Trouble
As the door clicked shut behind Professor Snape, Hermione was left standing alone in the centre of the headmaster’s office. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and polished wood, and a curious tension that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
She tried to steady her breathing, but the grand, imposing room only heightened her nerves. Her eyes were drawn to the curious silver contraptions scattered around, ticking and spinning as if each held its own tiny universe of secrets. Little puffs of smoke rose from them, dissipating in the warm, candle-lit air.
Hermione’s gaze drifted to the walls lined with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses. Many of them were snoring softly, their chests rising and falling in a rhythm that should have been comforting but only served to remind her of how out of place she felt. One or two, however, seemed to be pretending to sleep, their eyes half-open, observing her with mild curiosity. She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning.
She shifted on her feet, her eyes finally landing on the massive claw-footed desk at the centre of the room. Behind it, on a high shelf, sat the Sorting Hat, its tattered brim sagging as if it were dozing like the portraits. A part of her longed to ask it if it had made a mistake in placing her in Slytherin, if she would have been happier and safer elsewhere. But the thought of putting it on her head again filled her with an odd mix of dread and defiance.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly as she stood there, waiting. The minutes crawled by, each one more excruciating than the last. She could still hear Snape’s harsh voice in her ears, the echoes of the Great Hall’s stunned silence. What would happen to her now? Would she be expelled? Sent back to the Muggle world in disgrace?
It would be quite ironic if, as soon as Hermione decided to stay here, Hogwarts forced her to leave.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she forced herself to focus on the gentle whirring of the silver instruments, trying to drown out the anxious thoughts swirling in her mind.
Suddenly, there was a soft, almost imperceptible creak, and the door behind the desk opened. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room, his long, silver beard flowing down his chest like a waterfall of moonlight. He wore a shocking pink robe embroidered with what seemed to be glitter, and his blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, though the smile that usually accompanied them was notably absent.
“Miss Granger,” he said, his voice a calm whisper in the otherwise silent room. “Please, have a seat.”
Hermione hesitated for a moment, her legs feeling like they were made of lead, but she managed to make her way to the chair in front of the desk. She sat down, her hands clenched tightly in her lap to stop them from trembling.
Dumbledore took his own seat behind the desk, folding his long fingers together as he regarded her with a mixture of concern and something she couldn’t quite place. “I have witnessed,” he began slowly, “a rather… distressing incident in the Great Hall. From what I could tell, you attacked a fellow Housemate of yours, seemingly unprovoked.”
Hermione swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I—I didn’t mean to, sir,” she stammered. “I just… they were mocking me, about the troll and everything, and I… I lost control.”
Dumbledore’s eyes softened, though there was a sadness in them that made her chest tighten. “I understand, Miss Granger,” he said gently. “School can be a difficult place, especially when one feels… isolated.”
Hermione blinked back the sting of tears. “They hate me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “All of them. They’ve been making my life miserable since the day I was sorted into Slytherin. And now… now they’re saying I don’t belong here, that I’m not… worthy.”
For a long moment, Dumbledore was silent. The soft ticking of the silver instruments seemed to fill the room as he regarded her with an expression that was both thoughtful and infinitely weary.
“You are not the first student,” he said softly, “to feel out of place at Hogwarts. Nor, I daresay, will you be the last. But violence, Miss Granger, is not the answer. Power can be a dangerous thing, especially when wielded in anger.”
Hermione stood there, her shoulders tense, her hands balled into fists at her sides. It was all well and good for him to say that, when he had all the power in the world. He didn’t know what it felt like to be powerless, to be small, to be constantly under threat from those stronger than you. For him to wax poetic about the dangers of power, when he’d never truly been weak…it was borne of nothing but arrogance Hermione felt.
Perhaps if Dumbledore was forced to cart around the bookbags of Pansy Parkinson and her gang, or was helpless as his Housemates pelted him with jinxes and jeers, he’d rethink his statement. And, of course, if he had been the one fearfully staring up at the troll, frozen in place as its club fell, then she was sure Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t ever dare to say such nonsense.
Power was everything. But, seeing as he had magnitudes more than her, she furiously nodded at his words:
“Oh, of course, sir!” she cried out, wringing her hands. “I—I’ll never do such awful things again—I swear!”
Dumbledore studied her for a long moment, as if he could see past her words, past the calm mask she wore, into the tangled mess of emotions beneath. But if he saw anything, he chose not to comment on it. Instead, he simply nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a sadness that seemed to age him in that instant.
“Very well,” he said, his tone softening even further. “Just remember—power is a tool, Hermione, not a solution. And it can all too easily become a weapon turned against oneself.”
Hermione nodded, but her mind was already racing with possibilities, with plans and schemes. She had no intention of being their victim any longer, no intention of letting the Slytherins—or anyone else—dictate her fate. If the only language they understood was power, then she would learn to speak it fluently.
“Thank you, Professor,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “Your words are too true!” She beamed at him, but the smile Professor Dumbledore returned was small and sad.
Dumbledore’s expression softened, and for a moment, she almost felt guilty for the lie. But the anger and bitterness inside her were stronger. With one last nod, Dumbledore turned away, returning to his desk, and Hermione walked out of the office with her head held high.
