t believe any of the older students selling protective amulets.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure where she was. It was some dark corner of the castle, she was sure, but, impossibly, she didn’t recognise it. She’d mapped out every part of Hogwarts at least once, but this—this was completely unfamiliar. She picked up her pace, walking around one corner, then another, then another, looking for something she recognised. From the maze-like structure, she must be in the dungeons, but where?

It was then that she became aware of the footsteps behind her. She turned around, but didn’t see anyone. They were always behind her back, no matter which way she turned. She needed to get away from them. She ran—around and around the dungeon. How had it got this big? Was there some infinite part of the dungeons she didn’t know about, like the spiral staircase in the Great Tower? Yet always, the footsteps were still behind her, slowly getting closer and closer.

Suddenly, she hit a dead end. She practically ran into the stone wall before she saw it. At the same moment, the footsteps stopped what sounded like just feet behind her. Trembling, she turned around, wand drawn.

He was there! The Heir of Slytherin! She didn’t know how she knew, but it must be him. His face was in shadow, but the voice was clear and familiar.

“You should have stayed away,” the Heir said.

“P-p-please,” she whimpered. “I n-never did anything to you.”

“You should have stayed away,” the Heir repeated. “You should have listened to your betters. But now, you’re going to pay.”

“No, please—!”

“It’s time for you to meet the Monster of Slytherin.”

And then she saw it—or rather, didn’t see it, since it seemed to be made out of darkness itself. The monster broke away from the shadows behind the Heir and glided toward her, a black mass like a hole in the air.

“No, please don’t! Lumos!” Hermione cried, hoping that she could at least see what she was fighting, but the feeble light from her wand wouldn’t penetrate the darkness. “Lumos!” she tried again. “Lumos Solem! Lumos Maxima! Incendio!” But nothing worked. She heard a horrible, cackling laugh, and then the monster was upon her.

“Aaaaiiieeeee!” she screamed and, acting purely on instinct, swiped her wand from the bedside table and shouted, “Lumos Solem!” and the room was blasted with an blinding burst of sunlight for a few seconds before her wand went out.

Hermione heard four female voices scream out, followed by some confused grunting and mumbling. She finally blinked her eyes open. She was in her dorm room. It was barely sunrise. Lily and Sally-Anne had just got up. And she had hit hit Lavender and Parvati in their faces with a full blast of sunlight while they were still asleep.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, what was that?” Lavender whined, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“I—I—sorry,” she stammered. “It was…I had a nightmare.”

“Oh, sorry. Try not to get jinx-happy next time, though.”

“Was it about the Chamber of Secrets?” asked Sally-Anne. That was right, Hermione thought. She wasn’t the only muggle-born in her dorm. Sally-Anne hadn’t said much about the whole Chamber business, but Hermione didn’t think she’d been out of Lily’s sight since Halloween.

“Yeah, it was,” Hermione said quietly, “or at least the Heir of Slytherin.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sally-Anne offered.

“Um, no, not really. I’ll just head down to the Common Room.”

And after quickly getting dressed and grabbing her calculus book, she did just that. But despite the early hour, she found that someone else was already down there.

“Hermione?” a small voice said in surprise.

Hermione looked over and saw a small, pale, red-haired girl putting her diary away. “Hi, Ginny,” she said wearily. “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

“Um…no…” Ginny said cagily. “It’s…um, been a hard week?”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Hermione said absently as she cracked her book.

“Well…Colin sat next to me in Charms class,” Ginny said.

Hermione looked up: “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “Things seemed like they were back to normal after Halloween, and then…”

“I know. It’s disturbing—students being hurt and no one knowing what’s going on.”

“Are you scared?”

Hermione leaned closer to Ginny and said, “Yeah, I am, but I’m doing something about it. Harry, Ron, and I are working on a way to find out who’s doing this.”

For some reason, this seemed to make Ginny even paler.

“Don’t worry, we’re being careful.”

“What are you doing?” the redhead asked.

“Sorry, we should really keep that to ourselves. I probably shouldn’t have even told you that much. I just wanted you to know.”

“Well…thanks…” Ginny said, but she still sounded pretty nervous about it.

Hermione was a little surprised that Ginny didn’t ask about her maths book, but they both sat in silence until it was time for breakfast. Ginny really didn’t look like she was in good shape. She looked a lot like Hermione felt last year when she’d stopped sleeping properly. She must be really broken up about Colin, she thought, but Hermione didn’t blame her. She was sure’d be just as lost if something happened to Harry or Ron.

“You wanna get breakfast, Ginny?” she said at last.

“Huh? Uh, sure,” Ginny said unenthusiastically.

“Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

“What? I don’t need your help.”

“I know, but safety in numbers, remember?”

“Fine.”

The two girls left the tower to head down to the Great Hall, but today, Hermione had a funny feeling that something strange was about to happen. And when they got to the Entrance Hall, it did.

Both Hermione and Ginny screamed as two orange monsters jumped out from behind a statue and started roaring. Hermione almost turned and bolted, certain she had finally run afoul of the Monster of Slytherin, until she realised the “monsters’ were wearing Hogwarts robes. Fred and George had somehow managed to cover their faces in fur and turn their hair into a pair of luxuriant, bright orange lions’ manes, and from the sounds of it had consumed some of their lion’s roar potion.

“AUGH!” Ginny shouted once she caught her breath. “I told you to cut that out already! You about gave us a heart attack!” She whipped out her wand. “Chiroptera Mucosa! Chiroptera Mucosa!”

Her hexes hit both twins full in the face. Their roars immediately changed to the sound of a cat being trod on as—never mind the anatomical impossibility of it—fully-grown black bats crawled out of their noses and flapped their wings in their faces. Unable to speak to apologise, the Twins were forced to make a run for it, lest they become the targets of more of Ginny’s hexes.

“Wow,” Hermione said. “What was that?”

“Oh, they’ve been doing stupid stuff like that all week to try to cheer me up.”

“They thought that would cheer you up? Oh, it’s them—of course they did. What was that spell, though?”

“That was Bill’s Bat-Bogey Hex. He taught it to me last summer after I got my wand.”

“Huh, I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought a first year could cast a spell like that.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said with a flip of her hair.

“Do you think you could teach me that spell?”

“Uh-uh, a girl’s gotta have some secrets,” Ginny said. But she seemed to withdraw after that and didn’t speak much at breakfast. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of the girl, but on the other hand, she didn’t feel like she particularly had time at the moment.

“Say, Myrtle,” Hermione said one day as she was working on the Veritaserum.

She heard Myrtle sniffle and emerge from the toilet next to her. “What?” the ghost said glumly.

“At that deathday party, I saw ghosts riding horses, ghosts playing musical saws, ghosts reading handwritten speeches…How do ghosts get all of those things in the…you know, afterlife?”

Myrtle was silent for a while, and then, she stuck her torso through the wall of the stall above Hermione’s head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never bothered with that kind of stuff. I’ve never needed anything like that, and if I did, I’d just ask one of the older ghosts.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you.”

“Fourteen. So young…” the ghost whined.

“No, I mean…including your death.”

“Oh…” Myrtle frowned in thought. “I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know?’”

“Oh dear, I think I’ve lost count. So many of those years are just like a blur to me.” Myrtle sighed sadly and retreated to her stall. “Just pining away the decades, no one interested in poor Myrtle,” she said softly before plunging back into her toilet.

Hermione sighed, too. Myrtle wasn’t much for conversation and didn’t seem very well-informed, even by ghost standards. She was trying to be friendly, but the ghostly girl didn’t seem to be taking her up on it. It was too bad, though. Hermione was spending so much time in here; it would be nice to have someone to talk to.

Chapter Text

In December, Hermione was relieved to get several lucky breaks. First, there were no more attacks for a month, so she didn’t feel quite as awkward telling her parents she wanted to stay at school for Christmas. Second, the raid of Snape’s private potions stores went off without a hitch. Oh, Snape probably had a good idea of who had blown up Goyle’s cauldron and what had been taken, but he could prove anything. And third, the school announced the formation of a duelling club.

“Finally!” Hermione said. “Maybe we can learn some advanced Defence, now.”

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” Ron said.

“Well, anything could help, Ron. I wonder who’s leading it. I hope it’s Professor Flitwick. He always likes talking about his days on the professional duelling circuit.”

“Just as long as it’s not Lockhart,” Harry said.

But to Harry’s dismay, it was indeed Professor Lockhart who was leading the Duelling Club, along with his “assistant,” Professor Snape.

Snape kicked Lockhart’s arse.

All he used was a Disarming Charm, and Lockhart tried to brush it off as intentional, but Hermione was having a hard time believing it, as much as she wanted to. There were only so many “mistakes’ she could accept on Lockhart’s part.

Things didn’t improve after that, as Professor Snape instructed Hermione to duel Millicent Bulstrode, and she somehow wound up painfully trapped in a headlock until Harry pulled the larger girl off of her. Next, Snape put Harry and Malfoy up on the platform and whispered something in Malfoy’s ear. Lockhart looked like he was trying to show Harry a spell, too but he dropped his wand. Harry looked lost as Lockhart counted them off: “Three—two—one—go!”

Malfoy made a great flourish with his wand and yelled, “Serpensortia!” With a bang, a long, black, venomous snake shot from the end of his wand and landed on the platform, raising its head to strike at Harry. Hermione (and most of the rest of the crowd) backed away from it fast. Harry stood motionless, obviously having no idea how to stop it.

“Don’t move, Potter, I’ll get rid of it,” Snape said lazily.

“Allow me! Alarte Ascendare!” Lockhart brandished his wand, but, far from getting rid of the snake, he merely launched it high into the air and enraged it. The snake started toward the nearest target, Justin Finch-Fletchley, with fangs bared.

And then it happened.

Harry opened his mouth, but no spell, indeed, no words came out of it, only a strange hissing sound. There was something wrong about it—something unnatural, like it wasn’t quite a normal part of reality, or at least wasn’t a normal part of Harry.

But the snake stopped.

Hermione had certainly never seen or heard it before, only read vague descriptions, but that clinched it. Harry was speaking Parseltongue, and from her extensive reading about the Chamber of Secrets, she knew that ability was what Salazar Slytherin had been famous for. But Harry couldn’t possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. She knew where he was during both attacks. She was there for the first one.

Harry actually looked happy with his…ability, that is, before Justin panicked and ran from the Hall, and he noticed all the looks of horror directed his way. Ron quickly grabbed him and dragged him from the Hall. Neither he nor Hermione spoke until they made it all the way up to the Common Room, and Ron shoved Harry into a chair and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell us you were a Parselmouth?”

“A what?” Harry said in confusion.

“A Parselmouth! You can talk to snakes.”

“Yeah. So?” Harry replied. “It’s not like I meet that many snakes. I mean, I accidentally set a boa constrictor on Dudley once, but that’s the only other time it’s happened.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open slightly. Harry’s story really wasn’t all that surprising. Being muggle-raised, and not very well at that, he probably wouldn’t know anything about it.

“You set a boa constrictor on your cousin?” Ron said worriedly.

“By accident,” Harry repeated.

“But you just set that snake on Justin…”

“What?! No! I told it to back off. Couldn’t you tell?”

“No, we don’t speak Parseltongue, Harry,” Ron told him. “It sounded like you were egging it on or something. It just sounded like hissing. I bet that’s what Justin thought.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I was speaking English…wasn’t I? Hermione, I was speaking English, right?”

She shook her head and whispered: “No, Harry. It just sounded like hissing to me—probably everybody else, too. Only Parselmouths can understand it.”

“Okay, so I’m a Parselmouth. What’s the big deal?”

“Harry,” Hermione said gently, “the most famous Parselmouth in history was Salazar Slytherin.” Harry gaped at her, finally grasping the horror of the situation. “That’s why Slytherin House’s symbol is a serpent.”

“Exactly,” Ron continued, “and now everybody’s gonna think you’re the Heir of Slytherin.”

“But I’m not…!” Harry kept looking between the two of them uneasily. “You know I’m not,” he said fiercely.

“We know that, Harry—or at least we know you didn’t attack Mrs. Norris and Colin,” Hermione replied. “But Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years ago…you could still be descended from him.”

Harry looked fearful, realising that she might be right. “But…how?”

“Just do the maths. You have two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on—twice as many ancestors per generation, right?”

“Uh, I guess,” Harry mumbled, but he didn’t look like he wanted to be convinced.

Hermione tried anyway: “It’s called exponential growth. If you go back ten generations, you have over a thousand ancestors—twenty generations, a million—thirty generations, a billion, which is more than the muggle population of Europe at the time, and it’s still only seven or eight hundred years ago. At that point, you start having duplicate ancestors from distant cousins—fourth and fifth and tenth cousins—marrying. Go back a thousand years, and even the purebloods are probably related to everybody else. Ron could be descended from Slytherin. I could be descended from Slytherin. In fact, I might be more surprised if I’m not. Purebloods can’t stay pure forever.”

“But the ‘real’ Heir of Slytherin is probably a Parselmouth,” Harry said glumly.

“But we know you didn’t do it, and you wouldn’t do it,” she insisted. “Honestly, the fact that you’re so worried about it is a good thing.”

Harry wasn’t consoled, though. He was brooding for the rest of the evening and all day the next day. Maybe he wasn’t so worried about possibly being the Heir of Slytherin, but he was definitely worried about what everyone else would think. Hermione did her best to give him some space, hoping he would come around after a while. It was probably wishful thinking, given how stubborn Harry was, but she was getting tired of his attitude.

As Herbology was cancelled that day due to inclement weather, Hermione suggested a game of chess with Ron. It had been a while since they played, and he eagerly accepted. Hermione had been putting up a tough fight the last few times they’d played with the Queen’s Gambit and other standard openings, but the best she’d been able to manage against him was a draw. She thought she was doing pretty well in this game, though, and to her relief, Harry left halfway through to go and find Justin and explain things.

In fact, she had just managed to push Ron into an advantageous endgame when there was a commotion at the portrait hole. Everyone looked up to see Katie Bell tumble into the Common Room, yelling, “There’s been an attack! There’s been an attack!”

At once, there was a commotion of jostling and shouting as people mobbed Katie, trying to get the story out of her. Hermione’s heart started pounding. Katie spotted her and Ron and sought them out: “Granger! Weasley! They think Harry did it.”

“What?” Ron said in disbelief.

“No!” Hermione cried.

“They found him at the scene. Hagrid swears it wasn’t him, but Dumbledore’s talking to him now.”

“It c-c-couldn’t have b-been Harry,” Hermione stammered. “W-we were with him when the first attack happened.”

“Who was petrified?” Ron said. Both he and Hermione feared the answer.

“That Hufflepuff from last night—” Katie said, to gasps from the Common Room. “Justin Finch-Fletchley…and Nearly-Headless Nick!”

Hermione covered her mouth with her hands, not just from horror but also a sudden spell of nausea, dizziness, and sweating. She started trembling all over and then, with a single “Eep!” of shock, bolted from the room and up the stairs. She didn’t even go all the way up to her own dorm, she just ran in the first dorm and then into the bathroom, finding it mercifully empty, and locked herself inside.

Somewhere in a distant, dissociated corner of her mind, part of her brain was thinking, Oh my God, I’m having a panic attack. The rest of her brain was racing at a mile a minute, struggling to put any coherent thoughts together.

Nearly-Headless Nick? What could possibly petrify a ghost? What could even hurt a ghost? And Justin! Was the Heir trying to frame Harry? Was he targeting people close to him? Was it Malfoy? Was she next? She sat there for she didn’t know how long, cowering in the corner of a bathroom that wasn’t even hers. I was like last year all over again.

Draco Malfoy was out to get her, she thought. And if he was the Heir of Slytherin, and if no one could catch him or figure out how he was doing it, she was sure it was only a matter of time. In the best case, she would lose the next several months of her life and probably have to repeat her second year at whatever other school her parents would send her to since they would certainly never let her come near this place again. But deep down, she knew—she knew—that Malfoy wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if he could get away with it. Could you cut the throat of someone who was petrified? If not, there were surely plenty of bloodier—NO! She couldn’t think about that. She was scared enough as it was. Thinking about that would only make it worse.

But what was she going to do? She could only leave the castle at Christmas and Easter. She was already committed to stay for Christmas to finish the Veritaserum, and she’d miss her exams if she left at Easter, but staying in the castle with Draco Malfoy a minute longer than she had to suddenly sounded like a very bad idea.

She was startled by a frantic knock on the door.

“AHHHH!” she screamed.

“AHHHH!”

“Who is it?” Hermione said, groping for her wand.

“Just open up!” the other voice yelled back. It sounded as frightened as she did.

Wand at the ready, she staggered to her feet and opened the door just a crack to peak outside. “Ginny?” she said in surprise.

