Disorientation
An unpleasant surprise awaited her in the classroom. Hermione never discovered exactly what had happened—neither Apollo Picott nor the students could explain.
When she reached the top of the stairs, her desk was ablaze—literally. A few students were frantically attempting to douse the fire with their wands, but their panic rendered every other spell a spray of sparks.
The flames roared, their crackling echoing throughout the room. Apollo Picott stood at a distance, watching the scene with a strangely detached expression.
“Professor! The fire!” a student cried out upon spotting Hermione.
Clearly, they expected her to draw her wand and extinguish the flames with a casual flick of her wrist. But Hermione had left her magic behind in exchange for this journey.
Instead, she grabbed a tablecloth from one of the desks, dashed to the nearest window, flung it open, and rolled the cloth in the fresh snow that blanketed the sill. The rush of wind that followed fanned the flames higher, eliciting panicked screams.
Hermione hurried back, tossing the soaked cloth over the fire. The flames hissed and dimmed immediately. Two frantic Ravenclaws followed her lead, quickly mimicking her actions. Hermione’s composure seemed to steady the others; their spells began to land with precision.
Minutes later, the fire was extinguished, leaving only a charred desk as evidence of the disaster.
At that moment, a completely bewildered Armando Dippet appeared. When he demanded to know what had happened, every student pointed to Apollo Picott. No one could provide any further explanation.
The headmaster led the caretaker away, leaving Hermione to dismiss the shaken students. After apologizing extensively, she sent them on their way and began gathering the burnt remnants of her papers to throw into the waste bin.
Lacking even a simple brush to sweep up the ashes, Hermione sighed in frustration. Reluctantly, she gave on up on reducing the workload of the poor house-elves who would later clean the classroom.
Thus ended her day.
She walked back to her quarters, feeling quite dejected. Between her pathetic espionage attempts, her aborted chase, the class she hadn’t been able to teach, and the fire… she made a pitiful professor.
Riddle’s praise resurfaced in her thoughts. If Hermione hadn’t known what kind of man he would grow up to be, she probably would have liked him. She would have been as easily deceived as her colleagues. A boy so studious, polite—and an orphan, no less—would certainly have earned her sympathy.
She had asked the genie how to save Fred Weasley, and the genie had sent her to this time. A time when the future Lord Voldemort was already gathering his first followers. She was now certain he was holding secret meetings behind his professors’ backs. If she could prove it, perhaps she could have him expelled?
And what would happen then? He would lose the opportunity to become a teacher, no doubt. Perhaps he would also lose future followers and useful connections. Or… perhaps she would only give him another reason to hate the world. Maybe she would push him even further into darkness. How could she know? What was she supposed to do? And why did she feel so lost and unsure? Despite all her knowledge of the future, she felt as though she were making random, blind decisions.
After locking the door to her quarters, Hermione stepped into the sitting room, summoning all her determination. Whatever the situation was, one thing was clear: she had to act, and a thorough investigation seemed like the best way to begin her mission.
“Bulby,” she called softly. “Can you come here, please?”
The house-elf appeared with a loud pop and stood at attention, ready to serve. Hermione’s heart ached. Despite her beliefs, despite the S.P.E.W., she was about to ask a house-elf for help—and not just help, but something risky.
But if she wanted any chance of understanding why the genie had sent her to 1943, she needed to uncover what Riddle was up to. And to do that, she needed information.
“Bulby, I need your help with something important,” she began, her tone warm.
“Yes, Miss Professor?”
“Around what time do you clean the Slytherin dormitories?”
“The Common Room is cleaned in the morning, and the dormitories are done during the evening meal, Miss Professor,” Bulby explained.
“And in the evenings… let’s say the kitchen is especially busy, and you’re a bit late. Do the Slytherins sometimes return before you’ve finished?”
“Yes, but Bulby always makes sure not to be seen, Miss Professor. If Bulby could choose, he would clean during the day when the students are in class, but Bulby must also clean the Great Hall before meals, the aviary in the early morning, watch the greenhouses five times a day, tend the flower beds in the castle grounds…”
Bulby’s words trailed off as Hermione, absorbed in her plan, barely registered his heavy workload.
“Do the Slytherins ever leave their Common Room after curfew?” she asked gently.
Bulby’s large ears trembled. “Y—Yes, Miss Professor.”
Hermione wasn’t surprised. After all, the DA often held meetings outside permitted hours.
“Do you know where they go?”
“No, Miss Professor. Bulby tries not to listen to what they say.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and spoke kindly but firmly, “From now on, I’d like you to listen carefully to everything they say. When you’re finished with your work, don’t leave the dormitories right away. Stay a little longer. If they talk about anything other than classes or family, come tell me. And if they leave the Common Room after curfew, I need you to come and let me know immediately. I have my doubts about some of these students, and your help would mean a great deal to me.”
“Bulby is not alone in the dormitory…” the elf reminded her in a small voice. “Ezequiel might wonder why Bulby is acting distracted from his cleaning…”
“Do you trust Ezequiel?” Hermione asked after a pause.
Bulby nodded earnestly, and Hermione hesitated. Unlike Bulby, Ezequiel wasn’t directly bound to her. But the thought of sending Bulby alone on such a mission left her feeling guilty.
“You can tell Ezequiel the truth,” she decided at last. “But no one else can know. It’s very important, all right?”
