The Hallowe'en Feast
On the notice board of the Slytherin common room had hung a small parchment, informing the Slytherin first years of the upcoming Flying class. This, of course, had thus sent Hermione into a panic over the next few days.
At the library table shared between her and Percy Weasley, a mess of books laid, stacked higgledy-piggledy atop each other. An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe , A Treatise on The Hover Charm and its Variants, The Eleven Schools, Quidditch Through the Ages , and more. Currently, she was reading none, instead reciting all the important tips and tricks pertaining to broom-flying to herself, barely above a whisper.
Hermione sat hunched over the library table, surrounded by her carefully gathered research on magical schools and flying techniques. Parchment and open books cluttered the table, but despite all her thorough reading, she couldn’t shake the heavy weight of her decision. Her mind kept drifting back to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. It seemed the most practical alternative to Hogwarts - it accepted foreigners and Muggle-borns, unlike Durmstrang or Uagadou, and didn’t require tuition that surpassed the amount of Muggle money allowed to be converted to Wizarding currency. She’d read everything she could find about the school, even managing to track down old Daily Prophet articles describing its grand castle, set high in the Pyrenees, with gardens and fountains enchanted to shimmer under the sun.
She found herself imagining it, longing for the peaceful beauty of that distant place. She’d read in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe that Beauxbatons fostered an atmosphere of grace and elegance, a place of encouragement and support - qualities she felt were sorely lacking in her first year at Hogwarts, especially in Slytherin.
But then she remembered the upcoming flying lesson and felt her stomach twist with dread. She glanced down at Quidditch Through the Ages , open to a page on basic broom-handling, but even reading through tips and techniques hadn’t helped her anxiety. For all her meticulous planning, flying felt uncontrollable, something she couldn’t study her way through.
“Grip the broomstick firmly, but not too tight…keep balanced, don’t lean too far forward…” She squeezed her hands together, as if gripping an invisible broom, her forehead creased with worry.
Percy Weasley, seated across from her with his own stack of carefully ordered books, peered over his reading glasses. “Hermione, you’ll be fine,” he said in his usual, matter-of-fact tone. “Flying is mostly instinct once you’re in the air. First years have to take it slow, anyway. They won’t let you near the Quidditch pitch until you’ve learned the basics.”
“Right…right,” Hermione mumbled, though she didn’t seem convinced. She ran a finger along the diagram of a broomstick in her book, tracing its shape as if memorising it would make her less likely to fall off one. The mere thought of being up in the air made her stomach flip, and no amount of studying seemed to make the nerves go away.
She glanced up at Percy, envy prickling in her chest. “You grew up around magic—around brooms and all of this. Flying must come naturally to you.”
Percy shrugged modestly, marking his page in Modern Magical Theory with a slip of parchment. “We learned on toy brooms when we were little. Fred and George even managed to break theirs by flying off the shed roof.” He paused, a faint smile on his face. “But that doesn’t mean you’re at a disadvantage, Hermione. You’re a fast learner. I myself was never too good on those toy brooms, you know, but I learned eventually.”
Hermione sighed, glancing down at her notes. “I’m fine with Charms, Transfiguration, Potions - all magic, really! But this…you can’t control a broom with a wand.” Her voice wavered as she spoke, betraying her panic.
Percy nodded thoughtfully, his expression serious. “There’s a knack to it, yes. But Madam Hooch will go over everything step by step. She’s not going to throw you into the air on your first day. Well,” he added with a small chuckle, “hopefully not.”
“ Hopefully not? ” Hermione repeated incredulously, her face drained of all colour. “ Hopefully not? ”
“Oh, it was a joke!”
“Not a funny one!” snapped Hermione, flipping through Quidditch Through the Ages to remember the optimal leg positioning for broom riding.
Soon enough, that same evening, Hermione and the other Slytherins went off to the front grounds. It was a nice day outside - the grass was a shining emerald green, and the sky was cloudless. Oddly enough, that simple observation made Hermione even more nauseous than before. To their distant right laid the Forbidden Forest, its trees tall, dark, and ominous even in broad daylight. Errantly, Hermione wondered whether it’d be possible to accidentally fly into there.
Of the twenty broomsticks placed in parallel lines, Hermione immediately chose the one she thought looked the least worn-out - even then, though, it looked like a strong enough breeze could potentially snap it in half.
The Gryffindors arrived soon, along with their teacher, Madam Hooch. She was an older, sturdily-built woman with close-cropped silver hair, and yellow, hawkish eyes.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stands by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up!"
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!"'
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Hermione's rolled over uselessly. “UP!” she yelled once again.
She bit her lip, a pang of frustration already bubbling up as her broom merely wobbled before settling back onto the grass, as if it were mocking her. Around her, the other Slytherins and Gryffindors were having varying degrees of success, but a few of them - Malfoy, Potter, and Davis - had managed to get their brooms into their hands on the first try.
“UP!” Pansy Parkinson shrieked nearby after her unsuccessful prior attempt, her broom now springing neatly into her grasp. She shot Hermione a triumphant smirk, which Hermione quickly ignored, forcing herself to focus.
Taking a deep breath, she tried again, extending her hand and letting her voice carry. “Up!”
The broom gave a feeble wobble, then rolled back to the ground.
Madam Hooch’s sharp eyes fell on her. “Firm, Miss Granger! You must believe it will obey you.” She walked up and down the line, her hawk-like gaze scrutinising each student’s form and technique. “A broom senses doubt. You have to show who's in charge.”
Hermione straightened her shoulders, feeling the weight of the other students’ glances. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, her palms sweating despite the cool breeze. Believe it will obey you, she repeated silently, as if by sheer will she could command the broom to cooperate.
“Up!” she said, more firmly this time, and to her astonishment, the broom quivered and jerked, lifting just high enough for her fingers to curl around the handle. Her heart leapt, a spark of pride flickering through her. She glanced around quickly, hoping that Madam Hooch had seen that - but, by that point, every single student besides Neville Longbottom had managed to perform the same feat.
Madam Hooch then taught all of them how to mount their broom - amazingly enough, she managed to do so perfectly on her first try. Malfoy, on the other hand, had been told off by her - Madam Hooch claimed his hand positioning was all wrong. Although Hermione knew that she very likely wasn’t even half as skilled as Malfoy was on a broom, it gave her great vindication to hear that she had bested him at one aspect of broom riding, at the very least. The entire week, he’d been bragging about his own great experience whilst mocking her for her lack of any at all. It was only right that he was knocked down a peg.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --"
There was a blur of motion in front of Hermione, shooting upwards; Hermione gasped - it was Neville Longbottom! He gaped down at the ground in horror as he rose, but was not leaning in tandem with the speed of his upward motion - he slipped off, and a sickening crunch could be heard once he fell back down, limp on the grass. His broom sped off - to the Forbidden Forest, of all places. Hermione supposed that irrational initial fear of hers hadn’t been so irrational, after all.
“Broken wrist,” muttered Madam Hooch, tutting as she bent over the teary-eyed Neville. “Come on, boy - it's all right, up you get.". She turned to the rest of the class, fiercely glowering. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."
As soon as the two got out of earshot, Draco Malfoy began laughing:
"Did you see his face, the great lump?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, a pretty, dark-skinned Gryffindor girl with her black hair pulled back into a plait.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" mocked Pansy, giggling. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati!"
