Hogwarts in 1943
That night had started off well.
Hermione’s quarters were divided into five rooms. Her office, where she could receive students, opened directly onto the castle hallway, and a small oak door connected it to the entry hall that led to all the other rooms of her living room—namely her bedroom, bathroom, and living room. From her windows, she had an unobstructed view of the lake and the edge of the Forbidden Forest. At dawn, she could even glimpse the lights of Hogsmeade Station in the distance.
So, the night had started off well. The blue-and-golden canopy bed in her bedroom was the most comfortable bed she had ever slept in. But as she sank into a deep sleep, voices began to whisper around her. The wavering figure of a man emerged from the darkness—she recognized Voldemort, who was busying herself with a rag, and realized he was cleaning her room. As an incensed Hermione resolved to throw him out, he slowly turned to face her and transformed into Ron. His mouth opened wide, and a snake emerged, hissing and coiling. ‘Come here, Hermi-pie. Don’t be afraid. It’ll be quick. You won’t suffer…”
Hermione woke up with a start and came face to face with two enormous eyes. She let out a guttural scream, as the thing flailed and tumbled to the floor in a loud thud.
She shot upright, leaning against the headboard, and reached out with trembling fingers to light her bedside candle. She then cautiously leaned over the bed. Her sheets and blankets had fallen to the floor, trapping the wriggling creature beneath them.
The scene might have been amusing under different circumstances, but Hermione’s heart was pounding, and she was struggling to catch her breath—hardly conducive to finding the humor in the situation.
“Bulby was only cleaning the bedhead, Miss Professor!”
A House-elf finally emerged from the heap of bedding, looking thoroughly frightened. Hermione felt a wave of relief. It was a House-elf, just a House-elf. No Voldemort, no Ron, no snake: only a House-elf.
“Bulby was only cleaning the bedhead. Bulby is sorry, Mis Professor!” he repeated in a high-pitched voice. “Bulby didn’t mean to scare! To make it up, Bulby will drown himself in the bathtub.”
He darted toward the bathroom.
Hermione yawned. She was about to settle back down to sleep when the meaning of his words registered. In an instant, she was on her feet. She tripped on the sheets, stumbled while trying to free her legs, fell flat on her face and bruised her elbows, pushed the door instead of pulling it, finally opened it, rushed across the hallway, and burst into the bathroom—just in time to find the elf running a bath.
“No! You are not drowning yourself in the bathtub!” she cried, hauling him backward.
The elf squirmed in her grasp.
“Bulby must be punished, Miss Professor! Bulby did a bad job! Bulby woke the mistress!”
“It was a terrifying nightmare that woke me!” Hermione argued.
“Bulby disturbed the mistress, so Bulby did a bad job! Bad Bulby!” the elf wailed, tugging at his ears in despair.
“Bulby did a very good job!”
“Bulby didn’t even finish cleaning, Miss Professor!”
“All the more reason to stay alive!” The elf stopped struggling and looked up at her. “I will never ask you to punish yourself, not ever—even if you break something. Understood?”
“Bulby understands,” he said in a small voice.
“Good. Now, come with me.”
She returned to her room and collapsed onto the bed. Her head was spinning. Bulby climbed onto the armchair to reach her level and lowered his head miserably, fiddling with the hem of his toga embroidered with the Hogwarts crest. Hermione noticed he was subtly pulling his bat-like ears forward, as though trying to hide his face.
“Your name is Bulby, right?” she asked gently.
“Yes,” the House-elf replied. “Bulby is assigned to serve Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly by Master Armando Dippet. For as long as she works at Hogwarts, Bulby must obey Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly before anyone else and never repeat anything that is meant to remain secret for Miss Professor.”
She had been assigned a House-elf!
“Don’t worry Bulby. I won’t harm you, okay? You’re very kind and helpful, and I’m very pleased with your work.”