Bulby straightened, his chest puffed out with pride.
“Bulby will do it, Miss Professor!” he said, relief clear in his voice. “Bulby understands why it must be secret. Miss Professor doesn’t need to worry.”
“Thank you so much, Bulby. I truly appreciate it. You may go now.”
The elf vanished with another pop, leaving Hermione alone again. She buried her face in her hands, anxiety washing over her.
What was she getting herself into?
On Wednesday morning, a letter landed on her desk.
“Dear Hermione,
It is my pleasure to invite you to a modest soirée, to be held on April 23rd. Armando Dippet, our beloved headmaster, has graciously lent us the Little Bulb Room for the occasion
Many prominent wizards from our country will be attending, and some have expressed a wish to meet you. I hope you will take this as a compliment and grant me the honor of your presence.
Your devoted colleague,
Horace.”
Apparently, she was invited to one of his grand gatherings. Hermione sniffed suspiciously. The last time she had attended one of Slughorn's soirées, McLaggen had been her date. Her memory of that evening was... vivid. Who would accompany her this time? There weren’t many professors who could fit the role. Aside from Slughorn himself, Hermione doubted any other teachers would show up to the little shindig. And who were these people who wanted to meet her? Probably superstitious busybodies looking for gossip.
She was searching for a solid reason to decline the invitation when three soft, discreet knocks sounded on her office door. Hermione set the letter aside and crossed the room quickly.
Her hand was on the doorknob when someone spoke.
"Hi, Minerva. I wasn’t expecting to find you here."
Hermione pressed her ear against the door. Two students stood on the other side: Minerva McGonagall and—? Whose voice was that? Hermione recognized it but couldn’t put a face to it.
"I’m sorry, but you’ll understand I don’t particularly want to talk to you," Minerva replied, her voice sharp.
Silence. A rustling sound.
“Leave me alone!” she suddenly exclaimed, louder this time
Hermione gripped the doorknob again, now alert.
"All right, if that’s what you want," a male voice replied, his tone sad. "When you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me. In the meantime, I need to see Professor Grizzly."
“What do you mean?”
"She wants to see me about my tea leaves," he explained. "I’m here because she’s my Divination professor. You know, the subject you despise and didn’t add to your schedule... which makes my presence here much more logical than yours. Why are you here?”
"That’s none of your business, Rosier," Minerva said firmly.
Adrian Rosier! Hermione bounced—mentally, of course. The Slytherin’s voice sounded so different without his usual confidence and aloofness.
“Why are you here?” Rosier pressed.
“You really think I’ll tell you?” McGonagall replied mockingly.
“And why not?”
Silence again.
“Stop!” Minerva whispered.
Hermione pressed her ear harder against the door, her head beginning to ache.
“We’re not friends, Adrian!”
“What are you—”
"Selfish, scornful, cruel, and incapable of moving forward without stepping on others!" she interrupted him. "That’s what the other Houses say about Slytherins! And honestly, I should’ve listened to them."
“Oh, such beautiful clichés," Rosier replied coolly.
Hermione could hear weariness in his voice; the coldness was back.
"Reality is never that black and white, Minerva. Walburga works as hard as any Ravenclaw. Rigel Adams is a Half-Blood, though his competitiveness landed him in Slytherin. And Gallina—she’s probably the most curious and creative person I know."
"Creative? Her?" Minerva scoffed. "She’s a master manipulator!"
"One doesn’t exclude the other. Gallina changes her mind when proven wrong. You could too, Minerva, if you wanted to."
"Oh, please, Adrian, show me I’m wrong!" Minerva snapped. "Show me your ideals aren’t dictated by your parents!"
"I can’t do whatever I want, Minerva! I have responsibilities! You judge me without the slightest idea of what my situation is!"
"You’re right," she shot back, "I don’t understand your choices!"
A loud thump against the wall near the door startled Hermione so much she almost fell.
"Now," Minerva continued, "if you don’t mind, I’m going back to my common room. There, I can be sure I won’t run into you. I’ll leave you to your meeting with Professor Grizzly."
Hermione heard her footsteps retreat down the corridor. Rosier remained motionless for several minutes before finally leaving too. Perhaps he was headed to the library, or maybe back to his common room? Either way, Riddle had passed on the message, and Rosier had come to her office. Only, his encounter with Minerva McGonagall had made him turn back.
And Minerva? She had been about to speak with Hermione. Clearly, she knew Rosier well—friends? Lovers? Hermione leaned toward the latter.
Whatever they had been to each other, their relationship was now tainted with anger and resentment. If Rosier hadn’t arrived at the same time as Minerva, Hermione might have learned what it was all about.
Stupid Rosier.
That evening, Hermione arrived early for dinner. Slughorn entered the Great Hall a few minutes later and took a seat beside her.
“Good evening, my dear friend! Did you receive my invitation?” he asked enthusiastically.
“Yes, just this morning, and—”
“Will you come to brighten the evening with your presence?”
“Well… I’m not sure…”
“I see,” he sighed, sounding disappointed. “Perhaps you’ll be taking advantage of the spring holidays to return to Canada?
Hermione was tempted to say yes, but she’d find herself in an awkward situation when the holidays began, having to admit she wasn’t actually leaving.
“No, it’s just… I don’t feel very comfortable at these kinds of parties.”