"Look!" exclaimed Malfoy, plucking a small glass sphere up from the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."
"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly, but his voice carried - everybody had stopped speaking to watch the scene unfolding before them.
Malfoy grinned. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find - how about up a tree?"
“Don’t!” shrieked Hermione. “I’ve won us loads of House points, and -!”
“Oh, bugger off, Granger!” hissed Millicent Bulstrode, swatting her head.
"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had already flown off with his broomstick, now at the topmost branches of an oak.
"Come and get it, Potter!"
Harry obediently mounted his broom.
"No!" screamed Hermione, flapping her hands in distress. "Madam Hooch told us not to move - you'll get us all into trouble!"
He ignored her, shooting up.
Hermione watched the unfolding scene with her heart racing, one hand clutching her broom handle in a white-knuckled grip. She could barely believe what she was seeing. Up in the air, Draco Malfoy was grinning mischievously, holding Neville Longbottom’s Remembrall high above his head, just out of reach as he floated lazily on his broomstick. Harry Potter stood several feet below him, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing as he hovered on his own broom.
“Come on, Potter!” Malfoy sneered, his voice carrying through the afternoon air. “Think you can get it from me?”
Hermione felt an immediate wave of anxiety knot in her stomach. This was breaking all the rules. Madam Hooch had explicitly ordered them to keep their brooms on the ground while she tended to Neville in the hospital wing. They were only supposed to be learning the basics today - not flying around chasing after each other! Hermione was certain that both Harry and Malfoy, and perhaps even the entire class, would be in terrible trouble if a professor saw them.
But Harry’s face was set with determination. He took a deep breath, then surged upward, his broomstick responding with surprising speed and agility. Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat as she watched him draw closer to Malfoy, the two boys weaving through the air, their robes whipping behind them. She hadn’t expected Harry to be so bold - or so quick. It was as if flying came as naturally to him as walking.
“Stop it, both of you!” she called loudly, but her voice was lost in the cheers and gasps of the other students below. She wanted to look away, to focus on her own broom and keep out of trouble, but her eyes were locked on Harry as he soared higher, inching closer to Malfoy.
Malfoy’s sneer turned to surprise as he realised Harry was faster than he’d anticipated. He threw the Remembrall, sending it soaring high into the air, and Hermione’s heart stopped. She could see the tiny glass sphere spinning against the sky, falling toward the ground far below.
Harry shot forward, his body perfectly balanced on the broom as he angled toward the falling glass sphere. He was going to try to catch it, Hermione realised with a thrill of horror and fascination. The other students had gone silent, the world seeming to hold its breath as Harry leaned down, one hand outstretched, his fingers barely grazing the edge of the Remembrall as it fell.
With a final burst of speed, Harry closed his hand around the glass ball and pulled up sharply, just inches from the ground.
The crowd erupted into cheers, some of the students leaping up and down, shouting Harry’s name. Hermione’s relief was overwhelming - Harry was safe, and somehow, against all odds, he had actually done it. She watched as he floated back down to the grass, his expression stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done either. Then:
"HARRY POTTER!"
Professor McGonagall was striding towards them, her eyes flashing in anger behind her spectacles. “"Never - in all my time at Hogwarts - how dare you -- might have broken your neck -"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor -!" said Parvati Patil desperately, pointing at the Slytherin section.
"Be quiet, Miss Patil."
“But Malfoy -!" protested Ron with wide eyes.
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."
And so, with dropped shoulders, Harry Potter trudged after Professor McGonagall defeatedly. It was unfortunate that he’d get in trouble, but it was only fair - he’d broken the rules Madam Hooch had set for all of them.
“I told him so,” sighed Hermione, tutting as she shook her head.
For some odd reason, the Gryffindors all began shooting glares at her , as if she had been the one to break the rules and - most likely - cost them House points!
As October crept in like a slow-moving mist across the Scottish Highlands, the very air around Hogwarts seemed to hum with the magic of the season. The grand castle, with its towering spires and twisting staircases, appeared to take a deep breath in the cool, crisp air, the very stones of the walls vibrating with life. Every morning, the grounds were blanketed in a soft mist that lazily lifted as the sun climbed higher in the sky, allowing brief moments of clarity before the clouds once again rolled in. The cobblestone paths glistened under the gentle touch of the first autumn rains, leaving behind a sweet, earthy scent that seemed to curl through the halls of the school.
The Forbidden Forest, too, was waking up to the splendour of fall. Its trees had donned their finest colours—fiery oranges, reds, and golds—each leaf trembling in the breeze like a painter’s brushstroke on an artist’s canvas. The overcast skies above cast a warm, golden glow across the forest floor, making the place feel even more magical, more alive. Down by the lake, the glassy surface mirrored the swirling clouds above, broken only by the occasional playful splashes from the giant squid, who seemed to find joy in disrupting the otherwise peaceful scene. Students, wrapped in cosy scarves and cloaks, moved through the grounds, their laughter and chatter adding an extra layer of enchantment to the atmosphere, as if Hogwarts itself was in on the secret of how wonderful it all was.
For Hermione Granger, however, the seeming ‘magic’ of autumn was more complicated. She was, admittedly, beginning to grow fond of Hogwarts, though she would never openly admit it. She still planned to transfer out, of course - she had to. The thought of staying here, with its prickly Slytherins and their relentless torment, was more than she could bear. Yet, curiously, her fiery resentment for the Slytherins had begun to cool over time, leaving her complete and utter fascination with magic intact. It wasn’t that she liked them - far from it - but their mistreatment had begun to feel more like a mere fact of life rather than an active injustice. She carried the Slytherin girls’ bags for them like the wind scattered seed buds of flowers; they hexed and hissed at her for every little misstep, just as predators would chase prey.
But something even more surprising was happening. Hermione was - and perhaps she was just imagining it - starting to make friends . Despite her initial disappointment at Harry Potter for his rule-breaking antics, and the anger she had felt afterwards once the boy had been awarded with a new broomstick and a position on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team instead of with, say, a detention . But after weeks of constantly guiding them both in Transfiguration, it felt as if a bond between them had been forged. They didn’t wave back whenever she did so in the halls, or laugh at any of her jokes, but they still were willing to let Hermione talk without interruption during Transfiguration. And, similarly, Neville Longbottom and her seemed to be growing closer, also as a result of her helping him in Transfiguration. The only bad part about Neville was that he still didn’t feel awfully comfortable around her, for whatever reason - he still stuttered over his words whenever she simply even looked at him for too long, for Merlin’s sake!
Still, the true sanctuary for Hermione was the library, sharing a table with Percy Weasley. It was the one place where she could escape from the relentless teasing of the Slytherins, the weight of her dormitory’s heavy atmosphere, and lose herself in the infinite wonders of magic. There, among the towering stacks of books, Hermione found solace. Each new book was a treasure trove of delightful knowledge, more tempting than the best sweets. She borrowed books by the armful, devouring them with the same voraciousness she reserved for her most beloved subjects. Hogwarts was still a place where she felt out of place - misunderstood and too often scorned - but in the library, in the company of words and spells, she could pretend that magic was nothing but wonder.
That morning, Hermione gathered her things quietly, the elegant four-poster bed creaking as she shifted her weight to reach for her bag. She hadn’t woken up quite as early as usual, and for good reason. The last attack by the Slytherins had been especially rough, leaving her quite sore - being shoved down even the shortest of flights was quite a painful experience, it seemed. She tiptoed to the door, just a step from escaping when the familiar sound of giggles made her freeze.
