The Daily Diviner
"Professor Dumbledore! Please, wait!" Harry called, his voice urgent as he and Ron hurried after the headmaster
The old wizard must have been thoroughly exasperated by this point, given their relentless pursuit. With a heavy sigh, Dumbledore finally stopped and turned to face them. His blue eyes, sharp yet unreadable, flickered between the two boys.
"Professor, we just want to know if Hermione is safe," Ron added, his voice quieter but no less desperate.
Dumbledore met Ron’s gaze, studying him for a long moment—so long that it felt as if he were searching for something deep within his soul. But neither Harry nor Ron could decipher whatever silent message he was trying to convey.
"Miss Granger is all right," the headmaster finally said.
That was it.
The two boys exchanged a look. All right. The same answer they had been getting for days—and it wasn’t enough.
They needed real answers, real reassurance. They wanted to know where she was, if she was truly safe, why she was even gone in the first place.
After everything they had been through together, Hermione was part of them—their crew. How were they supposed to just operate without her?
But before they could push further, Dumbledore turned and disappeared into his office, leaving them standing there in the dimly lit hallway, drowning in frustration and guilt.
Guilt that they hadn’t figured out what had happened to Hermione. And guilt that they might be running out of time.
Hermione climbed the narrow, steep spiral staircase, the small space making her feel claustrophobic with every step. The tower seemed to stretch endlessly upwards, and the further she ascended, the more she wondered just how tall it was. Her back began to stick to her blouse from the sweat, but she pressed on. Finally, a small wooden door came into view. With a sense of relief, she pushed it open.
The room before her was nothing short of magical. A circular chamber with an enchanted ceiling that mimicked the sky, just like Hogwarts' Great Hall. The dark wood of the floors was a recurring theme in the house, and in the center of the room sat a large table with a plush, red velvet armchair beside it. Hermione carefully approached the table where tarot cards, a crystal ball, and what appeared to be rune stones were scattered across its surface. She reached out to pick up one of the cards, the bold image of "The Cataclysm" staring back at her. Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she continued inspecting the cards with an intense focus. They seemed perfectly ordinary, yet the room itself radiated an inexplicable feeling. It was as if the room knew something she didn't.
Hanging lanterns bathed the room in soft light, but the calming scent of incense burned in the air, mingling with the warmth. To the left of the room, about a third of it descended into a sunken area, where shelves of books lined the walls. In the depression were plush pillows and rugs scattered in cozy disarray, inviting her to settle down for a peaceful read. But Hermione’s curiosity kept her moving, noticing the tapestries on the walls depicting important constellations and the crystal telescope mounted on a carved pedestal at the small balcony. The room was overwhelming, filled with light, soft aromas, and a sense of magic that almost made her wish she could cast such spells in her own room.
Her gaze wandered over the bookshelves until a particular title caught her eye: The Basics of Divination. She eagerly pulled the book down and settled into the cushioned chair by the table, already flipping through the pages.
However, as she read, frustration began to build. Divination, she thought bitterly, is such nonsense. How could anyone take this seriously? It was nothing more than elaborate guesswork. Even Muggles practiced it! She felt the urge to throw the book out of the window. Yet, a small voice in her mind told her she was perhaps letting her dislike for the subject cloud her judgment. Could it be that my resistance is what's preventing me from understanding it properly?
Determined to give it a fair chance, Hermione tied her hair into a messy ponytail and, with a deep breath, gathered the tarot cards. She opened the book to the section on reading tarot, but as her hand reached for the cards, they suddenly began to shuffle themselves. Hermione’s breath hitched in surprise. The sudden movement startled her so much that her heart raced in her chest, and for a moment, she thought she might scream. But after taking a few calming breaths of the fragrant incense, she steadied herself.
"Concentrate on the answer you wish for the cards to give you," she whispered, closing her eyes. Her mind raced, trying to think of a question. What will Lady Beatrice’s mood be for dinner tonight?
She felt the cards stop shifting, and the soft sound of one being drawn filled the air. She opened her eyes to find a single card laid flat on the table. The Nine of Swords.
Quickly flipping through the pages of the book, Hermione found the card’s meaning. Nine of Swords: Anxiety, nightmares, deep stress. Her stomach tightened with unease. The reading was undeniably vague, and she had hoped it would be wrong. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. If there was one thing she had learned about Lady Beatrice, it was that her moods were unpredictable—an emotional seesaw, swinging from sweet but chaotic to elegant and serene, or on bad days, a bitter and unsatisfied temperament.
Right, Hermione thought, let’s try again.
With a renewed sense of focus, she took another deep breath and shuffled the cards. Her next question came easily: How long will I stay in the Manor? She allowed the cards to settle before one was drawn. She opened her eyes to see the image of an elderly man with a long white beard, cloaked in grey, holding a yellow lantern. The Hermit.
Flipping through the book once more, she found its meaning: The Hermit: Solitude, spirituality, inner guidance. Hermione felt a pang of frustration. The book didn’t seem to provide answers to her questions. There were only four categories for the cards: health, love, finances, and career. None of them applied to her situation.
This is useless, she thought, resting her head in her hands. The overwhelming loneliness of her circumstances began to sink in. She missed her family so much. She longed to be home, curled up by the fireplace with them, watching a mundane Muggle TV show. She even missed Hogwarts—the familiar corridors, the library, her classes, and her friends. But now, she was stuck in this lavish but strange house, alone.
