Chapter Twelve
Hermione was walking the empty halls of Hogwarts, footsteps echoing against the stone walls as she went. The castle felt like it’d been paused in a moment of time—even the portraits were alarmingly still. It was a startling contrast to Hogwarts’ usual buzzing energy. But despite the emptiness, it wasn’t unwelcome; it was as calm and comforting as Hogwarts always was, like a blanket draped over her shoulders on a chilly night.
She walked, a woman on a mission with a route unbeknownst to her.
Hermione passed through a corridor lined with tall, arched windows, noticing the way everything in her peripheral vision seemed to shimmer and warp as if someone had taken the very threads of the world and plucked and pulled at them till they were loose and unfitting. And, faint at first—like a whisper carried on the wind—she heard the soft strains of music. Hermione paused as if having walked into a brick wall. Her head tilted, trying to catch the sound. The melody was achingly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She moved toward it, like being pulled along a wire by a winch, the singer’s voice invoking her into a sort of trance.
♫Like the trembling heart
Of a captive bird
That was there, at my command
My love ♫
The closer that Hermione drifted toward the noise, the more clarity she felt. Suddenly, she recognised the song. It was First Time by Roberta Flack—one of her mother’s absolute favourite songs; though it was one she only listened to at the very most once a year, considering it always made her cry so severely she went almost catatonic for the entirety of the day.
Compelled by curiosity about why exactly this song was playing, Hermione descended a winding staircase that she knew she’d never come across at Hogwarts before. It went for what felt like forever, turning her almost dizzy at the tight spiral of entirely grey stone floors and walls and the faint flickering of a torch now and then. Finally, she arrived at the bottom, and found herself at the end of a hallway, at the end of which was a solitary wood door, cracked ajar so that the music could flutter out, Roberta Flack’s voice warming the walls of the castle.
Hermione considered the volume of the music as she moved toward the door, wondering how it was just the right pitch to be comforting without being overwhelming when in reality it should’ve been ear-bleedingly loud seeing as how far away she’d heard it.
At the doorway, Hermione pushed it open slowly—tentatively, unsure what she might find on the other side. Warmth brushed over her like a cat against her legs, lighting her face in the orange hue of a fireplace that flickered dominantly in an enormous hearth set into one of the weathered stone walls.
The room itself wasn’t too large or small, rather just the perfect size to feel comfortable in a castle that could often feel drafty. Magnificent floor-to-ceiling bookshelves surrounded the fireplace and the rest of the walls, taking the place where windows would usually be. Unlike the Hogwarts library’s precise organisation, and Professor Snape’s carefulness of his books, there was such an abundance of books that they’d been shoved onto the bookshelves wherever they may fit. On the floor, overflow had taken place in unstable-looking piles that looked ready to topple over at any hint of movement. A globe, compass, telescope—though where one could view the stars without a window or sky in sight was beyond Hermione—and other objects cluttered any inch of space they could.
Hermione walked over a massive, lush Persian rug, fighting the urge to take her slippers off and sink her toes into it, as she looked at an ornate mirror that leaned against one of the bookshelves. It was taller than any mirror she’d ever seen, its ornate gold frame stood on claw feet and had what looked like words inscribed around the edge.
Hermione fought the urge to read into the mirror's inscription as when the turning of a page turned her head sharply toward the two squashy, high-backed chairs that were set in front of the fireplace. “Hello? Who’s there?” Hermione demanded as she headed over toward them.
She rounded the chairs, and nearly stumbled back in shock at the person sat in one of them, legs stretched out and a thick book balanced in his lap. It was him—her Dad. She recognised him only by photograph: the one her Mum had, and the one in the common room of the 1978 Quidditch Team, on which Regulus had been a Seeker. And yet, he looked different somehow; older and slightly frail-looking. His long, curly black hair was pulled back by some twine, highlighting his sharp features. He had thick dark eyebrows like Hermione did, and a thin, high-cheekboned face. His silverish eyes were rimmed with red and purple, remnants of a man who didn’t sleep nearly enough, and his cheeks were a little gaunt, as was his frame beneath fine wool robes that hung a little too loose on him.
“Hello, Hermione.” Despite his sickly appearance, his voice was deep and smooth, tinged with fondness.
Hermione stood shocked still, unable to tear her eyes away from him, like he’d disappear if she dared to believe. Her voice was trapped in her throat, locked in the cage of her voice box, and Hermione gaped helplessly for a few moments until she forced a whisper out. “You—you know my name?” She felt a fool for the question. He was literally in her dream; he was a figment of her imagination. Of course he knew her name. And yet he felt so real that the words came out anyway of their own accord.
“Of course I do, my star.” He closed his book with a soft thud. Its title gleamed beneath the firelight: Famous Wizarding Inventions and Discoveries. His ring-claddened fingers gestured at the empty armchair beside him. “Will you join me?”