The next week passed in a blur of escalating torment. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson—her older brother, Calix Parkinson, by her side—were relentless in their hatred, and their cruelty knew no bounds. They took delight in making Hermione's life as miserable as possible, each prank more devious than the last. Oddly enough, she felt safest when scrubbing away the grime crusting the cauldrons in the Potions classroom under Professor Snape’s glittering glare.
One morning, she found itching powder in her favourite wizard’s hat, an agonising reminder of their ongoing vendetta. Her scalp itched mercilessly as she rushed to the girls' bathroom to get it out, drawing snickers from the passing students who watched her run by. They were getting bolder, more brazen in their attacks. Her homework went missing multiple times, and when she confronted the culprits—of course, they denied everything—they only mocked her louder. The final straw came when she had a major assignment due for Professor McGonagall and somehow, her essay was gone, only to reappear crumpled and torn a day later, covered in ink stains. When she handed it in, she lost points for lateness and its dishevelled condition.
By the end of the week, the harassment had reached a point where Hermione no longer felt safe in the corridors, not without the fear of another hex or an embarrassing prank. The only place she did, really, was the Hogwarts Library.
Here, amidst the towering shelves of dusty tomes and the hushed whispers of students deep in their studies, she found solace. The familiar smell of parchment and ink soothed her, and the constant hum of turning pages became a balm for her battered nerves. It was here she found refuge from the daily barrage of insults.
The quiet hum of the library surrounded her and Percy and their shared table, broken only by the occasional flip of a page or the scratch of quills on parchment. Percy Weasley, his brow furrowed in concentration, was flipping through his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, muttering to himself under his breath as he pored over the material. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the table. Every so often, he'd glance over at Hermione, who was working diligently on her own notes.
"Ugh, Exceeds Expectations," Percy muttered in frustration, slapping his practice O.W.L. test onto the table. "I could’ve done better. I really thought I knew more than that.”
Hermione looked over at him, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean, Percy? What's wrong with Exceeds Expectations? Aren’t you, you know, exceeding expectations?"
Percy sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "It’s good, yeah, but it’s not enough. I need to do better if I want to get into the Ministry. I want an Outstanding in everything."
Hermione leaned forward, an eager expression on her face. "I don’t really know much about OWLs—I’m still too young to take them, after all—but what’s the difference between an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ and an ‘Outstanding’, exactly? Is it just the same as the difference between an ‘A’ and a ‘B’?”
Percy perked up at the opportunity to educate her, shifting into his preferred mode of intense study-mode enthusiasm. “Right, well, the O.W.L.s—Ordinary Wizarding Levels—are these big exams we take in our fifth year. They’re basically our key to getting into a good career, especially if we want to work for the Ministry. The grades are on a scale from Outstanding to Poor, with each one representing different levels of proficiency. Outstanding means you're really brilliant, Exceeds Expectations is still good, but it means you’re competent but not necessarily top-tier. Acceptable is just passing, and then there’s ‘Dreadful’ and ‘Troll’ at the bottom.”
Despite herself, Hermione shuddered at the latter grade; Percy guiltily pursed his lips, perhaps remembering that, less than two weeks ago, Hermione had almost gotten killed by that creature.
Still, Hermione nodded, digesting the information. "That makes sense. So... if you want to secure an Outstanding mark, you need to be almost perfect, right?"
“Exactly,” Percy said, his face brightening. “But it’s tough. I mean, there’s so much to cover. And I’m not exactly a natural like some people are with spells. I have to study extra hard.” He looked over at her, his eyes lingering on the notes she’d prepared for him. “I really appreciate the notes you gave me on the first-year material, Hermione. They’re a lifesaver. But I just don’t know what I’m going to do about the material for all the other years... I just don’t have anything like that to study from.” He shot an envious look at Hermione. “Where’d you learn to take such perfect notes, anyway?
"My mother taught me." Hermione responded, quietly feeling sorry for the prefect. "She thought that learning how to properly learn should be my first goal, and so when she wasn’t working, she liked to teach me all about that.”
“Godric,” groaned Percy, pulling at his red hair as he looked down at the practise O.W.L. once more, “I wished my mother had done that, instead of just teaching us how to fly on broomsticks and catch garden gnomes. Now, I’m going to fail the O.W.L.s, and end up at a dead-end job in thirty years, hating my sad, pathetic life forever!”
Suddenly, an idea popped into Hermione’s head:
"Well," she said slowly, a plan starting to form in her mind, "I might be able to help with that. I can start studying ahead. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and if I really want to become better at magic, I need to stretch myself further, don’t I?"
Percy blinked, clearly taken aback. “You can’t be serious. You want to study ahead that far? All the way to the second year?” He looked at her, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and disbelief. “Hermione, that’s—are you sure you can handle it? I mean, there is a lot of ground to cover. And you’re only a first year! You’re already ahead of the curve as it is.”
Hermione scoffed, her resolve hardening as she watched Percy struggle to process her words. “Maybe even more than that,” she said, her voice steady.“Who knows? I’ll start with the second-year material, and make sure I’m ready to help you with it. But I’m going to push myself even further. I want to be more than just ‘good enough.’”