“Don’t be shy!” Slughorn exclaimed, his cheerfulness quickly restored. “If that’s all that’s stopping you, stay by my side all evening—I’ll introduce you to everyone!”
He leaned closer to Hermione and whispered conspiratorially,
“Some very distinguished guests have already confirmed their attendance! You’ll meet wizards who’ve graced the front page of the Daily Prophet! But I won’t say who—it’s a surprise!”
His mustache quivered with excitement. Straightening up, he added,
“So, will you come?”
“Er… I’m not sure yet…”
“No need to decide right now, my dear friend,” Slughorn assured her. “I still have three months to convince you!”
Hermione nodded in agreement. She had three months to come up with an excuse.
From that day on, the weeks began to fly by. February arrived, heralded by a timid sunbeam, and the castle buzzed with life once more.
Between classes, the students talked about nothing but Quidditch. Slytherin was the clear favorite: no matter how many goals the opposing Chasers scored, Adrian Rosier always managed to catch the Golden Snitch in the end. With just a month to go before their face-off against Gryffindor, tension filled the hallways. Insults and discreet hexes flew in all directions. Even in her classes, Hermione found herself acting like an Auror.
“Douglas, put away that broom polish—it has no place here... Kelsi, now is not the time to read ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’... No, Connor, Grindelwald will not be attending the match... Connor, I said no—put your wand back in your bag immediately! Wendy, could you kindly explain how this Snitch ended up in my classroom?”
Each evening, Bulby spied on the Slytherins on Hermione’s behalf. They often disappeared between classes but seemed unwilling to leave their dormitory after curfew, too preoccupied with exchanging the day’s news.
“Mr. Lestrange asked Mr. Riddle if he’d finished his Transfiguration essay so he could copy it,” Bulby reported. “Then, young Mr. Malfoy knocked to ask Mr. Riddle to deal with the Half-bloods campaigning for equal rights for all Slytherins in the Common Room. After that, Mr. Adams told Mr. Rosier he should ask his Chasers not to aim the Quaffle at the vixen’s face if he wanted to increase her life expectancy.
“But, Miss Professor, you should know that vixens aren’t allowed in the school, so it’s impossible to know what they were really talking about. Then Mr. Avery made sure Mr. Riddle had left before saying that Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly had some rather fine Quaffles and that he had urges to—”
“So, nothing of interest,” Hermione interrupted him.
“No, Miss Professor. Except that Mr. Rosier also told Mr. Avery that Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly’s Quaffles weren’t all that impressive.”
“I see,” Hermione sighed. “I need to find a reason to give him detention.”
The intriguing events Hermione had been waiting for were finally about to unfold. It was the dead of night, and the castle was sound asleep when she was suddenly jolted awake.
“Miss Professor! Miss Professor!”
Hermione groaned, opened her eyes, and immediately squinted against the light. Someone had lit the candles and candelabras. She felt the sheets sliding off her and sat up, shivering. Bulby stood at the foot of her bed, his face a mixture of guilt and impatience.
“Miss Professor asked Bulby to alert her if Mr. Riddle left his dormitory after curfew. Bulby is sorry for disturbing Miss Professor so late…”
“Yes, yes…”
Fragments of her dream still clung to her mind. Hermione tried to push them aside and focus on Bulby’s words. Riddle… Had he said Riddle? Had Riddle left his dorm? Her thoughts snapped into focus. She jumped out of bed, but the sudden movement made her dizzy, and she quickly sat back down.
“Oh, uh… Thank you, Bulby!”
She slid into her slippers.
“Did he—did he go alone, or was he with his friends?”
She stood up again and grabbed her robe from the armchair.
“Mr. Riddle left alone, walking silently to not wake his friends.”
“What time is it?” she asked through a yawn.
“It is nearly one in the morning, Miss Professor.”
One in the morning—what a ridiculous hour to be breaking rules.
“Thank you again, Bulby. I’ll go see what he’s up to and try not to get caught this time.”
“Would Miss Professor like Bulby to accompany her?
Hermione hesitated and took a good look at the House-elf. He seemed utterly exhausted.
“No, you should rest—you’ve earned it,” she said gently.
“Thank you, Miss Professor.”
Hermione picked up the candle from her nightstand and opened her bedroom door. For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of understanding in Bulby’s large, round eyes. But when he looked up at her again, his expression was back to its usual one.
“Miss Professor is very kind,” he murmured. “She can trust Bulby. Bulby will always help Miss Professor, no matter what he learns.”
With a loud pop, he disappeared. Hermione frowned. Had she missed something?
She made her way through her quarters, unlocked the door to her office, and stepped into the corridor. Whatever she had missed, it couldn’t be more important than Riddle. She filed the thought away and raised the candle in front of her.
The faint light reflected off the suits of armor, making them seem to shift in the darkness. Their shadows stretched against the walls, coming alive whenever the candlelight approached.
It would take more than this to rattle Hermione.
She crept forward on tiptoe, careful not to wake the characters in the paintings, who were snoozing in a chorus of sighs and soft grumbles. What was she supposed to do? Find Riddle. How? No idea. The castle was enormous. Riddle would see her coming from a hundred yards away. The light from her candle would betray her, giving him plenty of time to flee. On the other hand, Hermione couldn’t extinguish it, or she’d be completely blind in the dark corridors of Hogwarts.