She almost suggested he take a break but caught herself just in time. After many encounters with House-elves, she had learned they didn’t take kindly to being dismissed. At her words, Bulby blushed with delight and shyly lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Hermione stifled a yawn—her vision was starting to blur. She really needed more sleep. Now that the House-elf seemed to have given up on his dramatic plan, perhaps she could finally get some rest. A long day awaited her… one filled with poring over the grimoires and Divination books waiting in her office.
“Thank you, Miss Professor,” the small servant squeaked. “When Bulby is not with Miss Professor, Bulby takes care of cleaning and organizing the Slytherin dormitories, but Miss Professor can call Bulby anytime. Bulby is trustworthy—Bulby can do everything! In the meantime, Miss Professor should sleep. Bulby will finish the cleaning.”
It only needed to be said once. The moment Hermione laid her head on the pillow, she drifted into more pleasant dreams—dreams that, this time, allowed her to finish the night in peace.
The following day, at breakfast, the Great Hall was arranged as usual. The banners of each house floated above their respective tables. Hermione instinctively crossed the room before remembering—just in time—that she now belonged at the staff table. Her detour didn’t seem to surprise Connor Wilmoor and Arnold Goodseed sitting at the Gryffindor table and engaged in lively conversation. Well, Connor was doing most of the speaking while Arnold listened.
“Good morning, Miss Grizzly,” they called out cheerfully as she walked past.
Hermione stopped, expecting some teasing about her name. But nothing came.
“Have you recovered from the shock of my last name?” she asked sweetly, deciding they deserved a little payback for yesterday.
Arnold blushed; Connor didn’t.
“Yes, Miss!” Connor replied brightly. “In fact, we’re glad you’re the teacher.”
“We were worried we wouldn’t have a teacher for the whole year!” Arnold explained hastily.
“We were mostly worried about getting another teacher like Mr. Dormouse,” Connor corrected, shooting a pointed look at his friend, before turning back to Hermione. “You, you’re young and very pretty. Mr. Dormouse was very old and very ugly. And he had this weird beard and glasses like this!”
“I’m flattered,” Hermione replied, amused, as Connor mimicked Mr. Dormouse’s glasses by making circles with his fingers in front of his eyes. “But don’t be too hard on your former Divination teacher. I’m sure he had his good points.”
To name one only: he knew his subject.
“Mr. Dormouse never took points away,” Arnold admitted. “But he didn’t give them either. He said it was pointless. Right, Connor?”
The young Hufflepuff looked expectantly at his friend, waiting for a reaction, but Connor didn’t respond. He seemed suddenly absorbed by his cereal, leaning over it with a furrowed brow and a tortured expression. Arnold glanced at Hermione, then at Connor, then back at Hermione.
“Miss Grizzly,” Connor asked seriously, “do you think Grindelwald eats cereal from a bowl, like us?”
Hermione was caught off guard. “Uh…”
“Because if he does,” Connor carried on, “we could kill him by poisoning his bowl.”
What an idea.
“Connor’s parents are Aurors,” Arnold explained to Hermione. “So, he’s completely obsessed about Grindelwald.”
“Am not!”
“Yes, you are! You talk about him all the time!”
“Well, so do you!”
“Boys,” Hermione interjected. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast. See you later!”
“See you, Miss Grizzly!”
She moved on to the staff table, leaving the two boys to argue over who was more fixated on Grindelwald. Hermione ate alone and then returned to her quarters, encountering only Nearly Headless Nick on the way.
Her Divination books were stacked on her desk—a solid dozen of them. Learning everything in a week would be challenging. She locked the door to avoid interruptions and opened the first book: Where the Future Takes Shape by Yorla Fwylbychort. She skimmed Professor Dippet’s notes. It was the main textbook for sixth-years, along with the Glossary of Mystical Images and Symbols by Chryse Talbol.
