Wickedly Yours, The Secret Keeper

A relentless pounding on her door yanked Hermione from sleep, the sharp thud-thud-thud rattling through her skull like a curse.

She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and yanking her pillow over her head.

“Go away.”

The banging did not go away.

“ Hermione Jean Granger , if you do not open this door right now, I will blast it off its bloody hinges!”

Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing herself up, the ache in her body protesting as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She barely had time to run a hand through her sleep-mussed curls before she stomped across the room and yanked the door open.

Ginny stood on the other side, eyes blazing, waving a piece of parchment so violently it was a miracle it hadn’t caught fire.

“Morning,” Hermione muttered, voice scratchy.

Ginny shoved the parchment into her face. “Read. This. Now.”

Hermione blinked, confused, but took the letter, scanning the words—

And froze.

Her stomach plummeted.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

She read it twice.

Then a third time.

Then—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she breathed.

 Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

You’d think Hermione Granger — War Hero Extraordinaire, brains behind the Golden Trio, and the witch we all counted on to have it together — would be immune to a few old castle walls. But rumor has it our dear Golden Girl recently had a rather tense moment right outside the Great Hall. And the best part? She wasn’t alone.

Enter Draco Malfoy — former Death Eater (certified ferret, if you ask some), who apparently found our Gryffindor princess while she was looking one breath away from a proper meltdown. Was he comforting her? Hardly. By the looks of things, there were no tender words or gallant gestures. Word on the cobbled streets says they exchanged heated glares and barbed remarks, just shy of a blowout duel.

Why would the Slytherin prince be lurking near Hogwarts’ brightest star at her most vulnerable? A chance encounter? A cruel twist of fate? Or something more… deliciously complicated?

One thing’s certain: for someone who hates to show any cracks in her armor, Granger seems to be slipping. And Malfoy — well, he’s watching closely. These two are circling each other like a pair of dueling dragons. Will sparks fly in a dangerous way, or might something else catch fire?

Stay vigilant, my dears. There’s more to this return-to-Hogwarts than meets the eye, and I’ll be here to capture every scorching moment.

Wickedly Yours,
The Secret Keeper 

Hermione’s grip tightened around the parchment. Her vision blurred with rage. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Ginny let out a low whistle from the doorway. “Yeeeep. Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

Hermione whipped her head up, practically spitting sparks. “Where did you get this?”

Ginny’s lips curled into a pained smirk. “Mione, every single eighth-year woke up to this. Outside every door, no name, no clue who wrote it. Just…this.” She plopped onto Hermione’s bed with an eye roll. “Congratulations. You’re officially the first victim.”

Hermione felt her stomach twist. “What?”

Ginny sighed dramatically. “People are already talking. And judging by the shouting I just heard downstairs…”

A new wave of raised voices and hissing accusations rattled the walls.

Ginny flicked her eyes toward the door.  That’d be them. Sounds like Ron found Malfoy.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Hermione took the steps two at a time, Ginny hot on her heels.

By the time they reached the common area, it was chaos. Ron stood in front of Malfoy, face livid, brandishing his own copy of the gossip column. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott lingered behind Malfoy, watching with obvious amusement.

“This your idea of a joke?” Ron snarled, thrusting the parchment under Malfoy’s nose.

Malfoy didn’t even flinch. “It’s hardly my idea, Weasley. If it were, I’d have found a more... literate approach.” His tone was pure contempt.

Ron bristled, taking a threatening half-step forward. “I’m two seconds away from—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hermione snapped, wedging herself between them. She planted a firm hand on Ron’s chest before he could do something he’d regret. “Ron, calm down.”

Malfoy’s gaze flicked to Hermione; the corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, if it isn’t the star of this morning’s little melodrama.”

Leaning lazily against the arm of a sofa, Zabini smirked at Hermione. “Heard you put on quite the show outside the Great Hall, Granger. Quivering hands, tears in your eyes… very moving.”

Nott nodded with mock solemnity. “Never pegged you as the meltdown type. You’re full of surprises.”

Hermione cut them both a lethal glare. “Oh, shut up.”

Ron, still fuming, jabbed a finger in Malfoy’s direction. “If you so much as breathed a word of that —”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Are you really this thick, Weasley? If I wanted to embarrass Granger, I wouldn’t hide behind some anonymous column. I’d do it myself.”

Ron looked fit to explode. “Why were you even near her in the first place?!”