It felt like two years ago. During the Horcrux hunt, Harry, Ron, and she had found themselves in the same situation: they knew what they were looking for, but they didn’t know where to find it. The key question had been: which places were significant to Voldemort? By chance and mishaps, they had eventually figured it out.
Now, Hermione’s question was: what place in Hogwarts was meaningful to Tom Riddle? She reached the top of the stairs when the answer came to her. The third-floor bathroom.
Hermione had policemen in her family. Among them, her Uncle Carlin always made the point, at every Christmas meal, that criminals always return to the scene of their crime. He would proudly boast that he had apprehended dozens of criminals simply by waiting for them at the scene of the crime.
Hermione walked down the stairs, the steps creaking and groaning under her weight. Had Riddle gone for a walk in the Chamber of Secrets? Was this her chance to prove he was the Heir of Slytherin?
What was certain, though, was that Riddle wouldn’t let her stop him without a fight. He would probably prefer to erase part of her memory than be expelled from Hogwarts, have a criminal record, and spend years in Azkaban. She reached the third floor landing and headed for the girls' bathroom.
It wasn’t without danger, but it was better to risk being wrong than to give up. Despite her thirst for knowledge, Hermione had been sorted into Gryffindor. Not Ravenclaw. She had a bit of daring in her.
Five minutes later, she stood in the corridor leading to the girls' bathroom. Everything was silent. She blew out her candle, set it at the foot of the wall, and moved forward in silence. The moonlight streamed through the stone columns, casting stripes of light across the floor.
Hermione reached the bathroom door and pushed it open slowly. The sight of the white sinks and closed stalls filled her with a sense of unease and dread. This place carried dark memories. She walked around the sinks, glanced into the stalls, but found no one.
Riddle was elsewhere.
Relieved, Hermione left the bathroom. Where could he be? Maybe at the seventh floor, in the mysterious place the Slytherins used for their meetings? Her instincts told her Riddle wouldn’t be there. He must have gone somewhere else.
As she retraced her steps, an owl flew between the columns with a sharp hoot. Hermione jumped. She watched it fly away, a dark speck fading into the night sky, and realized her fear had given her the hiccups. Wonderful.
“Miss Grizzly?”
She almost fainted when she felt a hand on her shoulder. When she turned around, her heart pounding, she found it was only Apollo Picott, a confused smile on his face.
"What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
"I—"
After constantly making up false excuses, she was going to lose her knack for improvisation in desperate situations.
"A vision!"
Or just stick with the same excuse for every one of her escapades. That was something to consider.
"A vision?" the caretaker repeated with a seductive glance. "And what did you see?"
"Students out of bed!" Filch's catchphrase.
If Apollo Picott didn't know Filch, his position as a caretaker certainly gave him an inherent distaste for disobedient students.
"Do you know where they are?"
"No," Hermione replied. "I only saw students leaving their common room."
"Which house were they from?"
"I don't know, I’m not familiar with Hogwarts’ common rooms.”
Thanks to her ‘studies’ at Salem.
"Students who wander the halls at night usually go to the kitchens, the grounds, or the library," Picott whispered smoothly.
"To the library... or the Restricted Section!" Hermione exclaimed.
"Exactly! You're a very clever woman. The Restricted Section is full of forbidden books!"
"I'll go check the library," Hermione said, determined.
"This way," Picott whispered as he turned.
He had decided to accompany her. Hermione felt irritated at first, but then relieved. Unlike Filch, Picott was not a Squib. She would undoubtedly feel safer with a wizard by her side.
At that moment, her exhaustion seemed to cloud her memory, causing her to bury the incident that had occurred in her classroom a few days ago.
The library was located at the far end of Hogwarts, below Hermione’s quarters, forcing her to retrace her steps across the castle. Fatigue was stinging her eyes, weighing down her legs, and making her feel terribly cold. So when they entered the main hallway on the fourth floor and Apollo suddenly stopped in front of her to watch the torches light up, she snapped.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry?” Apollo replied, startled.
“You ignore me to look at a painting, you set fire to my classroom, and now you stop to admire torches lighting up? Are you a pyromaniac or just a fetishist?”
“Pyromaniac?” he asked, confused. “Fetishist?”
“Oh, forget it.”
He didn’t know the meaning of either word, and Hermione couldn’t be bothered to explain. Tightening her robe around her, she watched Apollo’s face shift into a look of shame. He turned away, walked toward the oak doors, and started searching for the right key. When he tried to turn the key in the lock, nothing happened.
He pulled the key out and simply pushed the doors open, which swung open with no resistance. Hermione watched him frown. Unlocked doors? That was a sign.
She followed him inside. The shelves stretched into an infinite darkness. The counter was to her left, and a beam of moonlight reflected on its polished surface. But the moon wasn’t the only source of light, as Hermione walked around the desk, she noticed a golden beam of light streaming from under the Restricted Section door, making the dust particles floating on the floor shimmer.
“Ha! They’re here!” Apollo exclaimed.
“Shh! Lower your voice!” Hermione hissed in a panic.
He nodded and extended his wand toward the door of the Restricted Section. With his slicked-back blonde hair and his self-satisfied grin, he looked like a dubious mix of Argus Filch and Gilderoy Lockhart. Hermione still felt embarrassed when she remembered believing—at twelve years old—that the impostor’s stories were true.
It was better that Apollo went first. If Riddle saw her, he would take care of him, and Hermione would kill two birds with one stone.
