Daily Prophet
The moving portraits groaned as they were roused from sleep, one after another, by the sharp glow of a wand. Minerva McGonagall strode down the corridor at an urgent pace, her cape snapping behind her, while Madam Pomfrey kept close to her side. Lavender Brown hurried ahead, leading them toward the Gryffindor Tower, though the two women hardly needed the guidance.
The warm glow of Minerva’s wand stretched long, casting eerie shadows along the passage. Their heels clacked against the cold stone, punctuated by the occasional sleepy murmur from the portraits—and the grumbling curses of those rudely awakened. An unnatural stillness pressed against the air, thick with unease.
As they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, the guardian barely had time to blink against the bright light before swinging open without protest.
"It's not Curse Fever, is it? I heard it's spreading all over Britain—highly contagious!"
"Merlin, I hope not!"
The hushed whispers in the common room quieted as soon as the professors entered. Students were gathered in clusters, their expressions ranging from anxious to fearful. But the true source of concern lay beyond them—in the dormitory, where the muffled sounds of distress had not ceased.
Then came the sudden, blood-curdling scream.
Minerva didn’t hesitate. She rushed up the stairs with Pomfrey close behind, pushing through the door to find Hermione Granger writhing in her bed, caught in the throes of some unseen force.
The girl's body convulsed violently, her hands clawing at the sheets, her face twisted in pain.
"Hold her down!" Pomfrey ordered, lunging forward to restrain the flailing girl.
Minerva turned sharply to the two third-year girls standing nearby—Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown—both wide-eyed and pale. "What happened?"
Parvati swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "We—we don’t know. She woke up like this ten minutes ago and hasn’t stopped." Her fingers trembled as she clutched the fabric of her nightgown. "Is she sick?"
Before anyone could answer, Hermione let out another piercing cry.
"Burned!" she shrieked, her back arching off the bed.
Pomfrey fought to keep her still, fear flickering across her usually composed face. "Minerva! Help me!"
Without hesitation, McGonagall flicked her wand, casting a spell to subdue Hermione’s thrashing. The girl slumped back onto the bed, though her breaths remained ragged, her body trembling beneath the covers.
Pomfrey pressed her lips into a thin line. She passed her wand over Hermione’s body, muttering diagnostic spells, but each one returned the same result: nothing was physically wrong.
"This doesn’t make sense," she murmured. "She should be awake."
The silence was thick, filled with unspoken dread. Parvati and Lavender clung to each other, their knuckles white.
Then, Pomfrey straightened, determination hardening her features. "Fetch Miss Trelawney."
Lavender and Parvati hesitated for only a second before darting from the room, their hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.
Minerva turned to Pomfrey, her expression caught between disbelief and apprehension. "Sybill? What do you think this is?"
Pomfrey’s gaze remained on Hermione. "A prophecy."
Minerva scoffed—more out of nerves than anything. "A prophecy? Poppy, you cannot be serious!"
Before Pomfrey could respond, Hermione began to gasp as if drowning on dry land.
"It—It—Wi—"
Her body trembled so violently that the entire bed shook with her.
McGonagall took an unsteady step forward, her face paling.
Pomfrey simply watched, unmoving. She had seen this before. She knew.
By the time the door swung open, Sybill Trelawney was already rushing inside, looking even more disheveled than usual. "What has happened?" she demanded, pushing a frizzy curl from her face as she took in the scene.
Pomfrey stepped back, revealing Hermione’s limp form.
Trelawney inhaled sharply.
McGonagall, noticing the two girls peeking through the door, quickly shooed them away and shut it. If this truly was what Pomfrey claimed, secrecy was their only defense.
They turned back to Hermione.
"It…" she exhaled in a strained whisper.
Trelawney crouched beside her, her glassy eyes wide, her ear nearly touching Hermione’s lips.
"Will…" Hermione gasped again, her fingers twitching as sweat beaded along her forehead.
The word that followed was barely more than breath—soft, yet carrying a weight that made the room seem colder.
"Burn."
A shudder ran through Trelawney as she straightened, her knees softly thudding onto the cold floor. She did not hesitate.
"She is having a prophecy."
Minerva pressed a hand to her forehead, her headache mounting by the second. "What shall we do with her? No one can know!"
Pomfrey crossed her arms. "What do you mean, what shall we do? She stays here! Let her continue her studies!"