Malfoy’s gaze turned ice-cold. “Don’t flatter yourselves. I don’t go out of my way to watch any of you, Weasley. It was a coincidence. If you can wrap your head around that.”

Ron let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “A coincidence? You expect me to buy that load of shite?” His voice crackled with fury as he closed the distance between them. “You’re like a damned vulture, Malfoy, circling for scraps. Any chance to make Hermione’s life worse, and there you are.”

Malfoy’s expression didn’t flicker—only the faint flare of his nostrils hinted at any reaction. “Oh, please,” he drawled, voice lethal. “You assume I care enough to schedule my day around your precious friend’s every stumble.”

She laid a firm hand on Ron’s shoulder. “They’re not worth this,” she muttered, loud enough for Malfoy to hear but pointed in Ron’s direction. “We have better things to do.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched in a contemptuous half-smile. “Do you, Granger? Because from here, it looks like your better things include nursing tantrums in your pajamas.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, mortification battling with anger. “We’re done here,” she said, lifting her chin. “Ron, let it go.”

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t. He glared daggers at Malfoy, a tremor in his hands. Then Harry stepped up, voice tight but controlled. “Mate. Come on.”

Ron swallowed hard, finally backing down. “Fine. This isn’t over,” he warned, pointing a shaking finger at Malfoy. “If I find out you had anything to do with that letter—”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Then what? You’ll hurl another pointless insult?” He flicked his gaze to Hermione. “Your dog’s on a short leash, Granger.”

Hermione bristled, but she forced herself to keep quiet. Ron looked ready to explode all over again, so she grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Stop talking, Malfoy,” she snapped, “before you regret it.”

A razor-edged tension hung in the air. No one moved. Then Ginny cleared her throat and tugged on Hermione’s sleeve. “We’re going to be late for class if we don’t get ready now.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

She forced a nod and let Ginny guide her out of the shared living area on the ground floor, moving toward the winding staircase that led to the third floor. Each step groaned beneath them, an uncomfortably loud reminder that this new “home” was something forced and temporary. If Hermione closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was anywhere else—somewhere that didn’t make her pulse flutter with dread. But the reality was inescapable. Hogwarts beckoned, and it felt like she was marching right back into the mouth of the past.

Once they reached her door, Hermione hesitated, casting a look at Ginny. The concern in Ginny’s eyes stung more than she’d ever admit. “I’ll be fine,” she lied, slipping inside.

The room was still a mess: robes half-folded, textbooks stacked haphazardly, and her trunk gaping open in the corner. She changed in perfunctory motions, tugging her uniform on like battle attire. Another deep breath, another attempt at composure. A quick rummage through her bag produced a small flask—the same one from yesterday. Her chest clenched. She knew better. But the anxiety twisted like a knife, refusing to let go. She wavered, fingers curled tight around the container.

Not now. Not yet. She shoved the flask back into her bag, threw it over her shoulder, and stepped out into the hallway, finding Ginny waiting there with muted worry.

They descended together, forced chatter from other students wafting up the stairwell. A few eighth-years bustled around the kitchen, swapping jokes about the day’s timetable, as if none of them had war-scorched memories still lodged behind their eyelids. Hermione caught a whiff of breakfast—eggs, toast, something sweet—and her stomach turned. She hadn’t felt properly hungry in months.

Outside, the autumn air bit at her cheeks. The sky was overcast, matching the tension that sat behind her ribcage. She walked quickly, as though speed alone could outrun the weight of returning to Hogwarts. Ginny matched her stride, slipping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and squeezing gently.

They found Harry, Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean waiting near the gate. Seamus was mid-rant about The Secret Keeper gossip column, and Neville looked torn between amusement and apprehension. The sound of their voices should have been comforting; instead, it felt like a reminder that some people still knew how to laugh.

“You’re missing out,” Seamus declared as Hermione and Ginny joined them. “I’m telling you, the next big scandal’s going to be me—gorgeous hero Seamus, undone by a torrid secret love affair.” He wriggled his eyebrows.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’d be lucky if The Secret Keeper bothered to give you half a line.”

Ron added, “What if the secret keeper was McGonagall?"

“McGonagall.” Seamus grinned. “Can you imagine? She’d sign every column ‘Minnie Mayhem.’”

Neville choked on a laugh. “You’re all completely mental.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair,  “It’s too early for this.”

Hermione tried to muster a sardonic comment, but found her throat too tight—today she felt like her composure was made of fragile glass. One wrong vibration and she’d shatter all over again.

