A Game of Glares and Gags
The morning had been tolerable. Arithmancy had always been one of Hermione's favorite subjects, and today’s lesson—analyzing the intricacies of predictive numerology—had, at the very least, kept her mind occupied. Numbers were logical, constant, unyielding to emotion. They didn’t shift or shatter under the weight of war or personal turmoil. They just were.
But then came independent study. A fabricated block of time designed to allow students to "pursue academic interests" or, more realistically, to give the Ministry one less thing to micromanage. She should have used it wisely. Should have spent it in the library, pouring over texts and theories, expanding her knowledge like she once would have. Instead, she’d found herself drifting back to the very spot she had discovered days ago—the small, secluded nook at the edge of the village, hidden behind the remnants of an old, crumbling wall.
It wasn’t much. Just a quiet place where no one would find her, where she could sit with a book in her lap and a bottle beside her. She had always believed solace could be found in stories, but lately, she was beginning to suspect that solace was easier to come by in firewhiskey.
She tipped the bottle back, letting the warmth spread through her, dulling the sharp edges of her mind. There was something almost poetic about the fact that this had become her new normal—skipping out on time meant for academic pursuits to sit alone with nothing but a burning throat and a tangled mind.
Hermione had always been so certain, so steady. But now, every time she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Maybe that was the point.
She exhaled sharply, letting her head fall back against the wall as she stared up at the sky, a dull gray blanket overhead. It had been four days. Four days back at Hogwarts—Four days of forcing herself to exist among the same people, the same ghosts, the same scars. Four days of pretending she wasn’t unraveling at the seams.
Her fingers tightened around the bottle. It wasn’t fair. None of it was.
She took another sip, closing her eyes as the fire settled in her stomach, as the weight of everything pressed down on her shoulders.
Maybe if she drank enough, she’d stop caring.
Maybe if she drank enough, she wouldn’t feel anything at all.
Hermione arrived at lunch with a plan—sit down, eat just enough to avoid questions, and leave before anyone could press her for details.
Unfortunately, her friends had other ideas.
The moment she slid into her seat beside Ginny, she felt the weight of their attention shift onto her.
“You’re late,” Ginny pointed out, not even looking up as she drizzled dressing over her salad.
“Had to grab something from my room,” Hermione replied smoothly, reaching for a pitcher of water.
Harry hummed from across the table. “You missed us this morning.”
She paused mid-pour. “Did I?”
Ron, chewing around a mouthful of roast beef, nodded. “Yeah, we waited for you before heading to breakfast, but you never showed. You ditching us already?”
Hermione forced a small, casual laugh. “I left early.” she lied. “Thought I’d get a head start on some reading.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where?”
Hermione focused on slicing a carrot into thin, precise pieces. “Library, obviously.”
Ginny said nothing, just speared a tomato and chewed, watching her too closely.
She had to shift the conversation now. “So,” Hermione said quickly, “what’s everyone doing after classes?”
Neville, thankfully, took the bait. “I have an essay for Herbology, but I’m thinking about heading to the greenhouses afterward to get a better look at the pod sprouts Professor Sprout mentioned.”
“Oh, fascinating,” Seamus said dryly, stealing a piece of bread from Dean’s plate. “What about something that doesn’t involve plants?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Probably a game of Exploding Snap later. Michael has been hovering around, looking smug, which means he’s won a handful of Galleons off people already.”
Ron, still chewing, perked up slightly. “Well, at least the common room should be decent for once. Slytherin has Quidditch practice tonight, so most of them will be out.”
Harry let out a quiet groan. “Don’t remind me. Their lineup this year is ridiculous. We lost half our team after last year, and they—somehow—still have Montague and Vaisey as Beaters. Plus, Nott’s a Chaser now, and he’s apparently decent.”
Ron frowned slightly, his fork hovering over his plate. He didn’t say anything, but the troubled look that flickered across his face didn’t go unnoticed.
Hermione, however, wasn’t paying attention. Something about Quidditch practice had knocked something loose in her brain, and then—
Oh.
Astronomy.
Right.
She had Astronomy at 8 PM. With all the eighth years.
Damn it.
When the first wave of students began standing to leave, she seized the opportunity.
“I have to go,” she said, gathering her things.
Ginny barely looked up. “Library again?”
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Ginny’s lips twitched like she didn’t believe her, but thankfully, she let it go.
She was free—for now.
She had no intention of going to the library.
Instead, she wandered outside, letting the crisp air fill her lungs as she walked the outer edges of the courtyard. Students were scattered about, chatting in small clusters, taking advantage of the fleeting sunlight before the inevitable autumn chill set in.
Hermione found a quiet bench near the hedge wall and sat, pulling out a book for the sake of appearances. She didn’t read it. She just stared at the pages, letting her mind wander.
She hadn’t been alone for long before Nott strolled past, backtracking when he caught sight of her.
“Granger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets.
She barely glanced up. “Nott.”
“Skipping class?”
“Independent study.”
He smirked, tilting his head. “Is that what they’re calling self-imposed exile these days?”
She turned a page, refusing to engage.
Nott let out a low hum, like he was debating something. Then, without asking, he sat beside her.
She sighed. “Do you need something?”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Just enjoying the weather.”
Silence stretched between them.
Hermione tried to ignore him, but Not was one of those annoyingly perceptive people who had an uncanny ability to see too much.
After a minute, he leaned back, stretching out his legs. “Not to be nosy, but you look like you’re either about to hex someone or disappear entirely.”
She didn’t respond.
“Both are valid choices,” he added.
Hermione exhaled sharply, finally closing the book. “Are you always like this?”
He grinned. “Only when I’m bored.”