“Where are you going, Granger?” Pansy Parkinson asked, stepping out from the walk-in closet, her voice laced with amusement as she tried to stifle her laughter. “We can’t exactly go to breakfast carrying our own bags, now can we? That’s simply unheard of for girls of our standing.”
Hermione bit back the retort burning on her tongue and simply nodded instead. One by one, the girls shoved their bags into her arms, each feeling heavier than it should, as if they’d gone out of their way to make the task even harder for her. The other girls, already primped and polished for the day, breezed out of the room with Hermione trailing behind, clutching their bags.
As they made their way through the dungeons, a flash of red shot toward her from behind, from none-other than a nastily grinning Draco Malfoy. Hermione didn’t even try to dodge the spell - attempting to avoid it usually only led to worse retribution. The hex struck her, sending a wave of unbearable itchiness prickling across her skin, but she forced herself to ignore it, following the girls while burdened with their bags.
Just seventy-seven more days.
Finally, they arrived at the Great Hall, where the girls settled into their seats at the Slytherin table. Hermione’s muscles screamed with relief as she set down each bag as carefully as she could, though her limbs felt like lead. She quickly made her way to the far end of the table and, under her breath, whispered the General Counter-Charm, the relief from the counter-charm washing over her like a balm. It was a spell just a bit beyond first-year coursework, but Hermione had made it a priority to learn it after realising that her tormentors rarely used obscure curses.
Just as Hermione finished up her scrambled eggs and tea, she felt a sharp tap on her shoulder, followed by a voice dripping with sweetness. Turning, she was greeted by Pansy Parkinson’s smirk, her bag dangling from one hand like an unwanted offering. Hermione’s expression remained neutral, a soft smile quickly plastered onto her face as she accepted the bag, then the others that followed, each belonging to a different Slytherin girl. One by one, she was burdened with them, a silent procession behind the clique of girls. They were getting more and more blatant - doing this in front of the whole school was audacious, even for them.
People around them began to look, sending uncomfortable, pitying looks at Hermione. Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, even teachers …they paused, tightly pressing their lips together and shaking their heads. Professor Snape’s glittering black eyes flashed for a moment - he was mad, she could tell. Not for her, but for himself - the other professors began to hound him, speaking to him in low, clearly outraged tones. Seemingly, they took issue with this show of power by Pansy and her gang. As Hermione left, she turned back to the Head Table, and her eyes met the startlingly blue ones of Albus Dumbledore himself; the wizened wizard looked more through her than at, stroking his long white beard as he too shook his head.
The walk to Potions class was a humiliating experience, each step a reminder of her place in the social hierarchy. The girls giggled and whispered behind her back, their words sharp and biting, but Hermione kept her eyes forward, determined not to show any sign of weakness. It was, perhaps, the one time she allowed herself to observe them with a strange sort of detachment, fascinated by how the social game played out in front of her. Their little world, so different from her own, was full of subtle power plays and quiet mockery—an endless performance she had no part in, but couldn’t help but watch.
Pansy Parkinson, as usual, was clearly the leader of the group. She walked with her chin held high, like a queen surveying her court. Right behind her was Daphne Greengrass, her ever-present shadow; much prettier than the hard-faced Parkinson, with a much softer and girlish visage, but not nearly as socially aware. She was always one step behind, always following Pansy’s lead.
Then there were Millicent Bulstrode, the imposing figure in their group, and Tracey Davis, the half-blood. The two were not friends, in any reasonable sense of the word; in fact, they hated each other more than anyone else. It was Tracey Davis that had given Bulstrode the cruel moniker of ‘Bull’, something that Pansy and Daphne had found awfully hilarious; in response, Bulstrode always brought up Tracey’s father - a Muggle-born who had been murdered at the hands of Death Eaters during the last war.
It was almost impressive to Hermione that Tracey Davis had managed to gain such ground over Bulstrode - despite the latter being thickset and unpleasant to look at for too long, and the former being a more ‘traditional’ beauty, Davis was still a no-name half-blood while Bulstrode descended from a long, storied line of pure wizards and witches. But it was obvious why, upon examination - Davis was a suck-up. She always laughed as if Pansy and Daphne’s jokes were the funniest she’d ever heard, and expressed deference to them that had not ever needed to be beaten into her, like with Hermione. No, it had simply come naturally . And then, of course, Davis’ greater academic abilities had also played a role - she may have started off at the bottom of the social rung, but her ability to help the other girls with their homeworks and tutor them kept her on their good side protected her from the worst of their cruelty.
Finally, they arrived at the Potions classroom. Hermione set her things down at the far end of the long table, where she was paired with Tracey Davis. She couldn’t help but notice how the other girls had gathered in their usual spots, all too aware of their own places in the invisible social pecking order.
Professor Snape swept into the room with his usual dramatic flair, his black robes billowing behind him like a shadow. The students fell silent at once, their eyes on him with a mixture of reverence and fear. He quickly assigned them the task of brewing a Forgetfulness Potion—something that, despite its seeming simplicity, still made Hermione’s heart race with excitement. Potions were a tricky business, and Snape had a way of making even the simplest of concoctions feel like a high-stakes challenge.
As Hermione and Tracey carefully stirred their cauldron, they watched their Forgetfulness Potion transform to nearly the exact shade and consistency described in their Potions book. Tracey glanced at Hermione with something almost like pride, and Hermione allowed herself a tiny smile. They had followed every step perfectly, from the precisely measured drops of lethe river water to the clockwise stirs at each crucial interval. While its colour could use some improvement - it was a bit more pumpkin-coloured than the more muted shade of orange the book described - their potion was as close to ideal as a pair of first-years could get.
But when Professor Snape began his rounds, it was clear that perfection wasn’t enough.
He stopped by their cauldron, barely glancing at the potion before sniffing with obvious disdain. “Miss Granger, Miss Davis,” he drawled, his tone already laced with disapproval. “This is entirely too viscous for a Forgetfulness Potion, don’t you think? Did it occur to either of you to actually read the instructions? The colour is entirely off, too. I wouldn’t even dare use this on an Obliviated Muggle , for fear their memories may somehow return.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open, and she watched as he moved over to Draco Malfoy’s cauldron with a marked difference in his tone. “Ah, now here we have a promising attempt,” he praised, leaning over to scrutinise Malfoy’s potion. “Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy, though a touch less Valerian sprigs next time would yield a better effect.” Snape nodded approvingly, and Draco smirked, glancing back at Hermione with smug satisfaction.
Hermione’s left eye twitched. Even a spasm of outrage flitted across Tracey Davis’ face, before it smoothed out once more.
After that awful Potions class, Hermione was eager to escape the dungeons and breathe in the fresh, earthy scent of Greenhouse Three. The air in Greenhouse Three was heavy with the rich scent of damp soil, mingled with the delicate fragrance of herbs. The glass walls were fogged up from the morning mist, casting everything in a soft, diffused light. Hermione could feel the tension from Potions class still simmering inside her, but she was determined to focus on the Herbology lesson ahead. Today, they would be working with moonflowers, and the thought of their silvery, shimmering petals lifted her spirits somewhat.