Seamus was still going, though, apparently oblivious to Hermione’s discomfort. “So, new theory,” he announced. “What if it’s one of us in disguise? Taking sly potshots at our housemates for the drama?”

Dean snorted. “Hard pass. If it was Hermione, we’d be drowning in editorials about ethical house-elf wages and the wonders of advanced Arithmancy.”

Hermione summoned a weak smile. “Sounds like a real page-turner.”

“Hey, it’d be better than this rubbish they’re printing,” Ginny said, tone light but eyes flicking pointedly at Hermione. “At least the grammar would be correct.”

Their laughter drew out, carrying through the courtyard in a rare moment of shared warmth, but Hermione could still feel the jagged edge of her own anxiety, a constant pressure under her breastbone. Each step across the Hogwarts threshold brought new ghosts, new flickers of a war she couldn’t erase.

Ahead of them loomed the castle. The tall windows and stone arches used to fill her with awe. Now, they felt heavy with memory—bodies on the floor of the Great Hall, walls stained with soot and curses. The war was over, but the aftershocks still rattled her bones.

Angling her gaze away from the looming silhouette, Hermione clutched her bag tighter and forced her feet forward. Morning classes beckoned, and with them the expectation she’d open a parchment notebook and pretend she hadn’t spent the summer trying to drink herself into forgetting.

And just like that—it began.

Hermione didn’t need Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Not now. Not after she’d spent the better part of a year on the run, relying on every defensive spell she’d ever learned—and then some. She’d fought real battles, hurled curses that still echoed in her nightmares, survived encounters with Dark wizards that would turn this naive professor’s hair white.

And yet, in the grand cosmic joke that was her life, D.A.D.A stood as her very first class of the year.

A low hum of tension filled the classroom before the lesson even started. Gryffindors on one side, Slytherins on the other, the same old rift widened by fresh wounds from the war. Hermione took her usual seat near the front, arms crossed over her chest, forcing herself to appear calm despite the buzz of restlessness stirring behind her ribs.

She flicked a glance toward the board at the front:

Lesson: Dueling Techniques

The new professor paced along the front of the room, wearing a smile bright enough to power a Lumos charm. “After the recent conflicts,” he announced, “it is vital we learn to cooperate. Therefore, this year’s dueling practice will pair students from different houses—bridging old divides through practical teamwork.”

The side of the room packed with Slytherins immediately bristled. Hermione caught the gleam of platinum hair: Draco Malfoy, leaning back in his seat, arms folded, an air of smug boredom radiating off him. Their eyes met—just for a split second—and her stomach twisted with raw dislike. 

“As we begin,” the professor continued, “I’ll call out pairings.”

Hermione’s lips curled in distaste. She knew where this was going. One glance at Malfoy’s face told her he knew it too. Sure enough:

“Granger and Malfoy.”

A murmur rippled through the classroom, part shock, part fascination. It was the aftermath of the war condensed into two names—and a duel waiting to happen.

Hermione’s blood ran hot, fury colliding with old fear. She flicked her gaze to Malfoy, who stood with aggravating composure. He gave the slightest tilt of his head, smirk in place. “After you,” he said quietly, like he was offering her a dance instead of a duel.

Scowling, Hermione stepped onto the wide dueling mat, trying to ignore the professor’s nervous enthusiasm as he explained the rules—no lethal spells, no serious harm, blah, blah, blah. She had heard it all before. This wasn’t about the professor. This was about the person facing her: Draco Malfoy. The same boy who had spent years mocking her bloodline, who had stood on the opposite side of a war that cost countless lives.

She raised her wand.

He raised his.

“Begin!” the professor called.

They didn’t speak. The classroom noise vanished into a distant hum. What took over was muscle memory—burned-in reflex from too many close calls. Hermione attacked first, snapping a hex that cut the air between them like a bolt of lightning. Malfoy blocked it with a flourish, a lazy flick of his wand that said, I’m not impressed.

He shot back with Stupefy, stronger than she expected. Hermione deflected it, heat prickling her skin. How dare he? She’d survived more than a mere Stunning Spell—she’d duelled Death Eaters, outsmarted curses that would make Malfoy’s eyes water.

A silent conversation passed between them with every exchanged spell. Her wand arcs flared with raw, unwavering aggression. His counters were cold, surgical. She remembered how fast he’d been back in sixth year’s dueling club—quick on his feet, well-rehearsed in wandwork. But they weren’t children anymore, and neither was holding back.

