Chapter Text
Potions had just ended, and Hermione was methodically packing up her cauldron, her fingers moving with practiced precision as she cleaned her workspace. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and failed brews—par for the course when half the class could barely read instructions. Snape had been as sharp-tongued and intolerant as ever, prowling between desks like a vulture waiting for someone to slip up.
Hermione tied the twine neatly around her potions book, lips pressed in a thin line. Her potion had turned out perfectly—smooth consistency, correct hue, no residue—but she knew better than to expect praise from him. As she stood to leave, she caught sight of Antonin leaning lazily against the doorway, spinning his wand between his fingers. When he noticed her, he gave her a cheeky little wave with just his index finger, the kind of wave that made it impossible not to roll her eyes.
But before she could step out, Snape’s voice sliced through the air like a whip. “Granger. Stay after class.”
Hermione froze mid-step. Antonin’s eyebrows shot up, that knowing grin spreading across his face as if to say You’ve done it now. She gave a helpless little shrug, bracing herself for whatever lecture was incoming.
When the last student had gone, the dungeon felt colder, quieter. The distant bubbling from the abandoned cauldrons echoed softly off the stone walls as Hermione approached Snape’s desk. He didn’t look up immediately, simply scribbled something on a parchment before speaking.
“Mind telling me,” he drawled, each word dripping with disdain, “why you decided your interpretation of the recipe was somehow superior to the one I placed on the board?”
Hermione frowned. “I was following the proper instructions, sir.”
Snape’s gaze snapped up to meet hers, eyes dark and cutting. “Proper instructions?” he repeated, mocking her tone. “I see. The great Hermione Granger—sorry, Dagworth-Granger, I presume since you the youngest potions master in the world—has taken it upon herself to improve on my lesson plan?”
“I wasn’t trying to improve on it, sir. I was—”
“—Ignoring directions. Again.” Snape stood, his robes flaring slightly as he circled the desk. “The instructions were clear. You were told to follow my modified recipe for the fire protection potion, and instead, you buried your nose in your book as if you know better. Tell me, Miss Granger, do you truly believe you can produce a superior result than me?”
Hermione’s spine stiffened. “With respect, Professor, my version was perfectly stable—high-quality consistency and color. It wasn’t improvisation; it was refinement.”
That earned her a low, humorless laugh. “Refinement,” Snape sneered. “And how would a muggleborn—”
“I’m a half-blood.”
The words left her mouth before she even thought them through.
Snape froze mid-step, his expression tightening, and then he gave her a long, unreadable look. When he finally spoke again, his tone was softer, but it carried a biting edge. “You’re a Dagworth.”
Hermione lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. My potion quality speaks for itself—it’s in my blood.”
Something shifted behind his eyes—a flicker of something like irony, or perhaps recognition. His lips twitched upward in what might have been a smirk. “Oh, yes. I know that tone. The Dagworths and their precious pride in ‘the bloodline of precision.’ Let me guess—Marc rewrote your instructions?”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“Who adjusted your recipe, Miss Dagworth-Granger? Marc or Alphonse?”
She hesitated, caught off guard. “Marc. And it's just Granger”
Snape nodded knowingly, flipping through the pages of her annotated book, his long fingers tracing Marc’s looping script. “Hmm. His handwriting’s as insufferable as his arrogance.” With a final snap, he closed the book and handed it back to her. “Go to class. And next time you feel the urge to show off your heritage, suppress it.”
Hermione bit back a retort, murmured a polite “Yes, sir,” and left the classroom.
Antonin was still leaning against the stone wall outside, waiting for her with that same amused look that made her want to hex him. The moment their eyes met, he grinned.
“You let your cockiness get the better of you, huh?” he said, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside her. “It must be genetic—you Dagworths get the slightest hint that your potion skills are being undermined and you get your panties in a twist.”
Hermione shot him a look, though her lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “I was just defending myself.”
“Sure you were.” Tony smirked. “You’ve got Lord Alphonse’s snobbiness and Marc’s cockiness rolled into one—and honestly, I’m just glad you’ve got the potion skills to back it up. Otherwise, Snape would’ve eaten you alive.”
Hermione exhaled, her irritation giving way to laughter. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” Antonin said with a shrug, grinning at her sideways. “But at least I didn’t try to out-potions Snape on the first day.”
