Dark Magic
Hermione had grown used to the draughty chill of the Slytherin dungeons. The stone walls, forever damp and cold, had seeped into her bones, making her more resilient against the biting winds of the Scottish Highlands. Today, however, was one of those rare, precious days when raindrops did not pelt the grounds as if wet, fat bullets and the unclouded sun graced Hogwarts with its presence, casting a golden glow over the Great Lake.
Beneath the sheltering boughs of a centuries-old oak tree, Hermione sat alone, her back pressed against the rough bark that dug into her skin through the thin fabric of her robes. The diary lay open on her lap, its pages unnervingly blank. The ink she’d written with only moments ago had already faded into the parchment, disappearing as though it had never existed. She waited, her breath held, for Tom’s reply.
The other first-year Slytherins were outside as well, their laughter carrying over the grounds as they ran and played in the cool air. The lake shimmered before them, its surface dotted with ripples from the occasional flick of the Great Squid’s tentacles, which eagerly snapped up the bits of bread Daphne Greengrass tossed into the water. A sudden shriek of laughter pierced the air as Pansy Parkinson dashed forward, shoving Daphne into the frigid lake along with herself; it swallowed the witches with a noisy gulp, only for both to resurface moments later, sputtering and splashing. Draco Malfoy stood at the edge, his grey eyes wide with amusement as he was beckoned to join.
Hermione's gaze lingered on them, a tight knot of envy twisting in her chest. Her fingers absently traced the edges of the diary, its worn leather cover smooth beneath her touch.
Suddenly, the ink bled back onto the page, swirling into neat, elegant handwriting.
Are they bothering you again, Pansy? You need only say the word, and I can guide you in a spell that will put them in their place.
A soft exhale of relief escaped her. Tom’s words were a balm, a reassurance that, even if she was alone in the real world, she had a friend—someone who understood her brilliance, her thirst for knowledge. And yet, a flicker of doubt remained. She had told him she was Pansy Parkinson, a pureblood. She couldn’t risk him knowing the truth—that she was Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, reviled by her peers.
Hermione wasn't entirely sure why she was so adamant she didn't wish to tell the truth to Tom. Whilst, from her research, it seemed that a great deal of Dark artefacts gained more power over its subjects the more they bonded, Hermione greatly doubted. But something within Hermione advised constant caution—Hermione even cast the Revealing Charm on all of her possessions repeatedly throughout most days now, so fearful of yet another cruel curse by her Housemates. She couldn't quite believe that it was simple luck which had enabled her to find Tom—and that made her all the more warier.
Her fingers hovered over the page before she dipped her quill in ink, crafting her reply with careful precision.
They’re just jealous, Tom. They think I’m a know-it-all because I’m better than them in every class. I don’t need spells to deal with them… yet.
A pause, a heartbeat’s wait, and then the ink shifted again.
You are better than them, Pansy. Never forget that. Their petty games mean nothing in the face of true power. If they knew what you were capable of… they wouldn’t dare cross you.
Hermione’s lips quirked upwards in a rare, genuine smile. Tom always knew exactly what to say. Still, there was an edge to his encouragement that unsettled her. What do you suggest? she wrote back, chewing on her lip.
Knowledge, Pansy. True power lies in mastery. Let them play their petty games while you learn the magic they can only dream of. Have you considered my suggestion on alchemy?
Hermione’s lips thinned into a straight line. Alchemy—Tom had been pushing her towards it ever since she’d confessed her frustration with the limited scope of her Hogwarts lessons, days ago. The idea of delving into a branch of magic so ancient, so elusive, thrilled her, but it was also, from the little Hermione had read, seen as rather useless nowadays. Even at Hogwarts, alchemy was barely touched upon, seen as a relic of a bygone era, far removed from the practicalities of wand magic. Of course, Hermione had studied a bit about the subject, still - just not to an extent that pleased Tom.
Yes, but, as I’ve told you, the library’s awfully hard to navigate. It doesn’t even have a card catalogue system, for goodness’ sake!
I assure you - once you truly begin to understand alchemy, all magic will begin to come easier. Look harder. But, although alchemy is the root that begets all other magic, it’s only one part of the puzzle. The Dark Arts would be worth a look into as well, Pansy.
Hermione’s lips thinned into a straight line, her fingers tightening around her quill. Dark Arts? she scrawled hastily. I told you, I’m not interested in curses or hexes. There’s a clear line between defensive spells and the kind of magic that hurts people.
Is there, though? Tom’s response came swift and insistent. Think about it, Pansy. Any magic crafted purely for offensive purposes—whether it’s a jinx to trip someone up or a curse to end their life—is considered Dark. The distinction is an illusion created by those too afraid to embrace the full potential of their power.
So you’re saying there’s no difference between a harmless jinx and the Killing Curse? she challenged, her handwriting sharp with irritation.
All magic is a tool, Pansy, came the reply, the ink bleeding into the page like a wound. The only difference lies in the intent of the caster. A jinx cast with malice can be just as harmful as a curse. The question is, what are you willing to do to achieve your goals? If you wish to rise above the limitations imposed by your peers, by those who would see you fail, you need more than just talent. You need knowledge. The kind of knowledge that your precious Hogwarts refuses to teach.
His words seemed to be plucked straight from Draco Malfoy’s mouth. Hermione scoffed. Tom may be a Muggle-born, like herself, but she supposed he really was still a Slytherin at heart.
Think about it, Pansy - for me?
But, as the bell from the castle tolled, signalling the end of their free period, she snapped the diary shut. The laughter by the lake had quieted, the other Slytherins now retreating towards the castle, their cloaks furiously whipping in the wind like the wings of dark birds.
