Dear Mother
The morning of Hermione’s departure was crisp, the scent of early autumn creeping through the open windows of Selwyn Manor. Sunlight filtered through the high ceilings of the drawing room, casting a golden glow over the polished floors and heavy velvet drapes. It was a morning like many before, yet it felt entirely different.
Hermione stood in the grand hall, her trunk packed and Crookshanks curled around her ankles, purring softly. She ran her fingers through his thick fur, steadying herself against the strange mix of emotions swirling inside her. She had been at the Selwyn estate for a little over a year—long enough for the manor’s halls to feel familiar, long enough for Lady Beatrice’s steady presence and Lord Ambrose’s quiet wisdom to become comforting constants in her life.
Yet, she had always known this day would come.
Lady Beatrice, ever the composed woman, stood by the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her. But there was a softness in her gaze, something Hermione had learned to recognize over time. “Are you certain you’re ready, dear?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Hermione nodded. “Yes. It feels strange, but… I think I am.”
Lord Ambrose set down his morning tea and regarded her carefully. “You must be cautious, Hermione,” he said, his voice measured. “Not everyone at Hogwarts will welcome you back without question. Some may wonder where you have been, what you have become.”
“I know,” Hermione said quietly. She had already prepared herself for the rumors, the whispers that would follow her return.
Lady Beatrice stepped closer, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from Hermione’s sleeve. “You must also remember that your abilities—your Sight—must remain hidden. Hogwarts is no safer now than it was when you left.”
Hermione swallowed. She had grown used to practicing her abilities in the quiet solitude of Selwyn Manor, where no one would judge her, where no one feared what she could do. Returning to Hogwarts meant suppressing that part of herself once more.
The lady hesitated for a moment before finally lifting her hand to tuck a stray lock of Hermione’s curly, chestnut brown hair behind her ear. “We have something for you,” she said, gesturing for Lord Ambrose to retrieve a small, velvet-wrapped box from his desk.
Hermione blinked in surprise as she accepted the box, undoing the clasp with careful fingers. Inside lay an ornate silver pendant, a delicate hourglass charm nestled in the center. She ran her thumb over it, feeling the cool metal beneath her skin.
“It’s charmed,” Lady Beatrice explained. “Not with magic that would draw attention—just a simple enchantment for protection. A reminder that you are never alone.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she murmured, fastening the chain around her neck.
Lord Ambrose cleared his throat. “You should go before it grows any harder to leave.”
Hermione nodded, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. She bent down to scoop up Crookshanks, who let out a small grumble but allowed himself to be carried. With one final glance at the people who had become like family, she stepped toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.
She hesitated just before throwing it into the flames. “I… I’ll write.”
Lady Beatrice gave her a knowing smile. “Of course you will, dear.”
Hermione inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and then cast the powder into the flames. The emerald fire roared to life. Stepping into the warmth, she called out clearly:
“Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore's office.”
And with that, she was gone.
The emerald flames roared as Hermione stepped out of the fireplace, landing gracefully in the familiar circular office. Crookshanks squirmed in her arms before leaping to the ground, his bottle-brush tail flicking as he inspected his new surroundings.
Dumbledore’s office was exactly as she remembered—shelves filled with ancient tomes, delicate silver instruments humming softly on their stands, and the watchful eyes of past headmasters peering down from their portrait frames. The Sorting Hat rested on its usual shelf, and in the corner, Fawkes’ perch stood empty, the phoenix nowhere in sight.
A deep, warm voice broke the silence.
“Miss Granger.”
Hermione turned, her breath catching slightly as she met Dumbledore’s gaze. The old headmaster sat behind his grand wooden desk, fingers lightly steepled, his blue eyes twinkling with something unreadable. He looked the same as ever, his half-moon spectacles resting on his crooked nose, his silver beard flowing down over his deep purple robes.
“Professor,” she greeted, dipping her head.
Dumbledore studied her for a long moment before a small smile curved his lips. “Welcome home.”
The words settled deep in her chest, unraveling some of the tightness she hadn’t even realized was there.
“I trust your journey was pleasant?” he asked.
