Wickedly Yours, The Secret Keeper

Hermione wasn’t storming downstairs. That would imply she was angry .

She wasn’t sneaking, either. That would imply she cared about being caught.

No, she walked with the deliberate, measured grace of someone who absolutely had not just taken a very necessary sip (or three) of firewhiskey to take the edge off.

Her fingers trailed lightly along the staircase railing, heartbeat steady, expression carefully schooled.

She wasn’t here to start a fight.

She just… needed to see .

To confirm, with her own eyes, that Draco Malfoy was really waltzing back into their world like he hadn’t lost a damn thing.

Like he wasn’t just as wrecked as the rest of them.

Because if he was? If he had somehow managed to move on—to dust himself off and step into this new, fractured reality without feeling the weight of it dragging him under—then what did that mean for her?

For the rest of them?

That wasn’t fair.

And Hermione hated unfairness.

So fine. Maybe she was being petty. Maybe she just needed to poke at the edges of whatever fragile foundation Malfoy had built for himself.

Just a little.

She reached the bottom step just as the three of them came into view—Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott, spread out in the common area like they owned it.

She let the silence stretch before finally speaking.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come back.”

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Nott raised a brow. Zabini looked amused. Malfoy—Malfoy barely reacted at all.

His gaze flicked over her once, slow and unimpressed, before he leaned back against the sofa like she wasn’t worth the effort.

“Lucky me,” he said flatly. “You’re still here to be disappointed.”

Hermione huffed a quiet breath, crossing her arms. “I just didn’t expect you to come back, that’s all.”

Malfoy arched a brow.

She shrugged, tilting her head slightly. “It’s just… you don’t exactly seem the type to return somewhere that doesn’t want you.”

His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on the arm of the chair.

Then—his expression smoothed, voice quiet, sharp as a knife.

“Oh, I don’t know, Granger. Was it hard for you? Knowing the war is over and no one actually needs you anymore?”

Silence.

Hermione forced her expression to stay neutral, but her stomach twisted violently.

Malfoy’s lips barely ticked up at the edges.

There it was. That sharp, deliberate cruelty, disguised as apathy. That was the Malfoy she remembered.

It should have infuriated her.

But instead, it did something worse.

It confirmed something.

He was still bitter, still vicious, still cutting people down before they had a chance to do it to him first.

And for some reason, that made it easier.

She let out a slow breath, steadied herself, then gave him a look that was neither angry nor impressed. Just tired.

“Right,” she said simply. “Good to see you haven’t changed.”

She turned, then glanced at Zabini and Nott. “See you around.”

Zabini smirked. “Looking forward to it, Granger.”

Nott tipped his head slightly, something almost like amusement flickering in his expression.

She hesitated for half a second, then walked away. 

Hermione climbed the stairs, her steps even, her thoughts still tangled in the conversation she’d just had.

Malfoy hadn’t surprised her.

Not really.

He was still sharp-edged and cruel, but she had been the one to approach him. She had expected something—maybe not exactly what he had said, but she knew he wouldn’t make it easy.

And that was fine.

It meant she didn’t have to second-guess herself.

She pushed open her door, only to find Ginny already waiting, sprawled across her bed like she’d been there all night, lazily flipping through one of Hermione’s books.

Without looking up, Ginny muttered, “So… should I be concerned?”

Hermione blinked, stepping inside. “About what?”

Ginny finally looked up, her eyes sharp and knowing. “About whatever just happened downstairs.”

Hermione sighed, closing the door behind her. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Ginny snorted. “Right. That’s why you look like you need a five-hour nap and a Calming Draught.”

Hermione sighed and sat down on the bed beside her, stretching her legs out. “It wasn’t a fight.”

Ginny arched a brow. “But it wasn’t nothing, either.”

Hermione hesitated.

She didn’t know how to explain it.

So instead, she just said, “I don’t know what I expected.”

Ginny watched her, waiting.

Hermione exhaled, fingers drumming idly against her knee. “I just… wanted to see if anything was different.”

Ginny tilted her head. “And?”

Hermione gave a small, humorless smile. “It’s not.”