Minerva whirled around, her face taut with concern. "Do you not understand? Everything is dangerous for her now. Not even Hogwarts is safe. If anyone finds out, she’ll be hunted like an animal."
Pomfrey flinched.
Trelawney’s voice was quiet but firm. "The greater the Seer, the greater the risk." She smoothed Hermione’s damp hair from her face, a sorrowful expression crossing her features. "And this child… she will be a very powerful Seer."
A heavy silence settled in the room.
Pomfrey swallowed. "Then what do we do?"
McGonagall exhaled, steadying herself. "I will alert the Headmaster." She turned on her heel, sweeping toward the door.
But as soon as she stepped into the corridor, she stopped short.
Two very guilty-looking third-year girls stood frozen in place.
Minerva sighed, rubbing her temple. "You two must never tell anyone about what you saw here tonight. Do you understand?" Her voice was low, sharp, leaving no room for argument. "Not a word. If this gets out, Hermione won't be the only one in danger. You will be, too."
The girls nodded frantically, clearly terrified.
McGonagall didn’t wait to see if
they truly understood. She had a Headmaster to find—and a prophecy to deliver.
And Merlin help them all.
"Albus!"
The sharp call shattered the quiet of the corridor, waking the portraits with a flurry of murmurs and complaints. A muffled crash sounded from behind the office door before it swung open.
Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, still in his nightgown, his silver hair slightly disheveled. His sharp blue eyes immediately focused on the woman before him.
"Minerva?" he asked, voice steady despite the urgency in hers. "What has happened?"
Professor McGonagall inhaled deeply, as though steeling herself before delivering devastating news. "Albus, a third-year Gryffindor student has just had a prophecy."
Dumbledore’s back straightened, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant. His expression, usually calm and unreadable, tightened as the weight of her words sank in. Then, without hesitation, he nodded.
"Give me a moment."
Minerva nodded stiffly, stepping back as the door closed.
Her mind raced. She should have prepared a plan—of course she should have. Why hadn’t she? How could she protect Hermione now? The girl was only fourteen, still a child. And a Muggle-born, no less. A Seer of her caliber, if word got out… She would be hunted. Exploited. Minerva placed a hand over her chest, steadying her breath. She couldn't afford to spiral—not now.
The door opened again, and this time, Dumbledore emerged fully dressed, his usual composed air masking the tension in his eyes.
"A third-year," he said as he strode past her. "Which one?"
Minerva fell into step beside him, her pace brisk to match his. "Hermione Granger."
He didn’t react outwardly, but the weight of his silence said enough. Hermione wasn’t just any student—she was brilliant, the brightest of her age, and deeply valued by many of the staff.
As they neared the Gryffindor common room, the portraits whispered amongst themselves, leaning out of their frames to catch a glimpse of the headmaster and his deputy. But neither professor spared them a glance. There was no time for explanations.
When they entered the common room, it was clear the students had not settled.
Some boys had woken up and were peering sleepily down from the staircases, while a cluster of girls stood near the dormitory entrance, whispering in frantic tones. Professor Trelawney hovered nearby, attempting to calm them, but her vague reassurances only seemed to fuel their panic.
"It’s not Curse Fever," she insisted. "But I cannot say more."
The common room was a mess of restless shuffling and hushed fears—until Dumbledore’s voice cut through the noise.
"Everyone, please calm yourselves."
His presence alone had an instant effect. The tension eased just slightly as students turned toward him, their worried faces now expectant.
"A student is unwell," he continued, his tone firm yet soothing. "But there is no danger to anyone else. Return to your dormitories at once."
There were still whispers, but the Gryffindors, though reluctant, obeyed. The room gradually emptied as the students shuffled up the staircases. Only when the last one disappeared behind their doors did Dumbledore turn back to the teachers.
"We should take Miss Granger to the hospital wing," he said.
Madam Pomfrey, who had been standing near the staircase, let out an audible sigh of relief. "Yes. Yes, absolutely."
Together, they moved quickly. On the way up to the dormitories, Minerva’s eyes caught two girls sitting on the stairs—Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. They were pale and wide-eyed, exhaustion clear on their faces. Poor things.
"We’ll let them rest," Dumbledore murmured, reading her thoughts. "They've had enough of a scare."