Picott gently pushed the door open, which creaked quietly. He stepped into a section of the library while Hermione squeezed along the wall. A diffuse light illuminated the space, but Hermione couldn’t find the source. It was probably a well-controlled Lumos Maxima, she guessed. Riddle was indeed a talented wizard. But then, how had he messed up his presence-detection spell a few weeks ago? It remained a mystery to Hermione, and she thought it best not to dwell on it.
Soon, she would have tangible proof to suspect Riddle. If he was sneaking out in the middle of the night, without his friends knowing, it was likely to read books on Dark magic in the Restricted Section. Perhaps he was researching rare and dangerous potions. Or perhaps powerful and forbidden spells. Maybe even Horcruxes…
She heard the sound of a page turning from a few shelves ahead. It couldn’t be the caretaker—he had gone in the other direction.
Hermione reached out and felt along the shelf behind her. Her hand met a heavy figurine—a cave troll wielding a large club. If Riddle reacted threateningly, it was better than nothing. She held the figurine in front of her and advanced cautiously toward the sound.
Another page turned. Hermione was sure of it now: Riddle was behind the shelf directly in front of her. The very shelf where books on influential potions were stored.
A snap—a book had been closed. Hermione turned the corner of the aisle and came face-to-face with… a very feminine Riddle, hair tied in a bun, sneaking away on tiptoe.
It wasn’t Riddle. It was Minerva McGonagall.
Rendered motionless by shock, Hermione lowered her arm holding the figurine, her mouth agape. In front of her, McGonagall’s face was slowly crumpling.
“Uh… I… Well…” she stammered.
“You’re the one who cast the Lumos Maxima?” Hermione asked.
“Yes… I—”
“But what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
The young witch’s gaze became evasive, and Hermione’s eyes dropped to the abandoned book: ‘One Thousand and One Ways to Attract Your Soulmate’.
“I—I’m not supposed to be here. I know. I’m sorry.”
McGonagall had never seemed so vulnerable as she did in that moment. Her head was bowed, her lips trembling. She wasn’t even trying to defend herself or offer an explanation. She had tried to flee when she heard Hermione approaching, but now that she’d been caught, she stood frozen, on the verge of tears.
It was probably the first time she had been caught breaking the rules. So, when Apollo’s footsteps echoed in the nearby aisle, Hermione whispered without thinking:
“Take the book and hide behind the shelves! Quickly, go!”
McGonagall looked at her, bewildered. Hermione gestured urgently toward the shelves, and at last, she moved. Just as the last edge of her robe disappeared behind the stacks, Apollo appeared.
“Well?” he whispered.
“There’s no one here,” Hermione replied loudly. “I think we’ve missed them. I’m going to look around to figure out which book they were interested in. Do you know any other places they might go?”
Apollo scanned the surroundings with a suspicious look. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely dim after all.
“The kitchens, maybe the park…”
“The park!” Hermione exclaimed. “After spending so much time in the library, they might have wanted some fresh air.”
Picott didn’t look convinced.
“Go check the park. I’m sure you’ll catch one of them.”
Still unconvinced.
“We’ll meet later? In a… less tense situation?” Hermione tried.
A flirtatious smile curled on his lips. “Very well. I’ll let you know. Good night, Miss Grizzly.”
Hermione watched him walk away until he disappeared at the end of the aisle. A few seconds later, the door to the Restricted Section slammed shut. She exhaled deeply. That had been close.
“Thank you.”
She turned around to find McGonagall standing between two shelves, clutching the book tightly against her chest, biting her lip.
“Can I—Can I ask you something?” she asked hesitantly.
“Of course,” Hermione replied.
“Why did you…” McGonagall pointed with her chin in the direction Picott had gone.
Hermione sighed. “When I was a student myself, I cared deeply about the rules. I would’ve rather died than been expelled. The mere thought of detention terrified me.” She paused, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And yet, I still got some. Sometimes I broke the rules, but only when I—well, when I didn’t really have a choice.”
McGonagall tensed, sensing the inevitable question.
“Now, I’d like you to tell me the truth. Why are you reading this book, in the Restricted Section, in the middle of the night?”
“Well…”
She hesitated, visibly weighing her options. Hermione saw her take a deep breath, summoning courage, and then she answered:
“It’s quite a long story. A long, stupid story.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Hermione assured her gently.
“It’s a story that means sharing a bit about my life.”
“I’ve got all night,” Hermione replied, stifling a yawn.
It was at that moment Hermione realized she couldn’t keep calling her McGonagall in her mind. Minerva placed the book on the edge of the shelf and began:
“My father grew up in a small fishing village in Northern Scotland. His parents were Muggle nobles who, after going bankrupt, secretly rebuilt their lives away from society’s gaze. They knew nothing about the Wizarding world. In their village, every legend revolved around the grand house overlooking the village. People said it was haunted. It belonged to a peculiar family—the Lestranges.”
“A Wizarding family.”
“Yes, but my father didn’t know that. He secretly played with the youngest of the Lestrange children, Davina. While her older brothers despised the fishermen, Davina often came down to the village, hiding under carts to watch them.
“One stormy day, just after his eleventh birthday, my father fell into the sea, dragged by a net that was too heavy. Davina saw him and jumped in after him. Despite the waves, the rain, and the fierce wind, they made it back to shore. Everyone was astonished. Then, the very next day, Hogwarts letters arrived—for both of them.”