Gathering her things, Hermione made her way back across the grounds after a few moments, her feet dragging slightly. She could see Pansy, Daphne, and Draco up ahead, their heads close together as they whispered conspiratorially. A sharp pang of something she refused to call loneliness shot through her. She had Tom, didn’t she? And yet…
Hermione pursed her lips.
As she made her way back to the castle, the air grew colder. She tucked the diary under her arm, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The idea of mastering Alchemy thrilled her, a chance to prove herself in a world that saw her as an outsider. But the Dark Arts... even thinking about it felt like stepping onto a precipice, one wrong move and she could tumble into darkness.
The great oak doors of Hogwarts loomed before her, the warmth of the castle beckoning her in. But just as she crossed the threshold, a familiar voice rang out, dripping with mockery.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little swot,” Draco Malfoy drawled, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass flanked him, their eyes glittering with malice.
Hermione lifted her chin, her expression carefully neutral. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“Just wondering what you were doing out there, all alone,” Pansy said, beaming, her tone syrupy sweet. “Talking to your imaginary friends again, are you?”
“Maybe she was studying how to turn herself into something less pathetic,” Greengrass added, giggling.
Hermione’s grip on the diary tightened, but she forced herself to stay calm. “If you have nothing better to do than follow me around, I’d suggest finding a hobby,” she said coolly, brushing past them.
But before she could take more than a few steps, she saw a dazzling scarlet flash, and, suddenly, she was splayed on the stone floor. Laughter erupted around her, and Hermione’s cheeks burned with humiliation.
“Oops,” Malfoy sneered, his eyes cold and mocking. “Clumsy, aren’t you?”
For a moment, the temptation to draw her wand and hex him was overwhelming. But Tom’s words echoed in her mind: What are you willing to do to achieve your goals?
Instead, she took a deep breath, rose, and walked off to History of Magic, her movements stiff with barely contained anger.
That night, as the castle settled into silence, Hermione found herself back in her dormitory, the curtains of her four-poster bed drawn tightly shut. The diary lay open before her, the glow of her wand casting flickering shadows across the pages.
You could have put them in their place today, Tom’s words were waiting for her, as if he had known she would come back to him. A simple hex, a harmless jinx. But you held back. Why?
Hermione stared at the page, her heart heavy. Because I’m not like them, she wrote back, her hand trembling. I won’t become a bully just because I can. I want to be better than that.
Better? Or weaker? Tom’s handwriting slashed across the page, the ink darker, more forceful. Your restraint doesn’t make you noble, Pansy. It makes you vulnerable. Power is not given; it is taken. If you’re not willing to use it, then you’ll always be at their mercy.
The words stung, a harsh truth she wasn’t ready to accept. She closed the diary with a snap, pushing it away as if it were something vile. But even as she lay down to sleep, Tom’s voice lingered in her mind, a whisper that she couldn’t quite shake.
Perhaps it’s time to stop hiding behind excuses, and start seeking the power that you deserve.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. And yet, recalling her encounter with her Housemates earlier that same day, she couldn’t muster up the resolve to continue this back-and-forth.
Perhaps - just perhaps - Tom had more of a point than Hermione would have liked to admit.
Under the bright flames of the torches, Hermione Granger sat rigid in her seat, surrounded by the sneers and whispers of her fellow Slytherins. The chill of the stone floors seeped into her bones, but she refused to shiver. It was another Monday morning in Charms, and Professor Flitwick stood on his stack of books, his high-pitched voice cutting through the murmur of the classroom.
Hermione clenched her wand, trying to tune out Pansy Parkinson’s incessant giggling and Draco Malfoy’s derisive mutterings from the back row. The lesson of the day was the Softening Charm - a spell that called upon the nurturing, physical ideal of Earth. Professor Flitwick described it as a means to render rigid surfaces pliable, useful for anything from Potions prep work to the household repairs one might perform after a particularly destructive misfired hex.
"Think of the earth beneath your feet, firm yet yielding under the right circumstances," Flitwick squeaked, his small eyes gleaming with the passion of a teacher who truly loved his subject. "Channel that energy as you cast!"
As her classmates struggled to soften their tough lumps of clay, Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes, drawing upon the techniques she’d read about in The Stone and the Soil by Calliope Thorne, a book Tom had recommended through the diary. The image of soft, loamy soil filled her mind, grounding her thoughts. She whispered, " Spongify ," and felt a subtle warmth flood her wand. When she opened her eyes, the previously solid lump of clay in front of her had turned into a smooth, malleable mass. Professor Flitwick clapped his tiny hands, awarding Slytherin five points.
"Well done, Miss Granger!" he cried, delighted.
As the week wore on, Hermione continued to excel, each success in class fueling her resolve to rise above the taunts of her peers. The lessons in Transfiguration were proving to be more challenging, and Hermione’s heart quickened at the prospect of a new spell. Today, they were transfiguring water into ice—a deceptively simple exercise that required a deep understanding of the object’s inherent magical properties.
“The water-to-ice transfiguration relies on the natural affinity between the two states,” Professor McGonagall explained, her sharp gaze cutting across the room. “One of the easier inanimate transformations, but still an adjustment, due to our curriculum’s focus on other ties - linguistic, physical traits, and such.”
Hermione’s wand traced a careful arc through the air, her mind recalling passages from A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch - their class text. The water in her goblet froze instantly, the surface smooth and flawless as glass. Draco’s eyes narrowed from across the room, and Pansy’s whispering grew more frenzied - most likely to repair the boy’s fragile ego - but Hermione paid them no mind. Tom’s quiet voice echoed in her mind, praising her for her diligence.