Ginny studied her for a moment, then rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”

Ginny shrugged. “If Malfoy had come back acting like a halfway decent person, you’d have to rethink a lot of things. Now you don’t have to.”

Hermione scoffed. “That’s a very simple way to look at it.”

Ginny smirked. “I like things simple.”

Hermione sighed and let her head fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Ginny nudged her with her foot. “So, are you planning to do this again, or was this a one-time experiment in Slytherin sociology?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away.

Because she wasn’t sure.

Finally, she settled on, “I guess that depends.”

Ginny didn’t push further.

And for that, Hermione was grateful.

Instead, Ginny huffed a laugh, shutting the book she’d been flipping through and sitting up. “Alright, before you get too comfortable, let’s get this disaster sorted, yeah?”

She waved a hand at Hermione’s half-unpacked trunk, where books, robes, and miscellaneous belongings were still crammed haphazardly inside. “Because you’ve clearly made zero effort.”

Hermione groaned but sat up. “I was going to.”

“Sure,” Ginny said, hopping off the bed and crouching beside the trunk. “That’s why you’ve been here for hours, and it still looks like you just arrived.”

Hermione huffed but didn’t argue, instead grabbing a handful of books and levitating them toward the bookshelf. Ginny, in the meantime, pulled out a bundle of neatly folded robes and immediately tossed them onto Hermione’s bed.

“Really?” Hermione frowned. “I just folded those this morning.”

Ginny waved a dismissive hand. “And now you can fold them again. This is what you get for letting your trunk fester.”

Hermione muttered something under her breath but kept unpacking. Ginny helped in her own way—by digging through Hermione’s belongings and making commentary on everything she pulled out.

“Do you actually need this many quills?” Ginny asked, holding up a bundle of at least twenty.

“Yes,” Hermione replied flatly.

Ginny rolled her eyes and kept going, pulling out Hermione’s carefully wrapped toiletries. “At least tell me you packed something fun,” she said, rifling through Hermione’s things. “Or am I going to find nothing but extra ink bottles and emergency parchment?”

Hermione gave her a pointed look. “This is why you weren’t allowed to help me pack.”

Ginny grinned unapologetically, tossing a scarf onto Hermione’s desk before pulling out her school uniform. She held up the neatly pressed blouse and skirt with an unimpressed expression.

“Alright, let’s talk about this.”

Hermione arched a brow. “What about it?”

Ginny gave her a look. “Come on, Mione. You’ve been wearing your uniform the exact same way since you were twelve—perfectly crisp, tie done properly, everything in place.” She tilted her head. “New year, new you, maybe?”

Hermione scoffed. “It’s a uniform, Ginny.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Yeah, doesn’t mean you need to look like a Ministry intern.” She dangled Hermione’s tie between her fingers. “Just saying, you could loosen up a little. You sure did this summer.”

“Hogwarts is not a club, no.”

Ginny blinked. “Just like that? No?”

Hermione folded her arms. “I don’t care about how my uniform looks. It’s practical, and I like it that way.”

Ginny groaned. “Oh, Mione—”

“No.”

Ginny sighed dramatically, tossing the tie onto the bed. “Fine. But one day, you’re going to realize I was right about this.”

Hermione smirked. “Unlikely.”

Ginny shook her head, muttering about lost causes, before turning her attention back to the trunk. “Alright, alright, I’ll drop it. But let’s at least make sure you don’t walk into the feast looking like you just crawled out of the library.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but let Ginny tug her toward the mirror to fix her hair, smoothing out her uniform just slightly. Not enough to be a real change—just enough to be presentable.

Ginny stepped back, crossing her arms. “See? Even a tiny bit of effort makes a difference.”

Hermione huffed but gave herself one last glance in the mirror. It wasn’t anything dramatic. But somehow… it still felt like something.

Ginny grinned. “Now you’re ready for the feast.”

By the time Hermione and Ginny reached the common area, most of the Gryffindors were already downstairs, the room filled with casual chatter and laughter.

It was suffocating.

Not because it was loud—because it was normal.

As if the war hadn’t happened. As if things hadn’t shattered beyond repair.

Hermione felt like a stranger in her own life.

She spotted Harry, Ron, and Neville near the fireplace with Dean and Seamus. They were deep in conversation, relaxed, settled—like coming back to Hogwarts was easy.