“So, your father is Muggle-born?”
“Yes. Davina was his age. Her brothers had already been sorted into Slytherin, like their parents before them. It’s said that when Davina was placed in Gryffindor, there was almost no applause. My father was also sorted into Gryffindor. Seven years passed, during which Davina grew closer to my father and distanced herself from her family. Yet, she was never disowned—not even when she married him.”
“Wait—Davina Lestrange is your mother?”
“One I never knew,” Minerva said. “She died when I was nine months old. My father says it was from exhaustion. The Lestranges may not have disowned her, but they took my father to court. They claimed Davina was fragile and had been manipulated by a gold-digger intent on their fortune. The DMLE sided with them, of course. My mother fought her own family to ensure my father stayed a free man. And then she was gone.”
Minerva locked eyes with Hermione.
“I have a loving father and a wonderful stepmother,” she said. “It wasn’t my birth mother’s death that made me cry the other day on the stairs. It’s just that… When I started at Hogwarts, I became an immediate target for the Slytherins. They called me a blood traitor, a bastard. They tripped me in the corridors. The only people who stood up for me were Rigel Adams and Adrian Rosier. Over time, their friends stopped harassing me. Last year, Adrian and I started dating.”
Hermione gave her an encouraging nod, but Minerva’s face tightened.
“He left me,” she said, her voice unnaturally steady despite the trembling of her lips. “We wrote to each other all summer, and on September first, he came to tell me that he… he…” Her voice faltered. “That he was engaged to Elisabeth Lestrange,” she finished bitterly.
“Lestrange? Is she your cousin?” Hermione asked, stunned.
Minerva nodded. “He apologized, but it doesn’t change anything. All the apologies in the world mean nothing if he can’t stand up to his family. He wanted us to keep seeing each other for the next few years, but… I can’t stay with him, knowing exactly how it will end. He doesn’t even like the Lestranges, yet he’s resigned to marrying a child. And he expects me to wait around, as his mistress, until the ‘love of his life’ finishes playing with dolls! It’s just—”
“How old is she?” Hermione asked, bracing herself for an answer she knew she wouldn’t like.
“She’s six!”
Hermione was stunned. She hadn’t realized that Pureblood marriages were arranged so early.
“He’ll marry her in eleven years, once she comes of age,” Minerva said, her voice dripping with disgust. “He keeps saying he doesn’t want to marry her, that he’s told his parents about me, and that he ‘understands’ my disappointment. But if I wanted even the slightest chance with Adrian, I’d have to publicly renounce my Muggle father and establish polite relations with my Lestrange grandparents! The same grandparents who drove my mother into depression and see me as a stain on their perfect lineage.”
Despite her efforts to remain composed in front of a professor, bitterness seeped into every word.
"And on top of everything, Adrian has started to befriend the most dubious people at Hogwarts. You know, on Christmas Day, when Riddle came to talk to you… I thought he was going to trick you too, like everyone else. As for me, I keep things polite with him because we’re both Prefects, but I know exactly what kind of person he is. You—” She hesitated, dropping her voice to a near whisper. “You don’t seem to be fooled by him. You’re wary of him, aren’t you?”
It was dangerous ground, and Hermione took a moment before replying cautiously, “He’s a calm, talented student, but yes, I am wary of him.”
“You’re absolutely right. He’s a manipulator,” Minerva said with conviction.
“I must be observant because I’ve thought as much myself,” Hermione responded evenly.
Minerva gave a small, awkward smile, but Hermione had already realized something else.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here, in the middle of the night, researching influence potions.”
The smile vanished instantly. It seemed the girl was sharper than she let on.
“Not influence potions… Love potions,” Minerva admitted, her voice heavy with reluctant honesty.
Hermione’s shoulders sank as disappointment crept into her expression.
“You were right when you said coming to your office might help. On my way, I ran into Adrian—he was alone. We argued. And I realized I can’t just give up. If I did, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I’d end up miserable and alone, just like Professor Dormouse predicted. And I deserve better than that.”
She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting nervously.
“I came up with a plan… If Adrian won’t stand up to his family for me, it’s because he’s convinced himself he can move on, right? But I can’t. A love potion might give him the courage to defy his parents. He’s their only son, so I doubt they’d disown him. Once they accept us, we could finally be together. And when the potion wears off, he’d thank me for it. He’d realize he’s so much happier with me than with his betrothed.”
Minerva bit her lip, while Hermione found herself frozen. Was this truly Minerva McGonagall standing before her?
“You shouldn’t do this,” Hermione said firmly.
“I know,” Minerva replied, defiant but subdued.
“It’s extremely dangerous. Imagine if your theory is wrong. Imagine Adrian’s parents decide to disown him.”
“That might be the best thing that could happen to him,” Minerva muttered.
“Minerva, think!” Hermione snapped, her voice rising. “Adrian loves his parents! If they cast him out because of you, he’ll resent you terribly! And Adrian’s parents know their son—if he suddenly declares he’s leaving everything behind for you, they’ll suspect something. And whatever happens, I doubt Adrian will forgive you for making him drink a love potion! He would have self-respect!”
Minerva hung her head in shame.
Hermione softened her tone, continuing, “I… When I was at Salem, I heard a very sad story. A witch fell in love with a handsome Muggle but was heartbroken because he never noticed her. She gave him a love potion. The two of them abandoned their families and their names to be together.”