A quick look at Professor Dippet’s notes revealed that Talbol’s glossary was used across all year groups, as it was essential for tea-leaf reading, dream interpretation, and sometimes even deciphering shapes in crystal balls. Hermione set it aside and continued sorting.
Awakening the Third Eye by Yorla Fwylbychort was shared by fourth and fifth years, and she was already familiar with Introduction to the Study of the Occult Sciences by Prudence Singfair.
Maybe, she thought, she’d manage after all.
An hour later, Hermione was sitting cross-legged on her chair, swirling tea leaves in a pink teacup. To her left, the glossary of mystical images and symbols was held open on page eleven by a large crystal ball. To her right, a diagram she had drawn herself showed the possible placement of tea leaves and how their position could influence their interpretation. Desperate times called for desperate measures. To help her third eye manifest, Hermione had even donned a garish green sequined shawl.
“Near the handle, happiness… Edge of the cup, opportunity… Bottom of the cup, danger,” she repeated tirelessly. “Near the handle, happiness… Edge of the cup, opportunity…”
She stopped swirling the cup and grimaced as she drank its contents. The tea was scalding hot, but Trelawney had always insisted that one must hurry, or the omens might vanish. Hermione drained the cup and cast a disapproving glance at the tea leaves.
“Ridiculous,” she grumbled. “Obviously, the tea leaves mostly settle at the bottom of the cup! So, what? We’re always in danger?”
She briefly closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. That wasn’t something she could say in front of her students—or worse, her colleagues. Hermione tightened her shawl around her shoulders and leaned over the teacup again. A waft of fragrant steam rose from it, making her blink.
“Ugh… Okay… My third eye sees a wolf. Or maybe a big dog. Same difference.”
She consulted the glossary for the meanings of both.
“If it’s a dog, the danger comes from a dark-haired man,” she read. “And if it’s a wolf, it comes from someone far away. Great—between a dog and a wolf, the meaning changes completely! How on earth are we supposed to distinguish the shape of a dog from a wolf?”
Hermione turned instinctively toward the crystal ball.
“And you, what do you have to say?” she asked. “Give me a hand in awakening my third eye, will you?”
The crystal ball remained silent. Inside, wisps of white smoke endlessly coiled and uncoiled. Hermione squinted, trying to discern any signs. A cross… or maybe a bird? This time, she had to flip through the pages of the glossary to interpret them. The cross signified trials and suffering—Hermione remembered that Trelawney had seen one in Harry’s teacup during their third year and had immediately lost it. On the other hand, the bird represented a forthcoming financial gain.
“My salary!” Hermione exclaimed with mock enthusiasm. “Of course! These omens can apply to anyone—even me! The dark-haired man is Riddle, the faraway man is Grindelwald. Everyone faces trials and suffering at some point in their life, and money is essential for survival!”
Satisfied with her conclusion, Hermione leaned back over her tea leaves. She vowed never to believe a single word written in these books. No matter how much she read them, she would never adhere to their teachings. The solemn promise of a magicless witch!
At that moment, Hermione didn’t realize she was trying to fend off an irrational fear that was creeping into her mind. Were Riddle and Grindelwald truly a threat? Wasn’t she safe under Dumbledore’s protection?
The week passed like an owl in flight. Between nights and mealtimes, Hermione worked tirelessly, occasionally taking breaks to watch the snow fall behind the windowpanes for hours. Tom Riddle often wandered the corridors, giving her all the more reason to stay confined to her quarters. Despite the icy chill of December, Minerva McGonagall practiced Quidditch every day, under the astonished eyes of Connor Wilmoor and Arnold Goodseed, who returned to praise her speed in catching the Snitch—so she was a Seeker, then.
A week after Hermione’s arrival at Hogwarts, the tables in the Great Hall were cleared away again, leaving just one at the center, where students and staff gathered to celebrate the start of the year 1943. Hermione realized, with a pang in her heart, that she should have been celebrating the arrival of the 21st century with Ron. The thought dampened her mood, and she barely noticed the congratulations directed at Riddle during dessert. The future Dark Lord was turning sixteen that evening, though he seemed indifferent to the occasion.
