Hogwarts, Take Two
The Golden Trio Rumored to Return for their 8th and Final Year at Hogwarts!
Harry Potter , the Boy Who Lived to Defeat You-Know-Who, Ronald Weasley , the War Hero, and Hermione Granger , the Golden Girl and War Heroine, were recently spotted shopping in the newly restored Diagon Alley, preparing for their upcoming 8th year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This comes in the wake of the Ministry of Magic’s controversial decision to require all recent 7th-year graduates to return for an additional year of schooling. The Ministry cited the incomplete or, in some cases, nonexistent education during the previous year due to the war, making this final year essential for those wishing to pursue careers within the Ministry.
In response to significant public backlash last month, the Ministry agreed to house the returning students separately from Hogwarts, with plans to lodge them in Hogsmeade for the school year. A deal was struck with a local hotel owner, securing the building for the full term. While 45 students were mandated to return, only 19 have committed to finishing their education. It remains unclear whether the remaining 26 will be considered graduates or dropouts.
The decision to house the 8th years in Hogsmeade came after public outcry when the Ministry’s mandate was first announced. One parent, whose child is among the returning students, commented, “It’s ridiculous! My child is of age and has been through a bloody war, but now they need permission to go out on weekends like a first-year. The Ministry’s rules are utterly baffling.”
Another parent, whose child is an incoming first-year, expressed concern, “My eleven-year-old daughter is going to be living, sleeping, and hanging out around grown adults? How is that safe or appropriate? We don’t even know who’s returning! I don’t want my little girl forced to sleep just doors down from a former Death Eater!”
Given the many mixed reactions surrounding the Ministry’s decision, one can’t help but wonder: Will the fallen from grace, former Death Eater Draco Malfoy be among the 19 returning students? Stay tuned in the coming weeks to find out.
Article by Rita Skeeter.
Hermione straightened her robes, smoothing out the wrinkles with a practiced hand. She adjusted her posture, taking a deep breath.
One year.
Just one more year.
The thought lingered in her mind, but it didn’t feel like reality. The weight of everything she had gone through pressed down on her as she stepped out of the floo, the familiar warmth of the hearth fading as the cool air of Hogsmeade hit her.
Her boots clicked sharply against the cobbled streets, each step making it feel more real. She looked around, taking in the sights of the village, which still carried traces of the war. The rebuilt shops, the dust still lingering on the edges of the buildings.
The last time she had been here, she’d met Aberforth Dumbledore in the Hog’s Head. A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She briefly wondered if she should stop by the pub and say hello—But the thought faded quickly. What would she say?
Turning back toward the floo, she paused. She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of the moment, or the growing tension in the pit of her stomach, but something about the stillness unsettled her. She waited for her friends, knowing they’d all be feeling the same.
Shortly, Harry, Ron, and Ginny emerged from the floo, one after the other. They stood there, silent, each of them looking equally unsure of their place here.
Not one of them uttered a word.
They all felt it.
Why are we back here?
It’s not fair.
Fuck this.
The four of them walked together toward their new home for the year. Ginny had been granted special permission by the newly appointed Headmistress McGonagall to stay with them in Hogsmeade. Hermione suspected it was due to McGonagall’s soft spot for them, but she was thankful all the same. Hermione and Ginny fell a bit ahead of the group, the air between them all heavier than it had ever been before.
Hermione couldn’t help but think of the last month—of her breakup with Ron. It felt like pressing on a bruise. He’d been the one to suggest they stay friends, after things fizzled out between them. For three weeks after the war, they’d been wrapped up in each other, but then slowly, day by day, the spark just… dimmed. She had loved him for so long, spent years pining for him, and now it felt like she had lost him in the most ordinary way possible. What hurt more? That they didn’t work out, or that Ron didn’t seem to care?