Hermione groaned, clutching her book tighter to her chest. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” he said smugly, and before she could argue, he reached over and ruffled her curls.
She swatted his hand away, but she was smiling—because, in truth, the familiar banter made the sting of Snape’s condescension fade away just a little.
After lunch, Antonin found himself walking beside Hermione and Thor as they made their way down one of the wide, echoing corridors toward Magical Theory. The afternoon sun slanted through the castle’s tall arched windows, painting ribbons of gold and crimson across the stone floor. Hermione walked between them, her steps brisk and purposeful as always, her book bag bouncing slightly at her hip. Thor was munching absentmindedly on what looked like a half-empty bag of M&Ms, his lips stained faintly with chocolate. Antonin, on the other hand, was focused mostly on keeping pace and pretending he wasn’t as interested as he was in Hermione’s new curiosity about their next class.
“For someone you claim to be very noticeable, why have I not met him yet?” Hermione asked, looking up at Thor and Antonin with a furrow of her brow. Her tone was polite, but her curiosity was burning — the kind of thing Antonin had come to recognize instantly.
Thor shrugged, tossing a few more candies into his mouth. “Because he prefers to stay in his corner of the school. He usually makes an appearance for Hogsmeade weekends — which is odd, considering he needs a certain ability to actually be on Hogsmeade duty.”
Antonin reached over and smacked the back of Thor’s head lightly, earning a muffled grunt. “Shut up and let her figure it out on her own,” he muttered, though a faint smirk was tugging at his lips. He draped his arm loosely over Hermione’s shoulders as they walked. “You’ll like Professor Eren,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, his tone almost fond. “He’s a fantastic teacher. Bit of a maniac when he starts rambling about wand theory and metaphysical principles — but he’s brilliant. Properly brilliant.”
Hermione’s expression softened, her eyes gleaming in that familiar way that only happened when she heard something about knowledge, research, or magic deeper than surface level. “Maniacal and brilliant,” she murmured, smiling softly. “Sounds like my kind of professor.”
Antonin’s smirk grew. “Yeah, I figured as much.”
They turned down another corridor, the air shifting cooler and the faint hum of magic stronger — the wing where Magical Theory classes were usually held always seemed to vibrate faintly, like the walls themselves were full of whispers from forgotten spells. When they rounded the last corner, Antonin frowned. A crowd of second-years from all four houses were bunched up outside the classroom door. No one was moving, and they were all looking around as if waiting for something to happen. Potter and the Weasley boy were toward the back, trying to crane their necks to see.
Hermione tilted her head. “Why are they all just standing there?”
“Good question,” Antonin muttered.
“Is there a reason you idiots are standing outside the classroom instead of, oh, I don’t know, going in?” he snapped at them, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter. The second-years jumped, and Hermione immediately elbowed him in the ribs.
“Tony! There’s no need to be rude.”
“There’s no need for them to be this dumb,” he shot back, rubbing his side.
The redheaded one — Weasley — turned, his expression defensive. “Why does it matter to you, Dolohov? The door’s locked anyway!”
“No, it’s not.”
“How do you know? You’re not even over there.”
Antonin smirked faintly. “Because Professor Eren never locks his door.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Thor covering his mouth to hide a laugh. “Hold up, Tony, stop,” he said, stepping forward and raising his hand. “Did any of you even try to open the door?” A hesitant murmur of no’s rippled through the crowd. Thor sighed dramatically, turned, and walked away with a lazy wave over his shoulder.
Antonin rolled his eyes. “Get in the damn classroom!” he barked. The students hesitated, exchanging uneasy looks before one brave Hufflepuff tried the door. It opened instantly. The rest followed, shuffling in with sheepish expressions. Antonin followed behind them, muttering under his breath about “idiots with no sense of initiative.”
Inside, the classroom had changed. The desks were arranged differently — in two rows of four long tables rather than the usual rows of individual seats. The faint scent of incense and burnt parchment hung in the air, along with something sweeter, almost floral. The torches burned with pale violet flames instead of gold.
“Three to a table,” Antonin said briskly, crossing his arms. “I don’t particularly care who you sit with. A piece of parchment will appear — write your names in print.” As he gestured toward the desks, small curls of smoke rose up, forming papers where his hand pointed.
He glanced toward the corner of the room where Professor Eren usually sat on his desk — but the desk was empty. Frowning, Antonin made his way toward a smaller side door at the back of the room and knocked.