One last weekend, a few more hours of reading, a pleasant night—and then, term began.
The arrival of the third years was abrupt.
The first to poke his head through the trapdoor was a face Hermione had grown familiar with— Connor. He leapt onto the floor, followed by a classmate with long, fiery raid hair who seemed to be his friend. Then came the petite Ravenclaw Hermione had noticed the day before, with her nose always buried in books, two identical Hufflepuff twins, a tall, dark-skinned girl, a fair-haired boy with a pointed chin, a hunched Slytherin boy, and a duo of overly excitable girls who immediately reminded Hermione of Lavander Brown and Parvati Patil during Divination. So far, so good.
Then it was time to pick seats. Suddenly, the students who usually sat at the back all wanted to sit at the front, while those accustomed to the front stubbornly refused to budge. However, there were only three seats directly facing Hermione’s desk.
She watched in dismay as Connor’s red-haired friend shoved the blond boy aside and sprawled into the first chair, while the group of girls squabbled with the Hufflepuff twins over the other two. Meanwhile, the Ravenclaws had banded together against the remaining Slytherin boy.
“Move! This is my seat; you can’t sit there!”
“I’ll report you to Professor Dumbledore!”
“I don’t see your name on it—I’ll sit where I want!”
“My father will hear about this!”
“And where am I supposed to sit?”
“Professor Dumbledore will wipe the floor with your father!”
“Kelsi, help me! I can’t get him to move!”
“My father’s a Pureblood, you dolt!”
“We have every right to sit here!”
“Ouch! You’re hurting me, you troll dung!”
“Go to the back—you never pay attention anyway!”
“Professor, he’s stealing my seat!”
“She poked me in the eye, Professor!”
“EVERYONE, QUIET,” Hermione barked.
The students froze on the spot.
“At last,” Hermione said, her tone calmer. “Now, who usually sits in the front?”
Silence. Two hands went up hesitantly—the dark-skinned girl and the petite brunette with the books: the only two Ravenclaws in the class, Hermione noted, unsurprised.
The other students eyed each other warily, still unmoving.
“There’s still one chair left, Professor,” the blond boy said in a nasal voice. “I believe I’m entitled to it.”
“And what, exactly, makes you think so?” Hermione asked skeptically.
“I am the only true Pureblood in this class,” he replied proudly.
The audacity of saying something like that to a professor. In Hermione’s time, no one would have dared. That was, perhaps, the only positive outcome of the war against Voldemort—it was no longer acceptable to discuss blood purity openly.
“Well, with blood like yours, I’m certain you must have perfect hearing and an above-average ability to concentrate,” Hermione said dryly. “You’ll do just fine following the lesson from the back of the room.”
He didn’t respond, though his jaw tightened visibly. Connor’s red-haired friend snickered. Hermione was confident he wouldn’t try flaunting his blood status in her presence again.
“Pair up and take your usual seats,” Hermione instructed firmly. “And get your books out.”
While the students slowly complied and opened their textbook—the first volume of ‘Divination for Doxies’ by Summer Sault—the teacher went back to her desk.
“I’ll call the roll,” she announced in a less confident tone. “So… Brown, Kelsi?” The petite Ravenclaw raised her hand.
Hermione then called the Hufflepuff twins, one of the overly excited Gryffindor girls, the dark-skinned Ravenclaw girl, the other overly excited Gryffindor girl—and then a name that caught her attention: Malfoy.
“Malfoy, Abraxas?”
At the back of the room, the blond with a pointed chin raised his hand nonchalantly. So that’s where Draco Malfoy got it from—his grandfather was even worse.
“Travers, Douglas?”
