Chapter 5
As Hermione pushed open the large breakfast room door, a familiar sight greeted her—one she hadn’t even realized she missed. The Lord sat with his usual newspaper, the Lady with her magazine, and the grand table was filled with all her favorite foods.
A lump formed in her throat. The warmth of the moment hit her so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that her vision blurred with unshed tears. She hadn’t known just how much these two had come to mean to her—not until last night’s fear of losing them had settled deep in her bones.
She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
Both of them looked up. The Lord set his newspaper down completely—a rare sight. Lady Beatrice, always so composed, fidgeted in her seat, her brows drawn in uncharacteristic concern. Before Hermione could say a word, the Lady was already on her feet, crossing the room in swift, purposeful strides.
Warm hands cupped Hermione’s face, tilting it side to side as if searching for injuries. “Oh, Hermione,” the Lady breathed, her voice laced with something rare—genuine worry. “You have no idea how ill with fear we were.”
The moment her hands fell away, Hermione acted on instinct. She surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Lady Beatrice.
The Lady stiffened in surprise. For a brief, uncertain second, Hermione thought she might pull away. But she didn’t. She simply stood there, tense and unmoving, before finally—hesitantly—raising a hand to rest against Hermione’s back.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She had wanted to do this for a long time.
Even if Lady Beatrice hadn’t always been the warmest presence, Hermione knew now—knew with certainty—that she cared. She just showed it in her own way, shaped by a world that valued poise over sentiment.
When Hermione finally pulled back, she caught the briefest glimpse of Lady Beatrice dabbing at her eyes before clearing her throat. “Pimsey has prepared all of your favorite dishes,” she said, regaining her composure. “So, do sit down and eat.”
Hermione obeyed, slipping into her seat and picking up her spoon. The moment she tasted the warm honey nut porridge, a deep, overwhelming sense of comfort washed over her. The rich sweetness, the soft texture—it was home. A different kind of home than what she had lost, but home nonetheless.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry. Not now.
The breakfast continued in peaceful silence. It was strange, almost surreal, how the three of them sat there as if nothing had happened—as if she hadn’t been missing for only an afternoon, as if they hadn’t spent that time worrying over her safety. But Hermione understood.
They didn’t want to bring up the fear, the panic, the uncertainty.
They just wanted to have breakfast together.
And so, she let them.
Sitting in the velvet chair in the Astral Tower, Hermione closed her eyes. The cards had been unusually stubborn for the past week, frustrating her to the point of boiling anger. The only thing keeping her from snapping and throwing the cards across the room was the calming scent in the air. But even that was beginning to grate on her nerves. She scrunched her nose, realizing that perhaps the smells were too strong for her liking.
She tried to stretch her arms, but they were too tired to comply, and the scent seemed to intensify, making her head throb. It was all becoming too much. She wanted to scream and run out of the room—out into the cold, crisp air—to calm her mind and find a bit of peace. But it seemed impossible.
Then, it began.
It was like a dream. Her body felt uncooperative, as though she were nothing more than a spectator in her own skin. The grounds before her looked familiar—Hogwarts—but the layout was strange. She was high in the bleachers, watching what seemed like some kind of spectacle. It reminded her vaguely of a Quidditch match, but what was happening below was far from sport.
On the ground was a dragon. A real, fully grown dragon. And it was hunting the student trapped in the enclosure with it. The bright, platinum blonde hair of the student shimmered in the light as he fought for his life against the beast. Hermione's heart sank. It felt like watching a cruel execution. She wanted to scream, to do anything, but she was frozen. She couldn't move. She couldn't shout. The feeling of helplessness consumed her.
And then, the truth hit her.
It was a prophecy.
The sense of helplessly watching something terrible unfold was like when she had witnessed her parents' house burn—watching something she couldn’t stop, something she couldn’t change. She was watching a dragon kill a young student. She couldn’t understand it. Where were the teachers? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?
As her gaze swept across the scene, she noticed the faculty sitting in the stands, observing the event. Some faces she didn’t recognize, but it didn't matter. She didn’t know what was going on, but she wanted to tear herself out of the vision, to run to the Selwyns and tell them everything she had seen. Maybe they didn’t know what was happening? Maybe there was still time to help and save this student?