Professor Sprout stood at the front of the greenhouse, beaming at her students, her frizzy grey hair barely contained under a patched hat. "Right, listen up, everyone!" she called, clapping her hands. "Today, we’ll be planting moonflower seeds, a rather special magical plant that thrives on the power of moonlight. These flowers are particularly fussy about where they’re planted, so we’re going to break off into trios for this assignment. Consider the position of the moon in the sky, the alignment of the stars, and the lunar phases when deciding where to plant your seeds. This is a joint project with Astronomy, so I expect your essays to justify your choices with proper astrological reasoning!”
The class let out a collective groan at the mention of an essay, but Hermione’s mind was already racing with possibilities. Moonflowers were known for their ethereal beauty, glowing like liquid silver under the moonlight. What intrigued her more, however, was the peculiar nature of their magic. It was common knowledge that the moon weakened most spells and enchantments, save for those tied to the Dark Arts. Was it possible, Hermione mused, that moonflowers were technically Dark flora? But no, she shook her head—Dark Magic was fueled by intent, by malice, not merely by alignment with the moon. The moon's power was more complex than that, layered with mysteries from ancient astrology and alchemy.
As the students began to group themselves into trios, Hermione looked around, hoping to find a pair she could join. But before she could make a move, Blaise Zabini - a tall, handsome black Slytherin boy in her year - approached her, his dark eyes gleaming with something like amusement. “Looks like everyone’s paired off already, Granger,” he said smoothly. “Mind if I join you?.”
Hermione hesitated. Zabini wasn’t one of her tormentors, exactly, but he wasn’t exactly kind either. He was the sort of Slytherin who preferred to watch from the sidelines, occasionally laughing at the jabs and taunts thrown her way. Still, it wasn’t as if she had much choice.
“Of course not!” she said brightly, trying to hide her reluctance.
They set to work, gathering tools and packets of seeds, and moved to a corner of the greenhouse where the soil was rich and dark. As they dug into the earth, Zabini spoke again, his voice low and almost lazy. “You know, Granger, you could make your life a lot easier if you stopped letting everyone push you around.”
Hermione shot him a sideways glance, her hands moving steadily as she planted the moonflower seeds. “I’m not interested in your advice, Zabini,” she said curtly.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, unfazed. “But if you ever want to survive in Slytherin, you’ll need allies. There are plenty of weak links you could use to your advantage. Davis, for instance - a half-blood like her very likely isn’t treated the best by the other girls.” He paused, looking up in thought. “And, to boot, her Muggle-born father was killed by blood purists, wasn’t he? I’m sure, deep down, she hates this House as much as you do.”
Hermione frowned, feeling a strange mix of wariness and curiosity. “Why are you telling me this? What’s in it for you?”
Zabini gave her a slight smile. “Entertainment. Watching you get trampled on day after day is getting old. It was hilarious the first few weeks, but it’s just getting embarrassing at this point, really. Like kicking a corpse over and over again and expecting it to rise, you know? Honestly, I feel almost bad for you at this point…”
Hermione scoffed, turning her attention back to their assignment. “Well, don’t get your hopes up. I’m transferring out of this school come December.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Giving up already?” Zabini clucked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment
Ignoring him, Hermione focused on their moonflower seeds. They would need to plant them in areas with indirect moonlight, she reasoned, somewhere where they could absorb the silvery rays without being overwhelmed by the full power of the moon. Her mind wandered briefly to the magical theory she had been studying - how alchemy and astrology intertwined, how the sun and moon represented primordial dualities: the celestial salt of the moon and the celestial niter of the sun, the lower waters and the higher waters of creation.
"Do you know," she found herself saying, more to herself than to Zabini, "the moon usually weakens magic. But not Dark Magic. And these moonflowers -”
“Ah, Granger, going off on one of your little tangents again,” Blaise interrupted, though his tone wasn’t mocking. He looked mildly intrigued. “Are you really saying these plants are Dark? ”
“No, of course not,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “Dark Magic needs intent. Malice. Moonflowers are... well, they’re different. They’re powered by moonlight, which might make them seem dark, but they’re not malevolent. It’s like... the moon is a filter, reflecting the sun's harsh rays, turning them into something gentler, more subtle. I wonder whether it's calling upon the moon’s power of becoming, rather than the sun’s power of being - but that doesn’t make sense, does it, since how can something become without first being? Although moonlight really is just sunlight reflected…” She trailed off, realising she had been rambling. Zabini was staring at her, blinking in stupefaction. “Never mind.”
Blaise didn’t press her further, but Hermione could sense his curiosity. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to actually have a real conversation with someone in Slytherin who might understand the intricacies of magical theory, and not simply mock her for her eagerness in learning about them. But she dismissed the thought just as quickly. Hermione had no intention of staying here long enough to find out.
Together, they planted the seeds, careful to position them where they would catch the moonlight from the greenhouse windows, working in absolute silence.
The days bled into each other in a blur of frantic studying and resolute attempts to ignore the Slytherins' relentless jeers, until October had drawn to a close - and with it, the long-anticipated Hallowe’en Feast.
The Slytherin common room, as always, was an opulent chamber steeped in a kind of cold grandeur. Dim emerald lanterns cast an eerie glow over the room, their light flickering against the stone walls. The ever-burning fire crackled beneath an ornate mantelpiece, carved with intricate serpentine designs that seemed to writhe in the low light.
The walls were draped with tapestries and portraits depicting Slytherin legends: Merlin in all his mystic glory, the formidable Percival Rowle, the austere Adrianna Bones, and even the founder himself, Salazar Slytherin, whose painted eyes seemed to follow you wherever you went. Despite being underground, the common room did not lack for grandeur; a low, vaulted ceiling was supported by marble columns of such fine craftsmanship that they looked almost out of place among the rough-hewn stones. The elegance of the plush sofas, rich rugs, and gleaming tables contrasted starkly with the dungeons' natural austerity, the entire room feeling like a stubborn rebellion against the castle’s ancient stonework, saved only by the mesmerising underwater view from its windows. Beyond the glass, the murky depths of the Black Lake shimmered, occasionally distorted by the shadows of passing Grindylows and Kelpies.
Hermione sat tucked away in a shadowed alcove, far enough from the hearth that the cold of the dungeons bit through her robes. She was buried in a thick tome on the Levitation Charm’s finer intricacies - not because she needed to, but because she hoped it might reveal some overlooked detail that would help her stand out in Professor Flitwick’s class. Today’s lesson would see them attempting their first real spellwork, and while most of her classmates were buzzing with excitement, Hermione was jittery with nerves - a peculiar thing, given that she had already mastered the charm quite a while ago, practising it and many other simple charms tirelessly in the privacy of her bedroom, long before the others had even thought to open their books.
She flipped the page to reveal a complex diagram illustrating the charm’s spell model, her eyes skimming the fine print as she tried to commit it to memory yet again. But her concentration was shattered when a burst of laughter echoed through the room. The first year Slytherin boys had arrived, led by none other than Draco Malfoy. The few students lounging by the fire hardly gave her a second glance, but Malfoy, of course, always spared some time to sneer at her.
Hermione stiffened, bracing herself. Malfoy’s cold grey eyes swept over her with a look of disdain, his lips curling into a familiar smirk. But today, instead of hexes or barbed words, he simply turned away, sauntering towards the high-backed armchairs, each upholstered in the finest of green silks, cloistered around the roaring fireplace with his entourage in tow.