It was only then that Hermione realised that the room she had run into in a panic was the first-year girls’ dorm. Ginny didn’t even respond to her. She just forced the door open and pulled Hermione out of the bathroom. She didn’t look good. Ginny’s face was chalk-white, her robes and hair were dishevelled, and she was sweating and shaking worse than Hermione was. Once Hermione was out of the way, she ran inside and locked the door. Within seconds, Hermione could hear the sound of Ginny losing her breakfast. She didn’t blame her. She may not have been targeted as a pureblood, but the whole thing was still pretty horrifying. She waited uneasily for a few moments, but when Ginny didn’t immediately emerge, Hermione decided she wasn’t in a condition to help and went up to her own dorm.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I changed my mind. I ’m coming home for Christmas, and I’m not sure if I’m going back, either. Could you please write to Beauxbatons and ask for the forms for a transfer student?

There was another attack here, and this time, it was even worse. A Hufflepuff boy in my year was petrified, and so was a ghost. A ghost! I have no idea how that ’s even possible. No one does. I still think Draco Malfoy is behind it, or at least in on it. I ’m sorry to sound so hysterical, but I honestly think he wants to kill me. I know that sounds hard to believe of a twelve-year-old, but his family is basically wizard Nazis.

I ’m sorry. I just can’t take it anyone. I’m getting paranoid and having panic attacks; I can’t go anywhere alone anymore, and I need to get out of this school. I don’t want to abandon my friends, but I’m no good to them petrified or worse.

Love from Hermione

Dan and Emma Granger read and reread over the letter in horror, wondering what had happened to Hogwarts being a safe place.

“Something’s really got to her,” Dan said, wrapping his arm around his wife.

“Can you blame her?” Emma replied. “Her friends are being attacked by a monster that nobody knows who or what it is.”

“I don’t blame her, Emma. I think she’s doing the smart thing. It’s just that she was nearly killed by a mountain troll, and then her teacher was murdered in front of her, and she was still eager to go back. Now, she can’t bear to stay there any longer.”

“I think it’s hitting closer to home, now. Even if this Malfoy kid isn’t the one attacking students, she’s apparently still being targeted for her heritage. It’s a shame, I know. She’s been getting on so well with her friends and especially that Professor Vector. That night when we were at the Weasleys’…” Emma was close to tears. “I hadn’t seen her happier for a long time.” She buried her face in Dan’s shoulder.

“I know, dear, I know,” he whispered. “But at least she’ll be safe. And she came to it all on her own. We’re certainly never going to turn her down on that.”

Hermione knew she had preparations to make, and she only had a week to do it before the Express took her back to London, maybe for the last time. Having a plan and knowing her responsibilities to that plan had largely pushed away the panic attacks for the moment. She was back in her determined mode.

The first step was to get Myrtle’s bathroom ready. It took every piece of glassware in her potions kit to build and test a working chemical still without relying on transfiguration that she didn’t trust to be reliable. She would have to use her partner’s kit in class on Thursday and buy a new one over break. Her parents wouldn’t like that, but there wasn’t much choice in her mind. She had reshaped the glass pieces with conjured fire, working almost entirely from theory. It only worked so well when she tested it with water. She would probably lose a lot of the liquid, but it was enough. The Veritaserum was still on schedule.

She still talked to Myrtle when the ghost was in a talkative mood. Since the last attack, though, she was well aware that her questions had taken a morbid turn, asking about her “life” as a ghost. Myrtle seemed to like the attention, which only fed the unhealthy cycle, and the more Hermione dug into it, the stranger and more disturbing the afterlife seemed.

“Myrtle…” she asked as she was putting the finishing touches on her setup, “have you ever thought about…finishing your schooling?”

“Excuse me?” the ghost said indignantly. “I can’t do that very well when I can’t even cast a spell with this stupid wand.” She pulled a ghostly wand from her robes and waved it around, to no effect.

“I know that. It’s just that I thought you could still go to the lectures. It would give you something to do.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Myrtle sniffed. “I like it in here.”

But you’re miserable in here, Hermione thought, but what she said was, “Well, if you’re going to haunt a school, you might as well learn something.”

“What’s the point? It’s no good to me.”

“Come on, Myrtle, you’re a Ravenclaw, aren’t you. “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” Isn’t that what you say?”

“It was…once…a long time ago,” she mumbled. “But it’s so tiresome to remember anymore…”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. Her memory was sparked with something she’d read weeks earlier, but it wasn’t coming to her through all her more pressing concerns. She’d have to look it up if she ever got another chance. “I’m sorry, Myrtle, I still don’t understand ghosts that well,” she said, “but isn’t there something you’d like to do besides spend all your time in here?”

Myrtle sniffed again: “Not really. There’s no one to make fun of me in here, besides Peeves. And you’ve at least tried to be nice to me. It’s not so bad here.”

Hermione thought that just sounded depressing, and she didn’t think Myrtle would appreciate what she had to do next: “Well, I’m really sorry, but I’m not sure if I’m coming back after Christmas. I hope you can understand with this Heir of Slytherin business. I mean, he even got Nick.”

“Oh, go on, save yourself,” Myrtle said mournfully. “Don’t worry about me. No one will ever bother coming after me in here again. I don’t see why you’re so frightened now. These kinds of things have always been going on here.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Hermione said. But Myrtle had already dived back into her toilet. Hermione just chalked it up to Myrtle being her moody self and took her leave.

She’d begged Harry, and he’d loaned her his invisibility cloak so that she could come and go to Myrtle’s bathroom on her own without fear of being found by the Heir. She hadn’t been out in the halls alone without it once since Justin was attacked. Putting the cloak on, she wandered invisibly through the corridors, looking for the two people she needed to help her. It wasn’t hard.

“Make way for the Heir of Slytherin! Seriously evil wizard coming through!”

The Weasley Twins were escorting Harry through the hallways, mocking everyone who ran and hid from him thinking he really was the Heir. Ironically, it seemed to be the only thing that cheered Harry up, so they’d been doing it all week, despite Percy and Ginny both telling them to cut it out.

“Watch out, he’ll call all the adders into the castle for the winter,” Fred said.

Hermione ducked behind a statue and removed the cloak. “Psst. Harry,” she called.

Harry looked her way, and she caught his eye.

“Here’s your cloak, Harry,” she whispered. “Thank you. I’ve got everything set up, now.”

“No problem, Hermione. You’re sure you can’t stay?” Harry said sadly.

“No, I’m sorry, but I barely made it through this past week.”

“Planning a secret tryst with the enemy?” Fred snuck up behind them.

“Not with Harry,” she said sharply. “It’s you two I need.”

Fred’s and George’s eyebrows vanished into their hair. “And just what kind of services—” George started.

“—might we be able to provide to you, Miss Granger?” Fred finished.

“I’ll show you. Come on, follow me.”

Fred and George gave each other enquiring looks and went after her as she led back to Myrtle’s bathroom.

“A girls’ bathroom?” said Fred. “Why you cheeky little—”

“Oh, get your minds out of the gutter…I’m…I’m planning something much more nefarious than that.”

That got their attention: “This is gonna be good, George.”

“Yes, we might get pranked into next week, but it’ll be good,” he replied.

Hermione sighed: “Just look.” She opened the stall door, showing them the cauldron.

“Oh my,” George said. “Why, you’re brewing illicit potions, and is that a still?”

“Yes. I had to jury rig it myself since I couldn’t very well buy one.”

“Of course she did, Fred.”

“Of course she did. So…if we brought you some Butterbeer…”

She glared at Fred: “It’s not a very good still. It’s not worth the effort.”

“Alright, o great Potions Mistress,” Fred replied, “and just what are you brewing?”

“Veritaserum.”

Fred’s and George’s jaws hit the floor. “You’re taking the mickey out of us,” they said in unison.

“Nope. Here are the instructions I copied out of Moste Potente Potions.” She held up her notebook. “If all goes well, it should be ready on Christmas day.”

George snatched the instructions from her hand and looked them over: “Bloody hell, she’s not kidding. She really is making Veritaserum.”

“This is nutters,” Fred said in astonishment. “It’s seventh-year stuff: a whole month to make it, distill it at the end, and some of these ingredients…jobberknoll feathers, devil’s trumpet, and where on earth did you get ground fire crab shells?”

“Stole them from Snape.”

The Twins’ jaws hit the floor again, and they both threw their arms wide and exclaimed, “Marry us!” before grabbing her in a hug that lifted her off her feet.

“Augh!” She pushed them away. “Can you please be serious?”

“But this is the most incredible thing we’ve seen all term,” Fred countered. “You, Miss By-the-Book.”

“Miss Rule Follower,” George joined in.

“Miss Goody Two Shoes.

“Brewing illicit potions in a bathroom.”

“And stealing from Snape, now. Are you feeling alright, Hermione? You seem a little feverish.” Fred laid his hand on her forehead.

She swatted it away, yelling, “No, I am not alright! I’m bloody terrified!”

And at that, Fred and George finally turned completely serious as they saw Hermione shaking in fear and clearly trying not to burst into tears. “It’s all these attacks on muggle-borns,” she sniffed. “And no one can seem to do anything about them. I’m…I’m scared to leave my dorm anymore, and…and I just know Malfoy’s out to kill me.” The Twins got angry looks on their faces at that. “This potion is for him—to find out what he knows about the Heir of Slytherin.”

Understanding dawned on their faces. “So you want us to find a way—” Fred started.

“—to slip Malfoy some of this potion,” George finished.

“Yes, but more than that. I’m going home for Christmas. And I…I might not come back.” Fred and George gasped. “I might transfer to Beauxbatons for the spring. I need you to finish making the potion for me.”

The Twins gasped again. “But we couldn’t—” George said.

“Yes you can. I remember those animal sound potions you used a few weeks ago. Snape may hate you more than anybody, but those were pretty advanced. Please? You two are the only people I trust to finish the potion correctly and keep it a secret. I need someone to help me or I’m going to go mad, here!”

Suddenly, George grabbed her trembling form and wrapped his arms around her, and Fred patted her on the back. She slumped between them, crying softly into George’s robes. “There, there, Hermione,” said George. “We won’t let anything happen to you. You just tell us how to get that little ponce.”

“Yeah, nobody messes with our Hermione,” said Fred. “We’ll take care of him for you.”

Their Hermione? she thought. It was strange, but she thought she actually rather liked it. As much trouble as they caused, they had always been really good to her in their own way, almost like having older brothers of her own. Ron and Ginny didn’t know how good they had it, she decided.

“Thank you,” she whispered once she collected herself. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” said Fred. “We like your style. And we owe you at least that much for expanding our knowledge of the castle.”

“Right, so what’s the plan?” said George.

Hermione handed them several pieces of paper: “First, finish the potion. I wrote out all the steps for you here and when they need to be done, including how to work the still.”

“Alright…yeah, I think we can do this,” Fred said, looking over the instructions.

“Oh, easily,” George said. “If Snape were this clear, people might do better in his classes.”

“Nah, he’d just find another excuse to flunk people.”

“Ahem,” Hermione interrupted. “Once the potion is ready, you need a way to get it to Malfoy and interrogate him without anyone finding out. I already let Harry and Ron in on this, so you can get their help. I think I can trust that bit to you.”

“Naturally,” said Fred. “Those kinds of plots are our speciality.”

“Hmm…” George was thinking. “It might be harder than it sounds, though. Even if we have foolproof disguises, a rich pureblood like Malfoy’s gonna recognise he’s been given Veritaserum. How do we keep him from telling what happened?”

“Oh, that’s the easy part,” Hermione said with a small smile. “Just give him a Forgetfulness Potion.”

The Twins looked at each other nervously. “Um, I’m sorry Hermione, but I think you must’ve read one of your books wrong,” George said.

“Yeah, a Forgetfulness Potion just makes someone ten times as forgetful than normal so they forget all their appointments and where they put their keys,” Fred told her.

“I know that,” Hermione replied, “but if you give him a Sleeping Draught with it, that’ll take care of that problem. People don’t normally remember the last few minutes before they fall asleep, anyway, because the hypnagogic state before falling asleep wipes out long-term memory formation. So if he’s ten times as forgetful, he won’t remember the past half hour.”

Fred and George exchanged another nervous, wide-eyed glance. “Um…just how do you know that, Hermione?” asked George.

“My parents are dentists, remember? They had to take pre-med at university, so they have the muggle equivalent of basic Healer’s training.”

“George,” said Fred, “why do I get the feeling our little Hermione could mess us up beyond all belief?”

“Probably because she can. A future spellcrafter and potions mistress with Healer’s knowledge in her pocket—that’s a dangerous combination.”

Hermione hadn’t particularly thought of that before—and she didn’t really want to think about it now, but it was true. Exploiting medical knowledge could easily be a way to come up with lots of nasty curses. She sincerely hoped she would never need to do anything like that. “Well, luckily, I’m not planning on messing you up,” she said, “although there are a few things I want to clarify.”

“Clarify?”

“Such as?”

“Well…I’m not going to tell you not to keep any Veritaserum for yourselves.”

“You’re not?” the Twins said in disbelief.

“No, I’m not, because I know it’s a waste of time. I’m just going to tell you that this is straight-up illegal, and if I go down, I’m taking you with me.” And at that point, the Twins saw the same fire in her eyes that Harry and Ron had seen weeks earlier. They nodded fervently.

“And that means you can’t be using it to get blackmail information or for pranks or anything like that, and you should be very careful asking Malfoy anything that’s not about the Chamber of Secrets, or he might start asking questions about how you found out later.”

“Hmm, that’s a good point,” George said.

“Kinda puts a damper on things,” replied Fred.

“Still, we might be able to think of one or two discreet uses for the stuff,” George said. “But don’t worry, we’ll save you a vial, too.”

“It’s the least we could do with you giving us this windfall,” added Fred.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but you’re good friends, even when you’re really annoying.”

“Careful, Hermione,” said Fred. “Flattery might get you somewhere.”

“Was there anything else you needed?” asked George.

“Well, there was one more thing you could do for me,” Hermione said.

“Name it,” the Twins said together.

“Come up with me to the elves’ Common Room? I need to talk to them before I leave, but I don’t want to go anywhere alone.”

Fred and George laughed, and it was all she could do to keep them from escorting her to the Great Hall arm in arm. They climbed the small staircase to the elves’ quarters (to much grumbling from the tall boys) and made it to their Common Room.

To their surprise, they weren’t the only students there. Luna Lovegood was in the Common Room playing a game of Exploding Snap against Sonya while a small elf girl braided her long, stringy, blond hair.

“Hello, Hermione, Fred, and George,” Luna said dreamily, looking up from her game. “Thank you for showing me where the elves live, Hermione. They’re quite fascinating, don’t you think?”

“Um, yes, they are,” Hermione said, surprised that Luna was making more sense than usual.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” she asked. “You look like you lost a fight with an aquavirius maggot.”

And it was gone again. “Oh, I’m alright—mostly,” Hermione said wearily as she sat down at the table. “Deal us in?”

Sonya reshuffled the cards with practised speed, and Hermione tried to watch closely to make sure she didn’t stack the deck. She wouldn’t put it past that one. Luna was humming to herself. However, Hermione was soon just staring into space.

“Is something being wrong, Miss Hermione Granger?” Sonya asked.

“Well, I…changed my plans,” she replied softly. “I’m going home for Christmas, now.”

“Ah, it is good to be spending time with your family, miss.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure if I’m coming back.”

Sonya dropped the whole deck of cards, which exploded with a loud crack and flew all over the table. The little elf girl jumped and hid behind Luna. “You is leaving Hogwarts, miss?” Sonya said in horror.

“I might be—at least until they catch whoever is behind these attacks. I’m sorry, I don’t want to leave any of you, but it’s muggle-borns who are being targeted, and I think I’ve hit my limit of being in danger. It was hard enough to convince my parents to let me come back after last spring.”

“But…but you has been so kind to we elves, miss,” Sonya sniffed. “No student has come to visit the elves so much in a very long time.”

“I know, and I’ll miss you, too, Sonya. If someone can do something about these attacks I’ll definitely come back, but…but I’m not sure I can until then.” She felt guilty—and selfish—but try as she might, she couldn’t think of anything else to do. She was very grateful that Harry, Ron, and the Twins all understood, even if they didn’t like it either. (Ron took some real convincing.)

“If you is scared, miss, we can be watching out for the monster,” Sonya offered.

“No! No, Sonya, please don’t put yourselves in danger for me—any of you.” She looked around at both the elves and her fellow students. “It can’t go on forever. I just hope they can catch the Heir of Slytherin before anything worse happens.”

“So do we, Hermione,” said Fred.

“Of course, we might have some say in that,” added George.

“In a controlled fashion, of course,” Fred concluded.

“Just keep each other safe, alright? For me?” Hermione said.

“Awww, our little Hermione cares about us,” said George.

“How thoughtful of her,” Fred replied with a goofy grin.

Hermione sighed heavily: “Let’s just play.”

But Sonya wasn’t giving up quite yet. “Miss Hermione Granger…” she said timidly, “if you is wanting, Sonya can puts an Elf-Trace on you.”

“A what?”

“We elves puts a Trace on our masters using our bond of service so that elves can come when our masters calls, miss. Since you is a student at Hogwarts, Sonya can put a Trace on you through her bond to the school, miss, and you can be calling Sonya for help if you is wanting it—if Sonya is not on duty, that is.”