This witch’s name was Merope Gaunt, though Hermione kept that detail to herself.
“Alas, while the witch made her choice willingly, the Muggle’s love was artificial. And when she stopped giving him the potion, he realized he’d been deceived. He left her. She died of grief, abandoned by her family and by the man she had loved.”
A faint sound broke the stillness of the library, but Hermione, absorbed in her recounting, ignored it.
“You deserve more than to end up lonely and miserable,” Hermione concluded, her voice steady. “But you also deserve more than to end up dying, isolated and heartbroken.”
“I… Yes. You’re right. It was a foolish idea,” Minerva admitted.
“I trust you’ll let go of it—and that book.”
“I… Yes, Professor.”
Resolutely, Minerva turned to the shelves and returned the book to its place.
“Our conversation will remain private,” Hermione said with finality. “But I trust you not to entertain such notions again. And remember, if you need help, you can always come to me. For now, return to your dormitory—and be cautious. Apollo Picott may already have left the park.”
“Thank you, Professor. I’ll find another solution, something other than a love potion.” Minerva paused, a sudden intensity in her eyes. “You know, in all of this, it’s Riddle who infuriates me the most. I feel like Adrian is even more influenced by that manipulative snake than by his own parents. He admires his… his Prefect, but Riddle is nothing! Without his friends, he’s nothing!”
Without his friends…
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Minerva said, her tone lowering. “It’s just… I mean…”
“I understand,” Hermione replied gently. “But you’ll get through this.”
“Thank you, Professor. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Minerva.”
As the young girl made her way out of the library, Hermione’s expression grew distant. She had attempted to catch Riddle twice and failed both times. It wasn’t time to give up, but a new strategy was clearly in order.
And now, an idea had begun to take root—an idea she couldn’t afford to delay pursuing.
Without a candle, returning to her quarters was no easy task. Hermione nearly fell several times on the stairs. Fortunately, she knew the castle well, and after wandering for half an hour, she pushed the door of her office open, exhausted.
All the candelabras were lit, and Bulby and Ezequiel stood patiently on the vestibule rug.
“Did Miss Professor succeed?” Bulby asked eagerly.
“The Señorita won?” Ezequiel added.
Hermione yawned. “You know about this?” she asked, directing her question to Ezequiel.
“Bulby explained everything to Ezequiel!” he replied proudly. “Y Ezequiel wants to help the Señorita! So, did the Señorita find what she was looking for?”
“Not exactly…” Hermione admitted.
Bulby’s mouth began to quiver. “Bulby is sorry for waking Miss Professor for nothing…” he whimpered, voice trembling with guilt.
“But I’ve uncovered other information!” Hermione quickly added. “I still need your help, both of you!”
“Ezequiel is ready, Señorita!” declared the first elf.
“Bulby wants to make it up to Miss Professor,” added the second with a resolute tone.
“Good. Then could you tell me, as precisely as possible, about the relationships among the sixth-year Slytherins?”
“Mr. Rosier and Mr. Adams are very good friends,” Bulby began at once. “Mr. Avery likes Mr. Rosier but not Mr. Adams, because he is a Half-blood. Mr. Adams only likes Mr. Rosier, Mr. Meery, and Mr. Riddle. Mr. Riddle is a half-blood too, but no one dares mock him. He despises Miss Lockhart and calls her names. Miss Malfoy and Miss Black are very close. Miss Garrison is dating Mr. Avery under her parents’ orders, and Miss Eireamhon is very jealous because she is in love with Mr. Avery.”
In love with Avery? Ugh!
“If you hear anything else like this, I’d like you to bring it to me,” Hermione instructed.
“What is Miss Professor’s plan?” Bulby asked curiously.
“To socially isolate the primary suspect,” Hermione said firmly.
The two elves exchanged a look.
“That will be very difficult,” Ezequiel said, his heavy accent coloring the words. “Mr. Riddle has a lot of authority and is a leader among the Slytherins. How does the Señorita plan to do this?”
“If Riddle’s friends start taking detentions in his place, they might grow resentful…” Hermione suggested. “That might lead them to distance themselves from him…”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking hard to come up with plausible ideas.
“Riddle is as cunning as he is talented. I could try catching him red-handed all year and still fail. But perhaps I can catch his friends instead. To do that, I need to know where they go—and I still haven’t figured that out. Given that you are small and discreet…”
“The Señorita wants Bulby y Ezequiel to follow Riddle y sus amigos?” Ezequiel guessed.
“Yes, but be extremely careful!”
“Miss Professor needn’t worry,” Bulby reassured her.
“If Bulby y Ezequiel can clean without being noticed, Bulby y Ezequiel can follow suspects without being seen!”
“Bulby and Ezequiel will tell Miss Professor where Mr. Riddle goes with his friends.”
“When Riddle leaves, Bulby y Ezequiel will warn the Señorita! Then Riddle will no longer be a threat porla Señorita, and he won’t be able to warn sus amigos! Y sus amigos will get detention!”
“Thank you!” Hermione said warmly. “You’re amazing!”
“Bulby y Ezequiel already know, Señorita. Bulby y Ezequiel are the bravest House-elves in the cocina!”
The next morning, as soon as Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, a disquieting sensation of being watched seized her. She brushed it off and made her way to the staff table, seating herself between a drowsy Apollon Picott—who had likely spent the entire night searching the castle—and a contemplative Miranda Bones.