But before she could act, the dragon spit fire, and the boy barely managed to dodge it. The dragon was growing increasingly agitated, its fury almost tangible—so much so that even another dragon wouldn’t approach it. Yet, the boy seemed determined, almost stubbornly trying to do something, though Hermione couldn’t fathom what.
And then she saw it. A golden egg nestled among the other dragon eggs in the nest. Her heart sank again. The feeling was so intense, it seemed to pull all the air from her lungs. She leaned over the railing, desperate to see the student’s face, but all she saw was the platinum blonde hair.
Just as she thought she might finally see him turn, Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Her head was pounding like crazy, her throat dry, and her clothes clung to her with sweat. How long had she been trapped in that vision? But there was no time to think about it. She had to tell the Selwyns about what she’d seen.
Hermione didn’t have to look hard for Lady Beatrice; she was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, her hands neatly clasped in front of her as she spoke to Pimsey. However, the sound of Hermione’s hurried footsteps interrupted their conversation, her pumps almost betraying her as she stumbled toward the lady, nearly twisting her ankle.
The lady’s arms shot out to steady her, and Hermione quickly glanced up to reassure her that she was fine. Despite Hermione's attempt to steady herself, Lady Beatrice's face was already a picture of concern, and the familiar expression of disapproval began to form. She could practically hear the words: “That is not how a young, proper witch should behave!”
But Hermione’s face remained too serious, and before the lady could speak, she exhaled sharply. "I had a prophecy."
The lady froze, her eyes widening slightly, and with a swift motion, she dismissed Pimsey. The elf, too, seemed reluctant to stay, but obeyed the command without protest. Without uttering a word, the lady gestured toward the parlor.
Once Hermione was seated, the lady took a deep breath, her expression unreadable. Hermione began her explanation in a rush. "In the prophecy... it was at Hogwarts. There was a boy—or a man, now that I think of it. He was in the middle of this... arena. There were stands, and I was in the stands... I couldn’t move! And in the arena, he was with a dragon!”
As Hermione stumbled over her words, the lady’s face shifted, her features taking on a doubtful, almost skeptical expression—one Hermione had seen before, the first time they’d met. “Child, do you not think it was just a dream?”
Hermione shook her head vigorously, feeling a sinking sense of realization. Of course, it was probably a dream. How absurd of her to think otherwise. Her face flushed with embarrassment. “B-but... don’t the dreams of a seer mean something?”
The lady sighed, her eyes softening slightly. "I suppose, but not always. And from what I’m hearing, this is one of those 'not always' cases."
Hermione’s heart sank. She felt like she was shrinking into herself, wanting to disappear into the floor. How could she have been so foolish to mistake a dream for a prophecy?
“I see,” she muttered quietly, her voice thick with the sting of humiliation. The urge to flee overwhelmed her, to lock herself away in the Astral tower and wallow in her shame.
Just as she was about to fall into herself, the lady’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. “Don’t worry too much,” she said with unexpected warmth, her tone calming. “You had a vision only a few months ago. Another one may not come for a year at your age, or longer.”
Hermione blinked up at her, surprised by the reassurance. "How do you know that?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
The lady’s smile remained, but it softened, and she looked away, her voice taking on a faraway tone. "Ambrose'smother was a seer," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Most of the things you interact with... belong to her."
She paused, her gaze distant, as if she were lost in the past. The smile that had been on her lips faltered, turning into something sad, something deeply painful.
Hermione had been receiving unintentional etiquette lessons from Lady Beatrice for quite some time now. It had started with little tips during dinner, which eventually grew into long discussions about proper manners in the solar room. Then came the history lessons about pureblood families. She knew she had no real need for this knowledge—she wasn’t a pureblood, nor was she a lady. But, frankly, she was bored out of her mind, and the lady was unusually pleasant when Hermione followed all the correct etiquette.
"Just what do you think of this new tea, my dear?"
The lady asked, her voice light but full of a polite curiosity.
Hermione, however, seemed to be lost in her thoughts. She didn't even realize she'd stopped listening until the clatter of the teacup snapped her out of it.