“You don’t have to do that Sonya…” Hermione said, but when she saw the elf’s pleading face, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. “Okay, if you want to, I won’t stop you, but I don’t know that I’ll use it, even if I come back. I still don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thank you, Miss Hermione Granger.” Sonya snapped her fingers, and Hermione felt a tingling sensation running down her spine. “It is being done, miss.”

Now that Sonya was as satisfied as she was going to be, she dealt out the cards again. Play was fast and fierce with the elf and the Twins in the mix. Luna also proved to be surprisingly good at the game. Hermione could play the odds, but she wasn’t as much of a strategist as the others, and she struggled to hold her own. Even so, it was fun. She was glad she could at least get in one more fun afternoon before the holidays.

For a while, the little elf-child was excitedly hopping around and working on Luna’s hair, oblivious to the rest of the conversation, until, at one point, she squeaked, “Miss Loony Lovey-good, your hair is being done! You sure is having a lot of it!”

“Thank you, Smidgen,” said Luna, “but it’s Luna Lovegood,” she said slowly.

“Loo-nuh Lov-eh-good…” Smidgen sounded out.

“Mm hmm, much better,” Luna said happily.

While Smidgen had attempted to braid Luna’s hair, she had done it irregularly, in five braids of different sizes. Hermione giggled at her. “Luna, you look like my roommate, Lily, with your hair like that,” she said.

Luna tilted her head and replied, “Interesting. Perhaps she also has her hair done by elves. I hope a different hairstyle will confuse the nargles.”

Hermione forced herself to admit that it wasn’t worth the trouble to ask.

“For homework over break, problem one: compute the arithmantic expansions of the five heraldic colour variants of the Lumos Charm and describe how the modifying elements result in the specific colours. Problem two: prove that the basic Lumos is a simplification of the degenerate Argent form of the Charm and that the Nox Charm may be described as a degenerate Sable variant. And problem three: apply this sevenfold group of modifiers to the Colour-Change Charm; explain your reasoning with particular attention to how the Sable modifier acts differently on the two charms. Happy Christmas. Have a good holiday.”

It was a long assignment, but, in Hermione’s mind, not particularly difficult. She could already see a rough outline of how the colour terms in the equations worked based on the frequency spectrum of light, and it helped that it was a modification in only one variable. With more variables, the equations could get a lot longer and more complex than the ones muggle students studied, although the actual mathematical tools were the same.

Hermione already knew that the Lumos Charm was described with three spatial variables for the equation of a sphere: x^2 + y^2 + z^2 = B, where B was the brightness of the light. (That had to be taken as a given by the rest of the class, since they hadn’t gone into conics in detail yet.) The colour terms just involved adding another quadratic equation in a single variable, f, for frequency, with coefficients based on a certain numerological table.

The tricky part was to apply the arcane rules that translated the arithmantic equations into a wand movement (which was an equation in two variables, or more in complex spells, depending on the hand position) and the rhythm of the incantation (which derived from an equation in one variable). Hermione didn’t know that part offhand, but she did know that the colour terms didn’t change the wand movement in the Lumos Charm, which was a big clue as to how they worked. On the other hand, the results might not be as simple when applied to the more complex arithmantic expansion of the Colour-Change Charm.

But it was the last Arithmancy class before break, and Hermione didn’t know whether or not she would ever get a chance to hand in that assignment. She was dreading telling Professor Vector as much as anyone, but it had to be done.

“Professor…?” she said timidly as the students filed out.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“I…I have to tell you…I don’t know whether or not I’ll be coming back for the spring term.”

“Oh…” Vector understood at once why Hermione would make such a decision, but she couldn’t fully hide her disappointment.

“I asked my parents to look into it, and…with what’s been going on, I can get a Special Circumstances Transfer to Beauxbatons for the spring term,” she continued. “I’m sorry, Professor, I wish it could be different, but…”

“You don’t have to apologise to me. I can only guess how hard this is for you. The only person deserving of blame is this Heir of Slytherin cretin.” Vector stopped and sighed: “I’ll certainly miss you if you don’t come back, but I’ll at least be happy that you’re safe somewhere else.”

Hermione felt even guiltier at that. She felt like her favourite teacher’s sympathy, on top of everything else, was more than she deserved. She lowered her gaze and muttered, “I guess I’m not much of a Gryffindor.”

But Vector put her arm around her shoulders and said, “Hermione Granger, you are one of the bravest girls I know, but no one should have to be half this Gryffindorish at your age, and there’s no shame in doing what you have to to keep safe. You proved your colours last spring, and nothing can take that away from you.”

“I just feel like I’m letting the Heir of Slytherin win. And I’m worried about all the other muggle-borns who are stuck here, too.”

“He’s not going to win; I can promise you that. If we have to scour this castle from top to bottom next summer, we’ll find Slytherin’s monster. Professor Dumbledore has already been implementing additional security measures, starting with asking the ghosts and portraits to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. And you’ve already heard the recommendation not to go anywhere alone, something which you’ve been following admirably yourself. And if you do come back after the holidays, all the staff will do whatever we can to keep you and the other students safe. But right now, you need to take care of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you have a nervous breakdown. Go home, Hermione, enjoy your holiday, get some rest, put some space between yourself and Hogwarts for a while, and see how you feel then. And I’ll write you if anything changes here.”

Hermione whimpered softly and hugged her teacher: “Thank you so much, ma’am. You’ve been so good to me…”

“You’re worth it, Hermione. Never forget that. Now…are you still going to take your exam in vector calculus while you’re at home?”

“Yes, I’ve kept up with that—barely.”

“And your potions experiments? Are you still going to work on those?”

Hermione twitched before she realised Professor Vector was talking about her scholarly paper. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I’ve drawn enough runes for my parents to try the potion I wanted to use. There are some…complications with the paper, but I hope I’ll be able to solve them before long.”

“Good. Now, whether I see you in January or not, have a good holiday.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You too.”

As her favourite student left the classroom, Septima Vector felt a pang in her chest and a mad, wild urge to follow her. But she couldn’t leave her post mid-year, especially when her other students needed her. Then, the feeling was quickly replaced with anger. If she ever got her hands on the bastard who drove away the brightest young mind she’d seen in her lifetime, there would be hell to pay.

The reunion at King’s Cross was a sombre one. Many students were returning to their parents with downcast and worried faces, or else relief at being away from Hogwarts for a couple of weeks, and there were rumours of other people transferring to Beauxbatons, the Canadian magical school, or even as far away as Australia.

Hermione (though she wasn’t the only muggle-born so affected) was in a particularly dark mood. She’d barely been able to talk to her friends from Arithmancy class on the train. She couldn’t help feeling like she was leaving them forever, even if she would be back for third year. It hurt like she was leaving a piece of herself behind at that castle—like she should have been braver and fought back instead of going home and leaving the boys to finish the plan that she had started.

When she spotted her parents, none of them spoke to each other. Hermione was still debating what to say to them when her anxiety got the better of her, and she dropped her trunk, threw herself into her mother’s arms, and let herself cry for a while like she was a little eight-year-old again.

Chapter Text

“Alright, you all know the plan?” George Weasley asked as the four Gryffindor boys huddled in Myrtle’s bathroom.

“I think so,” said Harry.

Ron was next: “I don’t like it, but I got it.”

“And I’ll be waiting with you, George,” Fred continued.

“And then when we’ve got him, we let Hermione’s potion work its magic,” George finished.

“Simple, elegant, and sneaky,” Fred commented.

“The perfect plan,” said George.

“Glad I thought of it.”

“You mean glad I thought of it.”

“Who cares? Let’s just do it,” said Ron.

Harry’s part of the plan went surprisingly easily. He just lurked in the Entrance Hall after Christmas tea waiting for Malfoy’s goons to finish scarfing down food and head back to the dungeons. Just before they came on, he took two cakes laced with Sleeping Draught and Forgetfulness Potion and left them on the banisters at the top of the staircase. When Crabbe and Goyle came out, they spotted the cakes, stuffed them whole in their mouths and chewed them triumphantly. A moment later, they both collapsed in a heap.

“How thick can you get?” Harry said to himself.

The one thing Harry hadn’t counted on was the difficulty of moving the two Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle were huge. Luckily, he knew where there was a broom cupboard close by. He tickled the feet on the statue of the Architect just a few yards from where they lay and popped open the small cupboards doors. He was thankful for the smooth marble floors as he grabbed Crabbe and Goyle one at a time and dragged them to the cupboards. Only the elves used these cupboards, and each one was only big enough to squeeze one of the large boys in sitting upright. According to Hermione, they’d both wake up in about and hour and a half, having absolutely no idea what happened. Harry checked that there was enough of a gap around the cupboard doors that they wouldn’t suffocate before leaving them and racing down to the dungeons.

Meanwhile, Ron was having a bit more trouble. Even with a copy of Hermione’s map, it was hard to find his way around the dungeons, much less find Malfoy. He hoped he hadn’t already gone into his Common Room, but Fred and George swore he hadn’t, though he didn’t know how they knew. He had to dodge a couple of prefects, including Percy whilst he was looking around, but no one noticed his disembodied footsteps under Harry’s invisibility cloak.

Finally, Ron saw him, his hair standing out like a white rat sitting on his head in the torchlight. Malfoy was looking around cluelessly, no doubt wondering where his minions were.

And then, Ron made his move. They are gonna owe me big time, he thought as he broke out his best falsetto and let out a very girly giggle. Malfoy stopped and looked around. “Oh, Draaa-coo,” Ron said in an impression of Pansy Parkinson’s simpering voice.

Malfoy looked around again: “Pansy?” Pansy had stuck around for Christmas, unsurprisingly, given how much she hung on him.

“Draaa-coo…” Ron ducked around the corner, making just enough noise to get Malfoy to follow, leading him into the trap.

Malfoy followed, but was confused when he rounded the corner and saw an empty corridor. “Pansy, what are you doing?” he said.

Ron didn’t reply but just grimaced and made another giggle from the end of the corridor before going around the next corner.

Malfoy rushed to keep up: “Alright, Pansy, what are you playing at?”

Ron made a silent, disgusted, retching gesture under the cloak and said, “Come here, Drakey, I need to give you your Christmas present.” He didn’t wait to hear Malfoy’s response to that and just ducked around the next corner and quickly dashed to the door the large broom cupboard in that corridor. He had to time this just right, like a delicate luring strategy in chess, he forced himself to think. Just when Malfoy rounded the corner, he shut the cupboard door from the outside whilst saying, “In here…”

Draco Malfoy ran to the door eagerly and wrenched it open, but his smug smile turned to horror in an instant when he saw not Pansy Parkinson, but Fred and George Weasley standing there with evil grins and wands drawn.

“Happy—”

“—Christmas.”

“Drakey!” they said.

“Wha—mmph!” Malfoy was bound in ropes, his wand taken away, and a hand clapped over his mouth before he had the sense to move.

Ron pulled off the invisibility cloak out of Malfoy’s sight, just in case, then stepped into view: “I can’t believe I just said those things. I think I need to wash my mouth out with soap, now.”

“Ronniekins, it is really disturbing that you can do Parkinson’s voice that well,” said Fred. Ron glared at him.

“Disturbing, but useful—never would have thought it,” George added, taking his hand away from Malfoy’s mouth.

“Weasley!” Malfoy exclaimed. He looked a little sick. “You…but Pansy was…Oh, Merlin—mmph!” Fred gagged him properly.

Suddenly, Harry skidded into view. “Did you get him?” he asked.

Malfoy tried to shout Harry’s name through the gag.

“We’re all set,” said George. “What about Crabbe and Goyle?”

“Taken care of,” Harry grinned.

“Great. Let’s get going. Hermione said we only have a few minutes.”

Malfoy continued to struggle and mumble insults through his gag, no doubt including some very rude things about Hermione, as they carried him off to an unused classroom. Once there, Fred and George used Sticking Jinxes to stick the Slytherin in a chair and took off the gag.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy shouted. “When my father hears about this, he’ll make sure your father is out of a job!”

“But that’s the beauty of it, Drakey,” said Fred, training his wand on him. “Your father won’t hear about this.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened in terror. “What—what’re you—? Help—aaaggghh!”

George had stomped on his foot and, while his mouth was open, dribbled in three drops of a colourless potion from a small vial. “We’ll be asking the questions, here,” he said, “und vee haff vays of making you talk…”

“Huh?” Ron and Harry said.

“I dunno, it’s something I read in one of Dad’s books once.”

Malfoy had stopped shouting, his face slackened, and he seemed to be staring at nothing.

“You think it’s working?” asked Fred.

“I think so,” said George. “Let’s try it. What is your name?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” the Slytherin said in an expressionless monotone.

“What is your quest?” said Fred.

“My…what…?” Malfoy snapped out of it. “You—you gave me Veritaserum!”

“Yes. Yes we did,” George said. “What is your favourite colour?”

Malfoy snapped back into his monotone: “Slytherin green.”

“Obviously,” the Twins said together.

“Alright, let’s ask some serious questions,” Ron said. “Are you the Heir of Slytherin, Malfoy?”

“No.”

The boys’ jaws all dropped open. Malfoy wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin? That threw off their calculations.

“Who is the Heir of Slytherin?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know.” Malfoy snapped out of it again. “I wish I did. I’d tell him to off all of you creeps—and your little mudblood, too!”

“Why you—” Ron threw a punch at Malfoy, but Harry held him back. “Let me at him!” Ron yelled. “You heard what he said.”

“Ron, we’ve gotta find out what he knows,” Harry said. “Now, where is the Chamber of Secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s in the Chamber of Secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dammit, Malfoy, you’re the Prince of Slytherin,” George exclaimed. “What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?”

At this point, they weren’t expecting much, but Malfoy actually delivered this time: “The Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago. Four mudbloods were petrified and one died. Then, the person who opened it was caught and expelled.”

“Who was it?” said Ron.

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Fred suspiciously.

“My father told me.”

“Did he tell you what’s going on now?”

“No. He just told me to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it.” He slipped out of his monotone again: “Is that all this is about? I don’t know a damn thing. Father refused to tell me—and I’m starting to see why.”

“If the person who opened it last time was expelled, how’d they get back in?” Ron said.

“I don’t know—I keep telling you.”

“Fine. How is your father involved in the attacks?” Harry asked.

“He didn’t tell me. He just said to expect the Heir to make his move.”

“Are you plotting to kill Hermione?” Ron demanded.

“No—as much as I’d like to.”

“Do you know anyone who is?”

“No—but if I find the Heir I’ll tell him to do it.”

Ron made another lunge at Malfoy, and the Twins were growling.

“Oh, you care about her, do you? I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” Fred said evilly, holding up a small pastry. “You won’t be keeping anything in mind.”

“Hang on, there’s something else I wanna know,” George said shrewdly. “Dad told us the Ministry raided Malfoy Manor last week. Did they get all the dark artifacts?”

“N-n-no.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

Malfoy clenched his teeth and his fists, trying to fight the Veritaserum, but he slowly choked out, “They’re in a…secret chamber…under the…drawing room floor.”

Fred grinned even wider: “Thanks for the tip. Our father will hear about that.” Then, he forced the strange-tasting cake into Malfoy’s mouth and forced his jaw closed.

Draco Malfoy woke an hour and a half later in the library having no idea how he’d got there. He must have been doing the Christmas partying thing a little too hard. He had also had strange, but vague dreams about three redheads and a scarhead…Heh, there was a joke in there somewhere, he thought.

Dear Hermione,

The good news is the plan worked. We questioned Malfoy with the you-know-what, and he spilt everything he knew. The next day, he didn ’t remember a thing.

The other good news is that Malfoy ’s not the Heir of Slytherin. The bad news is that he doesn’t know who is, or anything else for that matter. Malfoy Senior is definitely involved, though. We tipped off our Dad to raid Malfoy Manor again and see if he can find something. We’ll let you know if he does.

All Malfoy Junior knew was that the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, four muggle-born students were petrified and one died, and the person who did it was caught and expelled. The git didn ’t even know how the Heir got back in the castle. But we did get him to admit that he’s not trying to kill you and doesn’t know anybody who is. Don’t get us wrong—he’d still love to see you dead, but he’s not looking to get his hands dirty.

We hope you can come back. The castle ’s not the same without your smiling, hyper, arithmancy-mad, face.

Sincerely,

Gred and Forge

(and Ronniekins and Harrykins)

Hermione didn’t actually show her parents that letter, since they would start asking questions she didn’t really want to answer, but when she saw it, it made her question her decision to leave even more. If Malfoy wasn’t the Heir, the school was still dangerous, but no more so than for any other muggle-born.

The Grangers had to formally choose where she would be going to school in the spring by 31 December. On the 27th, she wrote a letter to Professor Vector asking about the security measures she’d mentioned, and she received a reply on the 29th. She hoped that her little experiment the next day would help butter up her parents enough to convince them that Hogwarts was still a viable option.