Confringo! He hissed the incantation, sending a searing explosion of fire her way. Gasps rang out from the onlookers. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, adrenaline spiking. She raised a shimmering Protego Maxima in the nick of time, the impact rattling her arms down to her elbows. Of course Malfoy would resort to a borderline dangerous hex. It only fueled her anger.

She retaliated with Reducto, forcing him into an awkward, last-second shield. The corners of his mouth tightened, a flash of resentment that matched hers. Good, she thought. Let him see what she was made of.

Sparks crackled across the classroom, the tension too thick for the professor’s feeble attempts at caution. Other students shrank back as though they could sense something deeper at play—a history of hatred weaponized by war and resentment. Spell after spell ripped through the air: Expulso, Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, Protego. Their feet moved in a lethal dance, each refusing to give an inch.

Then Malfoy fired a Disarming Charm too casually, as if she’d fall for that basic trick. Hermione smirked as she sidestepped. “Really, Malfoy? That all you’ve got?”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger.”

In one fluid move, she unleashed a swift volley: Stupefy to unbalance him, followed immediately by Expelliarmus. Malfoy managed to block the first, but the second clipped him too fast. His wand was jerked from his hand, flying across the room before clattering to the floor. The class froze.

Panting, chest heaving, Hermione kept her wand trained on him. Triumph and loathing warred within her, limbs shaking with the rush of magic and rage. Across from her, Malfoy’s jaw set. For a heartbeat, his expression was naked fury—hate and grudging respect all at once.

He dropped his gaze to where his wand lay, then stooped to retrieve it. Standing slowly, he flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve and turned to face her. 

“Impressive,” he said, voice pitched low. “I never knew you had such a mean streak.”

She tossed her curls back, trying not to show how her pulse still thundered. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Malfoy.”

A taut silence stretched. The professor finally rushed in, blustering about “control and caution.” Hermione ignored him, slipping her wand into her pocket, heart still pounding. 

He held her gaze a moment longer, something dark flickering behind those cold grey eyes. Then he gave a curt incline of his head, as if acknowledging they were far from done, before stepping away. Hermione willed herself not to shiver. She hated how easily he could rattle her, how he still symbolized everything the war had forced her to become.

The rest of the class erupted in hushed chatter, but Hermione barely heard it. She returned to her spot and sank onto a stool, ignoring the stares, ignoring the twisted ache in her chest. Across the room, Malfoy settled among his Slytherin peers, smirk firmly back in place. 

The professor’s hurried lecture washed over her in a blur, and soon enough, class ended. Hermione yanked her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, determined to avoid any more unwanted attention. It did her no good—Harry and Ron were already waiting in the corridor, Ron’s expression a mix of bafflement and concern.

“What the hell was that?” Ron demanded the moment she appeared.

Hermione blinked at him. “What?”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, then cleared his throat. “That duel with Malfoy—it looked more like… well, like the two of you were fighting over more than just practice.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous—”

Seamus sidled up, wearing a wicked grin. “Granger, that was basically foreplay with wands.”

Ron gagged violently. “Cheers for that image, Seamus.”

Hermione groaned. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Dean said with a laugh.

“Debatable,” Hermione muttered.

Ginny nudged Hermione’s shoulder. “At least you woke everyone up. That was the only time the Slytherins have looked alive all week.”

“Can we please just get on to the next class before I lose my will to live?” Hermione snapped, trying to smother the swirl of leftover adrenaline.

Neville hesitated, looking sheepish. “Um… that would be History of Magic.”

Hermione paused. Of all the classes to face next, it had to be the driest, most archaic subject in the curriculum—one that would demand she sit quietly through the retelling of events she’d literally fought in. Her stomach twisted in a wave of revulsion. “Fantastic,” she said flatly.

Sensing her mood, Harry frowned. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she lied. “Just realized I, uh… I need to talk to the professor first about—something DADA-related. You lot go ahead.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but Ginny gently tugged him along, and Harry offered Hermione a small, uncertain nod before heading off. As soon as they disappeared down the hall, she turned and strode the opposite way, ignoring the hush that settled over the corridor. She had zero intention of sitting through a dusty lecture about events that felt more personal than any textbook could convey.

She found herself in a deserted wing of the castle, the windows overlooking the sprawling grounds. The morning light cut through the glass in pale shafts, and she stared out, her hands braced on the windowsill. The tightness in her chest hadn’t subsided; if anything, it was growing sharper.

Six minutes later—she counted, for some absurd reason—Neville’s worried voice rang out behind her. “Hermione?”