The enchanted ceiling was a pale, icy blue, almost white. Hermione turned her gaze to the tall windows overlooking the grounds. It was a fine day, with the trees lining the lake timidly offering their budding leaves to the morning breeze. Spring was approaching, and with it, Slughorn's soirée.
“Doyouwanttogowithmetotheparty?”
Hermione snapped out of her reverie and turned toward the voice. It was Apollon Picott, a blond lock falling over his eyes, giving him the look of a washed-up rock star.
“Sorry, what?”
“Do… doyou… wanttogowithmetotheparty?”
Or perhaps one nursing a hangover.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” Hermione said, puzzled.
He rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat before trying again. “Do you want to come with me to Horace’s party? Attend the soirée… with me?”
Hermione was accustomed to either the charming or the erratic Apollon Picott, but the shy, hesitant version of him was entirely new.
As she replied, she cast a glance toward the door. The sense of being observed lingered, stubbornly persistent.
“Oh, you’re invited too?” she asked absentmindedly.
“Well…”
Apparently not.
“I’m not planning to go. I’m sorry.”
“Pity. Another time, then,” he murmured hoarsely.
“Sure,” Hermione said.
Or not.
The caretaker sank dejectedly into his breakfast. A few seats away, Armando Dippet was seized by an uncontrollable coughing fit, punctuated by an irritated “Merlin’s pants!” Miranda Bones stood, wished everyone a good day, and left to prepare her plants for the morning’s lessons.
Moments later, Horace Slughorn entered the Great Hall at a brisk trot, waving cheerfully at Hermione and offering a hearty greeting to the Slytherin students. All of them responded—except one.
Tom Riddle’s eyes were fixed on Hermione.
The source of her unease became clear.
Tom Riddle wasn’t Voldemort. He was just an immature, heartless boy with an unhealthy fascination for dark magic, Hermione reminded herself firmly.
The dark circles under his eyes hinted at a sleepless night spent outside the dormitory, and his disheveled hair suggested a rushed morning. His usual veneer of politeness had vanished; he was staring at her openly, his expression tense and taut.
Was that… worry?
Hermione met his gaze steadily.
No, he knew. She didn’t know how, but he knew.
Saturday was animated by the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Hermione recalled the dormitory gossip Bulby had relayed: “Mr. Adams told Mr. Rosier he should let his vixen catch the Snitch if he really wanted to make up with her...”
The ‘tigress’ in question was undoubtedly Minerva McGonagall, who held the dual roles of Captain and Seeker for Gryffindor, while Rosier served in the same capacity for Slytherin. They shook hands and took off at the whistle.
Hermione was captivated by how gracefully Minerva moved in the air. It was difficult to reconcile this fragile young girl with the stern Transfiguration professor she knew. It was even harder to imagine that this strict, wise professor had once contemplated brewing a love potion to win over a boy.
But, of course, she wasn’t a Transfiguration professor yet. She was just Minerva McGonagall, and she was only sixteen.
Despite her evident unease and a Slytherin team determined to take her out of the game, Minerva managed to snatch the Snitch right under the nose of a stunned Rosier. Gryffindor triumphed with an admirable score. The Slytherins cried foul, while the Gryffindors roared with joy, hoisting their players onto their shoulders and carrying them back to the castle.
In the professors’ stands, Dumbledore offered polite congratulations to Slughorn, who replied with a disappointed grunt.
On the same evening, Dippet came to inform Hermione that due to the increasing number of students wishing to attend her Divination class, a new timetable would soon be assigned to her. While the headmaster’s expression conveyed confusion, Hermione’s face immediately lit up with pride.
Her first task had been to blend into this time period by teaching a subject she had always detested. In just two months, she had succeeded. Now, the students enjoyed her lessons and saw her as a true seer!
What a fantastic actress she was.
The only dark cloud was Riddle. She had the feeling of constantly running into him—whether in the hallways, near the library, or at the entrance of the Great Hall. Even when she decided to stay in her quarters all day, a glance through her window might risk seeing Riddle in the park, leaning against a tree, his eyes on her.
Because he was watching her. Often. Hermione was acutely aware of it. Even though he had stopped blatantly staring at her, she could still feel his gaze on her during meals.
Had she gone too far?
She got her answer the following Tuesday, around three in the afternoon. Comfortably settled behind her desk in her classroom, Hermione was reading ‘Dreams of the Future’ by Willa Pen to prepare for the chapter on dream interpretation.
The day before, she had introduced this new method to her third-year students. It hadn’t been easy. Most of the students claimed they didn’t dream, so Hermione had to come up with a dream to give them something to work with.
“I dreamt I was being chased by a rock that spoke… No, Wendy, the rock does not symbolize death. I told you, no! Alright, let me think of another one…”
The ladder creaked as it descended to the lower level. Gallina Malfoy and Walburga Black were the first to enter the room. They greeted Hermione politely and sat at their usual places. As the rest of the students trickled in, Hermione put her book back on the shelf and finished her tea.
When she turned around, she was surprised to see Marius Avery standing at her desk, hands casually in his cloak pockets.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” he said. “One of my friends would like to attend your class. Is that possible?”
Hermione glanced toward the back of the room. Near the ladder, leaning against the wall, Tom Riddle stood, his eyes on her.
Somewhere along the way, she must have been less discreet than she thought.