Harry and Ginny had broken up even earlier. When the adrenaline from the war finally wore off, so did their feelings. They parted on decent terms, where Ron was emotionally distant, Harry had always been the one to lay his feelings out in the open. Hermione bitterly wished that Harry’s emotional maturity had rubbed off on Ron. Harry and Ginny had spent hours talking things through, trying to decide if they should stay together. When they finally split, it had been tough for both of them to go back to being “just friends,” because, if they were honest, they’d never really been friends at all. Their entire friendship had been built on the alternating phases of liking each other, but neither of them really understood what true friendship meant.
The rest of the summer after her breakup with Ron had been spent with Ginny. The two of them would sneak away from the Burrow, disappearing into Muggle London for a night of drinking and dancing, temporarily drowning out the heartache. During that time, Hermione had learned three things:
- Sex could actually be pleasurable.
- She loved to drink—maybe a little too much.
- She wouldn’t be sad forever.
A small, bitter smile tugged at her lips. Nearly three months had passed since the war ended, and yet, here they were—being shoved back into Hogwarts as though nothing had happened. It felt unreal. How could everything go back to normal when so much had been lost?
At least they didn’t have to stay in the castle. She didn’t have to step inside yet. That was a problem for later, she told herself. She’d cross that bridge tonight.
They approached their new home—a tall, three-story building. The windows on the top two floors had a reflective, almost mirror-like quality to them. She wondered if they were charmed, or if they were like the ones in the fancy Muggle hotels she’d seen before. That would mean the bottom floor was just a lobby. The thought nagged at her—would there be staff? House-elves? Would she and the other students be living in some sort of glorified apartment? They hadn’t been told much about their return, just given an address and a list of the materials required for their final year.
Hermione turned to the others. “You guys ready?”
No one responded, but it didn’t matter. Their silence said everything she needed to know. There was no excitement, no enthusiasm—only a shared weight they all carried in silence. They had no choice but to walk forward, even if none of them knew exactly what was ahead.
With a deep breath, Hermione reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
The lobby was unexpectedly welcoming, a stark contrast to the sterile and imposing atmosphere Hermione had imagined the Ministry would impose. The walls were painted a soft, warm beige, charmed to subtly shift with the light throughout the day, giving the illusion of sunlight even when none came through the windows. The wooden floors gleamed softly, sturdy yet inviting, and the faint scent of polished oak mixed with something faintly spiced—perhaps a touch of cinnamon—lingered in the air.
A large fireplace dominated the far end of the room, its mantel carved with delicate magical motifs: swirling vines and enchanted flowers that faintly glimmered. The fire crackled gently, radiating a steady warmth, its golden flames flickering as if alive. Around it, several comfortable chairs and sofas were arranged in small groups, upholstered in muted tones of green, navy, and gray. A few magical knickknacks sat on nearby tables—a brass hourglass whose sand rotated midair, a magical chess set frozen mid-match, and a self-updating Daily Prophet folded neatly on one corner.
To the left, Hermione’s eyes landed on a doorway leading to the common kitchen and dining area. The kitchen had a timeless charm, with sturdy wooden cabinets that looked lovingly restored, their brass handles gleaming. A long dining table took up much of the room, its surface free of clutter except for a vase of enchanted flowers. The chairs, though mismatched, were sturdy and looked as though they’d been transfigured to add a personal touch. Overhead, a soft glow emanated from simple sconces along the walls, bathing the room in an even, soothing light.
The spiral staircase ahead wound upward to the second and third floors, where the rooms presumably were. Its wrought iron banister had a simple elegance, its charm apparent in its smooth polish and firm structure, likely reinforced to withstand the students’ wear and tear. Above the stairs hung a framed portrait of a pastoral scene—perhaps borrowed from the Ministry’s archives—that shifted lazily between night and day.
Hermione stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her. The space was warm—welcoming, even—but it felt off in a way she couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t Hogwarts, and no matter how much effort the Ministry had put into this place, it never would be.
The others trailed in behind her, their steps slow, almost reluctant. Harry glanced around, his eyes lingering on the flickering fire in the far corner. Ron shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders tense, while Ginny’s gaze darted toward the kitchen, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Hermione barely noticed any of it. Her entire body felt coiled tight, every muscle locked as if she were bracing for an attack. This place—this mockery of a home—was supposed to be their fresh start? It was warm, well-kept, even comfortable , but all she could see was a gilded cage. A Ministry-mandated, patronizing attempt at normalcy.