It was Friday afternoon when Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class drew to a close, the murmur of shuffling books and rustling cloaks buzzing throughout the room. Hermione could feel the distinct weight of something in the air, something that had just shifted, though she couldn’t place exactly what it was. It was like the moment before a storm, when the wind pauses, and the world holds its breath.
The older witch adjusted her glasses, her piercing eyes sweeping the class. There was an almost imperceptible pause before McGonagall spoke again, her tone firm and grave. “Next term,” she said, with an emphasis that made every student sit a little straighter, “we shall begin learning the General Transfiguration Process.”
The words hung in the air, and a ripple of excitement swept through the class. Hermione could feel her pulse quicken, her curiosity piqued. Even Draco, usually the first to dismiss anything he deemed too ‘mundane’ for his taste, straightened slightly in his seat. The prospect of a new, more advanced aspect of Transfiguration seemed to ignite a new spark among the students.
McGonagall’s lips tightened in that characteristic, enigmatic way, her sharp gaze still fixed on the class. She didn’t need to say much more for the intrigue to deepen, but she did anyway. “The General Transfiguration Process is a refinement of everything you’ve learned so far. Once mastered, you will no longer need to use specific spells to transfigure objects. Instead, you will be able to alter the very essence of any object’s being.”
The words hung in the air, loaded with implication. Hermione was - quite literally - on the edge of her seat, leaning forward as the teacher spoke. Transfiguration so far had always been about using a precise combination of words, gestures, and intent to change the form of an object, but now it seemed they were being told to push further—beyond the surface, beyond the spell.
McGonagall’s voice softened as she explained, her tone growing heavier. “You will learn to change the fundamental properties of an object. There are no true physical substances, only different manifestations of aether. Aether, in its purest form, exists as the unshaped, formless substance that gives birth to all that we see. It is magic itself, and all magical matter is but a physical manifestation of it, shaped by magical will. The goal of this process is not to alter an object’s essence, for that is impossible. No spell can change the inherent nature of a thing. Instead, you will learn how to alter its physical state—the form it takes, how it appears to the senses.”
Hermione felt a stir in her chest as the weight of the professor’s words settled on her. The concept of aether, an idea she had already encountered in the Transfiguration coursebook, now seemed so much more real, more central to her understanding of magic. McGonagall spoke as if this was the final key, the last piece of the puzzle that would unlock their abilities as true wizards and witches. Hermione’s heart quickened, her mind racing with questions. What did it mean to change an object’s manifestation? What if it were possible to not just change the form but the essence?
McGonagall’s eyes flicked over the class, her gaze lingering a moment longer on Hermione. “This is the highest level of Transfiguration. Mastery of the General Process will allow you to transfigure any object into any other form—whether it be wood into gold, stone into cloth, or even ice into fire. The possibilities are endless. But, to master it, you must first understand the true nature of magic.”
Hermione’s hand shot up, almost before she could think better of it. She felt the weight of her peers’ eyes on her—all exasperated—but she didn’t care. She had to ask. “Professor, is alchemy… essential to understanding Transfiguration? I mean, the process you’re describing sounds a lot like alchemy, doesn’t it?”
For a moment, McGonagall merely studied her, the corner of her mouth twitching as if she were deciding whether to entertain the question.
“I see you’ve been thinking about your studies outside of the prescribed curriculum, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, a hint of approval in her voice. The words seemed to hang there like an echo, making Hermione’s pulse race with something like anticipation. “Alchemy, as you say, does deal with the very refining and transformation of substances. It focuses on the transformation of materials, much as we do in Transfiguration.
“In some respects, alchemy and Transfiguration are deeply connected, for both are concerned with the underlying magical forces that shape all matter. However…” McGonagall’s eyes softened slightly as she stepped closer to Hermione’s desk. “There are, of course, important distinctions. Transfiguration is primarily concerned with the physical manifestation of magic, while alchemy deals with the nature of magic itself, refining it to achieve perfection.”
Hermione’s mind raced with the connection McGonagall had just outlined. There was a glimmer of recognition that sparked in her chest. This was what Tom had been guiding her toward—the idea that Transfiguration, that very process of changing an object’s form, was rooted in alchemy.
“So, is alchemy… important for understanding all of magic?” Hermione pressed, her voice steadier than she felt. The question hung heavy in the air. There was a hunger in her voice now, something deeper, something that had been buried within her ever since she’d first encountered the ideas that Tom had suggested.
McGonagall was silent for a moment, her sharp eyes focused on Hermione as if evaluating the sincerity of the question. Finally, she answered, her voice quieter than before. “All branches of magic are interconnected, Miss Parkinson. There is no one discipline more important than the others; each adds to the whole. But yes,” McGonagall added, her gaze turning almost wistful for a moment, “alchemy may well be the deepest and most foundational of them all. It is the study of magic in its purest form. It seeks to understand the nature of creation itself.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She had known, on some level, that there was something more to magic than the mere spells they learned in class. But now she realised that her studies at Hogwarts, confined as they were to the prescribed curriculum, could only take her so far.
Alchemy , she thought, her heart racing with excitement. Tom was right. That’s what I’ve been missing.
Her footsteps were quick and purposeful as she left the Transfiguration classroom, her mind ablaze with possibilities. She barely noticed the few lingering students who gave her curious glances, too consumed by her own thoughts to care. Tom had been right all along. She had been focusing too much on what Hogwarts wanted her to know—too much time buried in the ordinary texts, the spells and charms that were taught to every first-year. Now, it was time to focus on what she needed to know.