It was posed as a question, but Hermione obeyed as if it was a demand, her limbs acting like a marionette in a play.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable like she might thought would happen in the presence of someone she didn’t know, and yet she felt as comfortable as could be. Perhaps her mind had conjured these things—the library, books, fireplace, music and her father—for that reason.
Her mind wracked with questions, wanting to ask him even the most insignificant things just to hear him talk. But he beat her to it, asking her about all manner of things: her classes, fear of heights and if it’d gotten any better since her first flying lesson (it hadn’t), ideas she had for her research projects, friends and her love for Potions, which he glowed proudly at.
She knew it was a dream, knew that it was an odd yearning deep in her subconscious for this moment, and so Hermione sunk into the moment, false as it was. She let herself enjoy his quiet attentiveness, curiosity, and the way his dark eyes seemed to commit every bit of her to mind—just like she was doing with him.
As they spoke, Hermione couldn’t help but notice the small, odd things about his behaviour: he never moved his legs or even shifted in his seat—unlike Hermione who did so constantly—and the way he occasionally glanced wistfully at the ajar door, as though longing to leave it but being unable to.
“Why do you think my dream crafted itself to be at Hogwarts?”
Her Dad hesitated a moment before answering, finger brushing against his jaw as he thought. “This room is all I have.”
Hermione frowned, wondering what he meant by that. It was her dream, after all. Who’s to say they couldn’t have been at home, with Hermione living out what her life could’ve been like with both her Mum and Dad? “That makes no sense. What do you mean it’s all I have?”
His gaze turned distant as if he’d sunken into some recess in his mind. “I’m waiting.”
His riddles and cryptics frustrated Hermione, who liked direct answers from people. She fought the urge to be bossy at it. “Waiting for what?”
“For the right moment. For someone to find me,” he smiled sadly. “You’ll understand one day, my star.”
Hermione’s heart ached with something she didn’t know the reason for. She wanted to ask more and press him for answers, but he looked closed off, and Hermione knew it was better to leave well enough alone for now. She turned her attention to his book instead. “Do you have an interest in wizarding inventions?”
His lips twitched with a faint smile. He clearly understood what she was doing, but said nothing about it. “You never know what knowledge might come in handy.”
Hermione tilted her head in thought as she gazed at the title, but before she could ask more, the music from the gramophone and record player began to fade until it was gone almost entirely, leaving an oppressive silence in its exit. The warmth of the fire seemed to dim with it. Hermione felt that same instinct in her from earlier, this time drawing her away from the room instead of toward it.
“I think I have to go now,” she said reluctantly, standing from her chair.
“You’ll find your way back,” he said, expression tinged by sadness.
Hermione hesitated. She wanted to stay—never wanted to part from him, dream him or not—but the pull grew stronger and she was moving without control. With one last glance back at him, she turned and stepped through the doorway.
Hermione woke in her bed, face wet with tears, heart aching with longing to return to her Dad already.
She lay in bed for a while—it was barely past six on a Saturday and the girls would pitch a fit if she woke them—wiping at tears as they fell, thinking not only of her dream but also of detention last night and how she’d go about telling Harry.
She’d always been one to face things head-on and leave emotions out of it, but this was… it was something else entirely. Studying or helping a friend was one thing, but this was something that could adversely affect everyone around her: Harry, her friends, and if it spread, the entire school and potentially the rest of the wizarding world. She couldn’t just jump into things without weighing up the options.
On one hand, it seemed incredibly obvious to just come out and tell Harry. After all, he deserved to know. But what if she told him and it terrified him so greatly that it affected his mental health or put him in even more danger? She couldn’t help but imagine the worst what-ifs of his reaction: him racing into the forest to find and confront Voldemort or Harry telling her she was a horrible friend for not telling him last night and cutting her off completely. Of course, she didn’t think he was cruel enough to do so to her, but he was a boy and they could be kind of dumb sometimes, Hermione had discovered.
Not to mention, it wasn’t just Harry she had to consider. What about the rest of the students? How could she tell Harry and not anyone else? Was that not prioritising Harry over everyone else; telling them that his safety was more important than theirs? It wasn’t, of course, but it fell into her mental what-if category anyway. Not to mention, everyone in the wizarding world had moved on and rebuilt their lives; buried their dead and mourned their losses; found love and life in other places. She’d be tearing that all to shreds if she broke the news of Voldemort’s return. The fallout would be horrible: students fearing for safety, running to tell their parents, parents flooding the Ministry, and the press scrambling to break the story with mostly overdramatics and lies to fuel the fire to line their pockets.
Hermione’s stomach was a twist of knots all morning while she waited for the others to wake, and by the time her dormmates were getting ready for breakfast, Hermione felt a little nauseous with anxiety.