She gave him a pointed look.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I know brooding when I see it, Merlin knows I get enough of it from Malfoy, I'll leave you to it.”
He stood, but before walking away, he cast her a considering glance. “You know, now would be the perfect time to discover exactly who Hermione Granger is when she's not fighting for everyones lives to win a war.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he sauntered off.
Hermione scowled after him.
Hermione scowled after him, but his words lingered, curling into the corners of her mind like smoke.
Who was she, when she wasn’t fighting a war?
For so long, her life had been defined by a singular purpose—study hard, be the best, fight for what was right, survive. Every decision she made had been in service of something greater, whether it was saving her friends, protecting the innocent, or ensuring they all lived to see another day. There had never been time for self-discovery.
And now?
Now she was stuck here for another year, with no immediate battle to win, no urgent crisis to solve, and no clear idea of what she was supposed to do with herself. She had spent so much time being useful—being needed—that the thought of existing outside of that role left an unsettling emptiness in her chest.
Was that why she had started sneaking away? Drinking when she normally wouldn’t? Was she already trying to fill the space with something—anything—that wasn’t introspection?
She exhaled sharply, digging the heel of her palm into her forehead as if she could push the thought away.
Nott’s words felt like an open challenge. An invitation, even. And that was dangerous.
Because if she accepted it, if she really stopped to figure out who she was outside of everything she had been before—she had no idea what she would find.
Fuck this. Fine. She’d go to the library.
Not to study—her mind was far too cluttered for that—but at least it would be quiet. At least she could sit in the dim, dust-scented rows of bookshelves, surrounded by the illusion of focus, and pretend she had a handle on things.
The library was a sanctuary, or at least it had been once. She found an isolated table near the Restricted Section, dropping her bag onto the wooden surface with more force than necessary. The place was mostly empty for now, the late afternoon light filtering in through the tall, arched windows, casting long, golden streaks across the shelves. It should have been peaceful.
She pulled out parchment, dipped her quill in ink, and forced herself to open Advanced Spell Theory, eyes scanning the words without absorbing them.
One sentence. Two. Three.
Nothing stuck.
Her thoughts drifted, slipping through the cracks in her concentration, circling back to Nott’s words.
Who was she, if she wasn’t fighting? If she wasn’t proving herself, earning every ounce of respect through sheer force of will?
She shook her head sharply and refocused, pressing her quill to parchment. Just write something. Anything.
The ink bled into the paper, forming words that made no sense. After a few moments, she realized she had rewritten the same sentence three times.
A frustrated exhale left her lips, and she snapped the book shut, rubbing her temples.
Movement caught her eye. A younger student sat a few tables away, hunched over their parchment, writing furiously, their quill scratching against the page with purpose. Hermione watched for a moment, realizing it wasn’t homework—they weren’t flipping between books, referencing notes, or even pausing to think. It looked like… a diary.
Her mother had always encouraged her to keep one, had bought her a beautiful leather-bound journal when she was nine. But Hermione had been too focused on academics, too pragmatic to waste time recording her thoughts when she could be memorizing facts. And now? Now, she felt like a stranger in her own head. Maybe it wasn’t such a waste of time after all.
Screw it.
She rummaged through her bag, pulling out an empty sheet of parchment. Dipped her quill. Started writing.
It didn’t make sense.
Her words felt disjointed, clumsy, like they didn’t quite belong to her. Her thoughts tangled, slipping through her fingers before she could pin them down. She tried again, this time forcing herself to write anything, something, but nothing came out right.
Her brain wasn’t working.
With a frustrated sigh, she shoved the parchment aside and buried her face in her hands. Maybe she’d try again later. Or maybe this was just another thing she didn’t know how to do.
By the time students started trickling in after their afternoon classes, she had barely made a dent in doing anything. The low hum of voices began to fill the space, breaking apart the quiet she had come here for, pressing against her skin like static.
No. She couldn’t be here anymore.
She shoved her things back into her bag and left without looking back.
Back in Hogsmeade, she locked herself in her room and finally allowed herself to breathe.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, her shoulders sagged. She toed off her shoes, shrugged off her robes, and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers.
She didn’t nap. Didn’t even close her eyes. Just lay there, fingers drumming against the mattress, her mind a whirlwind of restless energy with nowhere to go.
It was maddening.
She used to be good at pushing through, at forcing her brain to cooperate, to do. But right now, she couldn’t. There was no immediate crisis to fix, no plan to execute, no logical next step.
Just time.
Too much of it.
She turned her head toward the window, watching the sky shift from afternoon gold to dusky pink, and thought, What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now?
A knock on the door.
Hermione groaned. “Go away.”
“Nope,” came Ginny’s voice.
A second later, the door swung open. Ginny, looking entirely too smug for Hermione’s liking, leaned against the frame.
“You skipped dinner,” Ginny pointed out.
Hermione sighed. “Wasn’t hungry.”
Ginny entered without invitation, crossing the room and tossing an apple onto Hermione’s bed. “Eat something.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but took the apple. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Ginny plopped onto the bed beside her. “You wanna talk?”
“No.”
“Cool.” Ginny pulled out a pack of chocolate frogs and began unwrapping one. “So… you’re coming to Astronomy, right?”
Hermione side-eyed her. “Of course.”
Ginny chewed thoughtfully. “Just checking. Wouldn’t want you sneaking off to drink behind a hedge or something.”
Hermione stiffened.
Ginny just grinned. “Relax. I’m not your mother.”
Hermione exhaled, then nudged her playfully. “You are annoying, though.”
“I try.”
They sat in silence for a while.
For once, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
But Hermione’s mind wouldn’t settle. She exhaled sharply, shifting against the mattress.