“Honestly, it’s a disgrace,” Malfoy was saying, his poshly-accented voice carrying across the room. “This whole Hallowe’en nonsense - nothing but a filthy Muggle tradition. The very idea that Hogwarts should waste a feast on it... It’s practically an affront to wizardkind!”
The others snickered in agreement, echoing his disdain, but Hermione blocked them out, her fingers gripping the edges of her book. She knew all too well what it felt like to be the target of their scorn, and today, at least, she would prefer to disappear into the dusty pages of magical theory than dwell on her own precarious place in their world.
But even as she tried to lose herself in the text, her mind wandered back to her anxieties about the coming lesson. For all her preparation, there was still a knot of dread in her stomach. It wasn’t just about the spell itself, of course; it was about the need to prove herself, to show everyone that she belonged here - even if no one else seemed to think so. That’s why Hermione studied magic so fiercely, even though she knew she’d have been just as content with tomes on history trivia or somesuch.
She turned the page with a huff, determined to find solace in the certainty of magical formulae, ignoring the jeers and laughter that filled the room like a foul stench. Hallowe’en might be a celebration of all things magical, but for Hermione, it was just another reminder of how far she still had to go: fourty-eight days before Christmas Break, before she’d officially leave Hogwarts behind forever.
As Hermione tried to lose herself in the dense paragraphs on the creation of the Levitation Charm, the conversation by the fire grew louder, making it impossible for her to ignore. Malfoy, always the ringleader, was holding court with his usual self-satisfied smirk:
“Honestly, Hogwarts has gone soft,” he was saying, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his robes. “Hallowe’en Feast, can you believe it? What we should be having is a proper Samhain celebration, like real wizards. None of this pandering to Mudblood customs.”
“Too right,” agreed Blaise Zabini, nodding along with a great deal of fervour. Hermione held back a snort - she doubted the boy really cared all that much. “Hallowe’en’s just another Muggle corruption of what should be a sacred magical tradition. The school’s been catering to Muggle-borns for far too long.”
Crabbe and Goyle nodded along, clearly not understanding half of what was being said, but eager to be part of the conversation.
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Samhain? Really? She had heard this nonsense before, the so-called “Mugglization” of wizarding holidays—a popular topic among the more conservative purebloods who seemed to think that embracing anything remotely Muggle was tantamount to heresy. But Hermione knew better. When she’d first overheard Slytherins grumbling about it, she had taken the time to do her research. After a deep dive into the library’s most reputable sources, she found that there was no evidence whatsoever that British wizards had ever celebrated pagan holidays like Samhain or Yule on a grand scale.
The claim that Hogwarts had somehow ‘sold out’ to Muggle traditions was nothing more than a conspiracy theory propagated by old pureblood families who were desperate to cling to some sense of superiority over Muggleborns. Most historians she’d read agreed that the magical community had always mostly followed the Muggle calendar, observing the latter group’s celebrations as well. If anything, the idea that wizards had once followed these ancient, pagan customs was a rather recent fabrication - a convenient myth used by the likes of Malfoy to further justify their disdain for supposed ‘Muggle influences’.
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line as Malfoy continued, “It’s disgraceful, really. My father says it’s all part of Dumbledore’s agenda—trying to make us forget our roots, make us just like them.”
It was laughable, really, to Hermione, the lengths Slytherins would go to justify their own bigotries. As if Albus Dumbledore, of all people, was conspiring to erase wizarding culture. The Headmaster was one of the most celebrated defenders of the Wizarding World, having imprisoned the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, who had terrorised Europe in his quest to tear down the Statute of Secrecy, after their famous duel in 1945. If anything, he was doing his best to foster unity between wizards, regardless of their blood status - a goal that seemed to enrage the likes of Malfoy and his ilk, for whatever reasons.
Just when she thought she couldn’t bear another minute of their inane prattle, a distant bell rang through the castle, signalling breakfast. The gathered Slytherins began to rise, stretching and shaking out their robes as they prepared to head to the Great Hall. Hermione took this as her cue to finally escape, hastily gathering her things. She slipped past the Slytherin boys, who were too busy speaking their mistruths to notice her, and hurried out of the common room.
Hermione walked briskly down the dim, torch-lit corridor of the dungeons, her shoes clicking softly against the cold stone floor. The air was damp and carried a faint chill that always seemed to seep through her robes. She ascended the marble staircase leading up to the Entrance Hall, a grand space now filled with echoes and shadows, still mostly empty at this early hour. Upon the notice board, pinned-up flyers for Charms Club recruitment and the upcoming Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Slytherin fluttered as Hermione brushed past, and into the Great Hall.
Hermione kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, and slipped into the hall, relieved to find a quiet spot at the Slytherin table. She quickly helped herself to toast, eggs, and a steaming cup of tea. As always, she ate with one hand while using the other to flip through her Charms textbook, her eyes scanning the pages for any final tips on today’s spell. She was determined to impress Professor Flitwick, and every moment spent revising felt like a step closer to that goal.
The enchanted ceiling above showed a pale dawn sky, tinged with the softest hues of pink and gold, but Hermione barely noticed. Her focus was solely on the neatly printed words in front of her, her lips moving silently as she recited incantations under her breath. The hall gradually filled with more students, the noise level rising, but even Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherins seemed to leave her be this morning, instead excitedly talking about how they’d be making things fly soon enough. It was a small mercy, and one which Hermione was more than grateful for.
Before long, breakfast was over, and the time for classes had begun. Defence against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Transfiguration - they all slipped away before Hermione even knew it. Soon enough, Charms class had arrived, and Hermione’s knees buckled under the pressure as she slowly made her way there.
The corridors buzzed with the excited energy of first-years eager to finally cast their first proper spell. Today was the day they would learn to make objects fly around with the Levitation Charm, after an entire two months filled with little else but theory, and the air was thick with anticipation.
The Charms classroom was a welcome change from the gloomy dungeons. It was a bright, inviting space, filled with the scent of old parchment and the promise of knowledge. The room was lined with bookshelves that brimmed with ancient tomes, scrolls, and parchments. Books were stacked on the floor in haphazard piles, adding to the cosy, lived-in feel of the place. A large bay window with multiple glass panes allowed sunlight to spill into the room, casting a warm glow on the wooden planked floor and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. Beyond the window, the rolling grassy slopes of the Hogwarts grounds stretched out in a breathtaking panorama, making the room feel like a little sanctuary of learning.
Professor Flitwick, a tiny man with a cheerful demeanour and wispy grey hair, stood on a stack of books behind his desk to better see the class. His voice was high and squeaky, but it carried a contagious enthusiasm that filled the room. "Welcome, welcome!" he called out, clapping his hands together. "Today is a very exciting day! We’ll be attempting the Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa . Remember, it’s all in the swish and flick!”
Hermione sat in the first row, sharing a desk with Tracey Davis, the only non-pureblood Slytherin girl in her year. Tracey was pleasant enough when not with the other girls, so Hermione found herself relieved to have someone who wouldn’t mock her if she got something wrong—though she could only hope that she wouldn’t.
Professor Flitwick waved his wand, and a small feather floated gracefully in the air before settling gently onto each student’s desk. “Now, remember,” he chirped, “the movement is a swish and flick, like so.” He demonstrated with a flourish, and the lily-white pheasant feather on his own desk soared upward, hovering serenely before gliding back down.