Inside the dormitory, Hermione lay still, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Her wild curls spilled across the pillow, the only sign of her earlier distress the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.
Minerva exhaled. "She looks much calmer now."
Pomfrey gave a curt nod. "I administered a strong sleeping draught as soon as I could. The prophecy has ended."
Silence settled over them. The girl looked so peaceful, so utterly unaware of the storm she had just brought upon herself.
Minerva turned to Dumbledore. "Albus, what shall we do?"
The headmaster sighed, rubbing his temples as he stepped back from the bed. "No place is truly safe for her," he admitted. "Not even Hogwarts."
Minerva swallowed hard. The world had become a dangerous place for Seers—prophecies could make or break empires, determine the tides of war. If anyone discovered what Hermione was…
Sybill, who had been lingering near the door, suddenly spoke.
"We should hide her."
The room fell into stunned silence.
Dumbledore turned, his eyes sharp with consideration. Minerva and Pomfrey exchanged glances, but neither disagreed.
He exhaled slowly, nodding. "We should. But where?"
No one had an answer.
The night stretched on, but exhaustion was beginning to settle over them all. Even Dumbledore, usually tireless, ran a weary hand through his beard.
"It is too late for this," Pomfrey muttered.
Minerva placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Go to bed, Poppy. You too, Sybill."
The two women hesitated but eventually relented, disappearing down the corridor to retire for the night.
Minerva stayed behind.
She sat beside Hermione’s bed, staring at the girl’s peaceful face, feeling an overwhelming mix of emotions. Worry. Fear. Guilt.
"Albus," she whispered, barely looking up. "What shall we do? There’s no place to simply hide a person."
Dumbledore didn’t answer. He stood there for a long time, gaze fixed on the floor, lost in deep thought.
Minerva got to her feet, placing a hand on his arm. "You should rest too," she urged.
"You as well," he said softly.
She scoffed, shaking her head. "I won’t get a wink of sleep knowing my student is in danger."
Dumbledore didn’t argue, but his expression left no room for negotiation. Finally, she conceded, retreating to her quarters.
As she expected, she didn’t sleep.
She tossed and turned, her mind racing with possibilities. By morning, she had only one conclusion—Hermione needed a magical family.
One with strong morals. One willing to protect her.
And, most importantly, one of such high status that no one would dare to question them.
But who?
That answer eluded her still.
The sun was barely up when Minerva saw the headmaster standing by the hospital wing doors, staring out at the view, his gaze distant, clearly lost in thought. "Albus? Why are you out here?" Minerva asked, walking up to him, briefly taking in the view herself. "Have you decided what to do?" she pressed gently, her voice full of concern. The headmaster remained silent for a long moment, his pensive expression betraying the weight of his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his words quiet, as though testing their weight. "I have," he murmured, though his tone was uncertain, as if still searching for the right answer—the one that would shape the poor girl's future.
Minerva opened her mouth to ask more, but Albus beat her to it. "Miss Granger's house was burned down," he said, his voice somber. The silence that followed felt like an explosion in her ears, deafening and overwhelming. Minerva’s world seemed to spin as shock rushed through her. The rustling of trees and the distant sound of birds chirping felt too far away, as if she were submerged in water. She stood frozen, trying to make sense of the words she had just heard. "How—when—what happened?" The composed, collected persona she often wore felt utterly foreign to her in that moment.
"I received a letter at 5 in the morning," Albus continued, his voice hollow. "It said that there had been an accidental fire in their home. It burned completely. Her parents didn't make it." Minerva’s breath caught in her throat. The words stung as they hit her, and hot tears began to stream down her face, racing one another to fall. The sight of Hermione, so young, so full of potential, facing such devastating loss, was almost too much to bear. Her heart broke for the girl, and she could barely imagine what Hermione herself must be going through. "Have you told her?" Minerva managed to ask, her voice trembling.
The headmaster stood still, his eyes downcast, before giving a brief nod. Minerva’s breath hitched in her chest. She rushed through the door without another word.
Inside, Hermione was still in bed, her form small beneath the heavy blankets, her face peaceful in sleep. Madam Pomfrey looked up from sorting the various medicines on a nearby shelf, meeting Minerva's gaze with an understanding look. "How is she? Why is she still sleeping?" Minerva asked, her voice thick with emotion. Poppy placed a gentle hand on the girl's head, patting it lightly as she spoke. "Poor thing was sobbing so hard that I had to give her a potion to help her sleep."