Ginny didn’t even look up from picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Alright. Spit it out.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Ginny finally glanced at her, unimpressed. “Whatever’s been eating at you.You’re thinking so loudly, it’s giving me a headache.”
Hermione hesitated, fingers twitching against the fabric of her blanket. “It’s stupid.”
Ginny snorted. “Doubt it.”
A beat passed. Hermione rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “It’s just… something Nott said.”
Ginny arched a brow. “Oh? For once this isn’t about Malfoy?”
Hermione huffed a quiet laugh. She hesitated before admitting, “He said that now would be the perfect time to figure out who I am when I’m not fighting a war.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t respond right away.
Hermione frowned. “Well?”
Ginny shrugged. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”
Hermione groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You’re both absolutely useless.”
Ginny grinned. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
Hermione let out a breath, dropping her hands. “I just—I don’t know how to do that, Gin. I don’t know how to be someone outside of… everything I’ve been for the last seven years.”
Ginny’s expression softened. “You don’t have to figure it all out today, Mione.”
Hermione scoffed. “Right, because I’m great at leaving things unsolved.”
Ginny smirked. “Oh, trust me, I’m well aware of your inability to let anything go.” Then, more gently, she added, “But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need to stop treating this like a puzzle you have to solve and just… let yourself exist for a bit.”
Hermione sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “That sounds terrifying.”
Ginny laughed. “That’s because it is. But maybe that’s a good thing.” She nudged Hermione’s knee with her foot. “So, what’s first on the ‘Who is Hermione Granger?’ discovery tour? Are we dyeing your hair? Getting a new hobby? Finally learning how to take a nap?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Apparently, I’m starting a journal.”
Ginny gasped dramatically. “What? Hermione Granger, voluntarily writing something that isn’t an academic dissertation? I need a moment.”
Hermione swatted at her with a pillow. “Shut up.”
Ginny grinned, then nudged her again, softer this time. “For real, though. You’re gonna be okay. And if you’re not, you’ve got me.”
Hermione felt something in her chest unclench just a little. She turned her head, meeting Ginny’s gaze. “Yeah. I know.”
Ginny stretched her legs out, leaning back against Hermione’s pillows with a sigh. “Enough about you. Let’s talk about me.”
Hermione smirked. “Ah, there it is. I was wondering how long it would take for you to make this about yourself.”
Ginny gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Excuse you, I have been an exemplary best friend, listening to your existential crisis for an entire five minutes without interrupting. That’s practically saintly of me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Alright, fine. What do you want to talk about?”
Ginny stretched her arms above her head, then let them fall onto her stomach. “Quidditch.”
Hermione groaned. “Of course.”
Ginny exhaled, shaking her head. "Honestly, though? I think I’m in trouble."
Hermione turned to look at her. "With what?"
Ginny let out a groan. "Nott."
Hermione blinked. "Two people in one day? What else did he do?"
Ginny stretched her arms above her head before letting them fall dramatically against the bed. "Other than worm his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team? Nothing. But that’s the problem."
Hermione frowned. "You lost me."
Ginny turned her head, staring at her like she should already understand. "He’s the new Chaser."
Hermione blinked. "And?"
Ginny huffed. "And he’s good, Hermione. Really good. Ron and I snuck out to the pitch during their practice today and he’s already one of the best I’ve played against. It’s annoying."
Hermione snorted. "It sounds like you’re impressed, not in trouble."
Ginny groaned. "That’s exactly the problem! I hate how good he is! I hate how he plays like he knows he’s good.”
Hermione smirked. "Sounds personal."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I don’t have time for ‘personal.’ I have a team to carry, a new Keeper who still flies like a first-year, and a Captain who’s too nervous about our first match to be useful."
Hermione hesitated. "Harry?"
Ginny nodded. "He’s worried about the team this year. We lost a lot of good players after the war, and Slytherin barely lost anyone. Their roster is stacked. Nott’s just the cherry on top of the obnoxious, green-draped cake."
Hermione considered that. "So what are you going to do?"
Ginny exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "Train harder. Strategize. Get better. Beat the smug smirk off of Theodore Nott’s face. Obviously."
Hermione grinned. "Obviously."
Ginny smirked back, but then her expression shifted, a little more serious. "You know, if I’m being completely honest… I think I might actually like playing against him."
Hermione arched a brow. "Like... as in like?"
Ginny scoffed. "Merlin, no. I just mean—it’s been a while since I’ve played against someone who actually pushes me. It’s... fun. Annoying, but fun."
Hermione hummed, unconvinced. "Mm-hmm. Fun."
Ginny rolled over, burying her face in Hermione’s pillow. "Shut up."
Hermione laughed, nudging her. "Fine, fine. But if I see you two arguing about Quidditch and making suspicious amounts of eye contact, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'”
Ginny lifted her head just enough to squint at her before smirking. "Right. And when I catch you and Malfoy doing the exact same thing, you better believe I’m saying ‘I told you so’ right back."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "That’s different. Malfoy has been completely ignoring me. Plus I don't enjoy his company anyways like you do with Nott.”
Ginny raised a brow, pointedly ignoring that last part. "And that doesn’t strike you as weird?"
Hermione hesitated, arms crossing. "I mean… maybe? But I honestly don’t have the energy to analyze every single one of his mood swings."
Ginny gave her a look. "Except you have been analyzing it, haven’t you?"
Hermione groaned. "Ugh. Fine. Yes, it’s weird. He spent four days being an insufferable arse, constantly in my space, making sure I knew exactly how much he enjoyed annoying me. And then—after one unfortunate wardrobe mishap in Potions—he won’t even look at me. It’s ridiculous."
Ginny tilted her head, intrigued. "So… let me get this straight. He was smug, antagonizing, all up in your business, and then the moment he saw you exposed, dripped in gold, bra exposed— he suddenly wanted nothing to do with you?"