She hated them for it.

Not really. But a small, bitter part of her did.

Neville was the first to notice them, breaking into a warm smile. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”

Ginny grinned, slipping onto the couch beside him. “You know me—always fashionably late.”

Hermione hesitated a second too long before sitting.

It wasn’t noticeable. Or at least, she told herself it wasn’t.

Dean smirked. “Didn’t think we’d see you before the feast, to be honest.”

Hermione forced a small laugh. “Well, I didn’t want you lot to starve without me.”

Seamus snorted. “What, did you pack snacks? Or just pocketed some Ministry funds to bribe the elves?”

Hermione smirked on reflex, but the joke felt distant, like something from another life. “Unfortunately, corruption isn’t included in my resume.”

Dean nudged Seamus. “Don’t believe her. She probably has the whole kitchen staff wrapped around her finger.”

“I don’t bribe them,” Hermione corrected automatically. “I just—” She caught herself. The sentence would have been too much, too real. She quickly adjusted. “I just believe in fair wages.”

It landed.

Seamus grinned. “There she is. Thought we lost you for a second.”

Hermione smiled—small, controlled, like it had been practiced in a mirror.

She knew how to blend in.

She let her gaze drift—just for a second—toward the common room windows. The light was starting to shift outside. It wouldn’t be long before they had to head down.

She should have been hungry.

Instead, her stomach felt tight, unsettled.

Neville leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, how bad do you think the feast is going to be?”

“Depends,” Ron muttered. “On if they force us to sit with them.”

Hermione closed her eyes for half a second before answering. “McGonagall isn’t an idiot. She knows that would be a disaster.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Ron grumbled.

Ginny arched a brow. “You sound personally offended at the idea of assigned seating.”

“I am personally offended,” Ron shot back. “We shouldn’t even be sharing a space with them, let alone a bloody meal.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ron, enough.”

Ron scoffed. “Oh, right. Sorry. Wouldn’t want to offend your precious Malfoy.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I—”

“Oh, spare me,” Ron snapped. “You both ran to testify for him. Like he was some helpless victim. Like he wasn’t one of the bastards making our lives hell.”

Hermione’s fingers clenched in her lap. “It wasn’t about—”

“He doesn’t deserve to be here,” Ron interrupted. “And the rest of them sure as hell don’t either.”

Dean and Seamus exchanged glances, wisely staying out of it.

Neville cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well. I, for one, hope the food’s good.”

Seamus snorted. “Brilliant deflection, mate.”

Ron’s scowl deepened, but before he could snap again, Harry rubbed his temples.

“What do you want us to do, Ron?” he asked, his voice controlled, tired. “Refuse to go to the feast? Flip the tables when they walk in?”

Ron gestured wildly. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. Maybe just not act like this is fine?”

Harry let out a sharp breath. “It’s not fine. But it’s what’s happening.”

Ron’s eyes flicked toward Hermione. “Right. And Hermione’s just perfectly okay with it, yeah?”

Hermione stiffened, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve.

“Ron, drop it,” Ginny said, her voice dipping into warning.

“Why? Because it’s uncomfortable?” Ron’s stare didn’t waver. “Because maybe, just maybe, Hermione doesn’t want to admit she made a mistake?”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

She inhaled, slow, deliberate. “I didn’t—”

Ron scoffed. “Oh, come on, Hermione. If you really thought Malfoy deserved to be here, you wouldn’t be sitting there like you’re about to be sick.”

Her jaw locked.

She didn’t trust herself to speak.

Ginny’s voice was cold now. “Enough, Ron.”

Ron’s nostrils flared. “I just don’t get how you can look at them and not see it.”

Hermione did see it.

She saw every memory. Every fight. Every spell cast in her direction.

She saw Bellatrix’s face. The walls of Malfoy Manor.

The blood on her hands.

Her own breathing felt too loud.

Ron shook his head. “Forget it.”

Seamus, sensing the tension boiling over, cleared his throat. “Wow, what a fun, lighthearted chat we’re having.”

Dean nodded. “Truly uplifting.”

Ron grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t push any further.