“You coming to breakfast, ‘Mione?” Adeline asked while helping Alana with braiding her hair.
“Hm?” Hermione answered, her attention having been on the Black Lake. When Adeline repeated herself, Hermione nodded. “Let me get ready.”
Hermione was habitual by nature—she liked the things that made her life feel normal and comfortable: getting ready for the day, completing her homework on time, reading. But today, she simply didn’t have the energy to do so. She dressed in one of her most comfortable shirts, a pair of trousers and a large oversized jumper to keep the chill away. Her hair was a frizzed mess and she didn’t have the effort to try to style it, so she pulled it out of her face with a claw clip, pulled her shoes on and followed the girls down to breakfast.
Adeline, noticing her silence, dropped back, winding an arm through hers. “Are you alright? You’re quieter than usual and kind of pale.”
Hermione sighed. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it yet, much less before breakfast, but Adeline had a singular talent for working out what was going on in Hermione’s mind and at the very least, she could get a second opinion on what to do. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can, ‘Mione. What’s going on?”
Hermione stopped in step and called out to Daphne and Alana to go on without them, who double-checked they were sure before continuing down to breakfast.
The corridor that led from the common room to the Great Hall was heavily trafficked by Slytherins during breaks or mealtimes and therefore didn’t provide them the sort of privacy they needed. “Come on,” Hermione instructed and pulled Adeline down the hall a little further to where there was a little alcove they could hold up in. Inside, Hermione paced as she spoke, feeling too worked up to sit still. “Hypothetically, if you knew something that could affect our entire world, but also one of your friends, would you keep it to yourself, tell your friend or tell as many people as you could?”
“Is this about last night?” When Hermione nodded but didn’t elaborate, Adeline sighed and took a seat on the long bench that ran alongside the length of the alcove. “How serious is this ‘something’? Is it a little secret or something serious?”
“The latter.”
“Well, if I was the one who knew something, would you hypothetically want to know?”
Hermione exhaled a loud, tired breath and nodded. “Yes, I would,” she admitted, “but—”
“No buts, Hermione,” Adeline interrupted, “If it’s serious, trust your instincts. Even if it didn’t affect this friend personally, it’s clearly affecting you just by knowing and that’s enough in my book for you to tell at least one person if it means there’s less on your plate. So if you don’t know about or aren’t ready to tell whoever you think should know, tell me.”
“Are you sure? Once you know, it’s not something you can unknow, Addie. It’s bad…” Once Adeline assured her that she did want to know, Hermione sat down on the bench beside her and told her what Snape had confessed last night.
Adeline’s face turned ashen, Hermione’s words hanging in the stillness around them. For a long minute, she simply stared at Hermione, lips parted in disbelief. Then, she exhaled sharply and leaned back against the stone wall as if she needed its strength to keep herself upright. “Voldemort. Here, at Hogwarts.” Her voice was nearly inaudible.
Hermione nodded solemnly. The fear she saw flicker across Adeline’s face made her heart sink—it mirrored the fear deep in Hermione’s gut. “I didn’t want to believe it either, but Snape was certain.”
Adeline swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her knees which she drew to her chest. “Why would he come back now? And why—why kill a unicorn? You heard what Firenze said, it’d be a cursed life.”
Hermione bit her lip, mind racing. “He must be weak enough that he doesn’t have another option. He must have a more permanent option up his sleeve. I think whatever the thing being guarded by that three-headed dog is what he’s after.”
Adeline’s brow furrowed, fear giving way to thoughtfulness. “Which means he’s desperate. Desperate people won’t stop for anything.”
“That’s what scares me. We don’t know what the object is or how far he’ll go to get it. That means we all might be at risk.”
Suddenly, Adeline’s eyes widened in understanding, as if a missing puzzle piece had just slotted into place in her mind. “Harry’s the friend you want to tell, isn’t he?” When Hermione nodded, she added, “You have to tell Harry, Hermione. He has a right to know.”
“I know,” Hermione said softly, “I’ve been trying to decide how to tell him, but it’s not just Harry to think about. There are nearly a thousand students at Hogwarts, not to mention the faculty—if Voldemort’s here, everyone is in danger. And if the whole school finds out, it could cause chaos. Students would panic and their parents would pull them from Hogwarts. The Ministry and the press would get involved, and then that’d be a whole other storm to deal with.”
“But if we don’t tell anyone no one would be prepared,” Adeline countered, “What if someone else goes into the forest and gets hurt—or worse? We can’t keep this a secret, Hermione. It’s too big.”
“You’re right, I know you are, but we have to handle it carefully. We should tell Harry first,” Hermione responded, “And I think we should tell the other first years—at least the ones who were in the forest with us. The castle and grounds are too much for just us, and this way we can all keep an eye out for anything suspicious. But we have to make sure they understand how important it is to keep this quiet for now.”