She let out a sharp breath through her nose, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. “This is ridiculous ,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the uneasy silence. “We shouldn’t have to be here. We fought, we won, and now they’re forcing us to go back, like—like we didn’t already give them enough .”
Ron let out a low whistle, rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the space. “Dunno, could be worse,” he said, completely missing—or ignoring—the fury rolling off her in waves. “I mean, look at this place. It’s not exactly a dingy old dormitory, is it?” He gestured vaguely around them. “Got a fireplace, big couches, actual space to breathe. Could be stuck at Hogwarts with the first-years.”
Ginny hummed in agreement, stepping toward the kitchen and peeking inside. “Yeah, this is way better than I thought it’d be.” She let her fingers trail along the countertop, inspecting the polished wood. “They actually put some effort into it. I was expecting stone walls and rickety furniture, but this is…” She glanced back at them, one shoulder lifting. “It’s nice.”
Hermione whipped around, her glare scorching. “Oh, is that supposed to make this better ?” she demanded, her voice sharp enough to make Ron take a step back. “Who cares if the furniture is nice? Or if the kitchen has bloody countertops ? None of this should be happening in the first place!”
Harry exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Hermione—”
“No.” She shook her head, jaw tight. “I refuse to just—just accept this. It’s insulting. Like we haven’t already sacrificed enough. Like it wasn’t our friends that died, like it wasn’t us who had to—” Her breath hitched, but she forced the words out anyway. “Like we don’t still wake up every bloody night seeing the war play out behind our eyelids.”
A tense silence followed.
Ginny’s expression flickered with something unreadable before she sighed, rubbing at her temples. “Look, I get it. I do. But getting worked up over something we can’t change isn’t going to help.” She gestured toward the open staircase leading to their rooms. “They’re giving us this instead of shoving us back into the castle. It’s not what we want, but at least we’re not being treated like kids.”
Ron flopped onto the couch with a groan, tipping his head back against the cushions. “Yeah, at least there’s no curfew. Could’ve been worse.”
Hermione felt something in her snap .
Her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms, grounding her in her anger. “Could’ve been worse ?” she echoed, voice a dangerous whisper. “Could’ve been worse?” She stalked toward Ron, her expression thunderous. “You think this is just about curfews and furniture? About whether or not the Ministry is babying us?”
Ron frowned, sitting up straighter. “Mione—”
“They’re controlling us,” she seethed. “We didn’t get a choice . They decided for us—just like they always do. They decided we needed one more year , as if we didn’t already lose the last one fighting for our lives.” She exhaled sharply, eyes burning. “So no, Ronald, I don’t bloody care if the sofas are comfortable. This place is a cage.”
The room fell into another silence, heavier this time.
Harry was the first to move, stepping toward her slowly. “You’re right,” he admitted, voice steady. “It’s not fair. And I hate that we didn’t get a choice. But we’re here now . There’s nothing we can do except get through it.”
Hermione swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She knew Harry was right. It didn’t make the anger go away.
Ginny hesitated, then stepped closer, her voice softer. “We can’t change it, Hermione. And being pissed off every second of every day is only going to make it harder.”
Hermione stared at them, her breathing uneven. For a moment, she thought about pushing the argument further, about making them understand just how wrong all of this was—but she didn’t. She just pressed her lips into a thin line, exhaling sharply through her nose.
“Fine,” she bit out, the word barely more than a whisper. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Ron let out a low whistle once she was out of earshot. “She’s really not handling this well, is she?”
Harry sighed. “None of us are.”
Ginny shook her head, casting a glance toward the staircase where Hermione had disappeared. “Yeah, but…” She trailed off, voice heavy with meaning. “She’s handling it worse.”
No one argued.
They followed Hermione up the stairs. The old wood groaned beneath their feet. On the first-floor landing, a long hallway stretched out before them. In stark contrast to Hogwarts’ dormitories, each room was marked by a polished brass nameplate.