Two deep voices answered at once — one saying “Come in,” the other saying “Go away.”
The first voice repeated itself, more insistent. “Come in, Tony. Ignore him.”
Antonin opened the door and immediately froze.
Professor Eren — blue-skinned, scarred across one side of his face, and his white horns curving elegantly backward — was standing by a tall, shirtless man whose skin was a deeper blue. Gold paint glimmered across the man’s torso, and long black hair cascaded down his shoulders. His horns were black with gold bands at their base, and one was half-sheathed in gold. His golden eyes flicked to Antonin briefly — sharp, assessing.
“Tony, this is Kal,” Professor Eren said casually, pointing his paintbrush at the man in front of him before gesturing to another figure behind him. “And this is Marques — but we call him Marq.”
Marques was striking in an entirely different way: bronze skin, sharp regal features, and a burn-scar trailing along his left cheek. His hair was wild, and two curling black horns rose from his brow, wrapped in violet cords marked with faintly glowing runes. He wore crimson and gold robes, draped with intricate beaded jewelry that hinted at wealth or heritage. His lilac eyes fixed on Eren with something between irritation and affection.
Antonin cleared his throat. “Uh… Professor, class is about to start.”
Eren didn’t even glance up as he swiped the paintbrush one last time across Kal’s chest. “Okay, I’ll be out in a bit.” With a wave of his hand, his blue form shimmered and shifted into the one students were used to — warm, sun-kissed skin, bubblegum-pink hair, silver-gold eyes, and faint crimson runes glowing along his face and neck.
Antonin shut the door behind him, shaking his head. There was never a dull moment with that man.
But his momentary amusement faded when he spotted Hermione — now seated between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. The Weasley boy was half out of his chair, arguing furiously with Malfoy about who deserved to sit next to her.
Antonin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hey! Sit the fuck down! Class is about to start!”
Longbottom straightened, his face red. “You can’t talk to us like that!”
Antonin’s eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with cold authority. “I can talk to you however I damn well please. Now sit down, Weasley.”
Weasley grumbled something under his breath but sat, and the rest of the class quickly followed suit — the low hum of defiance dissolving into uneasy silence.
Antonin leaned against the teacher’s desk, folding his arms and smirking faintly as Hermione gave him a disapproving glance that barely hid her amusement.
Somehow, despite the chaos, the day already felt like it was about to get very interesting.
Hermione sat in the very front of the classroom, her quill and parchment perfectly aligned on the table before her. She had always preferred the front — fewer distractions, clearer view, and a perfect vantage point for observation. The faint scent of chalk dust and sandalwood ink filled the air, and sunlight streamed in through the enchanted windows, casting golden light across the desks.
As soon as she settled in, a piece of parchment appeared with a soft pop in front of her, the faint shimmer of magic rippling through the air like a sigh. She admired the enchantment for a moment before writing her name neatly in crisp block letters: Hermione Granger. The ink glowed faintly before sinking into the parchment — enchanted to confirm its writer, she realized.
Harry slipped into the seat beside her with a faint grin, brushing crumbs off his robes. “You’d think they'd give us more time between lunch and our next classes,” he muttered, still sluggish from lunch.
On her other side, Draco Malfoy dropped gracefully into the open chair, the faint scent of expensive cologne trailing after him. His movements were practiced and deliberate, his quill flicking elegantly as he wrote his own name. Crabbe and Goyle, standing awkwardly behind him, exchanged uncertain looks before sitting at the table behind them like silent, oversized shadows.
Hermione turned slightly toward Malfoy, brow arched. “Uhm—hi, Malfoy.”
“Hello, Dagworth,” he said smoothly, his pale eyes flicking toward her parchment.
“It’s just Granger, actually,” she corrected, though her tone was polite.
Before she could say anything else, Ron came storming up, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face the color of a ripe tomato.
“Move it, Ferret!” Ron barked, glaring down at Malfoy, who appeared entirely unfazed.
Malfoy didn’t even glance up. “How was your summer, Granger? We didn’t keep up over the break,” he said casually, setting his quill down.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by his civility. “I wasn’t aware we were… friends.”
Malfoy’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “We don’t have to be friends to keep up with each other. That’s basic Pureblood etiquette — something you might learn if you didn’t spend your time surrounded by—”
“She doesn’t need your Pureblooded nonsense, Malfoy!” Ron snapped before Malfoy could finish.