The potion she chose to teach them was the Alihotsy Draught, which induces laughter and hysteria and would hopefully help things along a bit further. She had made that one perfectly in class, and even if it went wrong, the effects were physically harmless. The worst that could happen was either a deep, but short-lasting depression, or being unable to stop laughing until they passed out. The setup was the same as last summer. The new potions kit her parents had bought her for Christmas (albeit with some muttering about being more careful with her possessions) was laid out in the kitchen, and the cauldron was being heated on the stove top.

“Okay, first, we need a control,” Hermione told her parents. “The control is to try brew the potion without magic. It’s going to fail miserably, but that’s the point. I need to show that it really was the runes that made it work.”

“The rune spells are what’s going to make things dissolve that normally shouldn’t?” Mum said.

“That’s right. Without them, all you’ll get is a useless stew, or at least you should…I’d like you to each try it on your own.”

Her Mum tried it first, diligently working through the instructions, but skipping the spells. It surprised no one when many of the ingredients didn’t dissolve, didn’t react (and thankfully didn’t explode), and didn’t turn into any kind of useful potion, but Hermione made careful notes on the “potion’s’ appearance and consistency at each step. She then cleaned out the cauldron and had Dad repeat the process, obtaining the same result.

“Great. Now that’s over, we can get to the real potion-making,” she said. “Mum, here are the spells you’ll need…”

She handed Mum three squares of wood inscribed with the Latin runic circles she and Ron had worked out last spring. The Alihotsy Draught required three spells: the Dissolving Charm to start, the Potion-Sealing Charm to finish and a Magic-Amplifying Charm in the middle. This last one was barely a step above dumping raw magical energy into the cauldron, but it was quite common to bring out the latent magical qualities of the many useful plants that were known to muggles (in this case—Merlin knew why—horseradish).

“Start with the Dissolving Charm straight off,” she instructed. “It’s pronounced Dial-yo.”

“Dialyo,” Mum said. The run glowed, releasing its magic into the cauldron, and the water shimmered.

“It’s safe to touch, although it could contaminate the potion,” Hermione said. “A lot of spells don’t work on living tissue, especially simpler ones. Apparently, many wizards consider life to be a type of magic, which sort of makes sense because it takes more complex magic to affect it.”

“Good to know,” Mum said. “So, just the same as before?”

“Uh huh.”

This time, with the Dissolving Charm in place, the ingredients all dissolved smoothly, just as they were supposed to, and the potion gradually came together, eventually taking the form of a pale liquid of about the consistency of gravy with shimmering blue fumes rising in a thin column.

“Perfect. Now, use the Potion-Sealing Charm to reverse Dissolving Charm. The pronounciation is Ou-det-ero.”

“Oudetero,” Mum said. The Potion shimmered, but remained otherwise unchanged.

“Great. That looks just like it’s supposed to,” Hermione said, making her last notes on the process. “Now, we just need to test it.” She donned her gloves and scooped a small, measured vial out of the cauldron.

But Mum stopped her: “Um, Hermione, I don’t think you should be drinking an untested potion.”

“It is tested, though,” she replied. “It’s a standard second year exercise. It went almost exactly the same as it did in class, and that turned out fine. The only difference is using the runes. It’s possible the delayed use of the spell weakened it a little, but it’s not going to have dangerous side effects.”

“Well…okay…just be careful,” Mum said nervously.

“Yes, Mum. Well…for science!” Hermione drank her measured dose of the potion and at the same moment started a stopwatch. Within seconds, she was laughing hysterically and fell backwards so that she was lying flat on her back, and Mum and Dad had to carry her to the sofa. She could barely speak the few words to tell her parents not to worry and that this was expected. After six minutes and thirty-five seconds, by her stopwatch, she stopped laughing, out of breath, but still cheerier than she had been all holiday.

“Dear, that was kind of disturbing,” Mum said, “Is, um, potions abuse common in the magical world.”

“Oddly, no,” Hermione said, giggling incongruously at the thought. “Of course, at school, the teachers would notice and stop it pretty quick. Do you want to try it?”

“Us? Um…” Mum said.

“Well, Dad might want to wait, since he has to make it next. But it won’t hurt anything. It’s not even habit forming, according to the book, and it’s fun.” She giggled again.

“I…I guess I can.”

“Maybe you should sit down, though, Emma,” Dad said.

“Good idea.”

Mum tried the potion and began laughing at once, which Hermione timed for her notes. When she could speak again, she said, “You were right, Hermione, this is fun.”

“I might be a little worried about what it does to your endorphin levels,” Dad said skeptically. “Has anyone done a long-term study?”

“Probably not,” Hermione admitted. “Well, maybe a case study. So are you ready to try making it, Dad?”

“Oh, if I must.”

Dad’s potion didn’t come out quite as well, but it was still acceptable, although took considerable cajoling from Hermione and Mum to get him to drink it.

After that, now that they were all in a good mood, the conversation gradually took a turn to the more serious topic of discussion facing them. “So you’re going to write this up in a paper, now?” Dad asked.

“Mm hmm—I’m going to start to, anyway. I’d like to get a squib to try it, too, but—”

“A squib?”

“A non-magical person from a magical family. Finding a way for them to brew potions would actually do them a lot of good. They’re kind of looked down upon and left out of a lot. Unfortunately—for me, that is—there’s not that many of them. At Hogwarts, there’s Mr. Filch, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Despite the aftereffects of the potion, this was enough to make Mum and Dad a few shades more serious. “You’re still thinking about going back to Hogwarts?” Mum asked in surprise.

“I…I am…”

“Really?” Dad said. “I thought you were worried about that Malfoy boy. You said you thought he was plotting to kill you.”

“I did. I really did—I know how horrible it sounds. But I told you my friends were looking into it, and that they figured out he’s not.”

“But you did say someone died the last time this Chamber thing was opened,” Mum observed.

“Yes, but Dumbledore knows that, and he’ll be more careful this time. And since Malfoy’s not the Heir of Slytherin, that means the Heir isn’t after me in particular.”

“Hermione, we understand you don’t want to abandon your friends,” Mum retorted, “but we hope you can understand that we don’t feel too confident about the safety of the school if students are being attacked, and no one can do anything—especially after last spring.”

“I know. I don’t like it much either, believe me, but I’ll be careful. And the teachers are going to be more careful, too. I showed you Professor Vector’s letter.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Mum said. Hermione knew that Professor Vector had impressed her parents far more than anyone else in the magical world in terms of looking out for her.

“I was already not going anywhere alone,” she pressed, “and my friends and teachers will be looking out for me.”

“We know they will be. But you know we’d still worry about you going back there. We’d really rather you went to Beauxbatons, at least for the spring term.”

“I know you would. But think of it this way. There’s a bunch of other muggle-borns in the school—Sally-Anne and the others—and most of them don’t have as  many options as I have—money, grades, connections. A lot of them don’t have a choice in going back to Hogwarts. The Ministry will make them, if they have to, but they’d only do that if they thought it was safe. And the Board of Governors must think it’s safe to have the students come back, too, or they’d close the school.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to, Hermione. The wizards may all think it’s safe, but you can’t deny it would be safer somewhere else, and if you get the chance—”

“But…but I don’t want to run away,” she gasped, tears filling her eyes. “Not when most everybody else won’t or can’t. I don’t want to let him beat me like that—the Heir.”

“Hermione, it’s not your fight to win,” Dad said sternly. “You’re only thirteen. Something like this is something for the adults to handle.”

“But it feels like my fight, Daddy. I’m a muggleborn, and I’m having to deal with pureblood bigots like Malfoy—ones my own age. Even before I came home, it felt like I was running scared, no matter how logical it was. It felt awful. Please, Daddy, Mummy? Maybe it’s my Gryffindor side showing, but I don’t want to run away anymore. I needed to get away to collect myself, maybe, but I’m going mad here thinking about how my friends are going back there, and I’ll be hiding away somewhere else. I…I really think need to go back and face my fears—for my own sanity.”

Mum and Dad looked at her with disbelief. “Hermione…” Dad said. “You know, you’ve always been bold and eager to try new things, but we never expected that to extend to facing evil wizards and mysterious monsters. You’ve never been reckless before, and I hope your friends aren’t making you that way.”

“I don’t think I’m being reckless now, Daddy. Like, everything I did last spring was to try to save Harry from his own recklessness. And I’m not doing this now on a whim. I’ve been thinking about it all break…Look, the worst case scenario is gone,” Hermione continued. “No one’s out to get me specifically, and I’m doing more to keep safe than I was before. That’s the important thing…Please…could you…just think about what Professor Vector said? I’m really not too worried anymore with the new measures they’re taking.”

Mum sighed: “Hermione, I…we…” She trailed off and sighed again. “I think your father and I need to discuss this privately.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded reluctantly.

She went to bed that night more worried than she had been since before she left school. She’d never particularly wanted to go to Beauxbatons. The thought of trying to start over and make new friends, especially in the middle of the year, and in French, was more than she’d signed on for. She had simply been desperate to get away from Hogwarts, and she wasn’t anymore. There was also the small matter of testing into Arithmancy again, although Professor Vector would surely give her a glowing reference. But somehow, she got a full night’s sleep, and when she went downstairs for breakfast in the morning, her parents were waiting for her.

“Hermione,” Mum said.

“Yes, Mum?” she said nervously.

“We talked it over last night, and we decided that…if you promise to continue to be careful…and not go anywhere alone until this Heir person and their monster is caught…and tell a teacher if you think anything is wrong…then we’ll give you another chance to go back to Hogwarts.”

Hermione vaulted into her mum’s arms. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mummy! Thank you, Daddy!” she cried. “I promise I’ll keep safe.”

“That’s all we can ask you,” Mum said.

“It’s not what we wanted,” Dad said, “but we think we can trust you, and we can trust Professor Vector, so if you trust your other teachers and your friends to protect you, too, we can accept that.”

“I do trust them, Daddy,” Hermione said. More than I can get away with saying.

The return to Hogwarts was happier than she could have believed it would be two weeks earlier.

“Hermione!” Fred and George called over the crowd. They ran over to her and grabbed her in a four-armed hug that lifted her off her feet and left her a little dazed.

“We thought you were a goner,” said Fred.

“Yeah, gone to France,” George quipped.

“I nearly was,” she admitted. “Ron! Harry!” she hugged both of her year-mates. “Thank you all so much,” she whispered to the four of them. “I don’t think I would have come back if you hadn’t been able to get Malfoy to tell the truth.”

“Always happy to help,” George said. “And that reminds me.” He handed her a small vial of clear liquid. “Here’s your share of the potion. Use it well.”

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”

“You could…” Fred said innocently, “if it would make a difference.”

“Granger!” Their joyful meeting was disrupted by a certain Slytherin git storming over to them. “So you still came back,” Malfoy growled. “Typical Gryffindor. Not scared away by anything. At the rate you’re going, I bet you’ll be the next one the Heir nails.”

All the boys drew their wands at once.

“You leave Hermione alone,” Ron snapped.

“Yeah, you should really back off while you’ve got the chance,” Fred added.

“We Gryffindors stick up for our own,” said George.

And they would have chased Malfoy away at that, but Hermione raised her hand to stop them. Two weeks ago, those words from Malfoy would have scared her out of her wits, but now, they were just pathetic. She actually felt the urge to laugh at him. “Malfoy,” she said, “I might feel threatened by you if I thought you had the slightest clue who the Heir of Slytherin was.”

“What? I—”

“I had a lot of time to think over break,” she said. “I realised that you’re obviously not the Heir, and you don’t know who the Heir is. If you did, you would’ve sent him after me months ago. Now, how about we skip the insults this time and just stay out of each other’s way.”

“Yeah, and besides, I bet Hermione could kick your arse,” Ron added.

“Ronald!” she scolded.

But Malfoy didn’t rise to the bait. He just made a rude gesture and walked away. Well, you can’t win them all, Hermione thought. They started to head to the welcome back dinner, but they hadn’t got very far when they ran into Professor Vector, who had surely come out specifically to meet her.

“Welcome back, Hermione,” Vector said.

“Professor!” Hermione hugged her, which there thankfully weren’t too many people around to notice.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“You, too, ma’am. Thank you for your letter. It was one of the most important things that convinced my parents to let me come back.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help once again,” Vector said, “although I hope you can stay out of trouble this term.”

“That makes two of us, ma’am.”

Chapter Text

A few days into the new term, Harry found an old, blank diary that someone had tried to flush down Moaning Myrtle’s toilet, much to the ghost’s distress. Hermione didn’t think much of it at first. She thought it looked familiar for some reason, but she couldn’t quite place it. But then she saw the name on the inside cover: T. M. Riddle, and Ron remembered that T. M. Riddle had won an award for special services to the school in 1943.

“But that’s the same year the Chamber of Secrets was opened!” Hermione exclaimed. “Myrtle, you said you knew a Tom Riddle. Do you remember anything about him getting an award?”

Myrtle wasn’t in much condition to answer questions after flooding the bathroom, but she managed to say, “No. People don’t tend to make big announcements in here.” She moaned and started to head back to her stall.

“Myrtle, wait!” Hermione said. “Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets? It was opened while Tom Riddle was here. I think he caught the person who opened it.”

At that, Myrtle actually looked fearful, though what a ghost could be afraid of she didn’t know. “No, no one knew anything,” she said. “All we knew was that people were being petrified, and no one knew how.”

“Oh…” Harry and Ron grumbled that it was a dead end, but Hermione was still making the connections: Myrtle had been alive when Tom Riddle was here. Tom Riddle was here when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. And Professor Vector had told her—ages ago, now—right after the troll incident—that only one student had died at Hogwarts in the past fifty years.

“Myrtle…” she said cautiously, “you…you were the one student who died when the Chamber was opened, weren’t you?”

Myrtle’s “breath” hitched, and she whined softly, but she nodded her head.

Harry and Ron gasped loudly and burst into a flurry of questions.

“Did you see the Heir?”

“Did you get a good look at the monster?”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No—no, no, NO!” Myrtle cried, and she stuck her nose in the air. “I never knew how it happened. It just happened one day. And that’s all I know.” And with that, she dove back into her toilet.

Hermione sighed and gave the boys an exasperated look.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“What?” said Ron. “It’s not our fault she’s a nutter.”

As far as they could tell, T. M. Riddle’s diary was blank and had no special properties or hidden messages whatsoever. Hermione and Ron wrote it off as worthless, but Harry held onto it, saying he wanted to know why someone had tried to throw it away.

Meanwhile, Hermione gave Filch a few days to cool off after Myrtle had enraged him by flooding the second floor corridor before approaching him about her personal project. The problem was that she had promised not to go anywhere alone, and few other people actually wanted to approach Filch. Things were gradually quieting down, since there hadn’t been any new attacks since Justin, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

“Please, Harry?” she said.

“Hermione, he hates me! He still thinks I petrified Mrs. Norris.”

“Well, maybe if you help do something nice for him, you’ll convince him otherwise. And he knows you already know he’s a squib, so we’re not spreading his secret around more…And…and I wanted to use you in the experiment, too,” she admitted.

“What? Why? I thought you were testing non-magical people.”

“Yes, but I need a control.”

“A what?”

“A magical person to see if the runes work the same as a wand. I could do it, but it would be better if I got someone who was more…average at potions.”

“And that’s me?” Harry said sceptically.

“No offence. But it’s really you or Ron, though, and he’s at least as stubborn as you are.”

Harry looked over to where Ron was sitting. They were roughly equals in Potions, but he had to admit that Ron probably had even less patience for the subject (or Filch) than he did. “You’re not gonna put my name in print, are you?”

“Of course not. You’re Subject H.”

“Subject H?”

“It’s an anonymous label. It’s standard practice in the muggle world. Filch is Subject A, and my parents are Subjects D and E.”

Harry sighed, but said, “Okay, when are we going?”

“Right after dinner, I think. Filch should check in at his office after meals. We can catch him then.”

Hermione’s prediction proved to be correct. When they grabbed their potions kits and went down to Filch’s office, they found him there, looking as sour-faced as ever. Losing the companionship of his cat hadn’t done him any favours, and he didn’t seem to have anyone else. Hermione suspected that this was the first time a student had willingly knocked on his door in years, and his reaction was about what one would expect.

“Excuse me, Mr. Filch?” she said.

“Huh? What? What are you two doing here?. Come to rub it in, have you?”

“No, Mr. Filch,” Hermione said. “I thought I might be able to help you.”

Hermione thought she might have short-circuited his brain, as Filch was left opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “Help…me…? What kind of bloody ridiculous prank is that? No one comes here to help me.”

“Well, it’s not entirely that, sir, but I really do think it will help you.”

“And just how do you think you can help me?”

Hermione took a deep breath. Given how sensitive Filch was, she had to be careful about how she said this: “I think I’ve invented a better system to help you brew potions than Kwikspell.”

That was even less believable. “You…but…that…I’m…” Filch stammered. “What are you playing at? Think you’ll play a cruel joke on the squib, do you? Get out of my office!”

Filch moved to shove them out the door, but Hermione put her foot down: “It’s not a joke, Mr. Filch. It worked for my parents, and they’re muggles.”