Percy blinked again, still trying to grasp the idea. “I... wow, alright, then. I don’t know if I could keep up with all that when I was your age—honestly, I don’t think I could do something similar now. You’re really sure about this?”
Hermione beamed at him, nodding.
Percy’s face lit up with excitement. “That would be amazing, Hermione! You’re honestly a lifesaver, you know that?” He beamed back at her. “You know, I’ve never really had a study partner before, but I’m sure it’ll be great fun—even if you don’t get all the way through your self-set curriculum.”
Hermione nodded, but her smile was more a reflex than anything else. She was pleased to help him, but in the back of her mind, a deeper, more personal motivation was stirring. It wasn’t just about helping Percy with his OWLs anymore. It was about more than that. The constant bullying, the sneers, the insults—she was sick of it. She was tired of feeling like she didn’t belong.
She wanted more than to just survive here at Hogwarts. She wanted to thrive, to have power, not just to defend herself, but to control her own future. The Slytherins thought they could break her down, make her smaller, weaker—no, she would show them what she was capable of. She would rise above them all.
This was only the beginning, a first step toward something far greater. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became—she was done being underestimated. This wasn’t just about mastering spells; it was about mastering herself. Stretching herself beyond the limits they had imposed on her. Hermione would not just be a student. She would be a force to be reckoned with.
Or so she hoped, at least.
As Hermione and Percy returned to their quiet study, the sounds of flipping pages and quiet mutterings filled the library once more. The spell of focus had settled back into their routine, and Hermione felt a renewed sense of determination. She scribbled a few more notes for Percy, offering him a few last explanations on a particularly tricky Transfiguration concept. Her mind, however, was racing, distracted by a thought that had been creeping up on her since their conversation.
The idea of proving herself, of becoming powerful enough to take control of her own destiny, had ignited something within her. She wasn’t just going to sit back anymore. It wasn’t enough to simply survive Hogwarts. She wanted to make a mark, to ensure that no one could ever doubt her again, not after everything she’d been through.
She was getting better at defending herself, of course, but that wasn’t enough. She needed to go on the offence. And that’s when Zabini’s words from Herbology a few weeks ago came rushing back to her:
“Suit yourself,” he had said, his voice smooth and cool. “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. 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.”
At the time, Hermione had dismissed it. She didn’t want to play that kind of game. But as the weeks passed and the pressure built, as the Slytherins escalated their bullying, the idea had started to nag at her.
But as the days passed and the pressure built, as the Slytherins escalated their bullying, the idea had started to nag at her.
Tracey Davis.
The witch was exactly the sort of girl Hermione detested the most; a rude, air-headed gossip, who was willing to put others down, not out of personal cruelty, but so as to better fit in with her peers.
But perhaps, just perhaps, if Hermione could get her to turn, if she could win her over somehow, she might gain an unexpected ally in her quest for power. An ally who, like Hermione, knew what it was like to be an outsider in a house full of proud, pure-blood wizards.
But, of course, she’d have to be broken down a bit, first.
Hermione’s heart raced at the thought. The idea of breaking someone like Tracey seemed wrong at first—almost cruel. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. If she could get Tracey on her side, it might just shift the power dynamic in the Slytherin house. They wouldn’t be able to ignore her anymore. She wouldn’t have to face the Slytherins alone. She could prove to them—once and for all—that she wasn’t someone to be trampled over.
She glanced up at the clock on the library wall. She was running late. The thought of Tracey and the dangerous game she might have to play with her gnawed at her mind as she hurriedly gathered her things. Her fingers fumbled as she stuffed her notes into her bag, but her thoughts remained focused.
Get to Tracey Davis.
It wasn’t about friendship anymore. It wasn’t about fitting in or proving she was worthy of being at Hogwarts. It was about power. If she could break that weakest link, maybe she could start to break free of the constraints the Slytherins had put on her. Maybe she could be the one in control.
With one last glance toward Percy, who was still deep in his notes, Hermione stood up quickly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She had to go. She had a plan to execute.
The Slytherin girls’ dormitory was as much a cacophony of smells and sounds as it was a space for inane drama. The air was thick with the mingling scents of their various beauty potions: Pansy’s strong lavender perfume, Daphne’s sharp lemony spritz, and Tracey’s vanilla-scented products—lotions and oils that seemed to hang in the air, almost sickly sweet, clinging to everything like a haze. It was a fragrance that permeated the very walls, making it difficult to escape the cloying mixture. The walls themselves were a riot of colour and glamour, plastered with posters, like of magical boy bands such as Bewitched and The Cursed Ones, all of them posing in dramatic, stylized fashion, their faces rotating through endless exaggerated expressions of charm and allure.