Minerva’s heart ached as her eyes fell on Hermione, her soft, disheveled hair spread across the pillow. These last two days had been unbearable, and Minerva could only hope that Albus had chosen wisely when deciding where to keep her safe. She couldn’t imagine what Hermione was going through, and for a moment, she simply stood there, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness.
Minerva slowly approached Hermione’s bed, her heart heavy with the weight of the girl’s grief. She looked so fragile, so young, her wild hair fanned out across the pillow, and her face was peaceful in sleep—her innocent expression belying the storm that had just erupted in her life.
She couldn't help but feel a deep sympathy for Hermione. To lose both parents in such a tragic, unexpected way, and to have the burden of the prophecy on top of it all—it seemed too much for any young girl to bear. Minerva could hardly imagine the pain Hermione must be feeling right now, especially when the weight of the prophecy was something no one should ever have to carry at such an age.
Albus had been right to tell her in such a manner, because it wasn’t just a matter of finding a way to protect her anymore; it was about finding a way to preserve her future, to ensure she wouldn’t become a pawn in a greater game she had no understanding of.
Minerva could see how much this news had shaken Albus too. For all his wisdom and experience, there were moments when even he struggled with the consequences of the choices made for the sake of the greater good. Hermione’s situation was one of those times.
As the minutes passed, Minerva’s mind raced through options, possibilities that could keep the girl safe, that could shield her from both the outside world and the impending chaos that a prophecy could bring. But where could they hide a seer? How could they protect her from people who would seek to use her for their own gain?
A soft rustling stirred Minerva from her thoughts. Hermione shifted in the bed, her brow furrowing slightly even in her sleep, as though the turmoil in her mind hadn’t ceased. The girl’s mother and father were gone. It was too much.
Minerva looked to Madam Pomfrey, who had been quiet, allowing the space for both grief and silence to hang thick in the room. “Poppy, what will happen to her? She can’t just stay here.”
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “I fear the same, Minerva. I think... we must act quickly, or others will.”
Minerva glanced up at the headmaster, who stood quietly by the window, watching the morning light spill through the trees. There was a determination in his expression now. No more hesitation, no more indecision. But his eyes—there was a sadness there, as though the burden of his decision had already begun to take its toll.
“We'll figure it out, Albus,” Minerva said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll keep her safe.”
He turned slightly to meet her gaze, and for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened seemed to rest between them. “Minerva, we must be careful,” he warned. “The prophecy... we can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“I know,” she replied, nodding slowly. “But she’s just a child. We will protect her, no matter the cost.”
They both stood there in silence, each lost in thought as the heavy burden of the future hung in the air.
Hours passed, and by the time Hermione began to stir, her eyes blinking open slowly, the sun was higher in the sky. The remnants of the potion still held her in its grasp, keeping her from fully waking, but the strain on her face was unmistakable. Minerva watched as the girl’s eyes flickered, confusion overtaking her.
“Hermione?” Minerva whispered gently, stepping closer to her bedside.
Hermione blinked again, trying to focus, her eyes still clouded from sleep. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was as though the words wouldn’t come. And then it hit her—her parents. The fire. Everything came rushing back, and the first tear rolled down her cheek.
Minerva rushed to her side, reaching out to comfort her, but Hermione’s hand was already wiping at her tears, as if trying to stay composed.
“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Minerva said, her voice thick with emotion. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“I—” Hermione’s voice cracked, and she stopped herself, her breath hitching as the grief washed over her once more.
Minerva's heart broke seeing her like this. No 14-year-old should ever have to bear such a weight. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’ll take care of you. You’re not alone.”
The girl nodded shakily, her body still trembling from the shock. The room was still, save for the occasional rustle of robes as Dumbledore and the rest of the staff waited quietly in the background, giving Hermione the space she needed.
But there was no more time to waste. Minerva exchanged a brief glance with Albus, who nodded slightly, as if signaling that the time to act had come.
With a final, tender glance at Hermione, Minerva stepped back, her mind already set on the next course of action. “We’ll take care of everything, Hermione,” she whispered softly.