The library was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that makes you acutely aware of every footstep and whispered breath. The high windows cast long shadows on the stone floor, and the smell of old parchment and dust lingered thick in the air. Hermione, her hair in its usual untamed mass, hurried down the aisles with a singular focus. She didn’t notice Madam Pince at first, the librarian’s eyes narrowing with suspicion - as they always did whenever the librarian spotted a potential threat (read: student ) to her precious books - but she did notice the many other students scattered in their own little corners, deeply engrossed in their homework or —if they were fellow Slytherins—silently mocking her presence.
Despite this, Hermione barely cared - if at all. Her mind was alight with thoughts of alchemy—the missing link to the complex web of magic she had been so tirelessly weaving in her head.
he had spent hours combing through the library’s vast collection of texts, muttering to herself about the lack of anything remotely related to the subject she sought. The books she’d pulled from the shelves so far had been mostly about charms, and she’d discarded them with increasing frustration. They were nice enough, she supposed, but far too pedestrian. She needed more. Alchemy —that was what she needed. Not just for her Transfiguration studies, but for magic itself.
Her fingers brushed over another book, titled Advanced Animations: Moving Beyond the Basics , and it suddenly jumped off the shelf. Literally. The book's pages fluttered like the wings of a bird, diving towards her face with alarming speed.
"Hey!" she yelped, ducking as the book whizzed past her, narrowly missing her nose. The dastardly thing flapped and buzzed like a rogue bird, circling back to divebomb her once more.
Hermione swatted at it, her hands clumsy and ineffectual as the book dodged each strike with startling precision. She didn’t even know books could fly like that. What kind of magic was this? With a muttered curse under her breath, she reached for her wand, ready to subdue the persistent tome.
“ Wingardium Leviosa! ” she cast quickly, perfectly swishing and flicking her wand. The book floated up, but not gently, and certainly not as expected. It spiralled upward in a corkscrew before plummeting again, barely missing her head.
Madam Pince was already on her way over, her footsteps sharp and precise as she zeroed in on Hermione with the precision of a hawk spotting prey. “What’s this, Miss Granger?” she hissed out. “Casting magic on my books?”
As Hermione began to stammer a response, Madam Pince snatched the book from her hands with a hiss of annoyance. The librarian’s bony fingers gripped it so tightly, Hermione half-expected the book to be squeezed into oblivion.
“Don’t even think about trying to return this one to its shelf, Miss Granger,” Pince muttered darkly, and then—because of course she would—she gave Hermione a pointed look before walking off, dragging the flapping book back to its section.
With a relieved sigh, Hermione moved to a quieter section of the library. The farthest, deepest alcoves—reserved for those who truly needed peace to concentrate—held her hopes now. She wasn’t giving up—not when she was so close. The shelves here were stacked high with older, more obscure volumes. Books that smelled musty and ancient, their leather bindings worn and fragile. These were the kinds of books that held the secrets to magic, the kind that weren’t peddled out to first-years just to fill their heads with simple, practical charms.
After more than an hour of fruitless searching, just as Hermione was about to give up and leave—feeling a little more defeated than she cared to admit—she spotted Percy Weasley at their shared library table, looking over an open book with that familiar, studious expression on his face. As always, he was trying to get ahead in his studies, even if he never quite matched her drive.
“Hermione!” she called, her voice cheerful despite her earlier frustrations.
Percy looked up, his spectacles glinting in the light of the lanterns. “Oh, Hermione! Are you looking for a book, then?” He looked at her unusually-empty hands, raising his ey.
Hermione nodded, sitting down beside him. “I was—well, I was looking for something specific, but after so long, I’m not so sure anymore.”
“You shouldn’t give up that easily,” he remarked with his usual touch of condescension, returning to reading.
“A book almost beat me up!”
“A book did beat me up, once,” sighed Percy, a faraway look now on his face; he shuddered, after a moment.
The pair shared a quiet laugh. Then, Percy, sensing Hermione’s frustration, leaned forward and offered to help her:
“I’ve been to Hogwarts for four years more,” he reasoned. “Obviously I know much more about its library. Tell me, which book are you searching for, exactly?”
“I was looking for The One and Only Ideal by Dottie Hornette,” Hermione said. “I think it’s a book on alchemy. Er - a friend of mine recommended it to me. It’s supposed to be a rather comprehensive primer, I was told.”
Percy’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You have friends?”
“Of course I do!” snapped Hermione, her eyes narrowing at Percy. “I’m not entirely unlikeable, for your information. I suppose, buried underneath all my horrible, revolting traits, there’s just a slight glimmer of something that’s worthy enough to—”
“Funny—I never even said one of those things,” interrupted Percy, standing up. “I forgive you for misrepresenting my words, though.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “Are you going to help me, or not?”
“Of course I will, Hermione. One of the most important parts of proper prefect’s role is to aid the less knowledgeable, you know—”
After what seemed like an eternity of searching through the dusty, lofty shelves, it was Percy who finally found the book, wedged in between two volumes on esoteric magical theory. Hermione could hardly believe it when she saw the cover—a dull gold, embossed with delicate symbols that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The One and Only Ideal .
She grabbed it from his hands and cradled it to her chest. Her heart was pounding, her mind buzzing with the possibilities that lay within the pages of this book. The final step had been taken.
But, as she left the library, Hermione couldn’t help but turn, her eyes flickering toward the Restricted Section, the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows over the thin iron gate. Beyond the bars, the shelves are cloaked in shadow, the spines of ancient, dust-covered tomes just visible, each one brimming with dangerous, forgotten knowledge. Unfortunately, this section is reserved for students with special permission and students continuing advanced studies in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as it contained books with knowledge deemed too dangerous for the general student body.