It was the other Slytherin, the one who walked hunched over. There had been a Death Eater named Travers… Could it be him? Or his father? This Travers was so sinister that, in comparison, Mr. Jocelin practically glowed with cheerfulness.
Hermione finished the roll call with Connor Wilmoor and Wendy Wardrobe, his red-haired friend. There was no missing student.
She put away the list and pulled the boiling water off the fire. A few leaves per teacup, a teacup per student, and the lesson began.
“Professor!” Wendy Wardrobe called almost immediately. “Connor’s teacup doesn’t mean anything!”
Hermione walked over in a few steps and leaned toward Connor’s teacup.
“There’s some sort of star on the side, or maybe a spider, we’re not sure,” Wendy pointed out.
“And in the middle, it looks like a square,” Connor said. “That means ‘success in business’.”
“A star with many points is a bad omen, and this one has at least six!” the red-haired added.
“And the spider symbolizes a spiteful and envious woman—”
Hermione frowned as she picked up the teacup. “And—what seems strange to you?”
“Miss!” Wendy exclaimed. “It’d mean Connor finds happiness from a spiteful woman and ends up endangered by his success. But Connor’s not that stupid!”
“And besides, my parents handle my business, not me!” Connor added.
“Business could also refer to… school grades,” Hermione explained, making it up on the go. “In that case, let’s imagine Connor’s good marks attract the envy of a classmate. Maybe he’d be happy because she’s pretty, but later, he’d find out she only wanted to copy his work during exams.”
“So, what you’re saying is that we have to stop Connor from dating anyone while he has good grades?” Wendy asked, startled.
“Or I could stop working hard so I don’t get good grades,” Connor suggested.
“No, no, definitely not! Don’t stop working hard because of one prediction!” Hermione replied hastily. “This is just one interpretation. There are dozens of others possible!”
“Fine,” they replied compliantly. “We’ll do Wendy’s cup.”
“Yes, good. Carry on.”
Hermione made her way around the class, leaving the two Gryffindors absorbed in their new reading. As she passed Abraxas Malfoy, he glared at her. Draco Malfoy had hated her—would his grandfather feel the same?
The pair of excitable girls called her over for advice, as did the twins. Both groups struggled to identify the symbols forming at the bottom of their cups.
Returning to her desk, she noticed the raised hand of the petite, brown-haired Ravenclaw.
“Yes, Miss…?”
“Kelsi Brow,” the Ravenclaw reminded her, opening one of her books. “Professor, I’ve read every volume of ‘Divination for Doxies’. I’ve also done all the recommended readings and asked Professor Dippet and Slughorn questions they couldn’t answer. As a genuine seer, I was hoping you could enlighten me.”
“What’s your question?” Hermione asked, feeling a growing sense of apprehension.
“So, this book—” Kelsi opened ‘Prudence Singfair: An Autobiography’ on page seventy and pointed to the second paragraph. “Here, Prudence Singfair talks about tendencies toward procrastination paradoxically accompanied by an out-of-context alacrity experienced by some seers with a sinusoidal frequency that couldn’t be studied. I understand everything, except for one thing.”
She looked up at Hermione with wide, earnest eyes.
“Why is it out of context?”
The following day, Hermione had class at three with the sixth-year students, and at five with the seventh years. She arrived at her classroom early and glanced at the attendance lists.
If only ten third-years had chosen Divination—all houses combined—it was even worse for the other years. She’d be teaching just six students at three o’clock and only three at five. In a way, she was glad she taught Divination: having so few students in any other subject would have been depressing.
The trapdoor opened, and the ladder creaked as it tipped down to the floor below. The students were arriving. Everything was ready: Hermione had set out two teacups at each table, smoothed the tablecloths, and drawn the curtains to create a mystical atmosphere.
She removed the kettle from the fire and began filling the cups, glancing at the arrivals. The first was a Slytherin she’d seen by Tom Riddle’s side the previous day. So was the second. Stay positive, Hermione thought. Better to teach Death Eaters than Voldemort himself.