Hermione frowned. "That’s oversimplifying it."
Ginny let out a sharp laugh. "No, it’s really not."
Hermione sighed, fingers drumming against her knee. "It doesn’t matter. He’s Malfoy. I should be grateful he’s decided to leave me alone. It just… I don’t know. It’s annoying."
Ginny smirked. "You mean it’s annoying because you liked the attention?"
Hermione scowled. "I mean it’s annoying because it doesn’t make sense."
Ginny hummed, unconvinced. "Well, there’s only one way to test this theory of yours."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I don’t like that tone."
Ginny grinned. "We’re making some adjustments to your uniform."
Hermione blinked. "I—what? No."
Ginny was already grabbing her wand. "Yes. If he’s so determined to pretend you don’t exist, let’s see if he can keep up the act when you give him something worth ignoring."
Hermione folded her arms. "This is childish."
Ginny just smirked wider. "And yet, you’re not stopping me."
Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. "This is ridiculous."
Ginny stepped back, wand at the ready. "Maybe. But it’s scientific. Consider it an experiment."
Hermione huffed. "You’re impossible."
Ginny winked. "And yet, you love me."
Hermione muttered something under her breath, but Ginny ignored it, already making quick, precise flicks of her wand.
"Now," she said smugly, "let’s see just how wrong you got this."
Ginny flicked her wand with a practiced ease, and before Hermione could protest, she felt the telltale shift of fabric molding to new seams, the subtle weight of transfiguration settling against her skin.
She looked down and groaned. “Ginny.”
Her crisp, regulation Hogwarts blouse had undergone the worst of it—no longer stiffly buttoned up to her throat, but instead strategically unfastened, dipping just low enough to hint at something without outright scandal. The fabric now clung a little more snugly than before, shaping to her body rather than just hanging on it. The sleeves had transformed into a perfect rolled-up, effortlessly undone look, like she hadn’t spent the past year drowning in responsibilities but rather leaning against some pub wall, laughing over a firewhiskey.
And the skirt.
Hermione gasped. “Ginny! This is not an ‘adjustment’—this is a full-on wardrobe violation!”
It was higher. Too high. The pleats sat at her upper thighs now, not outright indecent, but certainly nothing she’d ever dare wear around McGonagall. It wasn’t her usual, strict, practical uniform anymore—it was a statement.
But the worst part—the absolute worst part—was the tie.
It hung loose, like she’d just come from a very different kind of extracurricular activity, slung over her shoulders rather than neatly knotted at her throat. It wasn’t just casual; it was deliberate.
Hermione spun toward the mirror, horror creeping into her voice. “I look like I just spent an hour shagging someone in a broom closet!”
Ginny beamed. “Finally, you get it!”
She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “This is ridiculous. Malfoy and I hate each other. You’re twisting this into something it’s not.”
Ginny leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching her with that insufferably knowing look. “Oh, am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one who’s been bothered about him ignoring you for days.”
Hermione bristled. “That’s because it doesn’t make sense.”
Ginny scoffed. “Right. Because everything has to make logical sense in Hermione Granger’s perfect little world.”
Hermione scowled at her reflection. “Malfoy is an arrogant, insufferable arse. And I’m supposed to believe that after years of him going out of his way to torment me, he’s suddenly decided I don’t exist? After—” she exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the edge of the dresser.
Ginny laughed, pushing off the dresser. “Listen to yourself. You’re spiraling because Malfoy—of all people—isn’t paying attention to you. I’m just saying, if he was really unaffected, if he really didn’t care, he’d be acting the same way he always has. But he’s not.”
She exhaled sharply. “Fine. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you are right.”
Ginny waggled her brows. “Which, obviously, I am.”
Hermione shot her a glare. “It still doesn’t matter. Even if Malfoy did notice, what am I supposed to do with that? He’s not suddenly going to stop being a miserable git.”
Ginny snorted. “Who said anything about stopping? That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You want him to be miserable. You want him to stew in it.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Ginny smirked. “Oh, come on, don’t act clueless now. You two have been locked in this ridiculous back-and-forth for years, and now he’s suddenly refusing to play? Of course, you’re annoyed. Malfoy ignoring you means the game stops, and we both know you’re not ready for that.”
Hermione opened her mouth, then promptly shut it.
Because… damn it.
Ginny kept going, tilting her head. “Think about it. If he notices—and trust me, he will—then you get to watch him squirm. You get to make him just as frustrated as you are, make him rethink whatever self-righteous reason he had for pretending you don’t exist. And then? You go right back to making each other’s lives miserable. That’s what you do.”
Hermione let out a slow breath, her stomach twisting.
She didn’t look like herself.
Or maybe she did. Maybe this was just another part of her—the part that wanted Malfoy to notice, who wanted to get under his skin just as much as he got under hers. Maybe this wasn’t about stopping their rivalry at all. Maybe it was about forcing him to play again.
It was stupid. It was petty. It was reckless.
And yet, she found herself exhaling a breath and murmuring, “I hate you.”
Ginny grinned, looping her arm through Hermione’s and tugging her toward the door. “And yet, here you are, still listening to me. Now, let’s go remind Malfoy exactly why he can’t ignore you.”
Hermione groaned. This was a bad idea.
But for some reason, she didn’t stop Ginny from leading her out the door.
Hermione cursed under her breath as she hurried up the staircase toward the Astronomy Tower, her skirt shifting just a little too much with every step. She tugged at it uselessly, but the damn thing wouldn’t go back to its original length. Ginny’s spellwork was too good—which was infuriating.