Hermione exhaled slowly, loosening her grip on her sleeve.

For a moment, it seemed like the conversation was shifting—like they might actually let it go.

Then—

The air changed.

Not silence.

But awareness.

A ripple through the room, a collective tension, like everyone had just sensed something unwelcome enter the space.

Hermione knew before she looked.

She felt it.

Because of course they’d show up now.

She lifted her gaze—

And there they were.

They descended the stairs like they owned the room.

Malfoy led the way—head high, steps slow, expression carefully neutral. If he felt the weight of every single glare, every single whisper, he didn’t show it.

Behind him, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini.

Nott, hands tucked in his pockets, carried a lazy kind of amusement, as if the entire situation was entertaining to him.

Zabini’s smirk was sharper—mocking, expectant, like he was already waiting for the fight to start.

And then Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis.

Parkinson’s eyes scanned the room, smirk firmly in place, but there was something calculating behind it. Like she was measuring her steps, waiting for an opportunity.

Greengrass followed at her side, calm, unreadable, but steady. Her gaze flicked over the common room, assessing rather than engaging.

Davis, trailing just behind them, looked like she had already checked out.

The moment stretched.

No one spoke.

The tension was a living thing.

Then—

Ron broke first.

He let out a quiet scoff, shifting his weight. “And here I was hoping I’d make it one day without seeing your face.”

Malfoy’s expression didn’t change.

But something in his gaze hardened.

“Then maybe you should try keeping your head down for once,” he murmured. “But I suppose that’s never been your strong suit, has it?”

Ron’s jaw flexed. “Neither has running.”

A flicker of something dark crossed Malfoy’s face, but it was gone just as quickly.

Nott exhaled a quiet laugh. “Alright, we’re doing this, then.”

Zabini smirked. “Like they could ever resist.”

Ron barely spared them a glance. His focus was locked on Malfoy.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said simply.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked over him, unimpressed. “And yet, here I am.”

Ron stepped closer. “Not for long.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “Are you threatening me, Weasley?”

Ron’s voice was low, steady. “Take it however you want.”

For the first time, Malfoy truly looked at him. Measured him. And then—He smirked. “How predictable.”

Ron’s fists curled at his sides.

And that was when Malfoy’s gaze shifted. To Hermione. And his smirk deepened.

“Though, to be fair,” he murmured, “not everyone in your little group seems so resistant to change.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened.

Ron’s head snapped toward her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy tilted his head slightly, smirk sharp and calculated. “Just that Granger wasn’t nearly as hostile as I expected. Almost... civil.”

Zabini hummed. “Dare I say… pleasant?”

Nott smirked. “Practically chummy.”

Ron’s scowl deepened, his glare burning into Hermione. “Tell me they’re full of shite.”

Hermione’s patience snapped.

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Ron. If you’re looking for a reason to start something, find a better one.”

Ron scoffed. “So you’re not denying it?”

Zabini let out a low whistle. “Sounds like she’s not denying it.”

Nott nodded thoughtfully. “No hexes. No shouting. Just casual conversation. What a warm welcome.”

Ron’s hands curled into fists. “You think this is funny?”

Malfoy sighed dramatically,  “Feels a little funny.”

Ron turned back to Hermione, furious. “Mione—”

She held up a hand, done with this entire conversation.

Ron let out a sharp breath through his nose. “I’d rather you not act like they belong here.”

Malfoy’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it curled at the edges, lazy and sharp. “And who gets to decide that, Weasley? You?”

Ron’s glare darkened. “I don’t need to. Everyone already knows exactly what you are.”

Malfoy tilted his head, studying him. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

Ron took a step forward, too close now. “Say that again.”

Malfoy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his smirk shifted—just barely. Enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I asked,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate, “when did you start deciding who belongs? Because last I checked, you were always just the extra.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched—just barely—toward his wand.

Malfoy’s gaze flicked downward. Slow. Intentional. Then back up.

Unimpressed.

“Go on, Weasley.”

The air thickened, tension humming like a live wire between them.

Malfoy didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Ron’s fists curled tight at his sides.

Then—

“Enough.”

Greengrass’s voice cut through the air like a blade—calm, level, immovable.

Not a plea. 