Filch stopped, looking interested, maybe even hopeful, for the first time. “You got muggles to brew potions?” he said.

“Yes, I did. It was simple enough with runic clusters. I’m going to write it up for The Practical Potioneer, and I was hoping I could use you as an additional demonstration. I wouldn’t have to use your name.”

“You…were…? And what’s he doing here?” He pointed at Harry.

Hermione smiled slightly: “He’s the other test subject.”

Filch’s eyes flicked back and forth between them. Experimenting on a student would probably brighten his day a bit. “Alright, I’m listening,” he said.

Hermione explained the experimental procedure. She would observe Harry brewing the Alihotsy Draught using his wand, and Filch would use his Kwikspell method. Filch didn’t like that much, but she assured him it was for a good cause. After that, they would both start over using the runes. Filch agreed, and she convinced him and Harry to sign a release form she had written up, giving her permission to publish their test results. (She wasn’t sure if wizards used release forms, but it was good practice.)

As expected, Harry’s Alihotsy Draught turned out decent and usable, while Filch’s was nearly as useless as her parents’ first attempts. It was a tiny bit better, she found, probably because of a bit of latent magic in the wand Filch was trying to use.

But when they started the second round, using the runes, an amazing change came over Filch. As soon as Hermione showed him how to use the runic spells, and his ingredients started dissolving properly, he started to look happy—and not his usual evil happy, either. His sunken, sagging face lit up with a genuine smile that made him look a good decade younger.

“Sweet Merlin, it’s…it’s working! It’s actually working!” he exclaimed. He wasn’t even halfway through the potion when he grabbed his Kwikspells notes and chucked them in the bin, and when he finished, and Hermione declared his potion acceptable, he was actually crying with joy, and he shook Hermione’s hand.

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” he said. Most of the wheeze was even gone from his voice. “I’ve been trying to do real magic for so long…I…th-thank you, M-Miss Granger.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Filch. I’m glad I could help,” she replied with a smile.

Then, Filch looked at the clock. “Oh, dear, it’s past curfew isn’t it?” Hermione started sweating as she realised what time it was, and Harry’s eyes widened in horror. But it seemed their efforts to help had paid off, for Filch said, “I’ll tell you what, you bring me a stack of those runes tomorrow, and I’ll pretend I forgot what time it is.”

Hermione smiled again: “Deal.”

As they walked back up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry whispered, “Did you just make friends with Filch?”

“I think I might have done,” Hermione replied. “You know, I don’t think it’s that hard if you actually take an interest in people.” She remembered the house elves and Myrtle. “And who knows? It could come in handy someday.”

Harry probably never would have even thought to try to befriend Filch, but he could agree with that.

The next day, Filch went around the castle smiling and actually acting halfway friendly. This caused the teachers to wonder if he’d been drugged with potions, and it caused Fred and George Weasley to run away from him screaming that it was a sign of the apocalypse.

Valentine’s Day was a complete mess courtesy of Gilderoy Lockhart. His suggestion that the students ask Snape for love potions was bad enough. His singing valentine dwarfs dressed up as cupid and disrupting classes all day pushed Hermione a lot further into becoming disillusioned with him, especially since Valentine’s Day was on a Sunday, and he apparently couldn’t put together the sing-o-gram squad until Monday.

Hermione was glad the day was over when she slumped down in the Common Room after dinner. But to her surprise, she looked up and saw Ginny Weasley approaching her. She hadn’t seen much of Ginny since last fall, and the younger girl certainly hadn’t really approached her since then.

“Hermione…” Ginny said shakily. She had been looking better in the new term, but she seemed very nervous tonight. “Can I…can I ask you something?” she said.

“Uh, sure, Ginny. What’s up?”

“Well…when that, uh, dwarf delivered Harry’s Valentine…”

“Oh, that,” Hermione said. It was an open secret by now that Ginny had sent Harry a truly absurd love poem as a valentine.

“Well, no, not that, exactly…” the younger girl cut in. “It’s just that…I saw…when Harry’s bag ripped, he had this diary.”

“Oh, he’s still carrying that old thing around?” Hermione said dismissively. “I don’t know why. There’s nothing special about it besides someone dumping it in Myrtle’s bathroom.”

Ginny seemed to relax and then rapidly tense up again as Hermione spoke. “Well, you see…” she stammered. “About that…I—”

“Oh, his eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad…” They were interrupted when Fred and George came into the Common Room, singing their own rendition of Harry’s valentine. However, George stopped when he saw the mortified and enraged look on Ginny’s face and elbowed Fred to do the same.

“Um, hi, Gin-Gin,” Fred said nervously. “We were just saying how…nice that song was.”

“Uh, yeah, right,” George joined in. “Rhyming pickled toad and blackboard was a little off, but it’s still very complimentary.”

“Oh, just stop it!” Ginny cried.

“If you like fresh-pickled toads, anyway,” Fred quipped.

“Chiroptera mucosa!”

Fred ran up to his dorm with black bats beating about his head.

“Uh…I’ll just go help him,” George said, and he dashed away.

“Wow, Ginny, are you sure you can’t teach me that spell?” Hermione asked.

“No. If I taught it to you, then you could use it against me.”

“But I wouldn’t use it against you.”

“I’m going to my room,” Ginny said abruptly, and she started up the stairs.

Hermione shook her head and didn’t remember until it was too late to ask Ginny what she had wanted to talk about.

The next day, Ron and Harry came up to Hermione frantically and tried to explain that the Heir of Slytherin—the person who had opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago and was caught and expelled after killing Myrtle—was Hagrid.

This came about after Harry actually wrote in T. M. Riddle’s diary for the first time, and someone or something calling itself Tom Riddle’s memory not only wrote back (which was weird enough), but somehow showed Harry the memory of himself catching Hagrid with the monster.

But something just didn’t smell right about that story, they all agreed uneasily.

“Okay, on one hand, nobody said the Heir of Slytherin had to be doing it on purpose,” Hermione analysed the scene. “And I hate to admit it, but Hagrid just might be clueless enough to keep letting the monster out even after it attacked five people, and like you said, Harry, the attacks must have stopped after he was caught, or Riddle wouldn’t have got that award.”

“Hagrid probably felt sorry for it being cooped up so long,” Ron groaned.

“But I’m not sure, though,” Hermione said. “Hagrid’s still been here as the groundskeeper for the past fifty years. Why would he start opening the Chamber again now? And why did Lucius Malfoy seem to know something was going to happen.”

“Think Hagrid’s got a secret kid who just showed up?” said Ron.

Harry and Hermione looked vaguely horrified at the thought. “Not unless it’s Goyle,” Harry tried to lighten the mood. “He’s the only one who’s big enough.”

“No, there’s something else,” Hermione said. “Harry, you said the monster was big and hairy and had pincers and lots of legs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Like an acromantula?”

“Like a what?”

“A giant talking spider.”

Ron squealed and shivered.

“I dunno. I guess it could have been. Why?”

“Because Professor Vector told me that when she was a student, there was a rumour that Slytherin’s monster was an acromantula, but she checked into it, and it turns out that acromantulas don’t petrify people.”

“So, you think the monster is something else?” Harry said hopefully.

“Seriously? How many monsters d’you think this place can hold?” Ron said.”

Hermione sighed. They’d been going in circles for hours about this. “Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about this?” she said.

“Oh, that’ll be a great visit,” Ron said. “Say, Hagrid, you been playing with anything mad and hairy in the castle lately?”

Harry shuddered and looked down at his feet uncomfortably. “He probably doesn’t want to talk about being expelled,” he said. “I think…I think we should leave him alone unless there’s another attack. It’s been over two months, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Hermione said.

Hermione kept doing her research on that, though, along with everything else on her list. She was hip-deep in differential equations, and she was getting tantalising and frightening glimpses of how full-blown curses worked through them. Meanwhile, she looked up everything she could find about acromantulas, some more background reading for her potions paper, and a smattering of material on ghosts—she still hoped against hope that she could do something for poor Myrtle. It had to be especially hard being killed by Slytherin’s monster, she thought, and she must have been targeted for being a muggle-born, which somehow made it even worse.

Professor Babbling also held a couple more seminars on non-Norse runes during the spring, which the Gryffindor Trio attended. Harry was glad to get some more practice to get his runic spells to last all summer this year. Ron was making more progress than Harry was. It took an effort for both of them to overcome their natural scribbles and draw the words straight, but Harry was also hampered by deliberately holding himself back all through primary school to get worse grades than his cousin. It was nothing short of a crime against academia in Hermione’s mind. If she ever got her hands on those Dursleys…

In any case, as the weeks crept by with no more attacks, Hermione began to relax, although she dutifully continued to find an escort whenever she was out in the corridors. Maybe it was like Lockhart said, and the Heir had given up (though she doubted by now that it was because of him).

Today, Hermione was digging for information about ghosts again, and this time, she struck gold. There was very little information to be had, especially on the mysterious subject of where ghosts actually came from, but even from the introduction of this book, she could tell it was going to be an interesting read:

Comparatively little has been written about the nature of the afterlife of ghosts as opposed to the lives of the various races of Beings. This is a great oversight, as ghosts are in a sense, the most like us, and at the same time, the most unlike us, being not Being, but Spirit, yet of the same nature of souls as those of witches and wizards. In this book, I have endeavoured to begin to correct this oversight, with one of the most extensive projects ever undertaken to interview ghosts of various ages to gain insights into their experiences and ways of thinking.

Hermione knew she would take a closer look at the whole thing later, but she presently skimmed to a few topics of interest, and she was very glad to see that someone besides herself had noticed these issues. But then, as she began to read the author’s observations, her eagerness faded, replaced by a growing sense of horror:

Ghosts are frequently described as being difficult to talk to, out of touch, and not very aware of the land of the living, and their memories of history are notoriously poor, especially for the older ghosts. Most wizards dismiss this as being just the way things are. Few ever bother to ask why this should be so, which is unfortunate, as it would seem to be most unfair to the ghosts themselves, and it deprives the living of what could be an invaluable historical record. There have been only a handful of long-term studies following the same ghosts over many years to try to understand this behaviour of the Spirits, but by combining the available anecdotes, we may now draw a plausible conclusion.

Hermione could tell from the language, the rigorous writing style, and just the interest in the topic that the author of the book was almost certainly a muggle-born or half-blood. There might be some purebloods who could write like that, but they were surely few and far between, even among agreeable ones, like Mr. Weasley.

Ghosts ’ poor memories appear to stem from the fact that, because ghosts do not physically age or change, they are, for the most part, trapped in the same personality and, to some extent, even the same state of mind that they had when they died. On close examination, they also appear to be unable to form new, lasting memories. Careful comparisons of my and others’ interviews conducted over a period of years reveal that they typically remember the first few years after they died and the last few years before the present, but very little in between. A person they were well acquainted with a decade ago may be entirely forgotten, and new information that is learnt in the interim is eventually lost.

In addition, while ghosts may yet develop a little, mentally and emotionally, in the first few years after their deaths, most such changes prove to be temporary in nature. The only thing that I have observed to promote a permanent (and usually positive) change in a ghost ’s personality, as well as new, lasting memories, is if the ghost is able to resolve some “unfinished business,” such as reconciling with a family member or avenging their death.

Hermione put the book down after that, feeling a little sick to her stomach. She knew Myrtle had issues, but she never imagined that the afterlife of a ghost could be that awful. It certainly explained a lot, though. She was pretty sure Myrtle had been near-suicidally depressed even before the Heir got her, and with no real possibility of recovering or growing beyond that, she had simply stayed there, crying in the bathroom for the next fifty years. That was bad enough, but to add on top of that not being able to form new permanent memories and learn new material—to Hermione’s mind, that would be a fate worse than death. She felt even sorrier for Myrtle now, but she didn’t have any idea what to do about it.

She began to feel something else, as well: a strange, slightly sick feeling as she remembered a half-serious retort she’d made in anger to Ron nearly a year ago: “If we get eaten, I’m haunting you.” She shuddered at the thought. In the immediate aftermath of that harrowing incident, they had thought it funny, but it didn’t seem funny at all, now. She still didn’t fully understand ghosts, but she sincerely hoped that she would never wind up haunting anybody.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s potions paper was accepted after some minor revisions. In stark contrast to Professor Snape’s usual demeanour, the editor seemed very supportive and was impressed by her intellectual precociousness and out-of-the-box thinking. The paper was fast-tracked to be featured in The Practical Potioneer in early April, and the editor promised to send Hermione and her parents each a free copy, as well as Professor Vector, when Hermione asked. She knew, of course, that Professor Snape would see it when it was published, and from watching carefully at breakfast, she knew that Professor Dumbledore subscribed to many scholarly magical journals as well as what she was pretty sure was a muggle astronomy journal, so it promised to be very interesting.

Severus Snape had come up to breakfast on the fifth of April expecting a quite ordinary day. He was in a somewhat better mood than usual, though, as he was expecting to enjoy reading the latest developments in his field in The Practical Potioneer—about the most interesting thing that normally happened in this place. When the mail came, he took his copy from the delivery owl, as did Albus and, oddly, Septima, but he didn’t think anything of it.

But then, featured right in the front as a newcomers’ article, Snape saw a title that made him choke on his coffee, and it was a good thing he did, too, because a moment later, he saw the byline, and that would have had him spitting it all over the table: MUGGLES AND SQUIBS ARE ABLE TO BREW POTIONS USING RUNIC SPELL CLUSTERS by H. J. Granger.

Snape looked up and over at the Gryffindor Table and spotted the purported author’s bushy hair. Looking closely, he saw the second-year was also reading a copy of The Practical Potioneer. It didn’t seem possible, but he flipped to the end of the article, and there it was:

Editor ’s note: Miss H. J. Granger has identified herself as a second-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we congratulate her on making a valuable contribution to the field of potions at such a young age.

Snape began reading the article in earnest, wondering how even that bright of a student could had snuck something so ridiculous past the editor. But as he read, his eyes grew wider and wider. This actually looked legitimate. She had even published the runic cluster she had used, and it was trivially simple, albeit written in rarely-used Latin runes, like the things Professor Babbling had been teaching in her seminars. He narrowly avoided a spit take again when he saw that the circle was credited to Granger & Weasley (1992), unpublished. And not only would the experiment itself be trivial to repeat, but the girl had documented her own work extremely thoroughly, sparing no details from start to finish:

Subject A is a squib who has attempted to learn magic in the past using the Kwikspell Method, but has reported not having any success with either spells or potions.

Subjects D and E are muggles and the parents of a muggle-born magical child. They have had no formal magical instruction. However, Subject E has successfully brewed simple potions that do not require wand work.

Subject H is a wizard and a second-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Subject H consistently tests Acceptable in Potions and has successfully brewed Alihotsy Draught in the past.

And the article went on from there with procedures, observations, results, and conclusions, all conducted with at least a N.E.W.T. level of professionalism. It was, of course, obvious who the girl’s test subjects were, although those who did not know her very well might miss the answer. As much as Severus hated to admit it, it was impressive—frustrating, but impressive.

Hermione watched as Snape kept looking down at his journal and back up at her with a more and more appraising look on his face. Professor Dumbledore had finished reading the article already and was flashing her a broad smile. Professor Vector also smiled and nodded to her as she skimmed it.

“Does Snape actually look…impressed?” Alicia Spinnet whispered by her side.

“And why shouldn’t he be?” said Percy Weasley. “Not just anyone can publish a scholarly article in their second-year.”

Ginny was silent, but was watching the scene in awe.

“I think you broke him, Hermione,” said Ron, as Snape kept looking back and forth between her and his journal.

“Yeah, good job,” Fred added. “It’s about time someone got him good.”

Hermione smiled shyly and scanned the Hall. Cedric Diggory flashed her a thumbs up from the Hufflepuff Table. Roger Davies pointed at her and appeared to be whispering what was going on to Rebecca Gamp, another girl from their Arithmancy class. She regarded Hermione with narrowed eyes, as if she didn’t believe it. The Slytherins had noticed Snape was acting odd and were whispering to each other, wondering what was going on.

But now, Dumbledore was giving Snape a very pointed look and gesturing to him in some kind of improvised sign language. Snape seemed to be doing his best to ignore him, but Dumbledore repeated the gesture, and finally, when he couldn’t ignore it any longer, and he stood up and cleared his throat, looking like he had bit into a lemon. He addressed the Hall: “It has come to my attention that Miss Hermione Granger has made a significant contribution to the field of potions that has merited publication in The Practical Potioneer.” Surprised whispers broke out around the Hall. “This is a…most impressive feat for a second year student, and for this show of talent, I award Miss Granger…” Snape was almost shaking as he ground out the words. “…ten points to Gryffindor.”

The Great Hall erupted into cheers and shouts of disbelief. It wasn’t much objectively, but that was more points than Snape had given to Gryffindor at once than anybody could remember. If the professors hadn’t been watching, Hermione was sure some of her fellow Gryffidors would have lifted her on their shoulders. Of course, many of the Slytherins were glaring at her, but mostly, people were just shocked, including some of the teachers.