Next came a girl with a doll-like face—also a Slytherin. Hermione finished pouring the tea and counted the students. One Slytherin, two Slytherins, three Slytherins. The brown-haired girl who followed bore an uncanny resemblance to Sirius—four Slytherins. Then came a petite redhead wearing a large black bow that vaguely resembled a dead spider—five Slytherins. The last student wore round glasses like Harry’s and had wide green eyes, but she was also a Slytherin—six Slytherins.
All Slytherins!
“Well, good afternoon. Please take your seats.”
All Slytherins, by Godric!
“I’ll take roll… Avery, Marius?”
The boy who had entered first raised his hand. He had knobby arms, a prominent chin, shifty eyes, and a matching smile. Hermione felt uneasy.
“Black, Walburga?”
Sirius’s mother was fair and smiling. She looked nothing like the woman in the portrait hanging in the hallway of 12 Grimmauld Place. The only feature she seemed to have retained over the years was her thick, wavy brown hair, which shimmered with golden highlights in the candlelight.
The next name on the list belonged to the green-eyed girl with round glasses, whose name Hermione struggled to pronounce for over two minutes (“Eramon… Eira…?” “It’s Eireamhon, Professor…”). She called out the name of the girl with the ghastly black bow next, and then her attention caught on a familiar surname: Malfoy.
“Malfoy, Gallina?”
The doll-faced girl raised her hand. Her blonde hair fell in curls over her delicate shoulders, framing an oval face illuminated by large, blue-gray eyes. She seemed less haughty than her brother—or perhaps she concealed her pride behind a charming smile.
With that thought, Hermione finished roll call with Rosier, Adrian, who sat beside Avery and was another of Tom Riddle’s friends. Future Death Eater or the father of one? He seemed far more pleasant than his companions, with a genuine smile and tousled hair.
“Professor Dippet informed me that you’ve begun studying tea leaves, so I’ve already filled your cups. Please open your textbooks and start analyzing them. I’ll come around to assist.”
They didn’t respond, simply drinking their tea and getting to work. Hermione exhaled in relief; these students were nothing like the third-years. Whispers arose between pairs—she was even afforded the luxury of a quiet classroom. For Slytherins, they were well-behaved. Would they still be so polite if they learned their professor was Muggle-born? Hermione was curious to find out but too cautious to risk it.
She helped the girl with the oversized bow read her tea leaves before her gaze returned to Gallina Malfoy. Oddly, Hermione had never heard of a Malfoy aunt. Pure-blood families tended to flaunt their daughters’ marriages. Perhaps Gallina had died young or left, much like Sirius would years later. Gallina Malfoy had been a Slytherin, but so had Andromeda Black, who had married a Muggle-born and been disowned.
“Professor, is something wrong?” Gallina Malfoy asked.
“I—um—” Hermione fumbled for an excuse.
“Professor?”
“A vision” Hermione blurted. Not that excuse!
But it was too late.
“A vision?” Gallina repeated, her curiosity piqued. “You had a vision about me?”
All heads turned toward Hermione, who inwardly cursed her impulsiveness. By constantly seeking omens and mystical symbols, she had responded instinctively, like Trelawney. The genie might as well have asked for her sanity as payment.
No, she couldn’t panic. It wasn’t a disaster. She just had to make something up—something that would inevitably occur in Gallina Malfoy’s life.
“You had a vision, Professor?” Now the others joined in.
“Miss, what did you see?”
“Really, Professor? Can you tell us what you saw?”
“Professor! Professor!”
They were buzzing with excitement, forcing Hermione to say the first thing that came to mind:
“A wedding!”
“I’m getting married?” Gallina asked, puzzled.
“Well—I—I mean—”
“Someone in my family, then?” Gallina suggested.
“Yes, exactly!”
At her age, Gallina surely had a young, unmarried aunt or an uncle finishing his studies.