A verdict. 

Malfoy’s smirk lingered, but his posture shifted—relaxed, unaffected.

Zabini tilted his head. “And here I thought we were just getting started.”

Malfoy gave Hermione one last glance, unreadable, steady. Then, with the same unbothered grace he’d arrived with, he turned away.

Nott let out a lazy sigh. “Well, that was fun. Same time tomorrow?”

Zabini grinned. “Might not have to wait that long.”

Pansy dusted off her sleeve. “Come on. I’d rather suffer through dinner than waste another minute here.”

And just like that—

The Slytherins left first.

Hogwarts loomed ahead, its towering silhouette cutting against the evening sky like something alive, watching, waiting.

The castle had never felt like this before.

Not in first year, when she’d stepped through its doors thrumming with excitement.

Not in third year, when Dementors had darkened its edges.

Not even in the war, when it had turned into a battlefield beneath her feet.

But now—now—it wasn’t just a school.

Now, it was something else entirely.

Something heavier.

Her boots hit the stone path too hard, fingers twitching at her sides. With each step, the castle seemed to grow, stretching upward, swallowing the sky.

The others were talking around her—It should have been grounding.

It wasn’t.

The gates opened.

Torchlight flickered in the distance.

And then it hit her.

Tight. Suffocating. Drowning.

Her breath stuttered.

Her steps slowed.

The ground felt wrong beneath her feet. Her chest locked up, her ribs refusing to expand. She clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms—breathe, just breathe, just—

She forced herself to move forward. Forced her feet over the threshold, through the entrance—

And then she stopped.

The Great Hall loomed just beyond.

The place where they had stacked the bodies.

The place where the war had ended.

The place where—

She wasn't ready.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, and forced her head up.

"You guys go ahead," she said, voice too tight, too thin. "I'll be right behind you."

Ginny hesitated. “Are you—”

"Go."

She didn’t wait for Ginny’s concern, or for Harry’s quiet glance of understanding. She just stood there, heart hammering, until the doors swallowed them whole.

And then—finally—she let herself break.

She staggered back toward the nearest stone wall, gripping the cool railing of the stairs, forcing herself to breathe.

The memories rushed in too fast, too raw, pressing against her ribs, crushing her lungs.

Her fingers trembled.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Just breathe.

But she couldn’t.

Not here.

Not—

A voice cut through the fog.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, Granger. Are you seriously doing this here?"

Her head snapped up.

Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his usual air of thinly veiled disdain twisting his features.

Of course.

Because the universe had a sick sense of humor.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, still gripping the railing. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Malfoy scoffed, stepping closer with slow, measured steps. Like a predator circling something weak.

“Oh, nothing, really,” he drawled. “Just wondering if you were planning to move at any point, or if you were planning to have your nervous breakdown right in front of the entrance like a complete spectacle.”

Her spine snapped straight, fury cutting through the static in her head. “Fuck off, Malfoy,” she bit out, voice still unsteady.

He arched a brow, gaze flicking over her—assessing, unimpressed. “Are you always this dramatic, or am I just lucky?”

Hermione hated him. Hated the ease, the indifference, the way he stood there like this was normal while she was barely keeping herself together. She forced her hands to steady. Forced her breathing to even.

Malfoy smirked slightly, like he could see her scrambling for control. “You Gryffindors are exhausting.”

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose. “Then stop talking to me.”

Malfoy gave an exaggerated sigh. “Trust me, Granger, I’d love nothing more.” He stepped past her toward the doors, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Try not to die before dinner, yeah? I’d hate for your friends to make a scene.” And with that, he was gone.

Hermione’s nails bit into her palms.

Her breathing had evened, the worst of it passing.

She hated that the first thing to cut through the suffocating panic had been him.

Hated that, for a brief second, irritation had been more effective than breathing exercises.

The cool evening air clung to her skin as she pressed her palms against the stone railing, grounding herself in the sensation. The tightness in her chest had dulled, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

She had to pull herself together.

With one last inhale—deep, controlled, fine—she straightened her shoulders and turned toward the Great Hall.

The second she stepped inside, the noise hit her all at once.

Laughter, conversation, the scrape of benches against stone—life moving on, as if the war had never happened.