“See, this is what we love about you, Hermione,” said Fred.

“You can prank the whole school—” George continued.

“—just by being yourself.”

As icing on the cake, Hermione had Potions the first thing after breakfast that day. She braced herself for Snape’s snide remarks, or for him to take away more points than usual, but to the whole class’s surprise (and the Slytherins’ dismay), he didn’t do anything different from his normal abrasive tone…up until he asked her to stay after class. Hermione asked Ron to wait outside the door for her, remembering that she still wasn’t to go anywhere alone.

“Yes, Professor?” she said nervously.

“Miss Granger…I wanted to tell you that I meant what I said at breakfast. Your potions paper was most impressive…” He paused, and she thought she saw a wistful look flit through his eyes. “I myself did not make any original discoveries in potions until my fourth year.”

“Um, thank you, sir,” Hermione said, waiting warily for whatever Snape’s real purpose was.

“If you should find you are interested in performing an independent study in the subject, I would…not be opposed to considering your request.”

Her eyebrows shot up. This was far more civil than she ever expected him to be. “I…I doubt I’ll be doing that much with potions in the future,” she said, “but thank you for the offer, sir.”

Snape nodded, but then he said the other part of his piece: “I should warn you, Miss Granger, that a highly intelligent muggle-born such as yourself is likely to attract the attention of some individuals who do not approve of such a thing…I do not mean that you should hold yourself back—merely that you should be watchful, especially in light of the events of the past year.”

“I…I…” she stammered. “Why are you telling me this, Professor?”

Snape sneered at her, but only a little: “Because as a professor of this school, I am obligated to ensure the safety of all of my students.” He turned away and muttered, so that Hermione could barely hear it, “And a not insignificant amount of professional admiration.” She wasn’t even sure she’d heard him right when he said, more loudly, “That will be all, Miss Granger.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and went on to her next class.

The initial reaction to Hermione’s potions discovery was disbelief, followed by surprise and some anger. Draco Malfoy was glaring at her more than ever, for example, while Rebecca Gamp cornered her after their next Arithmancy class and demanded to know how she had pulled of publishing a paper as a second year (and was a little surprised when Hermione answered forthrightly). Filch congratulated her, but asked her to be discreet around him to avoid tipping anyone off about his status.

Since few students actually read the article, the reaction was slow-rolling, even with Snape’s point-giving, but she got a number of letters from the public, both positive and negative. Several of them were along the lines of how dare she taint the practice of magic by spreading it to the unworthy muggles and squibs, or things like that, but there were also several letters from delighted parents of muggle-borns asking how they could get some of those runic spells. (She later learnt that an enterprising vendor in Diagon Alley had copied her design and begun selling them.) But the best response was from Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, which thanked her for bringing in a sudden windfall of parents of muggle-borns buying potions kits. Being responsible salespeople, they pushed them very hard to also buy instruction books and safety manuals from them. They were so grateful that they sent her a voucher for a free third-year potions kit.

Meanwhile, school went on, and during Easter holidays, the second-years were expected to choose their elective classes for next year that they would pursue through their O.W.L.s. The choices were Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and Muggle Studies. Hermione was still taking Arithmancy, of course, but she couldn’t decide what else to take.

All students must take at least two electives through O.W.L. Level, the noticed had read. Students wishing to take more than three electives must obtain special permission from their head of house.

Hermione was seriously considering taking everything. She had no doubt that Professor McGonagall would give her permission. Presumably, the only reason it was restricted was the workload, and her marks were impeccable, and she’d never failed to get her homework done.

From a discussion with her fourth-year friends, she gathered that Runes and Magical Creatures was the most popular “serious’ combination, mainly by process of elimination. Arithmancy was perceived as the hardest class, and so was not very popular, while Divination and Muggle Studies were both considered an easy O. Even so, she thought they all sounded fascinating, even Muggle Studies—it would be good to get more of the wizards’ point of view on muggles. She only wished she could get her year-mates to show the same enthusiasm.

“Do you know what you’re going to take, Harry?” she asked as the deadline drew near.

“I dunno. I was just gonna go with whatever Ron took.”

“Really? But honestly, you kind of have different strengths than he does. Don’t you think you should play to those?”

“But I’m only really good at Quidditch.”

“That’s not true!” Hermione said. “I think you’re pretty good at Defence—I know it’s hard to tell with Professor Lockhart,” she admitted. “And you’re pretty good at charms, too.” Then, she smiled: “I think you should take Arithmancy.”

“Oi, leave him alone, Hermione. That’s like the hardest class for normal people like us,” Ron said from nearby.

“I know it’s considered the hardest class, Ron, but Harry went to muggle primary school. Professor Vector says muggle maths classes prepare students better than most purebloods learn. I bet you’d do pretty well in that class, Harry.”

“You really think so?” he said hopefully.

“Yes I do, Harry. You’re not stupid, and with your background, you should have a good head start.”

“Okay, I guess I can try it, then,” he said.

Hermione smiled at him encouragingly.

“I can’t believe you’re going over to her side,” Ron complained.

“And just that’s supposed to mean?” she wheeled on her other friend.

“I mean you’ve got him taking the hard classes, like you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking the more challenging classes, Ronald,” she said, glaring at him. “And just what classes are you signing up for.”

“Eh, I thought I’d go with Magical Creatures and Divination.”

“Divination? Really?”

“Yeah, so? Aren’t you thinking of taking it.”

“I might, but only because it sounds interesting, and I’m not sure about it. Professor Vector says it’s really unreliable, and unless you have a really keen interest, you should think about taking something more productive.”

“Well, I’m sorry if we can’t all be like you,” Ron snapped.

“You don’t have to be like me. You just have to apply yourself to something you’re good at.”

“I’m not good at anything, though,” he complained loudly. “I’m pants at our regular classes already.”

“You are not, Ron.”

“I’m sure not great at them. If I take an easy O, I can at least bring up my average.”

“I’m sure you can do better than an easy O.”

“Hey! Why don’t you just leave me alone and let me pick my own classes, Hermione?”

“Fine,” she snapped. “But, for Merlin’s sake, Ron, how can someone as…smart as you be such an idiot?” She turned to leave.

“I’m not smart, Hermione!” Ron yelled back. They two of them didn’t even notice Harry edging away from the argument. “I’m not some genius who can do maths in my head and take all the classes and memorise my course books or however you do what you do. I’m just a normal guy from a normal family.”

Hermione ignored the slight and shot back, “Ron, I know your family. There’s not a single one of you who’s not brilliant at something.”

“Oh, come on,” he grumbled. “My dad’s stuck in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and Mum just stays at home.”

Hermione couldn’t help but gasp: “You shouldn’t talk about your parents like that,” she scolded, “and your dad’s not “stuck.” He loves his job. And he’s brilliant, too. He enchanted a car to fly and turn invisible, honestly! Plus, he pushed controversial muggle protection legislation through the Wizengamot—it takes a lot of savvy to do something like that. I’ll grant he doesn’t have that good a grasp on muggle technology…but maybe you should take Muggle Studies, then. You could teach your dad a thing or two.”

Ron turned around to face her. “You really think so?” he said hopefully after a pause.

“If you really work at it. I’ve heard the curriculum is pretty weak, but if it’s any good at all, it’ll be thirty years ahead of what he took…And I’ll help you out when I can.”

“Wow, thanks…hmm, I guess I can take that instead of Divination.”

“Great. And I stand by what I said. Everyone in your family is brilliant.”

“Nah, my brothers, maybe, by my mum—she’s nice, and all, but she’s still…just Mum.”

“Ron, I’ve had your Mum’s cooking,” Hermione said flatly. “In the muggle world, she could have her own television show. Not to mention your house is still standing after fifteen years of Fred and George living there. Don’t put down your parents just because their skills aren’t in book smarts. Yes, that’s my thing, but it doesn’t have to be everybody’s. And anyway, you know how good your brothers are—even Fred and George finished the Veritaserum flawlessly and concoct elaborate pranks on a weekly basis—” She lowered her voice to a whisper on that last part.

“Yeah, but me and Ginny don’t have that kind of talent—”

“Ginny’s got talent to spare. She figured out how to sneak your brooms out from the shed when she was six, and do you think just any first year could master that Bat-Bogey Hex of hers?”

“She snuck our brooms—?” Ron said in shock. “Wait, that’s why she flies so well? She’s been playing us the whole time!”

“Well, you’re the ones who never let her fly. Like I said, she’s got talent to spare, and so do you.”

“But—”

“Don’t. Even. Say it. Ronald Bilius Weasley. You’re better at chess than I am, and that’s saying something. Better than McGonagall, even. You’re a brilliant strategist. And you know practically everything there is to know about Quidditch. And you’re great with voices and languages. Professor Babbling even said you have a natural talent for Ancient Runes at that last seminar, remember? I was going to say I think you should take that, too.”

“Seriously? But that was kid stuff.”

“She didn’t seem to think so. And you helped me figure out that runic circle last year—that was enough to get your name mentioned in The Practical Potioneer.”

“It’s still not the same as the class.”

At that point, Hermione couldn’t take it anymore: “Oh…Ron, will you just get your head out of your arse and admit you’re actually good at something for once?”

The entire Common Room stopped and stared, and she shrank back uncomfortably, rapidly turning red.

Ron gaped, staring speechless for a long minute. “Blimey, Hermione,” he said, “I never thought I’d hear you say something like that.” Several people sniggered.

“Well…well…you deserve it,” she stammered. “I mean it; you should take Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies.”

Ron still didn’t look convinced: “But I kinda really did want to take Magical Creatures,” he said.

“You can take three electives,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“Are you serious?”

She glared at him.

“You are serious.” He sat still, not speaking as Hermione continued to glare at him. Finally, he broke. “Alright, I’ll do it,” he said. “But if I go mad next year, I’m hexing you first.”

“It’s a deal,” Hermione said dryly.

As things finally calmed down in the Common Room, Harry nervously spoke up: “Well…then…I guess I’ll sign up for Magical Creatures as my other class,” he said. “Then, we’ll at least be having that one together.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Hermione said, to Harry’s relief. They both knew languages weren’t his strong point, and he thought learning about magical creatures sounded fun and might serve him well someday.

As for Hermione, though, she still uncertain about what to do. After largely ignoring all the advice she was getting from students, she went to the one person whose advice she most respected and expressed her desire to take all of the classes.

“Are you really sure you want to do that, Hermione?” Professor Vector asked.

“I think so, Professor,” she replied. “I mean, if it’s possible. I know my schedule is already weird—”

“It’s not the schedule I’m worried about. There’s room to rearrange the classes without double-booking them. It’s you. I remember how much you overworked yourself in your first year.”

“Well, it was mostly reading—” Hermione corrected. “I understand what you’re saying, ma’am, but I’m going to have to increase my workload anyway, and all of the elective classes sound really interesting.”

“Do they? I’m a little surprised to hear that, even coming from you,” Vector replied. “If you want my advice, I really don’t think Divination and Muggle Studies are the best use of your time.” Hermione’s face fell a little. “I may be biased, but I’m sure you remember my opinion on Divination: that it’s terribly subjective and unreliable, far inferior to arithmantic prognostication, and to the extent that it works at all, it’s a gift that you either have or you don’t.”

“I’ve read that, ma’am, but then, don’t you think I should see if I have the gift?”

“I’m sure that Professor Trelawney would be more than happy to evaluate you before you make a final decision. Even she will tell you there’s no use taking the subject in the, frankly, probable event that you don’t have it.”

“Oh…” Hermione said, disappointed. “But still, it could be interesting from a theoretical standpoint, especially since divination is by far the best-documented branch of magic in muggle history.”

“Is it? I wasn’t aware—but that bears on my second point: simply put, I strongly doubt that there is anything Professor Burbage could possibly teach you. She’s not a muggle-born herself, after all. And I would say that to any muggle-born student. The subject is valuable to those of us who grew up in the wizarding world, but for you, all it would do is waste your time telling you things you already know, and probably know better.”

“I…I understand that, ma’am,” Hermione replied, “but I still think it would be valuable to see the subject from a wizarding perspective. Plus, the O.W.L. certification will look good on my resume.”

Vector smiled sadly. “Hermione, you can take the O.W.L. exam without taking the class. It’s not often done, but you can do it. I’m sure you would do well. I’m really worried that you’re going to push yourself too hard again. Remember that you’ll be in your O.W.L. year for Arithmancy, too.”

“I understand, Professor, and thank you, but I really want to at least try the classes first. I feel like it’s only fair to give them a chance. And other people do take twelve O.W.L.s, don’t they? Bill and Percy Weasley even did it while they were prefects in their fifth years.”

“Yes, yes they did, but do you remember how stressed Percy Weasley was that year?” she replied. Hermione did remember. “He was even worse when the other students couldn’t see. He needed far more support from the professors than he let on to do it. His brother Bill was much the same way. The only other student I’ve had who took twelve O.W.L.s was Barty Crouch, Jr.—he didn’t have as much trouble, but he turned out to be a sociopath, so it’s probably not a fair comparison. I don’t think you need to go through all that.”

“I…I appreciate your concern…” Hermione said, her eyes starting to tear up.

“Hermione, what’s really bothering you?”

“It’s just…they were able to do it…so I should be able to, too. I’ve done the maths—I know it’ll be really hard—I know it’ll take a lot of time, but I think I can do it, and…and after what happened last year, I don’t want to have to think I’m not strong enough,” she whimpered. “I don’t want to have to back out because I can’t cut it.”

“Oh, dear…” Vector laid her hands over top of the girl’s. “Hermione, I like to think that after two years, I know you pretty well.” The girl nodded tearfully. “I believe that you are perfectly capable—with a lot of care and support—of earning twelve outstanding O.W.L.s. You’re easily intelligent and dedicated enough to do it.” Hermione suppressed a sniffle and started to smile a little. “However…I do not think you would be happy doing that.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open a little.

“I think that if you go for twelve O.W.L.s, you would be subjecting yourself to three very difficult and painful years for something that is of basically no value to you. As I said, you can get the Muggle Studies grade without taking the class, and in any job you’re likely to go into, the Divination cert. isn’t worth the parchment it’s printed on. Now, if Professor Trelawney says you have the gift, by all means, go for it. But otherwise—no, you wouldn’t have the even dozen, but your Arithmancy scores will more than make up for that.”

“But I—”

“I know you don’t want to back out,” Vector said gently, “but it’s not a matter of you not being strong enough. It’s a matter of having your priorities in order. I can see how much you live and breathe arithmancy. It’s too big a part of who you are—” She paused and seemed to struggle to find the right words. “I’ve seen you when you’re having a hard time. On some days, when you’re at the end of your rope, it’s only the thing that makes it worth it to get up in the morning—am I right?”

Hermione paled as that hit a little too close to home. Even after everything she said, it still surprised her sometimes how well her professor knew her, but the truth was she’d had more than her share of days like that. She nodded shakily.

“I thought so. That’s just the way your mind works. I suspect that if you tried to take Divination and Muggle Studies next year, you’d say they were both completely wasting your time by the end of the first week, and deep down, I think you know that, too, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Other people have a passion for those subjects, and they’re welcome to it, but for Hermione Jean Granger, they’re a waste of time that could be better spent on something else, be it Arithmancy or Runes or just having fun with your friends. I hope you can see that.”

Hermione was still blinking back tears, but she found she did understand. She remembered what she had said to Ron: Yes, that’s my thing, but it doesn’t have to be everybody’s. It worked both ways. And try as she might, she couldn’t deny a single thing her teacher had said. As interesting as the classes sounded, she could do the maths, and she couldn’t see any practical value to them—certainly nothing worth the anguish of trying to handle that kind of workload. It didn’t take a brilliant arithmancer to figure that out.

“You…You’re right, Professor,” she finally admitted through her tears. “I…It’s not worth it…It’s not worth it. I’ll be better off with just three electives…Th-thank you…Thank you for talking some sense into me. I knew how awful it would be trying to overload my schedule like that, but it’s so hard for me to back down from a challenge.”

“I know, Hermione, and I’m glad you were willing to listen. It would hurt to see you like that again. I do hope you will still come to me if you’re having trouble.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.”

Even after that conversation, Hermione decided it would only be responsible to climb up to the North Tower and ask Professor Trelawney for an evaluation before writing off her subject entirely. Her response was a little disappointing, but not unexpected: “I’m sorry my dear, but I’m afraid I sense very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future.”

For that matter, Hermione wasn’t convinced Trelawney had the gift, either, what with her nonsense about hiding in blue light or whatever it was she was trying to say, so there was really no point.

By May, exams were fast approaching, as were a rash of Quidditch matches, as the schedule had been back-loaded in response to the attacks last fall. Hermione drew up her revision schedules, Harry was spending his time at his many extra Quidditch practises, and Professor Sprout said the people who had been petrified would be cured in a few more weeks. In sum, Hermione was really thinking things were back to normal, but the night before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, life once again bowled her a googly, when Harry and Ron ran down the stairs to meet her in the Common Room, looking frantic.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione said when she spotted them.