Tracey Davis had her own small corner of the room, marked by a similar obsession with Wizarding boy bands as the rest of the girls, but an even stronger one with gossip rags—Witch Weekly cutouts were stuck all over her portion of the wall, filled with snapshots of the most intense feuds and dramas among magical celebrities. There were posters of Quidditch teams on the walls, as well—Tracey had chosen to support the Tutshill Tornados, and had adorned her space with their banners and a poster of their star player, a rather handsome, stout fellow. One cutout showed a victory of the Tutshill Tornados over the Holyhead Harpies, something clearly meant to anger Millicent—the latter’s fierce allegiance to the Harpies was obvious, with large, colourful posters of their matches. In the centre of the room, the beds were draped with thick green and silver comforters, and a few stray shoes and books littered the floor, giving the place a lived-in, haphazard feel.
Hermione, as always, had drawn her curtains tightly around her own bed, creating a barrier from the incessant chatter and giggling that perpetually filled the room. She sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, her nose buried in a heavy, far-too-dense book on magical theory. It was her latest obsession—a complicated text that delved into the progression of spell creation, from ancient times to now. It was the kind of book that most Hogwarts students wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot broomstick, but to Hermione, it was a source of solace. The theory behind magic was a constant source of fascination, and she liked to think that immersing herself in it was the key to understanding the true power she wanted to possess.
Suddenly, two high-pitched squeals cut through the air, forcing Hermione to glance up from her book, a slight frown on her face. She could hear Pansy and Daphne gossiping, their voices rising in excitement.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Daphne in wonder.
“I know!” Pansy squealed, her voice full of mock indignation and joy. “Draco kissed me! For real! Right after we finished our walk by the lake! It was on the cheek, I know, but still. And... he gave me this!”
The sound of something delicate jingling reached Hermione’s ears—jewellery, no doubt. She could practically hear Daphne’s face light up as she gasped.
“No! He gave you a necklace?” Daphne asked, her tone full of awe. “Draco’s got taste, I’ll give him that. What’s it look like?”
“It’s beautiful!” Pansy replied, practically vibrating with glee. “It’s a silver chain, and it has this little bronze pendant... it’s so perfect, just like him…”
There was a sudden pause, before squeals sounded once again.
“My God! It’s so cute!”
“I know!”
After a short while, Hermione quickly grew irritated with the chatter, leaving the Slytherin girls’ dormitory. As she exited the dormitory, she found herself face-to-face with a familiar figure. Calix Parkinson, Pansy’s older brother, was lounging in the hallway with a few of his fifth-year friends. Their laughter was mocking, and their eyes narrowed when they saw Hermione. They were always waiting for an opportunity to humiliate her, and the moment she passed, Calix called out mockingly, “Watch out for trolls, Granger!” He let out a shriek, his hands above his head in mock fear; it was nowhere near as good of an impression as Malfoy’s had been.
Hermione’s jaw clenched, but she didn't respond. Their insults bounced off her now. She had more important things to focus on than their petty jabs. Her mind was already elsewhere—on Tracey. She had to make her move soon.
Ignoring Calix and his friends’ jeering laughter, Hermione headed toward the Quidditch Pitch, her stride purposeful. The walk there was a blur as her thoughts continued to race. The Gryffindor team had been practising fiercely after their humiliating defeat to Slytherin in the first match of the year. Harry Potter, of course, had fallen off his broom during a key moment in the match, much to the amusement of the Slytherins. The defeat had been bitter, but Hermione was more concerned about her own agenda than the failed Quidditch match.
When Hermione arrived at the stands, Ron was sitting alone, watching the team practice. He didn’t see her immediately, so she had a moment to collect herself. A part of her still felt the sting of what had happened after the incident with the troll. Ron had never apologised for making her cry, or for his part in almost getting her killed. It was a mark against him—one she hadn’t forgotten. But she had a greater plan now, and she wouldn’t let this little resentment derail it.
“Weasley!” she called out, walking up to him and crossing her arms. He rapidly turned, more than a little startled.
“What?” Ron asked, looking at her with barely concealed irritation.
“I need a favour,” Hermione said coolly, “and I think you owe me one.”
Ron looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” began Hermione, sighing as she watched the Gryffindors soar through the sky, “well, most people feel a bit of guilt after putting someone in a life-threatening situation, you know. If you don’t, though, that’s alright, I sup—"
“What do you want, then?” he snapped, the tips of his pale ears turning red.
"Many things," answered Hermione vaguely, swinging her feet. "From you in particular?" She leaned in, secretively smiling. "I want to meet with Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown."
Ron wrinkled his nose. "Er—listen...if you're still looking for friends —"
Hermione gave him a sharp look, cutting him off before he could finish. "I'm not looking for friends, Weasley. I'm looking for something else." She straightened up, her voice taking on a more determined edge. "I need to talk to Parvati and Lavender about something. Something important."
Ron blinked again, his confusion deepening. "But... why them?" He gave her a puzzled look, clearly struggling to understand what she could possibly want with the two girls. "They're not exactly... I mean, they're nice enough, but—"
Hermione didn’t let him finish. “It’s not about them. It’s about who they know. The things they hear. You may not realise it, but those girls are always in the loop when it comes to gossip around here. And if I’m going to succeed in what I’m planning, I need the right kind of connections."
“You almost killed me, remember,” she added after a few seconds, glaring at the now-silent freckled boy
Ron winced, and with a frustrated sigh, he muttered, “Alright, alright! I’ll do it!”