She spotted them immediately. Her table.

Harry, Ginny, Ron, Neville, Dean, Seamus—her people. Their backs were turned as she approached, deep in conversation, Ron gesturing wildly while Ginny rolled her eyes.

She should have felt relieved.

Instead, something bitter curled at the edges of her thoughts.

They looked so normal.

As if none of them had hesitated at the doors. As if none of them had felt the weight of this place settle over them like a vice.

She was alone in this.

Her legs carried her forward before she could overthink it, slipping into the empty space beside Ginny.

“Finally,” Ron huffed, pausing mid-rant to glance at her. “What took you so long?”

Hermione picked up her goblet, aiming for casual, for fine. “I was getting some air.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes slightly.

She had known Hermione too long to buy the excuse entirely, but thankfully, she let it go.

Ron, on the other hand, had no such intuition.

Before anyone could pry further, the air around them shifted.

 A hush spread through the Great Hall like a ripple in water, conversation fading as heads turned toward the staff table.

Hermione felt it before she even looked up.

Professor McGonagall had risen from her seat, standing tall, her gaze sweeping over the room with a measured weight.

Hermione sat rigidly, her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet.

She could feel the tension settle between the eighth-years like a second skin.

The ones who had returned.

The ones who had nowhere else to go.

The ones who couldn’t move on, even if they wanted to.

McGonagall let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts."

Her voice was even, steady, but the words still hit like an ache in Hermione’s chest.

The younger students sat blissfully unaware, their bright, eager faces turned toward the Headmistress. They didn’t understand what it meant to be back here—not really.

Not the way she did.

"For many of you, this is simply another year," McGonagall continued. "For others, it is something else entirely."

Her eyes flickered—just briefly—toward the eighth-years.

Hermione saw the way Neville tensed beside her, his fingers tightening on the table’s edge. Across from her, Harry exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together.

McGonagall didn’t say it outright.

She didn’t have to.

They all felt it.

"This past year has tested us all," McGonagall said, her voice threading through the silence. "We have lost friends. Family. We have endured hardship, grief, and change. But Hogwarts remains. And so do we."

The candles flickered overhead.

Hermione’s stomach twisted painfully.

She gritted her teeth and stared down at her plate, her appetite gone.

This was all just… words.

Empty, rehearsed, pretending things could go back to the way they were.

But Hermione knew better than anyone—there was no going back.

"We move forward," McGonagall continued. "Not in forgetting, but in remembering. In honoring those we lost, and in choosing to continue."

Hermione barely heard the rest.

The words blurred at the edges, muffled by the roaring in her ears.

Move forward.

Like it was that simple.

Like it wasn’t a betrayal to step back into this castle, to sit at this table, to pretend that things weren’t fundamentally, irreversibly different.

How were they supposed to do this?

To sit here, to study, to live alongside people who had fought against them?

Who had chosen to leave?

Who had come back, acting like this was just another school year?

Her throat tightened.

It wasn’t fair.

None of this was fucking fair.

She dug her nails into her palm and forced herself to breathe, pressing her back against the bench, fighting the rising panic crawling under her skin.

Beside her, Ginny shifted, her knee nudging Hermione’s in a subtle, grounding motion.

Like she knew.

Hermione swallowed hard.

Focus.

Breathe.

Just get through the night.

McGonagall lifted her goblet, the movement drawing Hermione’s eyes up again.

"To Hogwarts."

A murmur of voices echoed her.

"To Hogwarts."

Hermione forced herself to lift her goblet, though she barely registered the movement.

Around her, the Great Hall came back to life—the clatter of plates, the bubbling of conversation—but Hermione remained tense, the words still echoing in her skull.

Move forward.

Her gaze flicked—without meaning to—toward the Slytherin table.

She caught platinum blond hair almost immediately.

Malfoy sat rigid, his goblet poised but untouched.

He looked…

Wrong.

Not smug. Not indifferent.

Just—adrift.

Hermione exhaled sharply, dragging herself back to reality.

Fine.

Let them pretend.

Let them all pretend that this was just another year, that this wasn’t a graveyard wearing a fresh coat of paint.

She’d play along.