Hermione nodded, shifting Crookshanks in her arms. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, good,” Dumbledore murmured. He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”
Hermione did as instructed, placing Crookshanks on her lap, where he curled up contentedly.
“I imagine returning feels… strange,” Dumbledore continued, peering at her over his spectacles. “Hogwarts has missed you, Miss Granger, as have many of your friends.”
Hermione’s fingers absently ran through Crookshanks’ fur. “I’ve missed it too.”
Dumbledore nodded. “There will, of course, be questions.” His expression turned slightly more serious. “Your absence was noted, and though official explanations were given, young minds are ever-curious.”
Hermione swallowed. “I understand.”
Dumbledore regarded her for a moment before his expression softened again. “I have every confidence that you will navigate this new chapter with the same brilliance you have always possessed.”
His unwavering belief in her made something warm bloom in her chest.
“As for practical matters,” Dumbledore continued, “your belongings have been sent to Gryffindor Tower. I imagine your friends will be most eager to see you before the Welcoming Feast begins.”
Hermione nodded. The thought of seeing Harry and Ron again was exhilarating, but it also filled her with nerves.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Off you go, then.”
Hermione stood, lifting Crookshanks back into her arms. She hesitated for a moment. “Thank you, Professor.”
Dumbledore merely inclined his head, his smile kind.
Taking a steady breath, Hermione turned and stepped out of the office. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched before her, their torches flickering warmly.
For the first time in over a year, she was home.
Hermione’s heart pounded as she climbed the familiar stairs leading to Gryffindor Tower. The castle smelled exactly the same—warm parchment, old stone, and the faintest trace of broom polish drifting from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Everything was the same, and yet she wasn’t.
The Fat Lady’s portrait came into view, and before Hermione could even reach for her wand, the painting gasped.
“Merlin’s beard!” the Fat Lady exclaimed, nearly toppling from her frame. “Hermione Granger! I never thought I’d see you again!”
Hermione gave a small, sheepish smile. “It’s nice to see you too.”
The Fat Lady huffed, looking her over. “You look different.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Do I?”
“More poised, dear,” the portrait mused, squinting at her. “Like you belong in one of those grand ballrooms ancient pureblood families throw.”
Hermione’s breath hitched, but before she could respond, the portrait continued dramatically, “Well, don’t just stand there! Password?”
Hermione’s mind blanked. She hadn’t thought to ask Dumbledore.
The portrait rolled her eyes. “Oh, never mind, I’ll let you in just this once.” With a theatrical swing, the entrance to Gryffindor Tower was revealed.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione stepped inside.
The common room was exactly as she remembered—warm and bustling, golden light flickering from the fireplace, squashy armchairs scattered about, students laughing and chatting. But the moment she stepped forward, everything stopped.
Silence.
Hermione felt every single pair of eyes turn to her.
Then—
“HERMIONE!”
A blur of red and black hurtled toward her, and the next thing she knew, she was nearly tackled to the ground.
“Hermione, is that really you?” Ron’s voice was breathless, disbelieving, as he pulled back just enough to look at her. His blue eyes were wide, scanning her face like she might disappear again.
Before she could answer, another voice cut through.
“Hermione!”
Harry.
She barely had time to register before he joined the hug, and suddenly she was sandwiched between the two of them, the weight of everything she had bottled up crashing over her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping them both tightly.
“You—bloody hell, you were gone for a whole year!” Ron pulled back again, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “You just—vanished! And we didn’t know where you were, or if you were okay, or—”
Harry, still gripping her shoulder, gave Ron a look before turning back to her. “You’re back.” His voice was quiet but full of relief. “You’re actually back.”
Hermione nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
The silence broke again as the rest of Gryffindor burst into whispers and murmurs.
“I can’t believe it—”
“Where has she been?”
"She looks so different—”
Hermione’s throat tightened. This was exactly what she had prepared for, and yet standing here now, under all these stares, she felt like she was about to crumble.
Then—
“Give her some space!”
Ginny’s voice cut through the noise, firm and unwavering. The younger girl pushed through the crowd and sent an unimpressed look at the onlookers. “Honestly, you’re all acting like you’ve never seen her before.”