“Someone stole Tom Riddle’s diary!” Harry said.

“What?”

“Tore apart the whole dorm to find it,” Ron confirmed.

“But…why? We don’t even know if what it said was true? And besides, only a Gryffindor could have stolen it. They’d need the password to the Tower.”

“Yeah, we know,” said Harry.

“Well, what d’you think it means?” Hermione said nervously.

“I wish I knew.”

Chapter Text

Hermione tried to put the stolen diary out of her mind so she could enjoy the Quidditch match the next day. She really thought Harry ought to report the robbery—even if the diary wasn’t intrinsically valuable, someone went to an awful lot of trouble to steal it—but he didn’t want to, lest the business with Hagrid and the Chamber of Secrets become common knowledge. But she tried to put it out of her mind and ate a good breakfast and speculated on the odds of Gryffindor beating Hufflepuff to anyone who asked.

After breakfast, they started up the Grand Staircase for Harry to get his Quidditch things, when, completely out of the blue, Harry shouted. “The voice! I just heard it again—didn’t you?”

Hermione hadn’t heard any voice, but she did remember that there was something else Harry could hear that nobody else heard. Suddenly, so many things fell into place that she smacked herself in the forehead and shouted, “Eureka!”

“What?” Harry and Ron said.

“I’ve found it! I think I figured it out. I have to go to the library to check.” And before they could respond, she sprinted up the stairs.

It took about ten seconds for Hermione to remember her promise back at Christmas not to go anywhere in the castle alone. She didn’t even break stride. Instead, she just grabbed the first prefect she saw, a curly-haired Ravenclaw girl. “You, what’s your name?” she said.

“Uh, Penelope Clearwater,” the girl said, blinking in confusion.

“Penelope, good, I’m Hermione. You need to come with me to the library.” She grabbed Penelope by the hand and dragged her along before she could object.

“The library? What? Why?”

She looked back over her shoulder: “I think I figured out what’s causing the attacks.”

“What? The attacks? But there hasn’t been an attack in months,” Penelope said.

“I think there’s gonna be another one.”

“What?! How…how do you know that?”

“Because Harry heard it. I think it’s a snake. I…I’m not explaining this well. Last fall, Harry was hearing this weird voice that nobody else could hear—one time was right before Mrs. Norris was attacked. At the time, I didn’t think it meant anything, but he just heard it again, and I realised he must have been hearing Parseltongue!”

“Parseltongue!” Penelope exclaimed. She was sped up to keep pace with Hermione. “So the monster is a snake?”

“Yes. I was researching it last fall, and I just passed that section over because it didn’t mention petrification, and I need to look at it again. I’m not certain, but I think the monster is a basilisk.”

“Basilisk?” Penelope said. “I don’t know that one.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure either. That’s why I need to look it up, but it’s known in muggle mythology as a snake that kills with its eyes.”

“Huh, that sounds vaguely familiar. I’m muggle-born, but I never got that deep into mythology. I was really freaking out last Christmas.”

“So was I. I almost didn’t come back, but I’m glad I did if I can solve this.”

They finally reached the library, and Penelope, who as a sixth-year Ravenclaw was even better than Hermione at working the place, pointed down one aisle and whispered, “Magical creatures this way.”

They hurried down the aisle and grabbed several books about magical reptiles and serpents before carrying them to the nearest table. Both girls started flipping through them, with Hermione muttering, “Basilisk…basilisk…basilisk…”

They barely even noticed that Rebecca Gamp from Hermione’s Arithmancy class was already sitting at the table and was not very happy with having her space invaded. “What’s going on?” the black-haired Ravenclaw demanded.

“Oh, hi, Rebecca,” Hermione said absently. She decided there wasn’t anything in the first book and moved on to the second. “It’s about the Chamber of Secrets thing—long story…” she trailed off as she flipped furiously through the book.

“Well, I’ll leave that to you, then,” Rebecca said. She gathered up her books and walked off in a huff. Hermione and Penelope were so engrossed by now that they barely noticed.

Hermione’s second book didn’t appear to be in any coherent order whatsoever. “Why don’t any of these books have indexes?” she hissed.

“I don’t know,” Penelope groaned. “It’s really annoying. We’d save so much time in here if wizards would just join the twentieth century.”

“We have to move fast. If Harry did hear Parseltongue, that means the monster is on the move again.”

“I found it!” Penelope said. “Look at this.”

Hermione read the page:

Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken ’s egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.

“That’s it!” Hermione cried loud enough that Madam Pince shushed her. Then, more quietly, “Lives for hundreds of years, so it could survive all this time in the Chamber. Spiders flee before it—do you remember how all the spiders disappeared last fall? The crowing of the rooster is fatal to it—Harry said something was killing Hagrid’s chickens. It all fits!”

“Wait a minute,” Penelope said. “The book says the basilisk’s gaze causes instant death, so why were all of the victims just petrified?”

Hermione sighed and covered her face with her hands to clear her head. Her mind was racing to think of an explanation. “Because…because…” she mumbled. She remembered how Colin had been found. “Because Colin saw it through his camera,” she exclaimed. “It only petrified him, but it completely destroyed the camera.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Penelope said. “And Justin was found with that ghost. He must have seen it through him. The ghost looked it straight in the eye, but he couldn’t die again. It’s kinda weird, but—”

“Yes, and Mrs. Norris…she saw it’s reflection on the floor! It’s just like Medusa.”

“Except it’s the reflection that petrifies, and the gaze kills.” Penelope finished. “But how is it getting around, though? The attacks were all in different places.”

Hermione sighed again, then pulled out her map of the castle. She examined its pages for a minute. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to hide anything that big. “I don’t know,” she mused. “You’d think if it was roaming the castle, it would catch a bunch of people in the corridors. Unless…maybe if it was in the walls—of course, it’s a snake. It’s getting around through the plumbing! Yes, this is it. We have to tell Professor McGonagall.” To be honest, she wasn’t sure why she said McGonagall. Surely Dumbledore—but his office was password-protected, and they didn’t have the time. Or Lockhart. For all his faults, the one thing he still had going for him was that he was a great dark creature hunter—but something still seemed off about him. Plus, McGonagall had more authority and was much more organised, so McGonagall it was. She jumped up and turned toward the door…and then quailed in fear and spun back around. “Oh my God!” she gasped.

“What is it?” Penelope said frantically.

“Penelope, do you realise what’s going on? There’s a giant snake that can kill with a look loose in the castle right now, and we’re the bloody targets!”

Penelope gasped: “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! What’re we gonna do? The Heir’s after muggle-borns!”

“Alright, alright, don’t panic,” Hermione said, though she was nearly panicking herself. She knew now how Harry had felt last year, when he went completely paranoid over the Philosopher’s Stone (and turned out to be right). “We need to find a way to get to McGonagall without getting killed by the basilisk.”

“Wait, we know its reflection only petrifies. I’ve got a mirror here.” Penelope fished a hand mirror out of her robes. “We can use it to look around corners.”

“Okay, that’ll keep us from getting killed, but if we get petrified on the way there, no one will know we figured it out. Oh, if only we could get a message to her directly…” Then Hermione smacked herself in the forehead again. “Good grief, I’m such an idiot.” She checked her watch nervously: just barely in time. “Sonya?” she said.

There was a crack, and the little blond elf appeared beside the table. Hermione had never been so glad to see her. She’d nearly missed her going on her shift. “Miss Hermione Granger is needing Sonya’s help?” Sonya squeaked.

“You have a house elf?” Penelope said in shock.

“No, school elf. Long story.” Hermione pulled a notebook out of her robes and tore out a page. “Sonya, we think the monster is on the loose again.”

“Eek!” said Sonya.

“We need you to take a message to Professor McGonagall. Penelope, can you copy this page from the book?”

“Uh, sure.” She waved her wand, and in a moment, the page from her notebook looked exactly like it had been torn from the library book.

“Thanks. Now, just make a note…” Hermione circled the word Basilisk on the page, drew a line, and wrote Chamber and pipes in the margin. “I wish there was some way we could block the stare completely,” she said. She circled Serpents and drew another line to where she wrote Parseltongue. “Maybe some way to filter the light—if it even works like that.” Next, she connected murderous stare to the phrase mirrors petrify, and another idea struck her. “Penelope, what colour are a snake’s eyes?”

Penelope blinked in surprise and flipped through the books again: “Um…red, yellow, green—looks like it varies.”

“No blue?”

“Er, I don’t see any blue.”

“Great. It’s not perfect, but it’s a chance. Can you transfigure two pairs of sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses? Well, I guess. Do you think they’ll help?”

“It’s worth a try. We’ll use the mirrors, too. We know they work.” She finished her note by connecting rooster to Hagrid’s chickens before handing it to the nervous elf. “Okay, Sonya, I need you to take this note to Professor McGonagall right now. Tell her that Slytherin’s monster is a basilisk, that it’s on the loose in the castle, and that Penelope Clearwater and I are going to try to come to her. Do you have that?”

“Miss Hermione Granger, Sonya will protects you from the monster,” she started.

“No, Sonya, it’s more important that this message gets to Professor McGonagall, and then you need to stay out of the corridors, where it’s safe. We have our own way to protect ourselves. Please go, Sonya.”

“Yes, miss,” Sonya said reluctantly, her ears drooping. She snapped her fingers and vanished.

“Okay. Penelope, give me the sunglasses.” Hermione took them in hand and drew her own wand. She tried to envision a change from a normal, naive colour change to a strict colour filter that was darkened in a specific frequency range, hoping the intent component of the magic would accomplish her goal. She waved her wand and incanted, “Colovaria Azure,” twice. She wasn’t quite sure the spell had worked as intended, but the sunglasses were now blue. “Here, put these on,” she said.

“Blue tinted glasses?”

“Uh huh. I’m hoping the basilisk’s eyes are yellow or red or something, and the blue filter will block them out so we can’t see them. Come on, we have to get to McGonagall’s office—and use the mirror to look around corners, just in case.”

The two girls looked around the corner with the mirror and exited the library into the torch-lit corridor. They must have looked a strange sight walking down the hall in their blue glasses, but they didn’t care at the moment. The one thing Hermione hadn’t counted on, though, was the lighting. The blue sky from the windows partially lit the corridor, but it was intermittent, and the torches were heavily dimmed by the blue filters.

“I can’t see a thing,” Penelope complained as they reached a particularly dark corner.

“Hold on a sec,” Hermione said. She pulled her old jam jar from her robes and, with an incantation of “Lacarnum Inflamari,” filled it to the brim with bluebell flames. Holding it up like a lantern, it lit the corridor in a blue light that let them navigate with the glasses.

“That’s brilliant, Hermione,” Penelope said as they started off again. “How did you come up with that?”

“I’ve got a lot of mileage out of that charm,” Hermione said with a smile. Penelope smiled back.

But those smiles were short-lived, for when they looked around the next corner, they saw a glint of an unholy light in the mirror.

Minerva McGonagall’s mind was racing as she read the page the frantic elf had handed her. Miss Granger was quite right, of course, and the truth she had uncovered was terrifying. There was a basilisk on the loose in the school at that very moment. It was undoubtedly after a muggle-born student, maybe even Granger herself, but it could pop out anywhere and attack anyone through the castle’s plumbing system. And the only person who could track the basilisk was…“I have to find Potter,” she said. “Sonnitt, go back to Miss Granger and Miss Clearwater and tell them to meet me at the Training Grounds.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall, ma’am.” The elf popped away.

Minvera quickly conjured a mirror and raced down the hall to get to the Training Grounds herself. But she’d barely made it a few steps when Sonnitt reappeared, looking even more frantic than ever.

“Professor McGonagall, ma’am!” the little elf squealed breathlessly. “Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater has been attacked!”

“What?!”

“They is just down the hall from the library. Sonya sees them!”

“Morgana’s feathered locks,” McGonagall muttered before deciding on a course of action. “Alright, Sonnitt, inform Professor Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey at once, and tell them to use mirrors to look around all corners…and then Professor Vector. She’ll murder me if I don’t tell her. I’ll be up to the hospital wing as soon as I can.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sonnitt squeaked wearily. She took a deep breath and vanished again.

Minerva rushed out to the Training Grounds, using the mirror at every corner, though she pocketed it when she left the castle. If the basilisk was outdoors, they were all doomed regardless. Grabbing a large, purple megaphone from the broom shed, she ran flat out to the Quidditch Pitch. “The match has been cancelled!” she shouted to the packed stands. She was greeted with a torrent of protest, which she ignored as she sought out Potter. “All students will remain where they are and await further instructions. You will be escorted back to your House common rooms shortly.” It was a risk. A basilisk was an incredibly dangerous beast, and far more dangerous around a crowd, but she was banking on the Heir not wanting to kill so many purebloods. “Mr. Potter, come with me at once,” she said sternly when she spotted the boy.

“Professor, what is it?” Ron Weasley said, detaching from the crowd.

“Stay here, Mr. Weasley. I’ll send for you when it is safe. Mr. Potter, with me.”

Harry Potter followed her back to the castle, running to keep up with Minerva’s brisk walk. “Professor, what’s happened?” he said breathlessly.

“There’s been another attack, Potter. Another double attack.” The boy gasped. “Now, stay close and inform me at once if you hear any unusual voices.”

“Voices?” he said in surprise. “You know about those?”

“I’ve just learnt that Slytherin’s monster is a snake, Potter. You were hearing it speak Parseltongue.”

The boy froze for a couple of steps before racing to catch up. “Oh my God, I should have known,” he said.

“Just keep an ear out now, Potter,” she replied. In another minute, they reached the infirmary. “Nothing?” Minerva asked.

“No, ma’am. And the first time, I heard it across three floors.”

“Then it’s probably gone back to sleep for the moment. Come here, Filius,” she called into the infirmary. “I’ll send the rest of the students to the Common Rooms and Mr. Weasley up here. You wait here with Madam Pomfrey—I’m afraid this will be a bit of a shock, Potter.”

As Professor McGonagall strode away with Professor Flitwick, Harry entered the infirmary. There on a bed, with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Vector standing over her, was Hermione. Harry’s chest clenched like icy claws were digging into his heart when he saw that she wasn’t frozen like the others. Her eyes were shut as if she were sleeping, and her arm flopped lifelessly in Madam Pomfrey’s hand.

“She’s…she’s not petrified…” Harry choked in horror, barely able to speak. “Is she…”

“She’s alive, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said. “They’re just knocked out—both of them.”

Harry nearly collapsed with relief as she motioned to the adjacent bed, where Harry saw a curly-haired prefect also lying as if asleep. Harry walked down the row and saw a smaller shape lying in the third bed. For a wild moment, he thought it was Dobby, but then he saw the snub nose and the short, scraggly blond hair. “Sonya? What’s wrong with her?” he said.

“Magical exhaustion,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Apparently, she apparated no fewer than seven times in the space of a few minutes. Even just within the castle, that’s a difficult feat.”

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Vector addressed him. “Hermione here has identified Slytherin’s monster as a basilisk.” Harry gave Vector a blank look. “It’s a giant snake that can kill with a single look.”

“Oh…that’s bad.”

“Yes, it is. Now, we’ve agreed that that information should not leave this room to avoid tipping off the Heir that we know. Do you understand?” Harry nodded slowly. “Good. Hermione and Miss Clearwater were found wearing these.” She held out the two pairs of glasses. “Do you recognise them as some kind of muggle artifact?”

“Blue glasses? No,” Harry said in confusion.

“I can only guess that they were intended to filter out the basilisk’s deadly gaze,” Vector said.

“I agree,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Probably why they were only knocked out instead of petrified.”

“So Hermione won’t miss any school?” Harry said. “Bet she’ll like that.”

Vector chuckled wearily: “I’m sure she will.”

Harry barely had time to get settled when Ron barrelled into the infirmary, flanked by Fred and George, who were still in their Quidditch robes. “Hermione!” they yelled, rushing to her bedside.

“She’s alright, Messrs. Weasley, she’s only unconscious,” Madam Pomfrey said, shooing them away. “The both of them were still hit pretty hard, mind you. They’re only responding weakly to my lesser restoratives, but they should be awake in a few hours.

“That’s a relief,” George said. “D’you think they got a good look at the Heir?”

“I hope so,” Fred growled. “If I get my hands on whoever did this to Hermione, I’ll—”

“You will let the adults handle it, Mr. Weasley,” Vector interrupted sternly. “The monster is far too dangerous for students to handle. This information must not leave this room, but before she was attacked, Hermione identified it as a basilisk.”

Fred’s and George’s eyes went wide: “Bloody hell!”

“She faced a bloody basilisk and lived?” Fred exclaimed.

“And didn’t even get petrified,” George added.

“That’s our Hermione,” said Fred, patting her on the head. “Impossible isn’t in her vocabulary.”

“Yes, only I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” said Professor Vector.

But as they sat and waited, there was a commotion outside the hospital wing, and they heard Professor McGonagall’s voice say, “Minister? Mr. Malfoy? What on earth are you doing here?”