Hermione gave him a small, satisfied smile. “Good. Consider your debt repaid—or don’t. I really don’t care, honestly.”
Ron looked at her uneasily, clearly unsure of what exactly she was up to, but Hermione didn’t bother to explain further. She had what she needed—Ron’s reluctant cooperation. Now, she just had to ensure the rest of her plan fell into place. The pieces were moving, and there was no going back now.
Before Hermione even knew it, her meeting with the two Gryffindor gossips had already come:
The dusty corner of the library, dimly lit by a flickering lantern, felt almost too quiet for the kind of conversation Hermione was about to have. She watched Lavender and Parvati sit down across from her, their faces sceptical and wary. They weren’t fond of Hermione—not even close—and the tension in the air was thick. Parvati had always been polite, but the relationship between them had never extended beyond very brief exchanges. Lavender, on the other hand, had made it clear on several occasions that she wasn’t particularly interested in being close to the bushy-haired Slytherin.
Still, Hermione needed them. She had to get them on her side, even if only temporarily. The plan had to work, and this was the first step.
Hermione cleared her throat, her voice calm but steady. “First of all, I want to thank you, Parvati. You were one of the only people who even tried to comfort me when I was... well, when I was crying in the bathroom stall on Hallowe’en night.” Her eyes locked with Parvati’s. The other girl didn’t respond immediately, but she nodded stiffly.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Parvati said quietly, still looking unsure. “It’s what any other girl would’ve done.”
It really isn’t. Most either ignored me, or just whispered. Only, like, two others tried to even comfort me at all. But,” Hermione went on, straightening herself up, “that doesn’t matter. It’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“What do you want us around for, then?” questioned Lavender, coughing lightly from all the dust in this seemingly abandoned area of the library.
Hermione sat back slightly, folding her arms and choosing her words carefully. “There’s a girl I need to take down. Tracey Davis.”
This immediately caught both girls’ attention. Parvati and Lavender exchanged curious glances before turning back to Hermione. Lavender's eyes lit up with newfound interest. “Tracey Davis?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise. “I always thought Parkinson would be your biggest problem…”
Hermione took a deep breath, letting her shoulders slump a little as if the weight of her words was almost too much to bear. “I thought so too,” she said softly, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she looked down, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the tabletop. “But it’s not true. Tracey... she’s the worst of them all. She goes out of her way to make my life a living hell. And—” Hermione’s voice wavered as she glanced up, eyes shining with what looked like genuine distress, “—I’m just so exhausted at this point.”
Parvati and Lavender exchanged another look, this one tinged with sympathy. They both leaned in slightly, their expressions softening. “Oh, that’s awful,” Parvati murmured, nodding along. “I had no idea she was that cruel.”
“Yeah, you poor thing,” Lavender added, her voice full of pity. “No one deserves that, not even—" She cut herself off.
Hermione bit her lip and nodded, as if trying to keep her emotions in check. This was a lie, of course—a fabrication spun from half-truths and assumptions. The reality was that Tracey rarely bothered herself with Hermione at all. She was more of a background presence in the Slytherin common room, someone who kept her head down and rarely joined in the more vicious games Pansy and her gang liked to play. But Hermione needed a scapegoat, someone she could turn into a target, and Tracey fit the bill perfectly.
With Parvati and Lavender on her side, Hermione could see the pieces of her plan falling into place. She would isolate Tracey, turn the other Slytherin girls against her, and then swoop in to offer a helping hand, pretending to be a saviour. If she played her cards right, Tracey Davis would soon be on her side, indebted to her.
But for now, all that mattered was getting these two Gryffindors to spread the seed of discord.
“So,” Hermione continued, straightening up, her eyes narrowing with determination, “I need your help. I want to spread a rumour about her. Something that will really get under that little bint’s skin, make her life miserable. Can you do that for me?”
Parvati and Lavender exchanged wicked grins, clearly pleased with the prospect of stirring up some drama. “Of course,” Lavender said, practically bouncing in her seat. “I’m an avid supporter of the Muggle-born cause, after all! So, what do you have in mind, exactly?”
Hermione leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Tell everyone that Tracey Davis fancies Draco Malfoy. You know how much they’ll hate her for that. Pansy will be furious.”
Parvati’s eyes widened in surprise, while Lavender’s mouth formed a delighted ‘O.’ “Merlin, that’s brilliant,” Lavender whispered. “Pansy will eat her alive.”
She didn’t appear too fazed by that, her face lighting up with excitement.
“And that’s just the start,” Hermione promised, her smile cold and calculated. “If you help me with this, I’ll give you all the secrets you want on the Slytherin girls. Trust me, they’re not as perfect as they pretend to be.” She leaned in dramatically, furtively glancing either way. “For instance—did you know Millicent Bulstrode is harbouring an odd little crush on Professor Quirrell? She even drew this really weird picture of her unwrapping his turban while kissing him. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to symbolise, but it seemed extremely offensive, for reasons I can’t really articulate.”
With that, Parvati and Lavender were sold; her plan had been set in motion. Tracey Davis wouldn’t know what hit her, and soon enough, she’d have no choice but to turn to Hermione for support.