She was late. Not by much, but enough that it was noticeable. She should have left earlier, but Ginny had taken way too much joy in making her “presentable.” And now, here she was, stepping into the cool night air, the scattered eighth-years already gathered outside the tower entrance.
It didn’t take her long to spot the cause of their hushed murmurs. A group of them were huddled together, heads bent over a single piece of parchment, expressions ranging from amusement to barely-contained glee.
Hermione knew immediately.
Another blast.
Her stomach twisted—not for herself, but because she had a very strong suspicion about what, or rather who, it was about.
She stepped up beside Seamus, peering over his shoulder. He turned slightly, and his eyes immediately widened as he took her in, his gaze shamelessly trailing from the loose tie down to the scandalously altered uniform.
"Bloody hell, Granger."
Hermione didn’t even look at him. She just smacked his arm. "Shut up and move over."
He grinned but obeyed, shifting so she could see. The familiar spidery script scrawled across the parchment confirmed her suspicions.
A Game of Glares and Gags
Quidditch season is just around the corner, but it seems some Gryffindors couldn’t wait until match day to get a good look at their competition. Our sources spotted two notorious redheads sneaking off to check out Slytherin’s practice. And while we can’t fault them for wanting to size up the opposition, it seems one particular little lioness was a bit too interested in a certain curly-haired Chaser.
That’s right, folks. A one Ginevra Weasley was seen paying very close attention to the newest addition to the Slytherin lineup. We have to wonder—was she scouting for strategy, or just appreciating the view?
But she wasn’t the only one having a rough night. A certain other Weasley looked ready to be sick as he watched the snakes absolutely slaughter the competition on the pitch. Trouble in the Gryffindor ranks? Maybe someone should remind our dear Ronald that it’s a bit too late to request a transfer.
Stay tuned, my wicked little readers. Something tells us this Quidditch season is going to be one to remember.
Wickedly Yours,
The secret keeper
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes flying across the words again, just to be sure.
Seamus let out a low whistle beside her. “Damn. Ron’s gonna be thrilled.”
Hermione groaned. "He's going to lose his mind."
Seamus nudged her. “And what about Ginny? Think she’ll finally admit she’s got a thing for Nott?”
Hermione glared. "Ginny does not have a thing for Nott."
Seamus smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. And you don’t have a thing for—”
"Finish that sentence and die."
"Die from what?" Ron’s voice cut through the conversation, his tone sharp and very much unamused.
Hermione stiffened, Seamus practically leapt away from her, and they both turned to see Ron storming toward them, the crumpled Wickedly Yours blast clutched in his fist. His face was a blotchy mix of furious and horrified, his ears burning red, and Hermione could already tell this was going to be a nightmare.
He came to a stop, glowering between the two of them before jabbing the parchment toward Hermione. "Tell me this is bullshit."
Hermione winced. "Ron—"
"Tell me Ginny wasn’t sneaking off with me to check out Nott."
Hermione pressed her lips together, unwilling to outright lie.
Seamus, of course, wasn’t helping. "Technically, she was checking out all of Slytherin," he offered, far too amused. "She just happened to linger on Nott a bit."
Ron’s entire face scrunched up in revulsion. "Linger?!"
"Not like that, Ron," Hermione cut in, glaring at Seamus before focusing on him. "She wanted to see how good Slytherin actually was. You know how competitive she is, and you know she wouldn’t have wanted to wait until match day."
Ron, still reeling, ran a hand over his face. "I swear, if that tosser so much as looks at her—"
Seamus clapped him on the shoulder. "Then what, mate? Gonna challenge him to a duel?”
Ron slapped his hand away. "Shut up, Finnigan."
Seamus cackled.
Ron exhaled harshly, rubbing his forehead. "This is a bloody disaster. Mum’s gonna kill her if she hears about this."
"Mum’s not going to hear about this," Hermione reassured him quickly. "It’s just a stupid blast. By tomorrow, they’ll be talking about something else."
Ron didn’t look convinced, but before he could argue, Harry piped up.
“er—you alright, Ron?" he asked, eyes flicking pointedly toward the other section of the article.
Ron's expression darkened. "Oh, you mean the bit where they made me sound like a sniveling little twat? Oh yeah, I'm fucking grand."
Hermione grimaced. That was humiliating. The way Wickedly Yours had written it, it made it sound like he’d practically fallen apart at the sight of Slytherin’s talent, like he had already given up on Gryffindor’s chances.
And Ron Weasley? Giving up on Quidditch? To slytherins?
It was insulting.
And he hated looking weak.
Seamus, who was apparently incapable of reading the mood, whistled under his breath. "I mean… I did say their lineup was looking lethal this year."
Ron whipped his head toward him. "Do not start with me, Finnigan."
The sound of the Astronomy Tower doors creaking open saved them from further embarrassment. The eighth years started filing inside, but the energy in the air hadn’t shifted—the real disaster was still coming.
Because the Slytherins hadn’t arrived yet.
Which meant Malfoy, Nott, and every other member of that team had not read the blast yet.
Seamus, still grinning like he was enjoying every second of this mess, nudged Hermione again. "Bet you five Sickles the snakes are gonna love this."
Hermione filed inside with the rest of the eighth years, the murmurs still alive around them as they took their spots near the large brass telescopes. The blast had set the tone for the night, and everyone knew it. Ron still looked ready to strangle someone, Harry was watching him like he might have to physically restrain him at some point, and Seamus—fucking Seamus—was practically vibrating with anticipation.
And then, right on cue, the doors creaked open again.
The Slytherins had arrived.
A fresh wave of whispers swept through the students as Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, and the rest of their House strode in, still slightly damp from washing up after practice, looking entirely too pleased with themselves. They clearly hadn’t seen the blast yet—but they would soon.