But if Tom had been right about alchemy…
Consider the Moon, which reflects the Sun's light, yet doth not consume itself in the Sun’s flame. For if it were not for the moderating embrace of the aether, which tempers the fervour of the celestial fires, all would be devoured in their conflagration. By Divine Providence, the aether doth separate and harmonise these elements, such that the fiery natures of the stars do not scorch the Earth nor dry up the waters upon its face. Observe, too, how the Earth draws forth the moisture of the air into clouds, which by their own nature do swell and release their waters unto the land, nourishing the creatures therein.
Thus, thou shalt understand the great Mystery: Fire and Earth are as distant kin, divided in nature, yet reconciled through the mediation of aether. For Fire is fervent, consuming, and parched, while Earth is dense, yielding, and cool. The aether, which is neither parched nor sated, neither hot nor cold, but a blending of all qualities, doth unite them. And therein lies the secret, for between Fire and Earth doth lie the alchemical marriage, the sacred conjunction which giveth birth to all forms of matter.
Mark this well: when the Sun’s heat doth pierce the upper airs, it draws forth the subtle vapours, turning them to spirit and wind, which enliven all that breathes. Behold how the aetheric spirit circulates between Heaven and Earth, drawing upward the most delicate essences of the soil, that they might return enriched, to the womb of the world below. All this hath been ordained by the One Mind, which set the spheres in their orbits and decreed the concord of opposites, that through the contest of elements there might be harmony, and from chaos, order.
Wouldst thou grasp the Ideal? Seek then not to conquer nature, but to understand it; for he who knoweth the law which binds Fire, Earth, and Aether doth hold the key to all transformation.
Letting out a soft, frustrated sigh, Hermione’s brow furrowed as she reread the passage for what felt like the tenth time. The dim light of her lantern flickered on the library table, casting shadows over the dense, yellowed pages of The One and Only Ideal . The book was ancient and reeked of dust, with every sentence winding and coiling like a serpent, only to bite its own tail.
"Aether this, aether that...," she muttered under her breath, her fingers pressing against her temples. The author’s florid language, full of grandiose proclamations and obscure metaphors, made it nearly impossible to discern any concrete meaning. It felt like a riddle within a riddle, with phrases like ‘ the alchemical marriage ’ and ‘ concord of opposites ’ floating in an endless sea of vagueness.
She glanced down at the line about fire and earth being ‘distant kin’ and reconciled only through the mystical force of aether, which supposedly bound all things. How was she supposed to apply any of this in practical magic? And what in Merlin's name was she supposed to do with all this talk of ‘ sacred conjunctions’ and ‘the great Mystery’ ? For all its promise of hidden knowledge, the book seemed determined to leave her more confused than enlightened.
"If only the author would just get to the point," she grumbled, leaning back in her chair. But as the thought settled, Hermione realised that perhaps that was the point. The old magical texts were often written in this way—purposefully opaque to deter all but the most determined of seekers. And if she could unravel the meaning hidden in these archaic passages, perhaps there truly was something profound waiting at the heart of it all.
Still, as she squinted at yet another line about ‘celestial fires’ and ‘aetheric vapours’, Hermione couldn’t help but wish for a translation—or at least a stiff cup of tea.
Weeks passed, and Hermione was still wrestling with the unwieldy tome. The Slytherin common room, the library, even the cold, draughty corridors—every spare moment was devoted to deciphering Dottie Hornette’s cryptic prose. Her notes had filled an entire notebook, yet despite her relentless efforts, she was only halfway through the confounding tome. Each page seemed to offer only more questions, more perplexing riddles disguised as philosophical truths. But she pressed on, convinced by Tom’s assurances that the secrets within would grant her unparalleled mastery over magic.
Today, she was seated at the far end of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, her lunch largely untouched as she pored over yet another labyrinthine passage. The low hum of chatter and laughter from her housemates barely registered as she hunched over her book, her quill darting across her notepad in frustrated scribbles.
The rest of the Slytherin first years were in high spirits, their excitement bubbling over with the approaching Christmas break, now just a little over two weeks away. They were all boasting about their extravagant plans, voices brimming with glee and anticipation.
"Father's been invited to the Ministry Gala again," Draco Malfoy was saying, his pale, pointed face alight with smug satisfaction. "He’s on the guest list every year, of course. It’s all very exclusive. The Minister himself always asks Father for advice, even if he doesn’t hold an official position."
Beside him, Daphne Greengrass chimed in, her cool, aristocratic tone tinged with pride. "We’re spending the holidays at our villa on Mount Olympus," she announced. "Wizards-only, naturally. The resort there is simply divine—enchanted pools, goblin masseuses, the works."
Across the table, Crabbe and Goyle listened with awestruck expressions, clearly wishing they had such illustrious family traditions to brag about. Blaise Zabini leaned back lazily, a small smirk playing on his lips as he watched the others jockey for attention.
Hermione, for her part, was excited too - although she didn’t see the need to broadcast it. She would soon be returning home to her parents. It had been a long, horrid term, and she was looking forward to the familiarity of her house, her room, her bookshelves, and - most of all - her parents . But Mr. and Mrs. Granger, with their demanding dental practice, had never had the time to be at home all that often, so Hermione - more so than most of the other Slytherins, she expected - was quite used to her parents’ absence.
Just as Hermione flipped to the next page of her dry textbook, Draco’s sharp voice cut through her concentration:
"And what about you, Granger?" he drawled, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight as he turned to face her. "Heading back to the Muggle slums, are you? Must be nice to visit all those mud huts and dirt roads again."
Hermione stiffened, her grip tightening around her quill. For a moment, she was sorely tempted to hurl the book at Malfoy’s smug, sneering face.