Adeline considered this for a moment before nodding. “Okay. So we’ll tell Harry and Ron after breakfast, and then tonight, we’ll bring the first years down to our classroom and tell them. But you have to make it clear to them that if they don’t think they can keep a secret, they shouldn’t hear it. We can’t risk it getting out yet.”
“Agreed,” Hermione said, feeling a small surge of relief at having a plan. But the anxiety lingered, gnawing at the edges of her resolve.
Adeline reached out and squeezed her hand. “We’ll get through this, Hermione. Together.”
Hermione managed a small, grateful smile. “Together,” she echoed.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
The Great Hall was buzzing with its usual morning din, students excited for the weekend ahead of them. However, Hermione’s focus wasn’t on her friends, who were chatting about the Quidditch Skirmish Club meeting that afternoon—a game in which Adeline would be playing. Instead, her thoughts were a tangled web, pulling her further into worry with every bite of toast she failed to finish, attention held by the sight of Harry across the hall at the Gryffindor table, chatting animatedly with Harry, Fred and George, unaware that Hermione was about to alter his life as he knew it.
Finally, when breakfast was finishing up and students were beginning to leave, Hermione stood, wanting to grab Harry before he slipped from the table. Adeline followed her over to the Gryffindor table.
“Well, look who it is, Georgie,” Fred greeted, “It’s the baby snakes. Why ever would they sully our table with their scales?”
“Hello, Freddie. How’s your Mum? I’ve been meaning to write to her,” grinned Adeline teasingly and the boy shoved at her with mock offence that she’d threaten them with writing to their mother, who never needed an excuse to scold them for their antics. “Hey, Harry. Can we talk to you for a minute… Privately?”
Harry blinked at her tone, surprised. “Uh, sure. What’s going on?”
“Not here,” Hermione replied quickly, gaze darting around the bustling hall. Harry nodded and began to rise to follow them. Ron stood, too, but Hermione held up a hand apologetically. “Just Harry for now. We’ll explain later, I promise.”
Ron frowned, confused and a little hurt at being left out, but nodded reluctantly.
They headed away from where most of the crowds tended to gather in their spare time and found a small classroom that could afford them privacy, the soft morning light filtering in through the narrow, arched windows. Adeline closed the door behind them, and Harry stood in the centre of the room, brow furrowed with concern as he looked between them.
“What’s this about?” he asked, tone cautious. “You’re acting weird.”
Hermione hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jumper sleeve where a thread had come loose. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she glanced at Adeline who gave her a reassuring nod. Hermione took a deep breath and said, “Harry… I spoke to Professor Snape when I got back to the dormitory after detention and he told me something…” Hermione’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed hard and forced the words out. “He said that the figure in the forest last night was… was Voldemort.”
The name landed in the room like a thunderclap and Hermione watched Harry’s face shift under the confession. His bright green eyes blew wide, blood draining from his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out.
The silence stretched and Hermione’s mind spiralled. He’s shocked. Of course he’s shocked. What did I expect? That he’d take it in stride? He’s barely twelve—of course he’d be terrified! Hermione thought.
“Voldemort?” Harry finally managed. “That was him in the forest? H-How? I thought he was dead—It has to be a mistake!”
“It was him, Harry,” Hermione assured softly, “It makes sense, especially after what Firenze said. He must be extremely weak, that’s why he’s drinking the unicorn blood even though it’s cursed. He’s using it to keep him going while he waits for something else.”
Harry began pacing, running his hands through his already usually messy hair. “Why didn’t Snape or Dumbledore tell me? Why didn’t you tell me last night, Hermione?”
Hermione flinched at the sharpness in his voice, the guilt washing over her in droves. She looked to the ground. I knew this would happen. I should’ve told him as soon as Snape said something. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said helplessly, voice breaking.
Harry stopped his pacing and turned to her, expression softening slightly. “It’s okay, Hermione. I’m sorry for saying that. I just… this is a lot, you know?” he apologised, tugging a little on the strands of his hair. “What do we do now?”
“You should tell Ron, I just figured that you would’ve wanted to find out alone first,” Hermione explained, “I think we should at the very least tell the others who were in the forest with us last night—they deserve to know what killed the unicorn and can all help keep an eye out for anything suspicious. But if this spreads too far, Harry, it’d cause a panic.”
Harry considered her words. “I’d like to tell Ron myself in private, and I agree that we should tell the others who were with us. I think for now we should hold off on telling all of the first years, though.”
“Then we’ll do that,” Adeline agreed, “And once the others know, we only share it with anyone further if they think we should as well.”
Hermione and Harry nodded in agreement.