Hermione leaned back, satisfied.
The rumour spread like wildfire through the corridors of Hogwarts, carried on by the eager whispers of Parvati and Lavender. By the next morning, somehow almost every first year in Slytherin House seemed to know: Tracey Davis fancied Draco Malfoy. But to Hermione’s surprise, the rumour didn’t have the explosive effect she had anticipated.
Pansy Parkinson, the self-proclaimed queen bee of the first-year Slytherins and Draco’s closest confidante, never openly acknowledged the rumours. There were no accusations, no scathing remarks hurled in the corridors. Instead, there was a subtle shift in Pansy's demeanour. She grew colder toward Tracey, her once-friendly smiles turning brittle, her laughter at Tracey’s jokes a fraction too forced. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed like nothing had changed, but Hermione was observant. She noticed the way Pansy’s gaze lingered on Tracey with just a hint of suspicion, the slight distance she put between them at the dining table.
Tracey’s reaction, on the other hand, was one of outright disgust. She rolled her eyes whenever someone brought up Draco's name, her lip curling as if the mere idea of fancying him was offensive. Hermione couldn’t quite understand why Tracey was so vehemently opposed to the idea. Most of the Slytherin girls either admired Draco for his status or tolerated him because of his family's influence. But Tracey seemed different, almost repulsed. Hermione wondered if it had to do with Draco’s staunch views on blood purity, which Tracey, as a half-blood, might find particularly grating. Perhaps Draco’s views on blood status struck a nerve that the others didn’t share.
Hermione tucked that thought away for later, her mind already working on how to exploit this newfound rift. Tracey’s discomfort with Draco could be another wedge to drive between her and the rest of the Slytherin girls. For now, though, the plan was working, and the stage was set for Hermione’s next move:
The first act of sabotage was simple. One evening, after everyone had fallen asleep, Hermione crept out of bed, her feet silent on the cold stone floor. She slipped over to Tracey’s neatly stacked pile of notes—perfectly written summaries and diagrams Tracey had been planning to share with Pansy and Daphne. With a flick of her wand, Hermione sent the entire stack flying away, into a hidden nook behind a tapestry in the common room.
The next morning, Tracey was in a panic, rifling through her things and accusing Millicent of taking them. Hermione pretended to be annoyed by the commotion, but beneath her mask of peevishness, she was grinning. A few days later, when the notes mysteriously reappeared on Tracey's desk, Tracey was more confused than ever, her suspicions turning to the more blood-purist Slytherins having now come for her.
But Hermione didn’t stop there. Tracey had an impressive collection of beauty products lined up on her vanity, from Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion to French cosmetics that were supposed to enhance ‘magical auras’—whatever that meant. Each night, Hermione would charm the bottles to fly off to odd places—the common room, the boys' dormitory, even inside the potions classroom. Tracey’s face would burn with humiliation every time she had to retrieve her belongings, suspecting some pureblood zealot of playing cruel pranks on her.
“Honestly, who’s doing this?” Daphne Greengrass asked one evening, half-exasperated, half-amused, as Tracey frantically searched for her missing lip balm. “Someone must really have it out for you, Trace.”
“It’s probably one of those really extreme blood purists,” Tracey muttered darkly, glaring in the direction of Theodore Nott, who was lounging by the fireplace with a bored look on his face.
Pansy, who had been idly twirling a strand of her hair, scoffed. “As if anyone cares about a no-name half-blood,” she drawled. “Especially when there’s much more important targets.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Hermione, who was currently attempting to counter a rather nasty, obscure hex that a fourth year had sent at her, flipping through a handy reference book as a guide. Still, she just had to bite back a laugh.
But Hermione wasn’t done yet. She started using more subtle charms She enchanted Tracey’s bed linens with a Pimple Jinx, causing her to break out in angry red spots for an entire week—effectively eliminating her edge in the beauty department, which had always given her an advantage over Millicent in their ongoing battle for Pansy’s favour. A well-placed Trip Jinx in the middle of the Great Hall sent Tracey sprawling in front of the whole school, her robes flying up embarrassingly, much to the amusement of their classmates.
Slowly but surely, Hermione’s plan was bearing fruit. Millicent had become Pansy's new favourite, now occupying the coveted spot at Pansy’s side during meals, leaving Tracey to trail behind like a lost puppy.
Hermione watched this all unfold with a mixture of satisfaction and detached amusement.
Tracey, once confident and self-assured, was now isolated, constantly looking over her shoulder and growing more paranoid by the day. She was becoming exactly what Hermione wanted her to be: vulnerable, desperate, and alone.
As the days went on, the Slytherins’ torment of Hermione only became more of an irritant, Hermione felt.
Today, it had started in the Great Hall at breakfast, when Draco had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a pitcher of pumpkin juice, sending the sticky liquid cascading onto her robes. He had sneered, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle as they watched her clean up the mess with a flick of her wand. It continued in History of Magic, where he had whispered insults just loud enough for her to hear, calling her a ‘Mudblood know-it-all’ every time she answered Professor Binns' monotonous questions correctly. The other Slytherins followed his lead, snickering along.