"Hermione?" the lady asked, her tone soft, but with a slight edge of concern.
The girl jolted, turning to meet the lady’s gaze. "Yes?" she responded, a little too quickly.
The lady frowned, her eyes narrowing in gentle suspicion. "Are you already, darling?"
Hermione just nodded, hoping the topic would shift.
"What were you thinking of, so intensely?" the lady pressed, her voice quiet but still so gentle, as though she truly wanted to know.
Hermione’s gaze dropped to the cup in her hands, staring into her distorted reflection in the tea’s surface. The words she wanted to say were stuck in her throat, but they longed to be released.
"My parents," she murmured.
A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken understanding.
"I see," Lady Beatrice said after a long pause, taking a delicate sip from her own cup, her expression unreadable. She seemed to have the unsettling ability to hide any emotion behind a veil of composure. Hermione couldn’t help but notice how the lady was terrible with emotions. Detached, was the word she’d use, if she were being completely honest. But after all the lessons, the word she’d settled on was confused.
Sniffling back her own thoughts, Hermione put on a forced smile and turned back to the lady. "What did you ask me before?"
Lady Beatrice's smile softened. "I was wondering what you thought of the new tea."
Hermione nodded, realizing the cup in her hands had gone cold without her noticing. "I'm not sure, I rather dislike it." she said, trying to sound genuine. "It has a very rich aroma, but the taste feels a little... off."
The lady’s smile brightened as she nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, I dislike this one. Yesterday’s tea was much better!"
Hermione merely hummed in agreement, offering a polite smile.
The parlor fell into a comfortable silence. The grand clock ticked steadily in the background as the lady occasionally murmured something to herself to which Hermione only nodded or hummed in agreement. The lady's focus still remained on the magazine in her hands. Hermione barely paid attention, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over her as she embraced her place within this personal space.
Her eyes wandered over the Daily Prophet that had been left on the table. She picked it up absentmindedly, flipping through the pages, until one article caught her eye.
Pureblood Families Withdraw Heirs from Hogwarts Amid Growing Fears
By: Isabelle Featherstone, Daily Prophet
In a quiet but growing trend, several prominent pureblood families have begun removing their children from Hogwarts due to rising fears of the Dark Lord’s return. Families such as the Malfoys, Nott, Greengrass, and others with long-standing magical lineages are reportedly pulling their heirs from school, either for safety or to keep them under closer supervision.
Sources close to these families have cited troubling signs and disturbing prophecies that many of the children have begun experiencing. “We can’t ignore what they’re seeing,” says one anonymous family member. “It’s not just about the Dark Lord anymore—it’s about what they know, and we need to protect them.”
Though the Ministry remains tight-lipped, whispers of increasing magical disturbances and prophetic visions have surfaced, with several young heirs displaying unusual sensitivity to these events. “It’s dangerous,” another source explains. “These families have seen enough to know the risks. They don’t want their children caught up in something they can’t control.”
The decision to withdraw these heirs has sparked questions about the future of Hogwarts and the safety of students. While the Ministry insists that the school remains secure, the sudden and unexplained departures from school raise more questions than answers. As families go into hiding, the wizarding world braces for what may come next.
Her brows furrowed as she read through the article, each sentence fueling her curiosity and growing unease. She couldn’t help but wonder what was happening beyond the tall manor’s walls, and what, if anything, the Selwyns knew about it.
Lord Ambrose's mother, Amelia Selwyn. Hermione stared at the portrait of the red-haired woman, the one she had grown unusually fond of during her stay at Selwyn Manor. She wasn’t entirely sure why she found the woman so comforting, but she often found herself sitting on the stairs beneath the painting, shuffling and reshuffling her tarot cards as if hoping the quiet presence of the portrait might help her make sense of their meanings.
Tonight was no different. The house had settled into its usual dead-of-the-night stillness, and yet Hermione remained on the stairs, lost in thought. The tarot cards had been stubborn again, refusing to give her clarity, and frustration clawed at the edges of her mind. With a sigh, she finally gathered up her books and cards, ready to retreat to her room.