It was the only promise she could make, and one that she would fight to keep
Minerva's silence only lasted a moment before she snapped around, her expression hardening. "I will not have this decision made lightly, Albus. The Selwyns are not an ideal choice. Their ties to the Dark Lord—" She cut herself off, struggling to rein in her frustration. The tension in the room was palpable as Dumbledore, ever composed, met her gaze with a calm that was unsettling given the gravity of the situation.
“Minerva, I understand your concerns, but we have to consider all options. The Selwyns are the safest choice right now. Their connection to old magic—” Dumbledore began.
“Old magic? The kind that can be used against us?” Minerva’s voice was a low hiss now. "I don't trust them. I don't trust any of them."
Madam Pomfrey, who had been quietly hovering near the edge of the conversation, cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the growing tension. "Perhaps we should give Miss Granger a moment to process the news," she suggested gently, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated further.
Hermione blinked, the harshness of the conversation pushing her mind deeper into the fog of exhaustion. The mention of the Selwyns did little to ease her confusion, but the weight of her own grief kept her from protesting too loudly. They were talking about protecting her, weren’t they? She was too tired to argue, her body too spent to offer anything more than a weak nod. The prophecy had already set so many things into motion, things far beyond her control.
Albus was right, she knew. The choices were limited. And the Selwyns, despite their dark history, were one of the few families powerful enough to shield her from the dangers that loomed on the horizon. She had no idea what kind of life she would lead there, what kind of future she could even hope for. But she couldn’t ignore the looming truth—her own home had been consumed by fire. Her parents were gone. Her childhood was ashes. And now, all she had was the ever-increasing sense of something darker pulling her towards a fate she didn't understand.
“I don’t understand,” Hermione whispered, her voice hoarse, barely above a breath. She couldn’t keep up with the conversation anymore, the fragmented thoughts clouding her mind. "Why me? Why not someone else?"
“Because you are the one the prophecy speaks of,” Dumbledore answered, his voice softer now, though the gravity of his words hung in the air. "The world will come to know you in ways you cannot yet comprehend."
Minerva, still standing at a distance, let out a frustrated sigh but said nothing. Her arms were crossed tightly, and Hermione could see the concern etched on her face, even as the older woman kept herself composed.
“But I’m just—” Hermione choked on her words, feeling the full weight of everything she had lost. "I'm just a student. I'm just a muggle born student." She couldn't finish the sentence, her voice breaking on the last syllable as the sorrow poured from her eyes once more.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked more like the father figure he had been to so many students over the years, rather than the stern, ever-watchful leader of the wizarding world. “And that’s exactly why you will make the difference, Miss Granger. Your heart, your intelligence—those are the things that will guide you.”
Hermione turned her head to the side, not sure she could bear to meet his eyes anymore. She understood what he was saying, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. The reality of her situation, the prophecy, the loss, it was all too much.
“Please,” she whispered, the words almost too quiet to hear. “I just... I need to think.”
Minerva seemed to soften slightly, though her distrust of the situation remained clear. She walked over to Hermione’s bedside and placed a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, offering what comfort she could. "You don't have to make any decisions right now, Hermione. Take the time you need."
Dumbledore nodded, but there was an unreadable look in his eyes as he watched Hermione. He didn’t speak again, but the weight of his expectations was still there, even if he wasn’t pressing her to act immediately. The prophecy was out there. Her path had already begun to unfold, no matter how much she wished it hadn’t.
As Madam Pomfrey slipped out of the room to give them some space, the three adults stood there, each lost in their own thoughts, each aware that what happened next was beyond their control. It was in Hermione’s hands now, as much as it had ever been. And yet, she felt powerless.
“I just want to go home,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the room.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if she ever would again.
Minerva’s hand remained on Hermione’s shoulder for a few moments, a solid, comforting presence as the girl began to break down. The professor’s heart clenched at the sight—Hermione, so strong, so capable, and yet now reduced to nothing more than a fragile shadow of herself, her composure slipping away as the weight of everything she had just endured hit her all at once.
“Hermione, dear,” Minerva murmured softly, kneeling down beside her, her voice gentle but firm, “it’s alright. Let it out. Let it all out.”
Hermione couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears came in waves, relentless and powerful, and all the raw, jagged pain she’d been bottling up for what felt like an eternity flooded out. She wanted to scream, to yell at the world for being so cruel, to demand why everything was happening to her. Her heart ached for her parents, for the life she had lost, for the things she would never get back.