Harry let out a breath, his voice unsteady in the hush. “Well… looks like they’ve assigned us rooms.”
They inched forward. The polished lanterns overhead cast long, flickering shadows across the doors.
Harry Potter
Harry stared at his name and shrugged. “And I guess they just can’t resist sticking me front and center.”
Across from him: Ronald Weasley
Ron let out a dry chuckle, nudging Harry with his elbow. “Brilliant. No escape from you, then.”
Harry snorted. “You wish you could escape me.”
Hermione ignored them, her gaze moving to the next names.
Seamus Finnegan.
Across from him—
Dean Thomas.
Ginny sucked in a breath beside her, her fingers twitching slightly. She stared at Dean’s nameplate for a second too long before rolling her shoulders back. “Huh,” she murmured. “That’s… interesting.”
Hermione didn’t comment.
Blaise Zabini.
Ron made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, brilliant ,” he muttered. “We’ve got a bloody Slytherin already.”
Hermione shot him a glare. “Don’t start, Ron.”
Across from Blaise—
Pansy Parkinson.
Ginny let out a sharp laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. “Well, at least they’re consistent.”
Ron swore under his breath. “If I have to deal with Parkinson’s shrill voice all year, I’m going to hex my own ears off.”
Hermione barely heard him. She was already scanning for the next names.
Tracey Davis across from Zacharias Smith.
Mandy Brocklehurst across from Hannah Abbott.
Neither set of names stirred up much emotion—just more proof that everyone, from the timid Hufflepuffs to the snide Slytherins, had no choice but to return if they wanted to secure a future. It was infuriating. Why did they have to fight so hard, only to be dumped back into school as if none of it had happened?
As they reached the final door on the floor, Hermione was already feeling suffocated. She could hear Ron muttering under his breath, Ginny exhaling sharply through her nose, but she ignored them, pushing forward to the staircase leading to the topmost level.
The second the four of them stepped onto the landing, an almost tangible weight settled around them. The floor looked identical to the one below—identical doors, identical lanterns, identical suffocating sense of control.
Neville Longbottom.
Ron exhaled, rolling his shoulders like the tension had finally let go. “At least one bloody thing is right in the world,” he muttered, some of the tightness leaving his posture.
Across from Neville—Michael Corner.
Next—Parvati Patil.
And across—Padma Patil.
Hermione’s stomach twisted as they moved further down the hall. The names blurred together, but none of them were hers. That awful feeling settled in her chest, low and burning.
Susan Bones.
Opposite—Theodore Nott.
Ginny pressed her palm against the wall, blinking like she was trying to ground herself. “Nott?” she muttered under her breath, voice tight. “We’re really collecting all of them, aren’t we?”
Ron scoffed. “At this point, they should’ve just stuck a bloody Dark Mark on the front door and been done with it.”
Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t respond, because her eyes had already locked onto the next door.
Draco Malfoy.
The letters stared back at her, smooth and polished, etched into brass like a taunt.
Her stomach dropped.
Her breath hitched, but she forced it out in a slow, measured exhale, clenching her jaw so tightly it ached.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
She’d spoken at his trial. She’d defended him . But seeing his name here, in her space , in a place where they would have to live —it was like being blindsided with a memory she hadn’t been prepared to face.
Ron swore, stepping back like the door itself might curse him. “Oh, this is bollocks .”
Across from Malfoy—Daphne Greengrass.
Ginny gave a hollow, humorless laugh. “Slytherin Reunion, apparently,” she muttered. “Merlin forbid we get a break .”
Hermione couldn’t breathe. There were only two doors left.
She forced her feet forward.
Ginerva Weasley.
Ginny let out a sharp exhale, staring at her nameplate. “Brilliant. Just brilliant . You think McGonagall will let us swap? Or are we just meant to suffer?”
No one answered.
There was only one door left.
Hermione turned her head slowly, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears.
Hermione Granger.
Right next to Malfoy.