The air in the classroom tightened like a drawn bowstring. Malfoy turned slowly to look at Ron, exhaling through his nose as if this were a conversation he found particularly dull. “What is your problem, Weasel? I was speaking to her. You barged in, as usual, yelling about something irrelevant.”
“You shouldn’t be sitting next to her! I should be sitting there!” Ron fired back, voice cracking slightly.
“She isn’t your property,” Malfoy said coolly, “and you don’t automatically reserve a right to sit beside her. You want the seat? Arrive faster next time.”
Hermione buried her face in her hand for a moment. “Honestly, you two sound like first-years fighting over who gets the last treacle tart,” she muttered.
But before the situation could escalate further, Antonin’s sharp voice cut through the tension. He had been standing by Professor Eren’s office, arms crossed and expression unimpressed.
“Hey! Sit the fuck down! Class is about to start!” His tone was pure authority — calm but commanding, the kind that made the entire room snap to attention.
Neville, startled, straightened in his seat. “You can’t talk to us like that!”
Antonin’s gaze narrowed, the corners of his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I can talk to you however I damn well please. Now sit down, Weasley.”
Ron grumbled but obeyed, sliding into a seat behind Hermione next to Crabbe and Goyle, though his glare burned holes into the back of Malfoy’s head. The rest of the class quieted as well, the uneasy silence hanging heavy in the air.
Antonin leaned against the teacher’s desk, arms folded loosely across his chest, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth when Hermione shot him a disapproving look — though she couldn’t quite hide her amusement. He tilted his head slightly in mock innocence before looking toward the office door.
The door at the back of the classroom opened then, cutting through the tension. Every head turned.
Professor Eren stepped into the room — and for a long moment, Hermione simply stared.
He was tall, graceful, and unlike any professor she had ever seen at Hogwarts. Gone were the heavy robes and pointed hats of traditional wizarding garb. Instead, he wore Muggle attire: dark slacks, a fitted white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to reveal elegant forearms inked with glowing crimson runes that pulsed faintly with magic. His hair was a startling shade of bright, bubblegum pink that gleamed like enchanted rose quartz under the lamplight. Across his face and neck, delicate tattoos — runic, possibly Nordic — shimmered faintly with each movement.
He looked like something out of both a storybook and a modern magazine — an ancient scholar reborn in the body of a rockstar.
Hermione straightened, curiosity piqued beyond reason.
The professor crossed to his desk and didn’t stand behind it as expected. Instead, he hopped effortlessly onto the edge, sitting comfortably with one leg bent, posture casual yet composed. His eyes, a pale shade between silver and stormy blue with flecks of gold, flicked across the rows of students without quite meeting anyone’s directly — as if he was looking at something deeper, or further away.
“Hello, class,” he said, his voice rich and deep, carrying easily through the room. “I am Professor Eren Larsen. You may call me either Professor Eren or Professor Larsen. I don’t particularly care which.”
Hermione couldn’t help but notice the faint accent under his words — Scandinavian, perhaps — and the way his tone balanced calmness with an almost electric energy, like thunder hiding beneath silk.
“I will be your Magical Theory professor for the next four years,” he continued, glancing briefly at Antonin, “or six, if you choose to continue this course after your O.W.L.s — as Tony here did.”
Hermione’s heart gave a small flutter. Six years. That sounded like heaven.
Professor Eren looked down at the parchment in his hands, tracing his finger along the list of names written there. “I see Tony has already given you the first set of directions while I was in my office. Excellent. That means we can begin immediately.”
He clapped his hands once — and the sound reverberated through the room like a spell breaking. The air shimmered faintly, and the chalk rose from the tray as if summoned by invisible strings. It began sketching intricate spirals and runic circles across the blackboard, lines of theory intertwining with elegant, glowing script.
Hermione’s eyes widened, her breath catching in awe. This was no ordinary magic — it was artistry. Precision, intuition, and raw brilliance woven together in perfect synchrony.
Then, in a single smooth motion, Professor Eren slid off the desk and began to pace the front of the room. “Let’s start with something simple,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “Why does a spell fail?”
Hermione’s quill was already poised above her parchment, her mind humming.
For the first time that day, she wasn’t thinking about Malfoy, or Ron, or Tony’s sharp tone. She was exactly where she belonged — at the center of something brilliant, mysterious, and thrillingly new.