It didn’t take long.
Pansy Parkinson, who had barely stepped through the door before someone handed her the parchment, let out an absolutely delighted laugh. "Oh, this is brilliant."
Nott, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, raised a brow. "What’s got you in such a good mood, Pans?"
Parkinson smirked and dramatically cleared her throat. "‘A one Ginevra Weasley was seen paying very close attention to the newest addition to the Slytherin lineup.’"
Nott’s brows shot up. Zabini, reading over Parkinson’s shoulder, barked out a laugh. "Wait, what?"
"Shut the fuck up," Nott grinned, snatching the parchment. He scanned the text, his smirk only growing. "Weasley’s been watching me? And here I thought she hated my guts."
Zabini laughed harder. "What can we say? You are quite the spectacle, Nott."
Ron, already on edge, snapped. "Oi, shut the hell up!"
Nott barely even looked at him. "Why so sensitive, Weasley? You should be proud—your sister’s got excellent taste."
Ron’s entire body bristled. "I swear, Nott—"
Professor Sinistra, who had finally arrived at the front of the classroom, sighed audibly. "Enough. Take your seats."
Ron, breathing heavily through his nose, clenched his fists, but he obeyed. Barely.
Hermione exhaled. Maybe—just maybe—that would be the end of it.
She should’ve known better.
Because just as Professor Sinistra turned to adjust one of the star charts, Malfoy, who had been reading the blast at a leisurely pace, let out a soft chuckle. "‘A certain other Weasley looked ready to be sick as he watched the snakes absolutely slaughter the competition on the pitch.’" He smirked, golden head tilting toward Ron. "Well, I must say, Weasley, I didn’t think you’d admit defeat so early in the season."
Ron’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he shot to his feet. "SAY THAT AGAIN, MALFOY!"
Sinistra turned sharply. "Weasley, sit down."
Ron was fuming, his entire body trembling with barely contained rage, but he obeyed, shoulders rising and falling with every deep breath.
But then Nott, ever the fucking menace, leaned back in his chair and mused, "You know, I can’t blame Ginny for watching. Wouldn’t be the first time a Gryffindor’s wanted to trade up."
It happened fast.
Ron lunged, knocking over his chair in the process.
Gasps rippled through the classroom, and for a moment, it looked like he might actually make it—might actually get his hands on Nott—but Harry and Dean both grabbed his arms, yanking him backward just before he could reach his target.
"THAT’S IT," Sinistra snapped, voice booming. "Weasley, out. You are dismissed from my class. Go back to Hogsmeade. Now."
Silence.
Ron stood there, chest heaving, face red, still seething but slowly realizing just how badly he’d lost this round.
Hermione’s stomach dropped.
This was bad.
Sinistra’s voice left no room for argument. "Now, Weasley."
Ron looked to Harry for backup, but even he didn’t argue this time.
Grumbling curses under his breath, Ron stormed toward the door, kicking his fallen chair for good measure before shoving it open and disappearing into the corridor.
The second he was gone, Nott let out a low whistle. "Merlin. Can’t even take a joke."
Malfoy shook his head, smirking. "Some things never change."
Hermione clenched her jaw. She hated them both.
And, if she was being honest with herself, she hated that part of her was already wondering if Malfoy had seen her altered uniform.
The tension from Ron’s dramatic exit still hung in the air, but Professor Sinistra, ever unbothered by student drama, carried on as if nothing had happened.
"Pair up into groups of four," she instructed, adjusting the large enchanted star chart at the front of the classroom. "We’ll be mapping the planetary positions tonight. Choose a telescope, and I expect each group to submit identical star charts at the end of the session."
The class shuffled into movement, breaking into groups. Hermione, trying to choose strategically, turned to Seamus standing next to her, who grinned. "Looks like you’re stuck with me, Hermione."
"Lucky me," she muttered.
Daphne Greengrass was the next to drift their way, giving Hermione a polite nod. "I’ll work with you lot."
Which meant they needed one more.
And, of course, fate had to be cruel.
Because just as she realized that, Malfoy strolled past—only to have Daphne grab his sleeve. "Draco, join us."
Hermione’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even look at her before rolling his shoulders in an easy shrug. "Fine."
She clenched her jaw but schooled her features into neutrality as they made their way toward an empty telescope at the far end of the tower.
Seamus, of course, wasted no time making things worse. "So, Malfoy, mate," he said, leaning casually against the telescope. "How was practice? Oh, wait—you already know how it went, don’t you?"
Malfoy didn’t even acknowledge Hermione’s presence. Instead, he glanced lazily at Seamus. "Not my fault Weasley doesn’t have the stomach for competition."
Seamus snorted. "That’s one way to put it."
Daphne, ignoring the conversation entirely, focused on adjusting the telescope. "Can we get this over with? I’d like to be back in bed before sunrise."
Malfoy turned toward her, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as he bent to look through the lens. "Relax, Greengrass. If you’d rather not do any work, I’m sure Finnigan would be happy to slack off on your behalf."
Seamus grinned. "Now that is true."
Hermione expected a snide remark. A dig. A pointed insult thrown her way. That was how this worked—how they worked.
But Malfoy said nothing.
Didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her.
It was so deliberate, so calculated, that it had to be intentional.
The frustration curled hot beneath her ribs.
"Fine," she said, voice sharper than intended. "I’ll start plotting. Malfoy, give me the coordinates for Mars."
Nothing.
For a moment, she thought he might actually ignore her outright. But then, slowly, he turned toward her—like it physically pained him to do so.
And then he saw.
It was subtle. The flicker of his gaze downward, just barely perceptible, his expression blank but his throat bobbing slightly as his eyes caught on-
The loose tie.
The open collar.