During Herbology, as they repotted Shrivelfigs in the humid greenhouse, Hermione watched Tracey from the corner of her eye. The Slytherin girls were gossiping loudly, ignoring their work, but Tracey was noticeably quiet, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to keep up. Her Hermione’s wand twitched under the table, and a nearby pot of soil suddenly tipped over, showering Tracey in a cascade of damp earth.
Laughter erupted around the greenhouse, led by Pansy and Daphne. Draco’s mocking voice hissing: “Careful, Davis! Trying to grow a Mudblood garden, are you?”
That was the final straw, it seemed. Tracey’s face crumpled, tears welling up in her eyes, and before anyone could say another word, she turned and fled the greenhouse. Hermione hesitated, a pang of guilt twisting in her stomach, before she silently excused herself from Professor Sprout’s distracted supervision and slipped away to follow Tracey.
She found Tracey standing alone in a deserted corridor, right in front of one of the mullioned windows that overlooked the Hogwarts grounds. The late afternoon light filtered through the stained glass, casting colourful patterns on the floor. Tracey was crying, her shoulders shaking with each sob as she tried to wipe her tears away with the sleeve of her dirt-streaked robe.
“Tracey,” Hermione called softly, stepping closer.
The girl spun around, her eyes red and puffy. “What do you want, Granger?” she snapped, though her voice was thick with emotion.
Hermione took a deep breath, her mind whirling as she tried to find the right words. “No, I… I just wanted to see if you’re alright.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, guilt washing over her like a wave. She’d done this. She’d driven Tracey to this point.
Tracey’s laughter was hollow, devoid of any real amusement. It was the sound of someone who had nothing left to lose. “Alright?” she repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “You think I’m alright? I’ve been humiliated every single day, losing everything, everyone turning their backs on me, and for what? For people who don’t even see me as one of them because of my blood?”
She was shaking now, tears spilling freely down her cheeks, and Hermione felt something inside her break. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The plan was to isolate Tracey, to bring her to her side, but Hermione hadn’t considered the cost, the raw, human pain that she was inflicting.
“I’ve tried so hard, you know,” Tracey continued, her voice barely a whisper. “I thought if I could just… if I could just fit in, then maybe they’d accept me. Maybe they’d see me as worth something. But it’s all a lie, isn’t it? They’ll never see me as anything more than a half-blood nobody.” She hugged herself tightly, as if trying to keep from falling apart completely.
“It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’ve been such an idiot, trying to make people like Pansy and Malfoy like me. I’m done, Hermione. I can’t do it anymore.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears but refusing to let them fall freely. “I’m better than this… better than them. I’m done pretending.”
Hermione felt a lump form in her throat, the words she had planned to say drying up as she looked into Tracey’s eyes.
“I—” Hermione started, but she couldn’t finish. She wanted to apologise, to take it all back, but she couldn’t admit the truth without exposing herself.
“You know,” Tracey went on, wiping at her welling tears, “I—I’ve never even liked the other Slytherins. I just wanted to stay out of trouble! But they—they keep dragging me into their idiotic little problems, even though I did nothing!” She giggled, hysterical. “I did everything right, and they still hate me!” Suddenly, her face went dark, her amusement gone. “And what right do they even have to hate me? I know why I hate them—blood purists killed my father—but they—they have no right to act superior to me!”
Hermione was silent.
Tracey’s gaze sharpened, like she was seeing Hermione clearly for the first time. “You… you really hate them, don’t you?” she said slowly, her voice steadier now. “The way they treat people like us… people who don’t fit into their stupid little boxes of pureblood perfection.” She swallowed hard, something like hope flickering in her eyes for the first time. “If you’re really against them… if you’re serious about bringing them down, then I’ll help you.” She frowned for a moment, seemingly coming back to herself. “Not publicly, of course—my current situation may not be the best, but, as you well know, there’s still worse.”
Hermione felt a rush of victory, but it was tinged with the heavy weight of remorse. But Hermione couldn’t afford to hesitate now. She forced herself to smile, reaching out to rest a hand on Tracey’s arm. “We can do this together,” she said softly, trying to infuse her voice with conviction. “We’ll show them they can’t treat people like us that way. We’ll make them regret it.”
“Good,” whispered Tracey, a small, dreamy smile forming. “Because I want Malfoy’s head on a stick.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze. Hermione couldn’t shake the image of Tracey’s tear-streaked face, the hollow look in her eyes. In classes, she was her usual swotty self, answering questions with a confidence that earned her house points, ignoring the sneers from Draco and his gang. But inside, she was unravelling.
By the time she made her way to the library, the weight of what she had done to poor Tracey was pressing down on her like a physical force. She pushed open the heavy doors, letting the familiar scent of parchment and dust wash over her, hoping it would bring her some comfort. But she had barely taken a step inside when she heard that familiar drawling voice:
“Running to the library to hide again, Granger?” Draco sneered, leaning against the shelves with a smug look. “Be careful, or someone might think you’re trying to steal more than just top marks.”
Hermione stiffened, turning to face him, her eyes flashing. “Get out of my way, Malfoy.”