“I can’t do this, Professor,” Hermione choked between sobs. “I don’t want to go there, I don’t want to be there... I don’t want to leave...” Her voice cracked at the end, like she was falling apart at the seams.
Minerva’s expression softened even further, the usual sternness replaced by a quiet sadness, but there was an understanding in her eyes too. She reached out, pulling Hermione into a gentle embrace. It wasn’t something Hermione would have ever expected from the strict professor, but in that moment, it was exactly what she needed. She clung to the older woman like a lifeline, sobbing uncontrollably into her robes.
“I know, Hermione,” Minerva whispered, her voice full of sympathy. “I know. But you are not alone in this. We will get through it together, every step of the way. The world may seem impossible right now, but you are strong, and you have people who care about you. We will protect you. We will help you find your way.”
Hermione cried until her throat felt raw, until she was left with nothing but exhaustion and an aching emptiness that seemed to swallow her whole. The tears had slowed, but the weight of her grief lingered, heavy and unyielding.
Finally, the sobs subsided into quiet sniffles, and Minerva gently pulled back to look at her, her hands still resting on Hermione’s arms. “You are allowed to feel this way, Hermione. You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure. You do not have to face this alone.”
The words, though comforting, only made the emptiness inside Hermione grow larger. She felt like she was on the verge of losing herself entirely, like the pieces of her identity were slipping through her fingers faster than she could catch them. Her parents were gone. Her life was shattered. And the prophecy? It was a weight she had never asked for and didn’t know how to carry.
With a shaky breath, Hermione nodded, though it was unclear whether she believed the professor’s words. “I just… I don’t know how to keep going,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Minerva gave a small nod, her expression tender. “You don’t have to know everything right now. Take it one step at a time. You are more capable than you think. But, Hermione… you do not have to carry this all on your own. You have us.”
The professor’s voice was full of conviction, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She felt too broken, too lost. How could anyone understand the weight of what she was feeling?
After a long, heavy silence, Minerva sighed softly and straightened up, brushing a strand of hair out of Hermione’s face. “You should rest, Hermione. You’ve been through a great deal. We’ll give you the time you need.”
Hermione nodded slowly, not sure what else to say. There was nothing that could fix the ache in her heart, and she wasn’t sure what was next for her. The journey ahead felt impossibly long, and the unknown stretched before her like an endless, dark horizon.
As Minerva quietly left the room, Hermione laid back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, her mind still heavy with the haunting images of that night, the prophecy, and the growing sense of dread that seemed to tighten around her chest.
But even in the silence, a thought lingered—one that didn’t want to be acknowledged, but refused to go away. Could she ever truly escape the shadow of her past, or was she bound to follow it wherever she went?
Her chest tightened at the thought, and she closed her eyes, letting the darkness of her exhaustion pull her under once more/
Side-along was a magic Hermione hadn't seen many times. She'd read about it in books, but she had never actually experienced it. She wasn’t sure what to expect, and fortunately, she didn’t have time to dwell on it, as before she realized it, she was standing at the gates of a manor. The towering iron gates loomed before her, flanked by large brick fences that surrounded the vast property for acres. In the distance, a manor home peeked over a hill—at least three floors high, its grandeur unmistakable. The road leading toward the estate was the only thing that broke the wide, open space.
Hermione felt stiff. Was the professor sure they’d accept her? What if they said they could take her in, only to turn around and tell her she was on her own? What if Dumbledore was just humoring her and, after all, thought of her as a lost cause, a problem to get rid of amidst the dangerous hunt for seers? Her throat went dry, and her forehead grew sticky with sweat, her mind racing with doubts.
She gripped her suitcase tighter, the strap digging painfully into her palm. Her mind spun with the possibilities—none of them comforting. Minerva muttered something under her breath, her hand resting briefly on Hermione's shoulder, offering a squeeze of reassurance. Hermione glanced back at the gates, where two figures stood waiting.
A man with grey hair, partially balding, and a woman with pitch-black hair and a permanent frown were watching them. They seemed to be around the same age, perhaps a couple, though the tension between them hinted at something else. The woman stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she sized up the three newcomers.
"Minerva, what an unpleasant surprise," the woman said, her tone thick with sarcasm. It was clear there was history here, unresolved and fraught with tension.