The way the soft fabric of her blouse sat just a little too perfectly.
His entire body stilled.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Hermione felt it.
Felt the weight of his gaze before he forced himself to look away, jaw tightening just a fraction too much.
Daphne, blissfully unaware, sighed dramatically. “Can we please get on with this? Some of us have lives.”
Malfoy exhaled sharply, “Forty-five degrees northeast, fifteen degrees declination.”
His voice was steady. Even. Too even.
But Hermione didn’t miss the way his fingers drummed against the telescope stand—like he was wound too tight.
Like he was trying not to react.
Hermione leaned forward to peer into the telescope, adjusting the angle slightly to align with Malfoy’s coordinates. The cool night air brushed against the back of her thighs, and she suddenly felt it—her skirt, already transfigured too short, shifting just a little higher as she bent down.
She barely had time to react before—
"Bloody hell, Granger."
Seamus let out a low whistle, his grin downright wicked. "They really mean it when they say Astronomy class came with such stellar views."
Hermione whipped around so fast she nearly lost her balance, her glare scorching. “Seamus, I swear to God—”
But she barely processed his smirk—because the real reaction came from Malfoy.
He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t made a single sound.
But his entire body had gone rigid.
His jaw locked. His fingers curled into a fist at his side. His usually indifferent expression? Gone.
And his eyes—stormy, darkened, dangerous—weren’t on Seamus.
They were on her.
But not in the way Seamus had been looking. Not in the way anyone had been looking.
No, Malfoy’s gaze flickered to the hem of her skirt, then snapped back up to her face, sharp and cutting and something else entirely.
Something Hermione refused to name.
And for just a fraction of a second—before he masked it—before he shoved it down—
He looked furious.
Seamus, ever the instigator, waggled his brows. "Relax, Malfoy, I was just appreciating the scenery."
Malfoy’s fingers twitched. "You should keep your appreciation to yourself, Finnigan."
It wasn’t a joke.
It wasn’t banter.
It was a warning.
A threat.
And Seamus—oh, Seamus—he lived for this kind of thing. He took one look at Malfoy’s clenched fists, at the way he wouldn’t look at Hermione anymore, and let out a low, knowing laugh. "Huh."
Malfoy turned to him slowly, his voice cold. "Do you ever shut up, Finnigan?"
But then, beside him, Daphne nudged his arm—not forcefully, just a small, subtle push against his elbow. A gentle reminder. A silent command.
And it worked.
Malfoy exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. His fingers uncurled from the fist they had been forming, and when he blinked again, it was like a curtain had fallen over him.
Like someone had shut the door.
He rolled his neck once, let out a sharp exhale, and—just like that—the tight coil of anger vanished.
Hermione watched it happen.
She felt it happen.
The way his posture softened—not into comfort, not into ease, but into something purposeful. The way his expression smoothed into something unreadable.
He was occluding.
The realization settled heavy in her stomach.
She had seen it before. In fifth year, when he had learned it from Snape. In sixth year, when he had needed it to survive. And now—now, he was using it here.
On this.
On her.
And then, without so much as glancing in Hermione’s direction, he turned back to the telescope.
Professor Sinistra finally called the end of class, her voice cutting through the quiet murmurs and the faint scratching of quills against parchment. “That’s all for tonight. I expect your star charts submitted by tomorrow evening. You’re dismissed.”
The tension at their telescope didn’t break immediately. Hermione straightened, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders as she quickly gathered her parchment and quill. Daphne stretched, already looking bored, and Seamus was far too pleased with himself, shooting a quick glance at Malfoy—who, unsurprisingly, didn’t react.
Malfoy had been perfectly still since the moment he shut himself down. Not tense, not irritated, just... blank. A carefully controlled nothingness.
Even now, as he adjusted his sleeves and moved toward the exit, his movements were precise. Measured.
Hermione hated it.
But she said nothing as they joined the rest of the eighth years making their way out of the Astronomy Tower and onto the winding path back to Hogsmeade.
The cool night air nipped at her skin as she pulled her cloak around herself, exhaling sharply. Most students were still murmuring about the blast, about Ron’s dramatic exit, about the upcoming Quidditch season, but Hermione barely heard any of it.
Malfoy walked ahead with Daphne, his posture relaxed, hands in his pockets as if the last hour hadn’t been a complete mess.
Seamus fell into step beside her, smirking. “Well, that was fun.”
Hermione shot him a glare. “You have a death wish.”
Seamus only laughed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Maybe. But that was the most interesting Astronomy class I’ve ever attended.”
She rolled her eyes and kept walking.
As they neared the entrance to the Hogsmeade inn, the muffled sound of voices inside reached them.
No—not just voices.
Shouting.
"OH, GIVE IT A BLOODY REST, RON!"
"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY TRYING TO DEFEND YOURSELF RIGHT NOW?"
Hermione barely had time to process it before the full scene came into view.
Ginny and Ron were at it, standing in the middle of the common room, faces flushed—Ginny in anger, Ron in absolute, livid humiliation.
"YOU DRAGGED ME OUT THERE WITH YOU!" Ginny yelled, jabbing a finger at his chest. "AND NOW YOU WANT TO PRETEND THIS WAS MY FAULT?"
Ron gawked. "I DRAGGED YOU? I—ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU’RE THE ONE WHO COULDN’T STOP STARING AT NOTT!"
Gasps rippled through the gathered eighth years. Someone whistled.
Ginny’s nostrils flared. "OH, SHOVE OFF, RON! I WAS WATCHING THEIR TEAM! NOT HIM!"
Ron scoffed. "OH, REALLY? IS THAT WHY YOU HAD YOUR EYES GLUED TO HIM THE ENTIRE TIME?"