She glanced over her shoulder to see him hovering a few steps away. “Why aren’t you in class?” she asked lightly, though her voice felt tense.

Neville grimaced, wringing his hands. “I—I told Harry I’d check on you. He seemed worried. But… what are you doing?”

In answer, Hermione hoisted one leg onto the wide ledge. “Leaving.”

Neville’s eyes went comically wide. “Through the window?”

“Correct,” Hermione said dryly. “I’ve decided to skip class. Possibly the entire day.”

“Hermione, there’s a front door,” Neville stressed, desperation creeping into his tone. “You can just walk out like a normal person—”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she muttered. But truly, it wasn’t about fun. She needed air. She needed out. Needed something that wasn’t the suffocation of these halls or the memory of Malfoy’s cold stare.

Neville glanced around, clearly hoping for backup, but no one appeared. “This is insane,” he hissed.

“Then let me be insane,” she snapped, swinging her other leg over. She clutched the stone ledge, the wind already tugging at her robes from outside. “I’m not going to break anything.”

“Famous last words,” Neville mumbled. His anxiety was radiating off him in waves. “Are you absolutely sure—?”

A smooth, familiar voice cut in. “Is this some Gryffindor bonding ritual?”

Neville spun, startled. Draco Malfoy lounged in the corridor’s archway, arms crossed, a half-smirk curving his lips. Hermione stiffened; apparently he’d decided to show up at exactly the worst time.

“Malfoy,” Neville said in exasperation, “can you stop her? She’s—she’s climbing out a window!”

Malfoy’s gaze flickered with something inscrutable—amusement, curiosity, maybe something darker. “Enjoy your grand escape, Granger. Try not to break your neck.”

With a glare, she swung herself out onto the narrow ledge, ignoring Neville’s muffled squeak. The chilly wind slapped her face, a biting reminder that she was no longer confined to those suffocating corridors. One last glance through the window revealed Malfoy already turning on his heel, leaving Neville floundering in the hall.

She took a breath, heart thundering. She let herself drop down onto the ledge below, ignoring Neville’s frantic, “Hermione!” behind her.

“History of Magic can wait,” she muttered to herself, inching along the ledge until she reached the turret’s rim. She heaved herself over, boots scraping against mossy stone, and dropped unceremoniously onto the flat surface.

The turret was sheltered on three sides by tall parapets, open to the sky above. It reeked of old rain and dust, forgotten by everyone except maybe a few adventurous souls from past years. The uneven floor was scattered with leaves and brittle twigs blown in by the wind.

She swept her gaze over the Hogwarts grounds, far below. From here, she could see the top spires of the castle stretching in every direction, and beyond them, the mountains that ringed the valley. The morning sun glinted off distant towers, and for the first time all day, Hermione felt something akin to peace—raw and tenuous, but comforting nonetheless.

She let out a shaky breath, set her bag down, and rummaged inside. Her fingers closed around a small metal flask. She knew it was no solution. But right now, it was the only thing that could force the tight coil of anxiety in her chest to loosen.

She unscrewed the cap, took a swig, and coughed as the firewhiskey scorched her throat. The heat settled low in her belly, and she closed her eyes, letting that false courage flood her veins. One more swig. Another. She didn’t count how many.

Time blurred. She didn’t care. Up here, no one expected anything from her—no polite conversation, no forced smiles. The wind tugged at her robes, brushing strands of hair across her face, and for a while, she just sat against the parapet, half-listening to the distant hum of life carrying on without her.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, drinking in intermittent pulls. When her head started to buzz, she finally forced herself to recap the flask and shove it back in her bag. She was skipping class, yes, but she couldn’t exactly hide on the rooftop all day. Besides, a faint rumble in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“Time to face the music,” she mumbled, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. She peered over the edge to gauge the climb back. It’d be tricky, but manageable—especially with the buzz warming her limbs.

Slowly, she retraced her steps, pulling herself up onto the narrow ledge, pressing her back to the cool stone. Her heart pounded with each precarious inch upward, but adrenaline flushed the last vestiges of hesitation from her mind. She reached the window and hauled herself back into the corridor. The corridor lay empty and still, though faint chatter from below suggested lunchtime was underway. Perfect, she thought. She steeled herself, tucked stray hairs behind her ear, and made a beeline for the Great Hall.

Hermione swept into the Great Hall just as lunch was winding down, head held high and eyes faintly glossed. Her cheeks felt warm, her stride a touch uneven, but if anyone noticed, that was their problem.