Hermione could barely contain her eagerness as she gripped her wand. She had been practising this spell for days, perfecting the delicate balance between concentration and wand movement. Next to her, Davis gave a nervous glance, her fingers trembling slightly around her own wand. Hermione offered her a small, reassuring smile - though her own heart was racing with excitement.
"On three, everyone! One, two, three— Wingardium Leviosa! ” Flitwick called.
Hermione’s feather soared into the air, rising far higher than anyone else’s. She heard a few gasps from the surrounding students, and even Professor Flitwick’s eyes twinkled with approval as he gave her a nod. The rest of her classmates’ feathers remained stubbornly grounded.
“Well done, Miss Granger, well done! Splendid control!” Professor Flitwick beamed, clapping his tiny hands together. Hermione felt a surge of pride, her worries and the morning’s stress melting away in the warmth of his praise. “Two points to Slytherin!”
Draco Malfoy, whose feather had not budged an inch, glared at her; he’d been preemptively bragging about how he’d be the first to master the Levitation Charm for a few days now.
Despite knowing the potential consequences, Hermione couldn’t help but flash a smug smirk at him, causing his face to darken with anger.
As the lesson continued, Hermione’s control over the charm only improved - her feather was doing twirls, rolls, and dives, and after a certain point, she’d even managed to get her book bag to join in on the aerial performance as well:
"Oh my days!" the Charms Professor squealed, furiously applauding. "That was certainly an impressive feat! Ten points to Slytherin! How much theory have you read on the spell?"
"Oh, it was nothing!" Hermione demurred, two spots of pink appearing high upon her cheeks as she smiled. "I've read all the books you've recommended to me, and just dug a bit deeper. Learning how the spell was created, all about the variations like the Hover Charm and the Levitation Spell, then making my way through a few advanced books on each relevant concept mentioned…you know, the basics."
Once Professor Flitwick had left - after informing her of a few books he thought would make interesting additional reading material, of course - Hermione switched her sights to helping her classmates.
" Wingardium Leviosa! " Davis cried, but the feather remained flat on the desk. Hermione simply tapped her wand against the desk in boredom, watching the half-blood girl struggle before finally intervening.
"Your pronunciation is perfect, but your wand motion is a bit off." Hermione noted instantly. "Your swish is too sharp. Do it like this - Wingardium Leviosa! "
Both Hermione’s feather and her satchel flew into the air once more before hovering near the ceiling.
“ Wingardium Leviosa! ” Davis incanted once more, moving her wand with a perfect swish and a flick, just like Hermione had shown her. The feather before her rolled uselessly on the desk.
Mid-way through the lesson, another student had finally managed to follow up on Hermione’s success - Susan Bones, a redhead Hufflepuff witch in her year, had just managed to get her feather to float serenely in midair, high above her desk. The little white feather hovered, perfectly balanced, before drifting slowly back down.
Hermione’s lips pressed together; she didn’t like Susan Bones much. A few weeks ago, the other witch had threatened to shove Hermione's wand in a very inappropriate area after Hermione had simply corrected her pronunciation of the Wand-Lighting Charm and critiqued her note-taking skills. But sure, Hermione wasn't humble or patient enough to get into the House of the duffers according to the Sorting Hat.
Tracey, for her part, seemed similarly displeased by this:
“Merlin,” she groaned, her face twisted in annoyance, “this’ll give her an even bigger head. It’s far too disproportionate as is!”
Hermione’s eyes rolled involuntarily, but she refrained from saying anything.
“Bones thinks she’s God’s gift to wizardkind,” Tracey went on nastily, “and that her aunt, Amelia Bones, is the most impressive witch to ever exist. It’s so annoying! Especially since everybody knows that Amelia Bones only became the head of the DMLE because she, you know, boned her way to the top. That’s what my mother’s husband says, at least; so, honestly, that utter cow of a girl needs to be humbled -”
"Let’s focus on your charm for now, shall we?" Hermione said in the same calm voice, giving Tracey a pointed look. "Swish and flick, Davis. Remember, focus. "
The bell rang, signalling the end of Charms class, and the students eagerly began to file out of the cosy, sunlit room. Hermione tucked her wand into her robes, feeling a small flicker of pride at having helped Tracey Davis finally master the Levitation Charm.
As she gathered her things, Hermione noticed Davis quickly joining Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson near the door, their heads bent together in hushed whispers. There was no glance back in Hermione’s direction, in thanks for all of her help, but she hadn't expected one. It was fine. She wasn’t doing this to win friends.
Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she stepped out into the corridor, which was already filling with students. The hustle of the morning classes sent waves of chatter bouncing off the cold, stone walls. Hermione had barely made it a few paces from the Charms classroom when she felt something hard and unexpected catch at her feet.
With a startled gasp, she pitched forward, her books and parchment flying in all directions as she tumbled to the ground. The corridor went momentarily silent, save for a few gasps from the surrounding students. A sharp, mocking laugh echoed above her.
Draco Malfoy stood there, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his pale face. "Oops," he drawled lazily, his cold grey eyes glittering with amusement. "Clumsy, Granger. You ought to watch where you’re going. Wouldn't want to break that oversized brain of yours."
Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and fury, as she scrambled to gather her scattered books. Around her, a few Hufflepuffs exchanged awkward glances, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to intervene. One of them, a brown-haired boy named Justin Finch-Fletchley, looked as though he might step forward, but then quickly thought better of it when Malfoy’s sneering gaze swept in his direction.
"Leave her be, Draco," muttered Blaise Zabini, though his voice held no real conviction, and he made no move to help Hermione. He was leaning casually against the wall, observing the scene with a detached sort of interest, as if it were merely another form of entertainment in his otherwise dull morning.
Malfoy paused, tilting his head as he coldly stared at her, before he sauntered off, the Slytherins in tow.
Slowly, Hermione rose, carrying her open satchel: “Wingardium Leviosa! ” she cried, and her fallen books, parchments, and quills all zoomed into her bag once again. Unfortunately, one of her inkwells had smashed, its black ink splattered all over the flagstone floor.
Ignoring the stares and the whispers that followed, Hermione squared her shoulders and stormed off toward Transfiguration. Her steps were brisk, determined, but inside, she felt the familiar sting of humiliation prickling at her eyes. She blinked it away furiously.
The day of the Hallowe’en Feast dawned, cold and clear, the chill October air creeping through the castle’s draughty corridors. By the time the first-years made their way into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the room was dimly lit by flickering torches and the weak sunlight filtering through the narrow, high windows. The usual atmosphere of distracted whispers and shuffling feet was intensified today, almost all the gathered students theorising as to what the feast would be like. Last year, Hermione had heard, there’d been a band of zombies performing - although after they tried biting one of the students, Professor Dumbledore had hurriedly forced them all out.
Hermione slid into her usual seat at the front, quill poised over her parchment, eyes fixed on the professor with a mix of anticipation and wariness. Defence Against the Dark Arts had been something of a disappointment so far, with Quirrell’s nervousness often making his lessons a disjointed mess. But today, something looked to have changed within the wizard. Professor Quirrell stood at the front of the classroom, his turban wound tightly around his head as usual, but there was something in his posture - something less hesitant, more commanding than his usual trembling demeanour.