Ginny roared in frustration. "MAYBE IF YOU HADN’T LOOKED LIKE YOU WERE ABOUT TO VOMIT, YOU WOULDN’T HAVE LOOKED SO BLOODY PATHETIC!"
Ron’s entire face burned red. "I DID NOT LOOK LIKE I WAS GOING TO VOMIT!"
Ginny scoffed, throwing her arms up. "RIGHT, BECAUSE WICKEDLY YOURS JUST MADE THAT UP FOR FUN? FACE IT, RON—YOU LOOKED LIKE YOU WERE HAVING A FULL-ON CRISIS OVER HOW GOOD THEY WERE!"
Ron spluttered, waving his hands wildly. "I WAS ANALYZING!"
Ginny barked a laugh. "ANALYZING?! YOU LOOKED LIKE YOU WERE CONSIDERING QUITTING THE TEAM! EVEN THE BLOODY ARTICLE SAID SO!"
A fresh wave of laughter rippled through the common room, and Ron looked minutes away from combusting. He whipped toward Ginny, jabbing a finger at her. "OH, SO YOU DO BELIEVE THE BLAST? BECAUSE ACCORDING TO THAT SAME ARTICLE, YOU COULDN’T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF NOTT! NOW EVERYONE THINKS YOU HAVE A THING FOR THAT SLIMY, ARROGANT, SHITE-EATING—"
Gasps. Whispers. Someone whistled.
Ginny’s nostrils flared. "ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?"
Ron threw his hands in the air. "YOU’RE NOT DENYING IT!"
"IT’S NOT ABOUT THAT!"
"YES, IT IS!"
The common room erupted in laughter.
Seamus howled, clutching his stomach. "Oh, this is so much better than I could’ve hoped for."
Dean, grinning, turned to Hermione. "How long do you think this will last?"
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Hours. Maybe days."
The argument continued.
"I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! FIRST THAT STUPID BLAST, THEN GETTING SENT BACK HERE LIKE A BLOODY FIRST-YEAR, AND NOW THIS?"
Ginny let out a mock gasp. "OH NO, POOR RONALD! DID SLYTHERIN HURT YOUR FEELINGS? DID THEY FLY TOO WELL? WERE THEY TOO SKILLED?"
Ron roared. "THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!"
"YES, IT IS!"
"I’M NOT EMBARRASSED! I’M JUST NOT THE ONE WHO WAS OGGLING A SLYTHERIN!" Ron shot back, his face now dangerously close to matching his hair.
The gathered eighth years shifted around them, exchanging glances—silent, knowing. A collective realization settling.
It was Thursday night.
No classes tomorrow.
The fight was still raging, but slowly, the crowd began to break into movement—someone muttering about breaking out firewhiskey, another slipping toward the kitchen, a few heading toward their rooms only to return with snacks and contraband.
Dean grinned, slinging an arm around Seamus’s shoulders. “Well, if they’re going to keep shouting, might as well make a night of it.”
Seamus, thrilled, rubbed his hands together. “Now that’s the spirit.”
A cork popped from somewhere, followed by the telltale clinking of glasses. Someone flicked their wand toward the wireless, and music hummed to life, weaving into the chaos like it had been waiting for the right moment.
Ginny and Ron were still at each other’s throats, but now it was a backdrop to a growing party, the kind that only this particular group of war-torn, exhausted, and recklessly determined-to-have-a-good-time students could throw.
And just like that, she decided she definitely needed a drink.
At some point, Ron and Ginny had finally stopped yelling at each other—not because they had resolved anything, but because someone had shoved a drink into Ron’s hand and forced him to sit down.
Now, Hermione and Ginny were a few drinks in, curled up on one of the couches, Ginny still fuming.
"Honestly, the absolute nerve of him," Ginny seethed, swirling the drink in her hand. "Acting like I’m embarrassing him—him—when he was the one looking like he’d rather die than admit Slytherin was good!"
Hermione hummed, only half-listening, because she was several drinks deep, and she had had enough of the Ron-Ginny-Slytherin discourse for one night.
Ginny, unfortunately, wasn’t finished.
"And then the blast—the fucking blast—like, honestly, who even wrote that shite? ‘A little redhead watching a curly-haired chaser’—it sounds like a cheap romance novel, and I swear to God, if one more person asks me if I fancy Nott—"
Hermione groaned, throwing her head back. “Enough!”
Ginny blinked at her, startled.
The music was still pulsing, the party still going, but Hermione could feel the argument creeping back into the conversation, like a slow-building headache.
No.
Absolutely not.
She sat up abruptly, throwing her arms out dramatically. “LET’S PLAY A GAME!”
The entire common room paused.
Multiple heads turned in her direction, eyes blinking, catching up.
Ginny squinted at her. “What?”
Hermione waved a hand wildly. “A game! You know, like normal people do at parties instead of bitching about things we can’t change!”
Ginny snorted, setting her drink down. “Okay, fine, what game?”
That set off a wave of suggestions.
"Spin the Bottle," someone shouted immediately, earning a round of cheers.
"No way, that’s boring!"
"Never Have I Ever?"
"That’s just a fast way to find out everyone’s trauma."
"What about Wizard’s Dare?"
"Absolutely not, we all remember what happened last time."
"Strip Exploding Snap?"
"Theo, shut the fuck up."
The debate raged on for a few minutes, growing more ridiculous by the second, before someone—Hermione wasn’t sure who—called out the inevitable.
"Truth or Dare?"
Silence.
Then—
A slow, collective hum of approval.
Eyes flicked between one another, assessing.
And then Ginny smirked, leaning back. "Alright," she drawled. "Now this could be interesting."
Hermione exhaled sharply.
She was going to need more drinks for this.