But he just smirked, stepping closer. “What’s the matter, Mudblood? Afraid I’ll tell everyone what a little sneak you really are?” His eyes glinted with malice, still holding onto the grudge from his first true beatdown.
“I’ve got better things to do than waste my time on you,” she spat, shoving past him with more force than necessary.
With great annoyance, Hermione stomped off to her usual library table; unfortunately, Percy wasn’t there—her usual confidant and the only one who seemed to understand her frustrations with Malfoy’s latest cruel stunt. She had half-expected to find him, but the seat across from her remained empty.
Sighing, Hermione plopped down into the chair, trying to shake off the lingering anger from the encounter. She could still feel the hot flush of humiliation rising in her cheeks as she thought about Malfoy’s mocking words, his sneer as sharp as ever. It had been a nasty run-in earlier, the kind of thing that made her blood boil—yet she couldn’t let it consume her. She had bigger things to focus on.
With a determined huff, Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2, smoothing it out in front of her. The distraction of her coursework was just what she needed to focus her mind elsewhere. She flipped the book open, eager to get ahead on next year’s curriculum. She had already outstripped most of the first-year class in terms of ability, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t keep pushing herself further. If there was one thing Hermione Granger could rely on, it was the certainty that hard work—and a bit of magic—could help her leave everyone else behind.
Only half an hour before curfew would begin, the library was hushed, save for the faint rustle of pages turning and the occasional scratch of a quill on parchment. The dim, amber glow of the lanterns along the walls cast long shadows across the tables, their light flickering faintly as the night wore on. The large windows of the library, darkened with the falling evening, framed the grounds in a soft, silvery haze. The thick air of the library felt heavy with silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the far wall, reminding all who lingered that curfew was fast approaching. Hermione had been reading for hours, long past the time most students had retreated to their dormitories. She could feel the weight of her eyelids growing heavier, but her determination kept her focused.
She had only a few more pages to go in The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2 before she would reluctantly have to pack up and head back to the common room. The spellwork was fascinating, the chapters neatly laid out with instructions she almost felt already familiar with. Still, the room had begun to feel colder, the low murmurs of other studious students growing fewer as the night deepened.
After another quick scan of the page, Hermione sighed and decided it was finally time to leave. She stuck her bookmark halfway through the book, carefully marking her place. With a soft rustle of her robes, she slid the book into her bag and stood up. Her shoulders ached slightly from being hunched over for so long, and her mind, while still sharp, was beginning to feel the strain of hours spent in such quiet concentration.
As she placed the book back into her bag, though, something caught her eye—a thin black leather book nestled at the bottom, one she knew hadn’t been there before. Startled, Hermione carefully pulled it out. It was small, no larger than her hand, with no visible markings except for the faint words T.M. Riddle inscribed at the top of the first page. The rest of the pages were blank, smooth and untouched.
Curious, Hermione turned the book over, but there was nothing else—except a faint print on the back cover: a name, followed by a location: Variety Store, Vauxhall Road, Londo. Muggle-made, then.
Then, an idea struck. A slow smile spread across Hermione’s face. She had an inkling of what might be happening. Someone must be using invisible ink—that was why the book was blank. She could practically hear her parents’ voices in her head, reminding her of the Revealer they’d gotten for her last summer, after her classmates had pranked her repeatedly by switching out her regular ink for invisible ink. It was a red rubber tool, simple but effective, that allowed you to reveal hidden messages.
Without wasting another moment, Hermione pulled the Revealer from her bag and began to rub it over the pages of the diary. She was certain it would work—after all, she had used it countless times before. But as she wiped it over the pages, her heart sank. Nothing. The book remained stubbornly blank.
Frustrated, Hermione sighed. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe the owner used something else, she thought. A frown creased her forehead. A deeper protective charm? Was there another layer of magic involved here?
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced over the book.Frustrated, Hermione got her quill out before dipping it into the inkwell. If the owner was this secretive, perhaps this book contained protection charms against those who tried to write in it. Hermione had seen a Slytherin girl's diary go off on some boy for trying to write in it before, and it had screamed that it was the property of Rebecca MacDougal. Perhaps this diary would do the same.
Hermione grabbed her quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and with determination, she pressed the tip to the page, letting a single drop of ink fall onto the first, empty sheet. She waited, tense, her heart racing with anticipation, expecting to hear a shrill voice or see the book burst into flames.
Instead, the ink began to glow. It shimmered on the paper for just a moment before it was absorbed into the pages as though it had never existed.
Hermione stared at the spot where the ink had disappeared. Her mind raced. This couldn’t be just any diary—this was some form of enchanted communication, something far more advanced than anything she had ever seen before. Maybe the diary wasn’t just a private journal; it could be a link—a portal to someone else, someone who could read and respond to the words she wrote.
A wild, almost manic idea struck Hermione. If this book could receive her words, then surely it could send something back—no?
Giggling, Hermione thought of something rather clever.
My name is Pansy Parkinson
The black ink flashed, before disappearing.
For a few long seconds, nothing happened. Then, to Hermione’s amazement, the book responded. The ink appeared once more, a clean, precise script:
Hello, Pansy Parkinson. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?