She kept her eyes firmly on her book, pretending to be too engrossed to hear him, but her heart pounded in her chest. For a moment, she was sorely tempted to hurl the book at Malfoy’s smug, sneering face. Laughter erupted from the Slytherins near her, a chorus of jeers and snickers that only grew louder as they sensed blood in the water.
Pansy Parkinson leaned in, her voice a high-pitched titter. "The only magic she’ll be seeing is the look of relief on her parents’ faces when the break ends. They may be Muggles - but I bet those poor things know a hag when they see one!”
Once lunch and then afternoon classes—History of Magic and Charms— had ended, Hermione made her way to the usual meeting spot by the library. It was quieter there in the late afternoon, the sun dipping behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the cobblestone floor. She quickly glanced around to make sure no one was watching before slipping inside.
Tracey was already there, lounging against the stone wall and looking far too comfortable. Her sharp eyes caught sight of Hermione, and she waved a hand, half distracted, already deep in some kind of self-indulgent monologue.
"I swear, you wouldn’t believe who Parkinson’s been following around lately. It’s like she's lost all her common sense just because Malfoy winked at her in the hallway. Honestly—"
Hermione sighed inwardly. This was how it always went. Tracey would endlessly gossip, eager to finally have an audience that wouldn’t sneer her into silence, while Hermione sat still - despite her urge to fight back, she never had any real ideas to voice. But today was different.
"Davis, we need to talk strategy," she said, cutting through the chatter with her usual precision.
Tracey raised an eyebrow, but Hermione could see the flicker of interest behind the apathy. The mention of a ‘strategy’ was always enough to snap her attention back. She groaned slightly, but Hermione could already feel her mind working to switch gears.
"Ugh, fine. I’ll take a break from my vital research on who’s snogging who, but this had better be good." Tracey leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment, her handwriting neat and crisp. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about this, as usual. Tom’s guidance had been… precise, but there were things to figure out on her own. She needed to be careful.
"We’ve been thinking too broadly about Slytherin," Hermione started, voice low, so no one overheard. "We need to target their hierarchy. There’s always a weakness, a crack. It's just a matter of finding the right person to exploit it."
Tracey rolled her eyes. "Oh, great. Another ‘how-to-bring-down-the-Slytherin-empire’ plan. Granger, we’re not exactly in Gryffindor Tower with an army of loyal soldiers here, yeah? Slytherins, by and large, are blood purists! That’s, like, legitimately their whole schtick. Do you really want for us to, what, just waltz up to Pansy and say, 'Hey, why don’t you ditch Malfoy and start a revolution with us?'"
Hermione clenched her jaw, trying not to let the sarcastic tone throw her off. It was the same every time—Tracey’s inability to take anything seriously until it suited her interests. But there was potential here. Hermione had thought about it a lot and Tom’s words had been very specific:
You need to tear Slytherin apart from within , he had written, his elegant script blossoming upon the blank pages of the diary.
And Hermione had found herself agreeing.
"Yeah, but how? " Tracey’s voice was less biting now, and she shifted forward, clearly intrigued despite herself.
Hermione gave her a sharp, knowing glance. "You start with one person. We find a weak spot in their little hierarchy and use it. Pansy’s not as secure as she thinks she is. She’s obviously the leader of the girls, yes, but she has flaws - like how obsessive she is over Malfoy. Millicent is just Pansy’s sidekick and Daphne’s even thicker than all her failed potions—so both are easily influenced. But it's Malfoy we need to get to. He’s the loudest, but also the most vulnerable. He’s all bravado, and he needs to maintain that ‘top dog’ image. If we can break him down, we’ll have a crack in their entire system."
“The whole first year system,” remarked Tracey; and yet, her Witch Weekly magazine had been put away, her eyes fully locked with Hermione’s. “In case you haven’t noticed, everybody else hates you, too. Not only the Slytherins, even. I’m sure if you stopped even a random Hufflepuff and asked them how they felt about Hermione Granger, there’d be a lot of violent imagery involved.” She paused in her giggling, then, to shoot Hermione a vaguely apologetic look. “No offence, though. Honestly, I think all my hypothetical just shows the prevalence of blood purism and anti-woman beliefs in this world, you know? I, unlike everyone else, support Muggle-born witches.”
It took a great deal of willpower for Hermione to not insult Tracey in turn, but she managed to summon it, nevertheless. “Haven’t you noticed?” she asked in lofty tones, her bushy eyebrows raising with put-on surprise. “The other years don’t care about me all that much.”
“Really?” responded Tracey with no small amount of scepticism. “Because a fourth year’s going to hex you once you’re back in the common room. I know because I was the one to tell him to do it.” At Hermione’s look of shock, she hastily went on: “On Pansy’s orders, of course.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Once again, she was forced to tell herself that Tracey was too useful to throttle to death - just quite yet, at least. “But it was on Pansy’s orders! Just like her brother’s attacks on me, too! It’s Pansy and Malfoy who ask the older students to hurt me, I think. Not all of them, of course - but enough so that if I have them under my control, I’ll be quite a bit safer.”
"And Zabini?" Tracey asked, leaning back, considering. “You didn’t mention him. He’s really cute, you know. Merlin , I’d love to have him on our side. I mean, he’s not God, or anything - that position belongs to my one and only: Cedric Amos Diggory, the only Hufflepuff I’ll ever respect. I can’t wait until he crushes Potter in the Quidditch match. I know that Gryffindor winning is in our House’s best interest, but my loyalty is solely reserved for Diggory. Solely .”
Once more, Hermione pursed her lips. “Zabini’s complicated. He likes to keep his options open, but he’s also pragmatic. He’ll align with the power that’s most beneficial to him. He’s not loyal to Malfoy, but he’s not going to risk being the one who’s seen as weak either. We could turn him against Malfoy, but it’ll take finesse. He’s not as easy to manipulate.”