A thin strip of wood was all that separated them.
She inhaled sharply, but it felt like her lungs weren’t working properly. A cold, sick feeling crawled under her skin, and she hated it— hated that she was even reacting at all.
Ron shook his head, his voice thick with anger. “This is rubbish. You shouldn’t have to live next to him .”
Hermione’s throat was tight. “It’s just a wall,” she said, the words forced, empty.
Ron let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, right . Just a wall . That’ll really help when you wake up to the sound of him plotting his next move .”
Ginny shot him a glare. “He’s not a Death Eater anymore, Ron. Enough .”
Ron scoffed. “Yeah? Tell that to the people who didn’t get to come back.”
The silence after that was suffocating.
Ginny turned to Hermione, voice softer now. “Are you okay?”
Hermione blinked at the nameplate again, feeling something bitter settle deep in her chest. “No,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t matter.”
Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. “We’ll talk to McGonagall tomorrow. See if there’s a way to move things around.”
Hermione let out a hollow chuckle. “You really think this wasn’t deliberate?”
Harry didn’t answer. Because they all knew .
This was calculated.
The Ministry wanted them forced together—to learn, to cooperate, to deal with it.
Ginny exhaled, crossing her arms. “This year is going to be hell, isn’t it?”
It was some time before Hermione reemerged.
She had taken in her room with a single glance, unimpressed, before collapsing onto the bed and staring at the ceiling.
The old Hermione would have unpacked, carefully organizing her books and supplies. She would have decorated, made lists, maybe even started reading ahead for her new classes. She would have taken comfort in doing .
She would have planned a back-to-school party to help everyone settle in, to make this feel like something worth celebrating.
The new Hermione couldn’t care less.
And she hated that.
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away as fast as it fell.
She needed to get it together. She knew she did. But how? How was she supposed to walk back into Hogwarts in a matter of hours without her knees giving out? Without her lungs seizing at the memories she had buried deep but never far enough?
She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Didn’t want to think about what she should be doing, how she should be acting.
She was exhausted. And she had only been back for less than an hour.
Sighing, she dragged herself off the bed and crossed to her bags, rummaging through until she found exactly what she was looking for—her relief .
An unopened bottle of firewhiskey.
She cracked the seal, raised it in a silent toast to no one , and took a long, well-deserved sip.
The warmth burned down her throat, settling deep in her stomach.
Moving to the window, she leaned against the frame, gazing down at the streets of Hogsmeade. The village was as familiar as it was foreign. Life had gone on here while hers had stopped and restarted as something unrecognizable.
Then—movement.
A streak of white caught her eye.
Malfoy.
He sauntered up the path, flanked by Zabini and Nott, all three of them looking obnoxiously normal.
Hermione’s grip tightened around the bottle.
Not fair .
Especially not fair, remembering how they had looked at their trials—stripped of arrogance, of certainty, of the security they had always worn like armor.
Was this hypocritical of her after scolding Ron all summer about judging Slytherins unfairly?
Yes.
Did she care?
Not in the slightest.
If Malfoy thought he could just exist here, waltz back into this new, manufactured normal without a care, he had another thing coming.
She was done chasing good marks, done being the perfect Muggle-born witch, done pretending that anything about this year was acceptable.
No.
Her new goal?
Make him miserable. Make him regret coming back.
And she’d start now.
Testing out whether the windows were one-way, she lifted her free hand and flipped them off, making an absolute spectacle of it. She waved her fingers back and forth, slow and deliberate, daring them to look up.
They stopped, just as she and her friends had earlier, assessing their new home.
Malfoy’s gaze traveled up, his sharp eyes squinting slightly in her direction.
Shit.
Could he actually see her?
Hermione’s grip on the bottle tightened. Then, with no hesitation, she raised it in a mock toast and took another drink.
Fuck you, Malfoy.
She watched as the three of them exchanged a few words before turning toward the entrance.
A dangerous thought slithered into her mind.
Should she go down and greet them?
The firewhiskey—warm, insistent, emboldening —supplied the answer.
Yes.