“Strange, I can’t think of anyone in my family who might be getting married,” Gallina murmured to Walburga, frowning.
Missed the mark.
“Well—we’ll see later,” Hermione said hastily. “Now, let’s see your cup.”
Gallina Malfoy nodded and handed over her teacup.
She’d forget this ridiculous prediction soon enough anyway.
After the sixth-year students came the seventh-years. Hermione gave a quick tour of the classroom, as there were only three students, and lectured them about the history of Divination—a topic she actually knew well.
When the bell rang, night had already fallen, and the classroom took on a somber atmosphere. Lit only by the flickering glow of the candlesticks, the crystal balls on the shelves seemed almost alive as if they were shifting in the dim light.
Hermione put her books away and climbed up the ladder. With dinner still half an hour away, she decided to stop by the library instead of returning to her quarters.
A wave of intense happiness washed over her as she stepped through the doors and the scent of fresh parchment filled her nose. She took her time, savoring the scratch of quills and the rustling of pages. Until now, Hermione had been too anxious about teaching the one subject she knew nothing about to think of revisiting her favorite place. Now, she relished the chance to roam its towering shelves again.
At least, she did until she met Tom Riddle’s gaze.
He was sitting a little farther away, accompanied by Marius Avery, Adrian Rosier, and a third Slytherin she didn’t recognize. Large gray and green tomes were stacked on their table. The Slytherins likely had a Potions assignment and were using their free hour to work together—a logical conclusion.
Her legs trembling, Hermione grabbed a book at random from the nearest shelf and sank into the first chair she could find. Dinner would start soon, and they’d leave in a few minutes. In the meantime, she was so on edge she couldn’t focus on the text in front of her.
A few meters away, Marius Avery was staring at her with an intrigued expression. He elbowed Adrian Rosier and nodded toward Hermione with a sly grin. Rosier glanced up, frowned, shrugged, and went back to his work.
Avery leaned over and whispered something, and this time all three boys, including Riddle, turned their heads to look at her. Their reaction was immediate: Rosier and the third Slytherin burst into laughter, while Riddle turned a bright red.
The future dark lord suddenly seemed eager to leave the library. He hurriedly packed his belongings, his companions following suit—though their laughter became increasingly uncontrollable as they did—and got up to leave.
Avery stacked the hefty books into Rosier’s arms, the latter still wheezing with laughter, and they headed for the exit. Before disappearing behind a shelf that would take him out of Hermione’s view, Avery turned back to her and gave her a suggestive wink.
Outraged, Hermione clenched the book so tightly that her hands ached. If she hadn’t been afraid of Riddle, she would have put that him in his place.
She heard the distant voice of the librarian thanking them for returning the books, followed by the slam of the massive oak doors. They were gone.
Hermione’s grip on the book gradually loosened. She set it down in front of her and leaned back in her chair, feeling light-headed. She needed to find out when the Slytherins had their classes so she could avoid another situation like this. She decided she would ask Horace Slughorn for a copy of their timetable, pretending it was out of mere curiosity. If she laughed at one of his jokes, he likely wouldn’t pry.
As Hermione stood to head to dinner, her eyes fell on the book she’d grabbed. The author’s name was emblazoned at the top in pink lettering: Aphrodite Madlove, with a heart dotting the i in Aphrodite. Below the name was the title: Fly to Cloud Nine, and its subtitle: From Genectar to Perpleasure: Enhance Your Sexuality with Centuries-Old Spells and Tonics!
How could a book like this end up in a school library? And in the legal history of magic section, no less! Was it a joke? A mistake by the librarian?
Hermione’s face grew hot, the blush creeping all the way to her ears. Avery’s wink, Riddle’s embarrassment, and the other boys’ laughter all made sense now. It was like imagining Professor Snape reading a book on sexuality in the middle of the library, surrounded by innocent students.
At this point, Hermione could kiss her reputation goodbye.