"Sounds like a lot of work. Can't we just get some dirt on Malfoy and use that to blackmail him into submission?"
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "We could , but it would only make him more dangerous. If we take the slower approach, we get more leverage—and we can use it to break the rest of them down. Think about it: once Malfoy’s no longer the 'top dog,' it all starts to fall apart. They turn on each other. And we don’t even have to do much."
"Uh-huh." Tracey hummed in thought, obviously enjoying the idea more now. "So, we play the long game. Start with breaking down Malfoy, then his friends, and then it’s all like... a big, snake-eating-its-own-tail situation?"
"Exactly." Hermione leaned back, watching the way Tracey’s face shifted from bored scepticism to something a little more intrigued. She was getting through. "Pansy’s the easiest to manipulate. She craves power, but she’s afraid of being exposed as weak. Daphne’s not much better. Millicent follows, blindly, whoever’s in charge. It’s all about playing on their insecurities."
Tracey shrugged, finally giving in with a playful grin. "Alright, alright, I'm in. But I want some drama. I’m talking secret meetings, whispers in corridors, and maybe a little bit of scandal. If we’re going down this route, it better be fun."
Hermione smiled, the hint of something darker in her eyes. "We’ll make sure of it."
The days that followed were filled with a quiet, calculated war. Hermione had started subtly, playing on Malfoy’s arrogant, spoiled nature, the way she had once turned Tracey’s insecurities into something she could manipulate. But while Tracey had been quick to crumble under the pressure, Malfoy—Malfoy was different. Hermione’s first move was almost laughably simple.
She simply stole his stuff. It was a routine task, one she had done countless times before with Tracey—slip into his bag during lunch, nick his notes, his essays, his quills. She even swiped a few of his books. They went straight into the lake, floating down into the murky water, sinking like a stone. She didn’t even hesitate.
Malfoy deserved it.
The next day, Malfoy was unfazed. And, when Hermione watched from a distance, she saw him in the library, not searching frantically or throwing a tantrum; no, he was sitting at a table with a brand-new set of quills, neatly aligned on the page, scrawling furiously through the homework he had ‘lost’ the previous day.
Hermione’s jaw tightened in disbelief. He didn’t even care . He’d simply stolen someone else’s notes, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d even grabbed her parchment—her neatly written notes from a Charms class—without a second thought.
Hermione had been livid. She had made the first move; she should have been winning, but it felt like she was... losing - and Malfoy wasn’t even aware.
A few days later, Tracey came to her with a story that eased Hermione’s annoyance.
"You wouldn’t believe it," Tracey said, nearly bursting with laughter. "You know Malfoy’s new pristine bag? The one with the gold-trimmed edges and everything? Well, I took it. Right out of the common room while he was distracting Goyle with his latest ego trip."
Hermione grinned, pleased at Tracey’s audacity. This was exactly what they needed. Tracey was doing her part well. The bag would be a perfect tool to really push Malfoy to the edge. Maybe, just maybe , he’d finally crack.
But the next day, Tracey looked stricken. "He didn’t even notice , Hermione. He just... didn’t care . He replaced the bag, like it was nothing. Just walked into the common room this morning with a new one, full of fresh coursebooks and parchments. Said he must’ve misplaced it, or something."
Hermione stared at Tracey in horror.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Hermione heard the next part of the story: Malfoy had gone straight to her desk in the library, taken her latest homework assignment, and submitted it as his own . Her neatly completed Potions essay—every word, every correction, her careful citations—all of it had been handed in with the signature flourish of Draco Malfoy. That’s why it had gone missing from Hermione’s bag, and Professor Snape had given her a tongue-lashing she’d remember for the rest of her life.
By now, Hermione’s teeth were grinding in frustration. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Malfoy was supposed to crumble under pressure, to snap when things were taken from him. Instead, he adapted. He didn’t even flinch. It was as if he’d already calculated the loss before it had even happened, and had a backup plan waiting in the wings.
But this... this was too much. She couldn’t just let him walk all over her like this. Not again.
The next move was risky, but she had no choice. She couldn’t just keep playing the same tricks. She needed something bigger. Something more visible . Something that would get his attention, shake him enough to make him question his invincibility.
It was night in the common room when Hermione made her move. She had carefully planned it out: subtle, but devastating. She knew Malfoy would walk in with his usual entourage—Goyle, Crabbe, and his impeccable posture. His smug smile would be plastered across his pale, pointed face, no doubt basking in his own supposed superiority.
As he stepped through the door, she cast the spell, a quiet muttered incantation under her breath that would transform his platinum blond hair into a shocking shade of pink.
At first, he didn’t notice. His usual swagger didn’t falter as he strode across the room, heading straight for the fire to stand with his usual crowd. But then Goyle started laughing. The deep, raucous laugh of someone who had just seen something absolutely ridiculous.
Malfoy paused.
He ran a hand through his hair—something he did unconsciously as he always checked his appearance in the reflection of the nearest surface—but he didn’t freeze. He didn’t shout or demand answers.
He only sneered and gave a small, disinterested laugh in return. "I wonder who even bothered to do this," he said, his voice oozing with disdain. “Couldn’t they have at least picked a colour that looks bad on me.” He turned back to the mirror, his faint smiling growing. “On second thought - is there any?”
With that, he turned away, as if nothing had changed at all.
And that was when it hit Hermione like a slap to the face. Malfoy’s ego wasn’t just a fragile thing, easily shattered. It was a fortress. An impenetrable wall of self-assurance that didn’t rely on anything external. He was untouchable simply because he believed himself to be.