As Hermione was wrenched back to consciousness, the first thing she was aware of was a pounding headache. She felt like she’d been struck with a lead pipe right behind her eyes. What happened? Where was she? The last thing she remembered was…the mirror! She’d been attacked by Slytherin’s basilisk! Her heart started pounding. Had the glasses worked? Had she been petrified? How long had it been? What horrible things had happened while she was asleep? She groaned and writhed on what she deduced must be a bed in the Hospital Wing, trying to assess the situation.

“Madam Pomfrey, she moved!”

Was that Harry? She tried to open her eyes, but the light was too bright. She heard footsteps rushing over to her, and the matron’s voice sounded, “Go inform Professor McGonagall, Mr. Potter. Easy does it, Miss Granger. I’m pretty sure what happened to you has literally never happened before, so you need to take it slow. How do you feel?”

“My…my head…” she winced.

“Headache…not surprising, considering,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Here, see if you can drink this.” She thrust a small bottle of potion into Hermione’s trembling hand and guided it to her mouth. She drank it slowly. Immediately, her headache lessened. She opened her eyes and squinted into the light.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Good, now is anything else hurting or not working?”

Hermione wiggled her fingers and toes painfully and winced again. Every muscle in her body was aching, but not nearly as bad as her head had been—more like a nasty bout of the flu. “Muscle aches…all over,” she said. “Please, how long was I out?”

“Only a few hours, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey told her, but she sighed heavily as she said it before handing her two more potions. “It’s not quite dinner time. How’s that, now?”

Hermione drank the potions and felt her muscles loosening and the aches subsiding, although she still felt like she had badly overexerted herself. “Much, better, ma’am. Thank you. So the glasses worked, then?”

“If you mean they saved you from being petrified, then yes, although I suspect the muscle aches are from some sort of partial petrification. Fortunately, I didn’t need the mandrake draught to reverse it.”

Hermione pushed herself up on the bed to get a look around the Hospital Wing. Suddenly, there was a squeak from her left: “Miss Hermione Granger is being awake?” a soft, weary-sounding voice called.

“Sonya?” She saw the elf lying in a bed that was far too large for her two beds down. “Yes, I’m fine. What happened to you?”

“Sonya is needing to rest, miss. Sonya did too much apparating.”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry.”

“Sonya is glad to be helping Hermione Granger, miss.” She closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

At that moment, Penelope Clearwater stirred on the bed between Hermione and Sonya. Hermione was relieved to see that the glasses had worked for her, too. “Ohhh…Did someone get the number on that lorry?” Penelope groaned.

Madam Pomfrey already had another batch of potions ready for her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Clearwater,” she said. “Stay still a moment. You’ll want these.”

Penelope groaned again and drank the potions, blinking her bleary eyes as her head cleared. “Hermione?”

“Right here,” she said. “The glasses worked. We were only out about six hours.”

“Great…”

“Unfortunately not so great,” Madam Pomfrey said. “It’s been a long six hours. I’d tell you to stay in bed, Miss Granger, but Professor McGonagall demanded to be informed at once when you woke up.”

“Ma’am? What happened?” Hermione said worriedly. But she got her answer soon enough when the door burst open, and a veritable crowd of people poured in: Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Vector, and Lockhart (Lockhart looked reluctant), along with Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy, all of them looking solemn or even tear-stricken. Hermione didn’t even have time to ask a question before everyone started talking at once.

“Hermione, you’re awake!” Ron started. “Oh, Merlin, it’s awful.”

“Fudge—”

“—got Ginny—”

“—and Malfoy—”

“—took Hagrid—”

“—into the Chamber—”

“—and Dumbledore—”

“HEY!” Hermione shouted. Everyone stopped. She rubbed her forehead and said, “One at a time. I just woke up.”

Professor McGonagall spoke up. She was pale, and her voice was trembling. She looked as frightened as she had last year when the Philosopher’s Stone was threatened, if not more so. “Miss Granger,” she said. “When you and Miss Clearwater were attacked, Lucius Malfoy used it as an excuse to strong-arm the Board of Governors into suspending Professor Dumbledore and removing him from the castle, on the grounds that he is no longer competent to protect the school.”

“What?” Hermione cried. (And Penelope echoed her.) “And they think we’ll do better without him?”

“That’s what the entire staff said, Miss Granger,” Professor Vector said. “To a person. But Lucius Malfoy is very…persuasive. Dumbledore was out by lunch.”

“Unfortunately, that was just the beginning,” McGonagall said. “At the same time Mr. Malfoy arrived, the Minister for Magic also came to the school and arrested Hagrid for the attacks.”

“What? No! Hagrid would never do that.”

“We know that, Miss Granger. I’m afraid that has just been proved very clearly.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched: “What happened ma’am?”

But it was Ron who answered: “Slytherin’s Heir took Ginny!”

Hermione gasped. “Ginny?”

“Into the Chamber itself,” McGonagall confirmed.

“How? Why? Are…are you sure?”

McGonagall looked to be on the verge of tears, but she kept talking: “Not one hour ago, a new message was found underneath the one from Halloween…Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever. The only student in the castle not accounted for is Ginny Weasley.”

“Even we don’t know where she went,” Fred whispered. “And we can always track her down.” Fred and George looked as pale as ghosts.

“But…but she’s a pureblood,” Hermione said frantically. “What would Slytherin’s Heir want with her?”

“Weasley’s are still bl-blood traitors,” George said.

“I reckon she knew something,” Fred suggested. “You saw how she was. He could’ve been bl-blackmailing her all year.”

“Miss Granger, Miss Clearwater, I won’t beat around the bush,” McGonagall started again. “There may yet be a chance that Miss Weasley is alive, but…but whether she is or not, if we cannot find and stop the Heir and the basilisk quickly, Hogwarts will have to be closed indefinitely. If you saw anything…if you have any idea who the Heir is…”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. Close Hogwarts? Where would the students go? What would happen if the castle was abandoned with the basilisk inside? What if the Heir escaped back into the population at large? She shook he head, becoming aware of the tears streaming down her face: “I’m so sorry, ma’am. All we saw was the basilisk. We didn’t see who was controlling it.”

The crowd deflated before her eyes. That was clearly their last best hope. Harry might be able to track the basilisk with Parseltongue, but if it had gone back to sleep, he would be useless.

“Gilderoy, you seem to think you’re quite on top of things here,” Professor Flitwick told the Defence Professor as a last-ditch effort. “Perhaps you might have some idea where the entrance to the Chamber is. Then, you could attack the Heir directly. I’m sure with your exploits, you know a way of killing a basilisk without a rooster.”

Lockhart seemed to be sweating profusely. “Well…” he stammered, “I might…but unfortunately, it would take me longer than we have to find the Chamber. I…I c-could manage it eventually, of course, but it seems to be very well hidden.”

Lockhart was sounding more suspicious that ever, but Professor Flitwick’s words got Hermione thinking. Her head was still a little sore, but under the gravity of the situation, her analytic mind lurched into gear again with a vengeance. “Wait!” she said breathlessly. All eyes turned to her. “I don’t know who the Heir is, and I don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is, but I know someone who might.”

“Who?” came from several directions at once.

“Moaning Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?” Ron said. Then, his eyes lit up: “Hermione, the messages are right by her bathroom! The entrance to the Chamber could be right there.”

“Holy cricket, it could.” Hermione jumped out of her bed and landed almost-steadily on her feet. “We have to go talk to her.”

But McGonagall held up her hand: “Just a moment, Miss Granger. We need to be careful about this. I don’t want to put any more people at risk than I have to, especially students. Now, unfortunately, Mr. Potter, we will need you, if you are willing. You’re the only one who can hear the basilisk, and perhaps you can even control it.”

“I’ll do it, ma’am,” he said quickly. “Anything to save Ginny.”

“Very well. Gilderoy, you’ll go down to face the basilisk.”

“What? M-m-me?” Lockhart said, his voice breaking.

“You are the dark creature expert here, are you not? I will accompany you myself and provide any assistance you need.” From the glances the professors exchanged, it was clear that McGonagall thought she would be doing all the fighting.

“Oh…y-yes, of course,” he replied, but he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now.

“Professor, I think you’ll need me to talk to Myrtle,” Hermione said. “Unless you know somebody else who can talk to her for more than two minutes without setting her off crying.”

McGonagall sighed: “As much as I’m loath to say it, you’re right Miss Granger. You’ll have to come, too.” She turned to the Weasley boys. “You four should return to the Tower at once.”

“But Ginny—!” they protested.

“You’re no good to her petrified or dead,” she spoke over them. “This is a job for professionals. I promise you we will make every effort to save her. Now go.”

“Sh-she’s right.” Hermione turned toward the new voice. She hadn’t even noticed that Percy, pale and silent, had spent most of the conversation holding Penelope’s hand. That was a surprise. He whispered something to her and then said, “We n-need to go.”

Fred, George, and Ron hung their heads and turned to go. “Bring her back,” Ron told Harry and Hermione fiercely. “You’ve got to bring her back.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Hermione promised.

With the Weasleys gone, McGonagall prepared to set out, but Professor Vector stopped her. “Minerva…” she said. Her own voice was shaking, but she forced herself to stand up straight. “I think perhaps I should accompany Gilderoy and the students instead.”

“Septima? You don’t have to go,” McGonagall replied. “I’m quite capable of handling this myself.”

“I know you are, Minerva, but I was a fair duellist in my day, and more importantly, I’m a pureblood Slytherin, and all three of you professors are half-bloods. If there’s any chance of reasoning with Slytherin’s Heir, I’m the best choice. Plus, I promised Hermione and her parents that I would keep her safe, and I intend to keep that promise, and with Dumbledore gone, we need you here to maintain some semblance of order.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together and stared at her colleague, but the reasoning was sound. She nodded slowly: “Very well, Septima. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Minerva.” Vector took a deep breath. “We should go presently. Come along, Gilderoy, Mr. Potter. Hermione, if you’re feeling up to it…”

“I’ll manage,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Vector led them through the corridors, keeping a firm grip on Lockhart’s shoulder as they went and once again using a mirror to look around the corners. “Mr. Potter, speak up if you hear the basilisk,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hermione, these blue glasses that saved you from being petrified. Can you replicate them?”

“I can improve them now that I know they work,” she said confidently, and she started muttering to herself: “Need to choose a better frequency function. A parabola’s not gonna cut it…” In theory, Colovaria Azure was a perfect parabolic blue light filter that didn’t let any other colours through. In practice, it was impossible to cast the charm with perfect precision, and thus, there were always higher-order square terms lurking about that would cause leaks of other colours—leaks that could be fatal in this case. That meant she needed a fancier function to suppress the higher-order terms. Perhaps a quartic function. She tried plugging in a few numbers.

“No, no, the numbers are too big. I could never cast it precisely enough,” she muttered. “Ideally, I’d want some kind of box function—but no, that’s riddled with leaks in the Fourier expansion. Maybe a sine function that didn’t come back up until—no, that’ll never work…Of course, an ellipse!” She exclaimed. It was so simple: just use the regular parabolic form and take the square root. Its value would be imaginary outside the desired frequency range, so it would suppress the higher-order terms completely…at least in theory. Now, she just needed to be sure about the colour, and for that, she just needed Myrtle.

“Anything, Mr. Potter?” Vector asked as they reached the bathroom.

“No, I don’t hear it.”

“Alright, Hermione, do whatever you need to do, then.”

Hermione nodded and pushed the door open, with the others following. “Myrtle?” she called. There was a low moan from the toilet. “Myrtle, please come out. We need to talk to you.”

The ghostly girl glided through the stall door. “What do you want?” she said morosely.

“I need to ask you…about how you died.”

Myrtle glared at Hermione. “I already told you I don’t know anything.” She turned and glided back into her stall.

“Myrtle, wait! We…we’re going to try to avenge your death.”

At those magic words, Myrtle stopped cold. Slowly, she turned around and floated close to Hermione’s face. “Are you serious?” she said.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Myrtle. We figured out what the monster is, but we need your help to find it.”

Myrtle drew herself up and “stood” straighter with determination. She even seemed to glow brighter. “What do you need to know?”

“When you died…it didn’t ‘just happen’ one day, did it? You saw something—a pair of eyes, right?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Th-that’s right,” she gasped. “How did you know?”

“Because the monster is a basilisk. It kills with its eyes. Where did you see them?”

Myrtle turned and pointed: “Over there, by that sink.”

Harry hurried to the sink and examined it closely. He quickly found that the taps wouldn’t turn.

“That tap never worked, even when I was alive,” Myrtle said.

Harry ignored her and kept examining the sink. Suddenly, everyone in the room jumped (Lockhart most of all) when he made a strange hissing sound. There was a squeak as the tap began glowing white and spinning all on its own, followed by an ominous grinding sound as the entire sink dropped down into the floor, revealing a large, open pipe, easily large enough for a man to slide down, or an enormous snake to slither up.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Hermione whispered.

“We found it,” Harry said. “We’ll have to go down.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Vector said. “Unfortunately, we may need you again. Hermione, the glasses?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll need two more pairs. Myrtle, this is important. I need you to tell me exactly what colour the eyes were that you saw.”

“Oh, they were yellow—definitely yellow. Big and glowing yellow.”

“What kind of yellow? Golden yellow? Jasmine yellow? Saffron yellow?”

“I suppose it was more of a golden yellow, then.”

“Was there any green or blue at all in them? Even a faint film or just little flecks?”

Myrtle closed her eyes in concentration. An uncomfortable frown crossed her face. It couldn’t be easy for her to relive it in detail. “No, there wasn’t,” she decided. “More like flecks of red and orange.”

“Perfect.” Hermione took the four pairs of sunglasses from Professor Vector and set about crafting the spell she needed. “A blue filter matching the wavelength response of the blue cone cells in the eyes—that’ll be about 400 to 480 nanometres,” she muttered. Vector and Harry both watched with interest, although Myrtle and Lockhart looked confused.

When dealing with colours in the Lumos and Colour-Change Charms, as she had learnt over Christmas, the frequency of light was measured in units of the peak frequency of the spectrum of sunlight, which Hermione had looked up and found to be 340 terahertz. In those units, the frequency of visible light ranged from 1.26 to 2.20. The filters she wanted to make would allow frequencies from 1.84 to 2.20 units to pass through, so she just set the zeroes of the equation to those frequency limits, yielding a parabolic function of -(x - 1.84)(x - 2.20), or -x^2 + 4.04x - 4.048. Then, just take the square root and normalise by multiplying by…50/9, and she was good to go.

“No change to the wand movement, same as before,” she continued. “Then the incantation…” She started muttering the required rhythm to think of a word to go with it: “Da da da dee da…Da da da dee da…Got it! She waved her wand at the first pair of glasses: “Colovaria Fluctuabrevis!” The glasses changed from her earlier rough, intuitive attempt to a deeper royal blue. Wow, ten syllables, she thought. That was longest spell she had ever cast, but very specific spells tended to be long. And yes, it was Dog Latin, but it was the rhythm that mattered, and no one ever bothered to decline spells. She put the glasses on to test them. The torches were considerably dimmer than with her previous attempt, which was a good sign, and Lockhart’s blond hair looked nearly as dark as Harry’s through them, which was an even better sign.

“I think it’s working,” she said, and repeated the spell three times on the other glasses and handed them out. She transfigured Harry’s into clip-ons.

“Hermione, did you just invent a new colour modifier in five minutes in your head?” Professor Vector asked in disbelief as she tried on her glasses.

“Professor, is this really the time?” Hermione replied.

“Sorry,” Vector said sheepishly. “But that was brilliant, Hermione.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You know your parents are going to kill me if I let you go down there.”

“I know, ma’am, but they’ll kill me first, so we’ll be even. You’ll need me down there in case something went wrong with the charms.”

“I know. Just promise you’ll be careful. You, too, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, Professor,” both children said.

“Well—I cannot see a thing with these on,” Lockhart broke in, taking his glasses off. “I don’t see how you think they’re going to help.”

“They’ll save you from dying if the basilisk looks you in the eye,” Hermione said sternly, then added, “Lacarnum Inflamari!” She put more power into that spell than she ever had before, and sprayed bluebell flames all around the bathroom, lighting it up in an eerie blue light. “Can you see now?” she demanded.

“Um…yes,” Lockhart admitted.

“Excellent. You can go first, then, Gilderoy,” Vector said.

But Lockhart didn’t budge. “Look, when I said I knew how to kill a basilisk, I may have been exaggerating a tiny bit…”

“Oh, no you don’t, Gilderoy. As the Defence Professor, it’s your job to take care of threats to the school.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m really going to have to resign, then. Now, I don’t want to hurt any of you, but—” He drew his wand.

There was a whispered word, and suddenly, Lockhart went sprawling flat on his back. Hermione and Vector looked around in confusion until they saw Harry standing by the Chamber entrance with his wand drawn and Lockhart’s wand in his other hand. The blue glasses had completely hidden the red light of his muttered Expelliarmus. “Shouldn’t have let Snape teach us that one, should you?” he said.