Some of them backed off, but Hermione still felt the weight of their curiosity.
Ginny turned back to her, a grin breaking across her face. “It’s really good to see you.”
Hermione smiled back. “You too.”
Harry seemed to finally shake off his shock. “Come on, let’s sit,” he said, tugging her toward one of the armchairs by the fire. Ron followed immediately, and Ginny perched on the arm of another chair, watching her closely.
As Hermione lowered herself into the seat, a familiar weight landed in her lap—a large, fluffy ginger cat with a squashed face.
Ron blinked. “What’s that?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A cat, Ronald.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “I can see that, but where’d you get it?”
“My relatives,” Hermione said, scratching behind Crookshanks’ ear. He purred loudly, rubbing his face against her hand. “They got him for me a while ago.”
Ron frowned. “So you had a cat this whole time, and you never thought to tell us?”
Hermione tensed slightly at his tone, but before she could say anything, Harry nudged Ron. “Not the point, mate.”
Ron sighed, clearly still overwhelmed by everything, but he nodded. “Right. Sorry.” He hesitated. “You are going to tell us what happened, right?”
Hermione bit her lip. She couldn’t tell them—not yet. Dumbledore had warned her, and besides, how could she explain everything? The Selwyns, the visions, the entire world she had been living in?
So instead, she gave them the only answer she could.
“It’s… complicated.”
Ron groaned. “That’s not fair! We spent a year trying to find out what happened to you, and you just say ‘complicated’?”
Hermione forced a small smile. “I promise, I’ll tell you what I can.”
Ginny gave her a knowing look but didn’t push. Harry, however, seemed to understand her hesitation better than Ron. He nodded slowly.
“Well,” he said, leaning back, “whatever happened, I’m just glad you’re here.”
Ron huffed but nodded too. “Yeah. You won’t disappear on us again, right?”
Hermione shook her head, her chest tightening. “No. I won’t.”
And for the first time since stepping into the castle, she truly believed it.
The Great Hall was exactly as Hermione remembered—grand, illuminated by hundreds of floating candles, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the dark sky above. Long tables stretched across the hall, students chatting excitedly as they waited for the Sorting Ceremony to begin. The golden plates gleamed under the warm light, and for a brief moment, Hermione felt like she had never left.
Except, she had.
The weight of a year away settled heavily on her shoulders as she followed her housemates into the hall. Even with Harry, Ron, and Ginny by her side, the stares hadn’t stopped. It wasn’t just Gryffindor who had noticed her return—students from every house were glancing her way, whispering to each other.
She squared her shoulders. She was used to attention, but this was different. This wasn’t because she answered a question correctly in class or because she had done something extraordinary. This was because she had been gone—vanished without a trace—and now she was back with no explanation.
They took their seats at the Gryffindor table as Professor McGonagall led a group of nervous-looking first years toward the front of the hall. The Sorting Hat sat atop a stool, its tattered form as motionless as ever—until its brim suddenly twisted, and a deep, raspy voice echoed through the hall.
Hermione barely paid attention to the Sorting Hat’s song. She was too aware of the eyes flicking toward her from other tables. She swallowed hard, shifting slightly as McGonagall unrolled a long parchment.
“The Sorting Ceremony will now begin.”
One by one, the first years were called forward, their names echoing across the hall. The Sorting Hat’s decisions were met with cheers from their new houses, and Hermione found herself clapping along absently, even as her mind drifted.
Everything felt so familiar, and yet, for the first time, she wasn’t sure where she truly belonged.
Finally, as the last first-year scurried off to join their house, Dumbledore stood, his usual twinkle in his eyes as he spread his arms.
“Welcome, welcome! To both our new students and our returning ones.” His gaze flickered toward Hermione for the briefest moment before continuing. “Another year at Hogwarts awaits us, filled with knowledge, wonder, and of course, a few surprises.”
A murmur rippled through the hall as Dumbledore gestured toward the front, where a large, ancient-looking wooden cup had been placed. Blue flames licked at its edges, flickering in the dim light.
“The Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore announced, and the hall fell into hushed silence, “will take place this year.”