"Today," Quirrell began, his voice only slightly wavering, "w-we are g-going to discuss... the J-Jelly-Legs Jinx." His usual stutter was there, but less pronounced, as if he were making a concerted effort to steady himself. The students leaned in, intrigued. "A spell that c-can render your opponent’s legs... quite u-useless. V-Very effective for d-disarming someone without causing... permanent harm."
Hermione’s hand twitched, her mind racing ahead. She knew the Jelly-Legs Jinx well, had read about it in Curses and Counter-Curses , and had been on the receiving end of it more times than she cared to remember, courtesy of Draco Malfoy. She could already see the flicker of a smirk on Malfoy’s face from across the room, his grey eyes glinting with mischief as he stared straight at her. But Quirrell didn’t seem to notice; his focus was entirely on his lesson.
He raised his wand and demonstrated the incantation with a flourish, sending a flicker of magic towards a suit of armour in the corner. The armour’s legs immediately wobbled uncontrollably, clattering noisily as it threatened to collapse. A few students laughed, though it was more out of surprise than amusement.
But then, Quirrell did something unexpected. Instead of moving on to begin discussing the theory, he began to pace, his expression thoughtful, almost... calculating. “The Jelly-Legs Jinx,” he said, his voice growing steadier with each word, “is... an interesting example of s-s-s-spellcraft. N-Not quite Dark Magic, no, but it... dances on the edge, doesn’t it? C-Can be used to h-humiliate, to... t-torment, even.”
The room grew still, a heavy silence settling over the students as they hung on his every word. "And that," Quirrell continued, his voice gaining an almost hypnotic rhythm, “brings us to a q-question... What is Dark Magic? At what point d-does a spell... become Dark? Is it... the intent behind it? Or the effect it has?”
The question hung in the air, and almost instantly, two hands shot up. Hermione’s was first, as usual, her eyes bright with the thrill of academic challenge. But, to her surprise, Malfoy was right there alongside hers, his hand raised high, a self-assured smirk on his lips. Professor Quirrell looked between the two, a peculiar smile curling at the corners of his mouth, as though he were amused by the rivalry playing out before him.
“Mr. Malfoy,” Quirrell said, inclining his head ever so slightly, “let’s hear from you first.”
Malfoy leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing the attention. “Dark Magic,” he drawled, “is about power. It’s for wizards who aren’t afraid to use their strength, no matter what anybody else tells them they can or cannot do. The intent matters, sure, but the magic itself - well, it’s just a tool, isn’t it?”
Hermione felt a surge of irritation, but she kept her expression neutral, waiting for her turn. Malfoy’s answer, though confident, seemed simplistic to her.
Professor Quirrell nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming in a way that made Hermione uneasy. “Interesting, Mr. Malfoy... v-very interesting. And what of you, Miss Granger? What’s your view?”
Taking a deep breath, Hermione straightened in her seat. “I believe Dark Magic is defined by intent and consequence,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s not just about power—it’s about the desire to harm, to dominate. A spell itself isn’t inherently Dark, but if it’s used with malicious intent, that’s what corrupts it. Magic is a tool, yes, but it’s also a responsibility. The intent behind the spell is what defines it.”
There was a murmur of interest from the surrounding students. Professor Quirrell tilted his head, studying her with a curious intensity. “An admirable perspective, Miss Granger,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “Intent... yes, intent is crucial. But... d-does that mean that anyone... anyone at all, could be c-capable of Dark Magic, given the right circumstances?”
Hermione hesitated. The question felt oddly personal, as if it were more than just a theoretical debate. “I think... I think it depends on the person,” she answered slowly. “On their choices. Even a good person can make a terrible choice, but that doesn’t mean they’re beyond redemption.”
“But even the - the most b-basic of jinxes requires s-some level of ill intent, no?” Quirrell questioned, tilting his head. “T-to cast the J-jelly Legs Jinx, one must want th-the victim’s legs to go limp.”
“We all feel negative emotions,” answered Hermione slowly, worrying at her bottom lip in thought, “but that doesn’t mean they always reflect on us. Yes, if we look at it from a purely magical perspective, there’s no real difference between jinxes, hexes, and curses - they’re all Dark Magic, even if we as wizards decided arbitrary delineations for each. But from an ethical standpoint, there’s so much more to consider - does the spell cause lasting effects, for example? If so, that shows a great deal of cruelty on the part of its casters, thus reflecting on the moral standing of them.
“That’s why the Full Body-Bind Curse used to be considered Dark Magic by most - because before the counter-curse was invented, it was Dark Magic, for all intents and purposes. Now, we teach it to first years! Or, say, if a spell requires loads of hatred to cast, then it also is Dark Magic, because that again reflects on the casters as people. So, no, I wouldn’t call the Jelly-Legs Jinx Dark Magic even if it obviously fits the magical definition. Being able to summon up a scrap of annoyance is very different from the cruelty that true Dark Magic requires, at least in my opinion.”
For a moment, a strange look passed over Quirrell’s face, something almost like disappointment. But then, it was gone, replaced by his usual twitchy demeanour. “Quite right... quite right,” he muttered, turning away abruptly. “Now, let’s p-practice the jinx, shall we? Pair up, everyone!”
Hermione had been paired up with Ernie Macmillan; of course, she cast it easily on her first try, making his legs wobble unsteadily, before the Hufflepuff boy toppled to the ground.
After Defence came Potions; the classroom was damp and foreboding, with the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the jars of grotesque specimens lining the stone walls. Professor Snape, prowling like a dark bat, seemed to take particular delight in terrorising his students that day, his sharp eyes gleaming with every caustic remark. Despite the pressure, Hermione brewed an impeccable Draught of Peace, its silver vapour curling delicately from her cauldron, only to have Snape dismiss it as “acceptable.” Malfoy, whose potion was a shade too pale and lacked the telltale spiral fumes, still received a nod of approval and a perfect score, leaving Hermione simmering with quiet frustration.
Finally came Transfiguration, where the classroom was abuzz with the soft flicks and muttered incantations of students attempting the parchment-to-quill transformation. Hermione couldn’t help but groan inwardly - she’d mastered this spell ages ago, even experimenting with complex variations beyond what Professor McGonagall had set for them. Today, at least, she had been assigned to the same group as last time, meaning she’d be working alongside Harry Potter and Ron Weasley - the closest she had to friends at Hogwarts, aside from perhaps the latter’s older brother, Percy Weasley.
By their twentieth failed attempt, Hermione’s patience wore thin. "You're doing it all wrong!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “Your wand movements are too jerky—it's a smooth, upward flick, not a stabbing motion!"
With an exasperated sigh, Hermione aimed her wand at the parchment, but this time, she decided to test a theory she'd been toying with for weeks. She focused intently, merging two Transfiguration spells she’d only read about in advanced texts. The result was a beautifully intricate quill with a vibrant emerald plume, and next to it, a polished pewter inkwell that glimmered in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
Hermione sent a smug smirk at the stupefied pair.
Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. “Two points to Slytherin, Miss Granger! I didn’t expect you to grasp such advanced material so quickly!” she praised, clearly impressed. “You may continue experimenting for the rest of the lesson - although perhaps help your group catch up, as well,” added McGonagall, frowning at the two unchanged parchments before Harry and Ron.