The air in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was thick with a peculiar, almost tangible confusion. Professor Quirrell stammered nervously at the front, his eyes darting around in that trademarked, skittish way, as he tried to outline the core tenets of what was supposed to be an advanced lesson on countering dark creatures. But today’s topic seemed oddly elementary.
"If—if you should ever, ever encounter a threat of a-any kind," Quirrell mumbled, "your f-first instinct should b-be t-to run—run, always run—flee, escape, f-find safety—"
Hermione’s brow furrowed. It seemed like a strange thing to say in a class dedicated to fighting the Dark Arts, of all things. Her mind briefly wandered to Tom’s voice in her head, his cold, calculating guidance: Fight them. Show no mercy. It was a wonder that Professor Quirrell - the man who’d convinced her to stand up to the Slytherins, no matter the consequences - tells everyone else to simply flee. She tightened her grip on her quill. Running from threats wasn’t the answer, not anymore—not for her.
"Professor, with all due respect," Hermione raised her hand, her voice a little more forceful than she’d intended. "Shouldn’t we be learning how to defend ourselves against those threats, rather than just running from them?"
Quirrell blinked, looking genuinely startled at the interruption. "Er... well, Miss Granger... of course... but in— in most cases, flight is the wisest course of action, you see... w-well... Dark Magic, and all that..."
He trailed off, his eyes darting uneasily around the room, as if he were afraid someone might challenge him further. Hermione held her tongue, but only just. She could feel Tracey’s sharp gaze on her from across the room, and the weight of her own thoughts pressed in heavily. Flight. The word echoed in her mind. She had learned, from Tom, that survival came through strength and control. You couldn’t always run from problems—sometimes, you had to break them.
Her eyes drifted to the other students in the room. Pansy, Daphne, Millicent, all of them safely ensconced in their comfortable little world of Slytherin hierarchy. None of them would be likely targets for her strategy. Pansy was too loyal to Malfoy—no surprise there. And Daphne? Well, she was the former’s best friend.
She scribbled a quick note to Tracey under her desk.
I’m running out of options. Pansy’s too loyal to Malfoy, and Daphne’s her puppet. What about Millicent?
Tracey’s reply came almost instantly, scrawled on a piece of parchment passed back under the desk with an effortless flick of her wrist.
Millicent’s too much of a blood purist. Try someone else.
Hermione sighed inwardly, looking back at the Slytherin girls. Millicent was indeed out of the question. She was far too entrenched in the idea of pureblood superiority, far too desperate to be accepted by Pansy and Daphne. Hermione’s gaze flicked over to the boys sitting at the back of the room—Malfoy’s two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle. The thought wasn’t entirely foreign. Tom had never suggested who to target, but it made sense. Perhaps Malfoy’s own goons could be turned. But the question was: which one?
She quickly assessed the two of them. Crabbe was big, slow, and brutish, but not especially clever. Goyle, though, had the look of someone who might have a bit more… potential, however buried it was. The trick was getting past that thick, lumbering exterior and finding the vulnerability beneath.
She wrote back to Tracey.
What about Crabbe or Goyle? They're not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed, but maybe we could use that?
Tracey’s response came in a hurried scrawl, the laughter almost audible in her words.
Crabbe? You’ve got to be joking. Goyle might be a better bet. He’s got the aggression—Crabbe’s just... evil. He shoved me to the floor once, unprompted!
Hermione nodded, deep in thought. So Goyle then. She could make it work. They were going to need muscle if they were going to start breaking the Slytherins down, and Goyle seemed to fit that need—he had the blind loyalty to Malfoy, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could be convinced to turn that loyalty elsewhere.
As Quirrell rambled on about ‘running from threats’ , Hermione’s mind was already racing ahead. The answer might just lie with Goyle, but to make it work, she needed leverage. She needed something solid, something Goyle couldn’t ignore.
The bell rang for the end of class, and students hurried to pack their things, eager to get away from Quirrell’s disjointed lesson. But Hermione hung back. She had a different plan.
"Professor," she said, approaching him with her most innocent, concerned expression. "Would it be possible to get a pass to the Restricted Section? I’ve been reading about Durmstrang, and I think I might need a few more resources for my research."
Quirrell blinked at her, clearly taken aback. "Durmstrang, you say? Well, I suppose if you’re studying theoretical Dark Magic, it might be a good idea—just be careful, Miss Granger." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, eyes narrowing in a way that made Hermione’s stomach twist. "Dark Magic, as you know, is a... volatile subject."
"Of course, Professor," Hermione said smoothly, keeping her voice steady. "I’m just looking for titles on their coursebooks. It’s just for reference, I promise."
Quirrell hesitated, clearly unsure, but after a long pause, he scribbled out a pass and handed it to her. "Here. And, um, if you’re looking for recommendations—" he hesitated again, glancing around as if nervous about speaking too freely. "I suggest The Dark Arts: A Study of Their Origins and Mastery of the Dark Forces . If you’re serious about your research, those will be invaluable."
Hermione blinked, surprised. She had expected him to be a bit more hesitant, even if only a bit. Perhaps Quirrell, like Tom, believed that knowledge of Dark Magic was crucial in any quest for true power.
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said, keeping her voice neutral. "I’ll study them thoroughly."
Quirrell gave her a slightly unsettling smile. "Good. It is... vital you understand the true power of Dark Magic. It is, after all, the most potent form of magic in existence."
Hermione nodded, taking the pass from him with quiet thanks. As she left the classroom, her mind was already buzzing with ideas. She was moving deeper into dangerous territory now. She had started down a path that could irrevocably change her, but there was no turning back. Not anymore.