Sure, Lady Beatrice and Lord Margrave were kind, but Hermione couldn't help feeling isolated. Their house felt too empty, too unfamiliar. Her thoughts spiraled, and the urge to cry gnawed at her. I just want to go home.
But just as she was about to let herself give in to her sadness, the cards shuffled again, their motion pulling her attention back. One card was picked, laid flat before her. She gasped as she read the card's name: The World.
Quickly flipping through the pages, she found the meaning: The World: Completion, balance, intelligence, wholeness, achievement. Hermione sank deeper into the chair, deflated. It gave her no answers, no time frame, no indication of when she might return home or how long she’d be trapped in this strange mansion.
But then, a thought struck her. There was a whole library in this room, and with the entire collection dedicated to tarot cards, surely there was something that could give her the answers she was seeking. Without a second thought, she sprang from the chair, eager to discover what other secrets the library held.
Hermione slammed four different books onto the table, her frustration mounting as she flipped through them one after another. The first was useless—too focused on zen and how to navigate the journey, not when it would end. The second was almost there, but all she could glean from it were vague notions about "periods of time" and "progress," and so she cast it aside, too. But then, she finally found the Hermit in the third book, and her question was answered.
The Hermit—his card often symbolized solitude and introspection. It could indicate a long period of reflection or personal growth, often lasting around a year, maybe even a year and a half, particularly when someone needed time away to heal or find themselves.
A year. Just a year. Twelve more months before she’d be back in Hogsmeade, sipping butterbeer with her friends again. Just a little more. Hermione didn’t even realize she was crying until the Hermit card crinkled beneath the wet spots. She knew she should take a break. Peeking outside, her heart sank. It was already dark. When had that happened?
With a sudden, swift movement, she stood up so quickly that the sturdy armchair almost toppled over. It was too time-consuming to clean up, so she rushed toward the door. She had no time for weariness; all that filled her mind was dread. Lady Beatrice would reprimand her again—of course! The sour mood the cards had predicted.
"Stupid cards, why do you always have to be right?"
She slammed the tower door behind her and turned to head down the hall. But as she took each turn, frustration gripped her. The manor’s hallways looked exactly the same. No—this one looked even more like the one she had just passed! After ten minutes of running up and down the endless corridors, panic began to seize her. The only voice ringing through her mind now was Pimsey’s, and all his warnings she hadn’t heeded.
Her thoughts were a muddled mess. Her brain couldn’t even focus enough to think of a single spell to help. She felt dizzy, her legs weakening under her. With a soft thud, she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs.
She was so tired—tired in every sense of the word. All the hiding, the even more frustrating gift, and the devastating news of her parents. She missed them so much, her chest aching as if it would tear apart. She missed them more than she missed magic when she was in the Muggle world. She had known all along just how much they mattered to her, even before all of this mess began to unravel. Before it all crumbled into dust, only to be scattered away, never to be put together again.
Her head dropped to her knees as her tears fell freely. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. Someone will find me, right? She thought desperately. Someone had to.
As Hermione opened her eyes to the soft glow of the new morning, she felt like someone must have found her last night. Her head was ringing, and her eyelids were heavy, as if she were underwater. Slowly, she glanced around the room. Crookshanks was curled up at the foot of the bed, and everything seemed normal. Had yesterday been a dream? One look at her clothes told a different story.
Kicking off the bedding, she stumbled out of bed, her body heavy with exhaustion. Dragging herself to the bathroom, her mind still disoriented, she nearly tripped over the bath. The warm water soothed her, though it didn’t do much to jog her memory. She still couldn’t remember who had found her or when she’d been brought back to the room, but for now, the bath was a welcome distraction.
Once she felt a bit more awake, Hermione decided to get dressed and head downstairs for breakfast—hoping she hadn’t missed it. The cold marble floor was enough to rouse her further as she hurried back toward her room, leaving a trail of wet puddles.
"Oh, 'Mione! Watch out! You'll slip if you’re not careful!" Veradis mumbled, still half-asleep. Hermione flushed with embarrassment—being reprimanded like that made her feel like she needed to take every warning more seriously from now on.
She opened her closet, and a line of blouses, each a different color and style, greeted her. It was almost too much to take in at once. Sometimes, she wished Lady Beatrice didn’t have such high standards, even for something as simple as breakfast. She pulled a lavender lace blouse from the rack and grabbed a neutral-colored skirt to pair with it. She quickly got dressed, her movements hurried as she looked around for her shoes.
"Your breakfast starts in four minutes. How are you not dressed yet?" Veradis’ voice, now fully awake, came from the mirror. Hermione frowned as she looked up at her reflection.
"Maybe because someone whose job it is to get me ready slept through the whole morning?" she grumbled.
"It’s not my fault yesterday was such a ruckus. I barely got a wink of sleep!" the mirror replied, sounding put out but not too bothered.
Hermione’s irritation eased a little as she continued to search the room. "Well then, just tell me—where are my shoes?" She spun around again, scanning for the fifth time.
"By the fireplace," the mirror answered nonchalantly. "Not sure who put them there."
Hermione chuckled as she spotted the shoes, slipping them on. "Is my outfit alright?" she asked as she adjusted the skirt.
"Hmm, considering you picked it out yourself, it’s acceptable." The mirror's voice had a distinctly snobbish edge, but Hermione only giggled at it.
"I see. Thank you," she called out as she shut the door behind her, rushing down the hall. This time, thankfully, she was careful with her steps, making sure she wouldn’t slip on the marble floors.