"Lady Beatrice," McGonagall replied stiffly, as if the very words pained her. Lady Beatrice's lip curled into a small smile, though it was almost cruel in nature, and she barely managed to suppress it.
"I thought you had said you’d never return to these grounds," Beatrice continued, her voice mocking. "What could possibly have changed?"
McGonagall's face grew hard, but she averted her gaze from Beatrice, an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air. The two women’s voices were sharp, cutting through the space as if they were preparing to duel with their words. The entire interaction felt hostile, like something on the edge of boiling over.
"I have a favor to ask," McGonagall finally muttered, her voice quieter, almost hesitant. The weight of the request was clear in her tone.
Lady Beatrice frowned and took a step back toward the manor. "I am not interested!" she called out, her voice icy as she began to retreat.
"Beatrice, please," McGonagall pressed, stepping forward with a hint of desperation. "You and Ambrose both know the situation with seers."
At the mention of seers, Dumbledore spoke up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Albus," Lady Beatrice muttered under her breath, looking toward the older wizard with a mix of disbelief and concern. "Are you really asking me to house an unknown seer? Do you realize how this sounds?"
Minerva shifted awkwardly beside Hermione, as though begging for this to work. There was a moment of silence, thick with unspoken words, and then Dumbledore, with his usual calm, spoke again.
"Ambrose," Dumbledore said, addressing the man at Beatrice's side. "You both know you owe us a favor. I ask that you take her in until it is safe. After that, we shall never speak of it again. She’s an orphan, a Muggle-born, and a seer. She is too powerful for her own good. I beg of you, just this once."
The tension in the air grew heavy, almost suffocating. The couple stood frozen, their expressions tightening, and Hermione could sense the secret history weighing on their decision. She lowered her head, feeling the sting of her orphaned status and Muggle-born heritage like a physical blow. It wasn’t the first time she had felt like an outsider, but it felt especially sharp now.
Lady Beatrice exchanged a long, silent look with Lord Ambrose, her face unreadable. Hermione could feel the weight of their indecision.
Finally, Lady Beatrice sighed, though it was more of a reluctant exhale than any sign of agreement. "Alright, bring her in," she said curtly.
Hermione, still overcome with emotion, looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. But neither Beatrice nor Ambrose looked her in the eye. The decision had been made, but the coldness between them and her made it clear this was not an act of kindness. This was an obligation, a reluctant acceptance of someone they would rather not deal with.
Professor McGonagall gave her a gentle nudge toward the gates, and Hermione, feeling like a lost soul being ushered into an uncertain future, walked forward. Her breath was shallow, heart pounding in her chest, but she didn’t dare speak. The estate stretched out before her, vast and imposing. The gardens were overgrown with creeping vines, and the stone pathways wound through tall hedges and trees, casting shadows in the fading light.
As they entered, the manor loomed larger, its darkened windows and ancient stone walls giving the place a cold, intimidating presence. Hermione felt smaller with every step she took, as though the walls themselves were closing in on her.
Inside, the atmosphere was just as oppressive. High ceilings and grand halls lined with portraits that watched them pass gave the entire manor a feeling of centuries-old grandeur. The air smelled of dust and old books, and the faint echo of their footsteps seemed to follow them through the corridors.
Lady Beatrice led the way, her back straight and her demeanor regal, though there was no warmth in her steps. Hermione, feeling more like a prisoner than a guest, followed, her heart in her throat. Dumbledore’s reassuring hand rested lightly on her shoulder, but it did little to ease her fear. "This is your new home, Hermione," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione nodded absently, though she wasn’t sure if she was agreeing with him or simply trying to convince herself. This was it—there was no going back. She had crossed into a new world, one where she would have to find a way to survive.
As the doors of the manor closed behind her, sealing her inside, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of future awaited her here, in this cold, unwelcoming place. The decision had been made, but whether it was a blessing or a curse, she couldn’t say.
The house was unsettlingly elegant, its every corner exuding wealth, but it felt more like a museum than a home. The furniture stuck to a dark, grey palette, and the atmosphere—cold and imposing—wasn't the comfort of a warm, inviting house. Yet, there was something oddly pleasing about the gothic architecture, the Romanesque windows. It made Hermione wonder if she could get used to it, though she would never openly admit it. She almost wanted to say that in some parts, the house resembled more of a church from her hometown than a manor, but she quickly banished the thought. The last thing she wanted was for the Selwyns to see her cry for a second time.