She aimed straight for the Gryffindor table, ignoring the curious looks that rippled through nearby students. The minute she slid onto the bench, Neville blurted, “There you are!” like he’d just spotted some rare beast in the Forbidden Forest.

Ron’s face scrunched, hovering somewhere between annoyance and relief. “Neville said you—what was it?” He turned to Neville, brow quirked. “Took a stroll outside the window?”

Neville flushed. “I—I tried to get her to come in, but she wouldn’t—”

“And why would I?” Hermione cut in, reaching for a pitcher of pumpkin juice. Her hand trembled a bit, so she tightened her grip and poured with exaggerated care. “If I want to skip class, I’ll do it my way, thanks.”

Harry leaned in, voice low. “Hermione, you vanished right after Defense. That’s not—”

She slammed the pitcher down, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips when juice sloshed perilously close to the brim. “Not what, Harry? Not ‘like me’? Please. Binns has been dead for decades, so I doubt he noticed a single empty seat.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “You could’ve at least told someone. Neville found you practically clinging to the castle wall—”

“Oh, it was more of a ledge,” Hermione clarified breezily, flicking a crumb off the table. “I had a lovely view. Spent some time… unwinding.”

“Unwinding,” Ginny echoed, nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of something stronger than pumpkin juice. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

She shifted her gaze to her, amusement sparking in her eyes. “Right. Because me skipping one dusty class is the end of Hogwarts as we know it.”

Seamus snorted. “It’s definitely entertaining, I’ll give you that.”

“Entertaining?” Ron growled, face turning pink. “She could’ve fallen and broken her bloody neck!”

Neville, still looking guilty, nodded vigorously. “I tried to get her back inside, but she wouldn’t listen. I was worried.”

A bite of guilt twisted in Hermione’s stomach, but she refused to let it show. She tore off a chunk of bread, ignoring the dryness in her mouth. “That’s sweet, Neville, but I’m perfectly capable of deciding where and when I want to… stretch my legs.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “You’re not normally so cavalier—”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Merlin’s sake, enough with the ‘normally.’ People change. If I want to skip a lesson about trolls in the fifteenth century, I’ll do so without writing a formal letter to the Ministry.”

She took a swig of pumpkin juice—too sweet after the tang of firewhiskey—and forced herself not to grimace. The rest of the table exchanged uneasy glances. She knew they smelled the alcohol on her breath; she could see it in their eyes. But none of them dared mention it outright. Good. She wasn’t in the mood for that lecture, too.

Across the hall, a flash of white-blond hair caught her eye. Draco Malfoy was leaning back at the Slytherin table, gaze gliding lazily in her direction. Their stares collided like swords. An infuriating smirk crept over his features, as if he’d already imagined the story of her little rooftop stunt. A reckless, half-drunk part of her almost wanted to wave at him, just to watch him choke on his smugness.

Instead, she coolly turned her shoulder, flicking her attention back to her friends. “So,” she said, plastering on a too-bright smile, “what’d I miss in Binns’s scintillating lesson? Wait—don’t tell me. Another riveting monologue about the Goblin Wars no one cares about?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Actually, we all fell asleep and missed half of it.”

Neville tried to muster a grin. “He had to wake up Ron, like, three times…”

Ron mumbled. “But I can’t exactly skip classes, can I?”

Hermione’s brow lifted. “Oh, that’s right—you prefer to doze off politely at your desk.”

Ron fumed, but Harry cut in gently before another fight could spark. “We just want to know you’re all right, Hermione. If you need space, fine—but at least let us know so we’re not panicking.”

Her chest squeezed, some quiet part of her bristling at how they all tiptoed around her. She flicked her gaze across each of them, then shrugged like it was all one grand joke. “I’m fine,” she lied, tone breezy. “Sorry if I caused a stir. Next time, I’ll send an owl.”

A murmured hush fell over them, but nobody dared press further. They’d called her out enough for one lunchtime.

Ginny reached for a platter of sandwiches and offered Hermione one. “Eat,” she said simply. “You’ll thank me later.”

Hermione accepted it, though it felt like swallowing dust. Her stomach tightened at the jolt of guilt, but she forced down a bite anyway. 

Being the perfect, predictable war heroine was exhausting. Maybe climbing out windows and skipping boring classes was the new normal. She took another bite, ignoring the swirling mixture of warmth and shame buzzing in her head.

Hell, maybe she’d do it again tomorrow.