Gasps and excited whispers broke out.
Hermione stiffened. She had, of course, read about the tournament, but it had been postponed during her fourth year due to the Seer crisis. Now, it was back, and for some reason, a chill ran down her spine.
Dumbledore smiled, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “For those unfamiliar, the Triwizard Tournament is a centuries-old competition between three great magical schools—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each school will select a champion to compete in three dangerous tasks, testing their magical ability, courage, and intelligence.”
Her mind flickered to Draco. She knew he had transferred to Durmstrang, but would he be representing them?
Dumbledore continued. “The Goblet of Fire will select one champion from each school. Those wishing to enter must submit their name before the end of the week. However, be warned—once chosen, there is no turning back.”
The excitement in the room was palpable. Ron was practically bouncing in his seat, whispering to Harry. “Do you think we could enter?”
“You have to be of age,” Hermione reminded him automatically, but her mind was still elsewhere.
The Goblet of Fire crackled, casting eerie blue light across the staff table. There was something unsettling about it, something she couldn’t quite place.
And then—
A whisper.
It was faint, barely noticeable, but Hermione’s breath hitched.
It was happening again.
A vision.
Her fingers curled against the table as her surroundings blurred, her pulse pounding. The blue flames twisted, shifting into shadowy figures, voices echoing in her mind.
A name will be called, a path set in stone. One will enter unwilling, a fate not their own. A task of fire, a task of sea, a task of stone. A final breath, a fate unknown.
Hermione sucked in a breath as the vision faded. She was still at the Gryffindor table. The Goblet was still burning. Everything was the same—except for the icy chill that had settled in her bones.
Something was going to happen.
Something terrible.
And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
The anticipation in the Great Hall was electric. Every student was on edge, eyes darting toward the massive wooden doors. Whispers floated through the air, speculating who would arrive first. The Triwizard Tournament had finally begun.
A low hum of wind echoed through the enchanted ceiling, and then, the great doors groaned open. A gust of cold air swept into the hall, sending a shiver down many spines.
Beauxbatons arrived first.
Their students glided in with effortless grace, their flowing blue uniforms shimmering under the candlelight. The girls moved like dancers, their poise and elegance drawing admiration from all corners of the hall. A few of the boys followed behind, standing just as tall, their expressions carefully composed. As they passed the tables, a faint floral scent lingered in the air, as if their presence alone carried an air of enchantment.
When they reached the front of the hall, Madame Maxime, towering over her students, gave Dumbledore a polite nod before guiding her charges to their seats at the designated guest table.
But before the whispers could settle, the doors thundered open again.
Durmstrang had arrived.
Their entrance was nothing like Beauxbatons'. There were no floating steps, no elegant movements—just the sharp, synchronized march of boots against stone. Their long, fur-lined cloaks billowed behind them as they strode inside, exuding power and discipline.
At the front, Headmaster Karkaroff walked with his usual self-important air, his sharp eyes scanning the hall before sweeping toward Dumbledore with a practiced smirk. But it was the students behind him that truly caught everyone's attention.
Draco Malfoy was among them.
He wasn’t at the front, wasn’t showing off like some of his peers who conjured small displays of fire and ice with their wands. Instead, he walked in the middle, his posture composed yet commanding. He didn’t need to dazzle anyone; his presence alone was enough to establish authority. Even among his fellow Durmstrang students, he carried himself with the ease of someone who belonged.
Theo and Blaise flanked him, their expressions unreadable, while Pansy walked just behind them, her sharp eyes scanning the hall with quiet amusement.
Draco didn’t look around much, but the moment his gaze did lift, it landed directly on Hermione.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face—confusion, maybe. But just as quickly, he looked away, expression smoothing into indifference as he continued forward.
Karkaroff reached Dumbledore and gave an exaggerated bow before leading his students to their seats at the opposite guest table from Beauxbatons.
The Great Hall was alive with murmurs, students excitedly dissecting every detail of the arrivals.
Hermione tried to focus but her mind kept drifting back to one thing:
Draco Malfoy was back at Hogwarts.
And whether he had changed or not, she wasn’t sure.