Hermione followed her professors into the drawing room, her shoes clicking softly on the polished floors as they entered. The room was as perfect a reflection of the house as one could expect: dark, imposing furniture, elaborate tapestries, and towering bookshelves filled to the brim. The shelves—lined with books, some thick, some thin—caught Hermione’s interest almost immediately. She had a habit of scanning the spines of books, even when it wasn’t polite to do so, and the books here seemed like they were calling to her. However, she quickly realized the Selwyns had noticed her distraction. The moment she crossed the threshold, it was clear that every single person in the room was watching her closely—eyes tracking her every movement.
Hermione took a seat between her professors on a larger couch. Across from her, the Selwyns sat with an almost predatory air, observing her, sizing her up. Lady Beatrice—elegantly poised, her movements smooth as she took her tea from its cup holder—seemed almost to glide rather than move, her every gesture calculated and graceful. Hermione couldn't help but watch her. She was fascinated by how the lady made even drinking tea look like an art form. Hermione had no idea if it was proper etiquette or not, but Beatrice was a portrait of politeness and restraint. Lord Ambrose, on the other hand, was less refined. He leaned carelessly on the armrest of his chair, his expression dark, as he studied Hermione. His gaze felt like a weight, making the already uncomfortable silence in the room even more suffocating. The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional clink of chinaware from Lady Beatrice.
It felt like an eternity before Lord Ambrose’s frown finally shifted away from Hermione and turned toward Dumbledore. His voice was sharp, demanding. "How long do you wish for us to keep her?"
Dumbledore, never one to rush, glanced at Professor McGonagall before responding. "At least until the hunt for seers becomes less intense."
Lady Beatrice’s frown deepened, the kind of look a person gets when their favorite piece of furniture has been insulted. "That could take years, Albus!" She never once lost the stiff posture of a proper lady as she argued. Hermione was almost hypnotized by her. Lady Beatrice was unlike anyone Hermione had ever met. She was like an image from a painting—refined, untouchable. There was a strange longing within Hermione to be like her, but she pushed the thought aside.
Lord Ambrose was not as composed as his wife. He shifted in his seat, his voice rising with impatience. "Do you wish for us to house every single student of yours who is a seer?"
Dumbledore shook his head, his voice calm and measured. "Hermione is the brightest witch of her year. We knew that keeping her at Hogwarts under the current circumstances would only impact her studies, but not even the school is safe enough for her right now."
Lady Beatrice leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned her attention back to Hermione. It felt like she was trying to see straight through her. The older woman folded her hands delicately in her lap, giving Hermione another once-over as if she were a subject in a study. "Pray tell, girl," Beatrice finally asked, her voice smooth but with an edge, "what is the most impressive thing you can do?"
Hermione froze. She had expected to be questioned, but this felt different. All eyes were on her, and the weight of the question hung heavily in the air. What could she say? Her mind scrambled for an answer, but everything seemed to blur together. "I—I can use nonverbal magic," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. "To an extent."
The Selwyns didn’t react. There was no surprise, no interest. Lady Beatrice set her cup down without a sound, her gaze still fixed on Hermione. "Well, that isn’t particularly impressive, is it?" she said, her voice flat.
Minerva, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally spoke up. Her voice was sharp, her patience clearly wearing thin. "Leave her alone for Merlin's sake, Beatrice! She’s just a third year! She’s well ahead of her peers!"
A hand rested on Hermione’s back—Minerva’s reassuring touch, patting her gently. It was clear the professor was trying to comfort her, to shield her from Lady Beatrice's biting words. Hermione, though, found it hard to mind. The comment stung, yes, but she tried to remind herself that Lady Beatrice had no reason to care for her, and Hermione was in no position to argue.
For the rest of the conversation, Hermione kept her head down, her hands clenched nervously in her lap. She didn’t look up again, choosing instead to observe the room, focusing on the ticking clock and the subtle clink of china as Lady Beatrice casually sipped her tea.
Despite everything, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a sense of fascination with the Selwyns. They were strange—cold, even cruel in their manner—but they were also something else entirely. This wasn’t home, but it was the only place left to her. She would have to get used to it, no matter how alien it felt.