She had barely made it up the first few steps when the faint creak of a door opening froze her in place. Footsteps—soft and hesitant—echoed through the hallway below. Hermione stiffened, her heart pounding as she strained to listen. A second pair of footsteps followed, these heavier and more deliberate, as if in pursuit. Then, a soft yelp.
"Where are you going?" Lord Ambrose’s voice, tired but laced with genuine concern, broke the silence.
For a moment, there was nothing but quiet. Then, a shaky sigh. "I'm tired, Ambrose," Lady Beatrice admitted, her voice raw, as though she were holding back tears.
Fabric rustled—perhaps Ambrose had reached for her—and then a quiet, almost defeated, half-step. "I know," he murmured, his voice softer now. "But we have to keep strong."
A muffled sob broke free from Lady Beatrice. "For Hermione," she whispered. "Who would take care of her?"
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.
The lord hummed in quiet agreement, but his wife only let out another broken sob. "She reminds me so much of her," she choked out.
A heavy silence followed. Hermione, pressed against the staircase, could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears. Who? Who did she remind Beatrice of?
After what felt like an eternity, Ambrose spoke again, his tone gentle but firm. "Let's get you to bed, alright? Come, Trice."
The affectionate shortening of her name was almost jarring—Hermione had never heard him call her that before. The sound of their footsteps retreating down the hall filled the air, and Hermione remained frozen in place, heart hammering.
She should leave—should pretend she never heard any of it—but the words lingered, curling around her like ghosts.
"She reminds me so much of her."
That night, she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t fathom the thought of resting after hearing those words. She tossed and turned until the earliest rays of sunlight peeked through her curtains, and by then, she knew she needed an outlet. So she did the only thing that ever brought her comfort—she opened a fresh bottle of ink and began to write.
She wasn’t even sure what she was writing most of the time. She just wrote, pouring her thoughts onto the parchment as if that would lighten the weight pressing on her chest. But when she reached for another sheet, her hand hit the hard wood of her desk. She had used up all her parchment. Hermione cursed under her breath. She should have saved some for actual notes instead of wasting it on mindless scribbles.
Leaning back in her chair, she stared at the scattered pages. It was only then that she realized many were addressed to Harry and Ron.
I know you are probably worried about me, but I am well. Probably too well. I cannot tell you where I am or why, but I am being taken care of. The people here are kind to me, and I am… fond of them. I have learned so much—things I never imagined—
Her reading was cut short by the sudden, groggy voice of Veradis.
"Good Merlin, ’Mione! The sun’s barely up—what could you possibly be writing?"
Hermione’s head snapped toward the mirror.
"I—" She hesitated, then sighed. "I don’t know. You’re right. I have no idea what I’m doing."
Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the ink-stained tips of her fingers. She stared down at them as Veradis continued, his voice more thoughtful this time.
"You know, Hermione, you remind me of my previous master. She had that same desk and spent an unholy amount of time sitting by it. Always writing."
Hermione hummed, only half-listening, until he added, "She always said she was keeping a diary."
That made her pause.
"I suppose I’m not supposed to talk about my master," Veradis mused, "but that lady is long gone. And, well… I miss her. She kept her diary stashed in some hidden compartment of the desk. Maybe you can find it? Read a bit to me? Just to hear her words again."
That caught Hermione’s full attention. Her exhaustion faded as curiosity took its place.
"A hidden compartment?" she repeated, turning to properly examine the desk.
It took a while. She tried every spell she could think of, but the desk remained stubbornly intact. She was just about to give up when her eyes landed on a faint inscription near the drawer:
For those who dream beyond the veil.
"Veradis, did you ever see her do anything before taking the diary out?"
The mirror hummed in thought. "She always kept her tarot cards on the desk when she wrote in it."
Hermione nearly groaned. Why didn’t he mention that sooner?
Snatching her tarot deck from her bedside table, she placed it carefully on the desk. The moment the cards touched the surface, there was a soft click. A small, hidden compartment at the bottom of the right drawer popped open.
A book tumbled out onto the floor.
Hermione bent down, breath catching as she picked it up. The cover was a deep, rich blue, its edges worn with time.
Amelia Selwyn.