By the end of class, Hermione’s desk was cluttered with a menagerie of transformed objects: a silver inkwell adorned with a miniature owl, a patterned envelope, a bronze letter opener shaped like a gryphon, and even a delicate ankh pendant that seemed to glow faintly. She had earned more points than she had in days, leaving the classroom with a triumphant smile, her earlier frustrations forgotten. Hermione had even been so ahead that she’d had time to instruct Harry and Ron, too; they seemed to still not quite fully grasp the basics of the material, somehow.
Eventually, the sharp note of the bell boomed through the castle, and the class all filed out, buzzing with excitement for the upcoming Hallowe’en Feast.
Making her way through the crowded corridor, Hermione spotted Harry and Ron ahead, their messy black and ginger heads bobbing above the throng of students. She quickened her pace, intending to catch up with them. Maybe if she gave them a bit more advice, they might finally get the hang of their Transfiguration spells—or at the very least, stop looking so hopelessly lost in class.
As she approached, their conversation drifted back to her ears.
"The thing is," Ron was saying, his freckled face animated as he waved his hands around, "I want to feel bad for her, you know?"
Hermione’s steps faltered. Her heart plummeted; they couldn’t be talking about her - could they?
"But I just can't!" Ron exclaimed, his voice bright with amusement. He threw his hands up dramatically, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I mean, I hate Malfoy and all, but even I have to feel a bit sorry for him when I realise he has to deal with that grating voice going, 'No, you can't do that - it's against all the rules!' or, 'Actually, you do a jab and not a twist, didn’t you know?'" He and Harry laughed. “Merlin, that girl is just insufferable - no wonder she’s a Slytherin!”
The world seemed to tilt beneath Hermione’s feet. She stood frozen, a sea of students jostling past her, unaware of the way her vision blurred with unshed tears. Harry and Ron…they didn’t like her.
Her chest was tightening with a pain that felt almost physical. That wasn't how friends talked about each other, was it? Not after they tried to help each other - not even after a spat!
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold back the sob building in her throat, but it was no use. Without thinking, she turned on her heel and pushed past them, running blindly down the corridor. The tears were streaming down her face now, hot and unchecked, as she searched desperately for somewhere to hide.
Finally, she burst into the nearest girls’ lavatory, slamming the door behind her. She locked herself in the largest stall and collapsed against the cold stone wall, burying her face in her hands. The sobs came hard and fast, each one ripping through her as if trying to tear her apart from the inside. She didn't care who heard—she couldn't hold it in any longer.
All this time, she'd thought of Ron and Harry as the closest thing she had to friends, even if they were prickly and distant at best. But whereas it had hurt her to ignore them after the broom incident, they had apparently been laughing behind her back all along.
They were right, she thought bitterly, her tears soaking into her sleeves. No one can stand me.
The realisation hit her like a Bludger to the gut, leaving her gasping for breath. Even Percy, with whom she shared a tentative camaraderie, only tolerated her because she fed his ego and provided him with study guides. She had practically bribed him into being civil.
And Neville… sweet, clumsy Neville, who she had helped time and again—he was polite, sure, but did he ever seek her out? Did he ever truly want her company, or was he just too nice to tell her to leave him alone? For all she knew, he was probably laughing at her behind her back, just like Harry and Ron had been.
The thought was too much to bear, and she pulled her knees to her chest, sobbing harder than ever.
She was utterly, completely alone.
Hermione's sobs echoed in the cold, empty bathroom, her cries growing louder and more desperate as the weight of loneliness pressed down on her. Why? she kept asking herself, over and over. Why does everyone always hate me? She tried so hard to be kind, to be helpful, to be the friend she'd always wanted for herself. But it never seemed to matter. Malfoy and Parkinson were cruel, yet they had friends flocking around them, laughing and following their lead. Meanwhile, she was left high and dry, time and time again.
She had done everything she could think of to fit in, starting from when she’d been in the Muggle world. When her classmates teased her for being odd, she studied their every move, dissecting what made them normal . She taught herself how to walk that thin line between too much and too little eye contact, how to speak in a tone that wasn’t too harsh or too soft. She thought she had it all figured out, that she had cracked the code of social behaviour. But even then, nobody seemed to like her. Joining that ballet class had been her last hope - she had begged her parents for weeks. She thought it would be the key to making friends, to finally fitting in with the girls in her neighbourhood. But they formed tight-knit cliques, whispering and giggling together, leaving her standing awkwardly on the sidelines - forever watching, never participating.
Hermione wasn’t cruel, she wasn’t mean - so why did everyone treat her like she was some sort of outcast? The Slytherins sneered at her for her blood status, but even those who should have accepted her - like the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws - hated her as well.
So then, why did nobody ever want to be her friend? Why did Hermione never say the right things, or tick the right boxes? Why did everybody else?
Was it really so terrible to be herself?
She cried until her eyes were swollen and her throat was raw, ignoring the hushed whispers and giggles of the girls who came and went, hearing her but rarely daring to offer comfort. It didn't matter - they wouldn't have liked her anyway. No one ever did.
After what felt like an eternity, her sobs began to quiet down. Her chest ached, and her body felt drained, as if she'd cried out every last ounce of energy. She leaned back against the cold wall, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. But then, through her haze of misery, she noticed something - a foul stench, so strong and rancid, it made her eyes water.
God , Hermione thought, wiping her tear-streaked face. What had that girl eaten at the feast?
Slowly, Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder and slowly pushed open the stall door, blinking against the sudden rush of torchlight. Perhaps she wouldn’t miss the entirety of the Hallowe’en Feast after all.
But the sight that met her eyes made her blood turn to ice.
Standing in the middle of the bathroom was a creature straight out of a nightmare. It was a troll - a fully-grown mountain troll , just like the ones she had read about in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them . It was at least twelve feet tall, its thick, grey skin resembling the rough surface of a boulder. Its tiny, beady eyes glistened under the dim light, set deep in a small, bald head that looked absurdly out of place atop its massive, hulking body. The troll's arms were long and muscular, one of them dragging a massive wooden club along the floor, the sound of it scraping against the stone echoing ominously.
The smell was overpowering - like a mix of rotting garbage and something far worse. Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest as the troll lumbered forward, sniffing the air as if trying to locate the source of the strange noises it had heard. It let out a low, guttural growl that sent a shiver down her spine.
Hermione’s scream pierced the air, high and desperate, as the troll lumbered closer, its every step sending tremors through the floor. The bathroom sinks shattered in its wake, water spraying everywhere and soaking the tiles. She shrank back against the cold, wet wall, her mind blank with terror.
She was going to die.
The troll’s roar was deafening, its foetid breath washing over her like a physical force. Hermione was paralyzed, her mouth open in a silent scream, unable to move, unable to think. The troll loomed over her, its beady eyes glinting with a cruel, unintelligent malice. It raised its club high above its head, aiming for the trembling girl beneath it.
At the last possible moment, some deep, primal instinct kicked in. Hermione threw herself to the side, rolling across the wet floor. The club came crashing down where she had been just seconds before, smashing the tiles into dust. But she wasn’t fast enough. The edge of the club caught her legs, sending a shockwave of force through her body.
Oddly, she didn’t feel pain - only a strange, numb detachment, as though her now-useless legs belonged to someone else. Her body acted on autopilot, her mind dissociating from the horror. She dragged herself forward with her arms, nails scraping against the slippery tiles, her only thought to reach the open door, to escape.
The troll struck again, and this time, it struck true.