Mentorship
Snow had begun to gather along the castle’s parapets, softening the hard stone edges of Hogwarts in a powdery white. December had cast its chill across the grounds, frosting every branch, every windowsill. The Great Lake lay cold and dark beneath a sheath of mist, and the Forbidden Forest shivered under a layer of ice, silent and eerie.
Inside, however, the library glowed with warm candlelight, a sanctuary against the winter outside. Shadows played along towering bookshelves, where tomes whispered secrets to those willing to listen. Hermione had claimed a corner near one of the tall, fogged-up windows, tucked away in solitude. Here, surrounded by books and the faint scent of parchment and leather, she felt a rare peace, a brief reprieve from Slytherin’s sharp glares and muttered slurs.
At a secluded corner table, hidden behind a fortress of open books, a heavy volume in front of her - The One and Only Ideal , lay open to its final page It was a complex and maddening text, filled with arcane theories that danced just beyond the reach of understanding, but now it was done. The weight of the book’s mysteries lifted from her shoulders, leaving a peculiar mix of relief and yearning.
She leaned back in her chair, stretching her cramped fingers, and allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. How many nights had she spent here, long after curfew, the flickering candlelight her only companion? She had devoured Durmstrang’s Dark Arts coursebooks, too, with their intricate diagrams and complex incantations. The spells she’d learned had proven invaluable, shielding her from the hexes and jinxes her housemates hurled her way in the dim corridors.
With a sense of triumph, she pulled out the enchanted diary from her bag. The black leather cover was smooth and cool to the touch, its pages waiting eagerly for her words. She dipped her quill in ink and wrote swiftly, her breath fogging the air as she bent over the diary.
I've finished The One and Only Ideal. It was… incredible, though challenging. The alchemical principles are fascinating, and I’ve even managed to apply some of them in Transfiguration and Potions!
She waited, her heart thumping with anticipation, She felt sure Tom would be pleased; his guidance had been instrumental, after all, helping her wade through the esoteric alchemical texts that few students her age would even attempt.
There was a pause as her words soaked into the page, and then a response emerged in Tom’s elegant, looping script.
Good, he wrote simply, sparing no hint of praise. Then, with a meticulous list that filled the page in one swift stroke, he assigned more books - on Charms and Transfiguration, but also on Herbology and Astronomy, oddly enough. They all came at such a rate, though, that Hermione didn’t have much time to question Tom - instead, she furiously scribbled the titles in her notebook, not trusting herself to remember them all. Once she was offered reprieve, though, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder.
There was a pause, the candle beside her flickering as though the air itself held its breath. Then, Tom’s answer unfurled with icy precision.
You still have so much to learn, Hermione. Magic is not confined to a single discipline, Tom scolded. The movements of the planets, the properties of celestial bodies, all influence the magic we cast. The Sun governs gold and the heart, the Moon, silver and the mind. Do you think potions brewed under different phases of the moon are mere superstition?
The words seemed to sear into the page, each one a sharp rebuke. Hermione’s eyes widened as she read on, her curiosity now tinged with a touch of fear.
"And Herbology," the diary continued, "is not merely the study of plants but the study of life itself. Alchemists have long believed that every plant, mineral, and living creature is a reflection of the anima mundi, the soul of the world. To master magic, you must understand the essence of life and how it connects to the magical energies around us.
The shadows in the library seemed to deepen as she absorbed his words. She had never thought of magic in such a holistic way before. The professors only taught the fundamentals, the isolated pieces of the magical puzzle. But Tom... Tom was showing her something far grander, far more dangerous.
"I see," she wrote, though her hands trembled slightly. "Thank you for the insight."
But Tom wasn't done. The diary quivered in her hands as more words appeared, each one dripping with a sense of urgency.
The One and Only Ideal was not just a book about alchemy, Hermione. It was a lesson in the unity of all things. The celestial, the botanical, the alchemical—they are all bound together. If you had truly understood it, you would not be asking such foolish questions.
Her face flushed with anger, the quill slipping from her grasp. How dare he belittle her efforts after all she had done? She had spent countless hours poring over that book, sacrificing sleep, and enduring the cruel whispers of her housemates. She opened her mouth to curse at the diary, to demand the praise she deserved, but stopped herself just in time.
Ask your questions, then, Tom challenged, sensing her hesitation. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything at all.
Fine, she thought, her quill scratching out her reply with barely checked frustration. Ask your questions, then.
The diary responded without hesitation, launching into a rapid series of questions, one after another: What phase of the moon best complements a tincture of hellebore?What qualities does Saturn impart to metals in potions involving lead?How does the fourth rotation of Mercury influence the potency of healing charms?
For the next hour, he bombarded her with questions - about lunar cycles, the properties of alchemical salts, the influence of Mars on Dark Magic, and more. At first, she answered confidently, quills scratching furiously, but his questions grew more obscure, more demanding, until her mind was spinning and her responses faltered.
Wrong again, he wrote, ink blooming dark and unforgiving on the parchment. Very disappointing, Hermione."
The words cut, and for a heartbeat, she could hardly breathe. With a shudder of anger, she shut the diary with a slam that echoed through the quiet library, her hands shaking as she pushed it away. The library’s shadows seemed to flicker in response, the firelight turning harsh and jagged against the stone walls. She shoved the diary back into her bag, her hands shaking.
The snow outside the window had thickened, muffling the world beyond in a blanket of white. For a moment, she felt as if she were suffocating, trapped between the ancient, silent shelves, the weight of Tom’s expectations pressing down on her.
She would not break. Not here. Not now.
The library remained silent, shelves looming over her like judges in the dim light. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the fogged-up windows, silent witnesses to her stifled anger. One day, she’d prove herself. She would rise above the taunts and the mocking glances, master every spell, every book, every element of magic she could find. And next time, she would be ready.
With a last look at the closed diary, Hermione squared her shoulders, the determination burning hotly in her chest. Tom wouldn’t see her falter again.
The chill of December seemed to seep into every corner of Hogwarts, but Hermione hardly noticed. The cold was nothing compared to the fire that burned within her these days. Each morning, she strode into the Great Hall with her head held high, no longer cowed by the sneering faces of her housemates. The change was palpable, even to the Slytherins who had once delighted in tormenting her. Gone were the days when she meekly obeyed Pansy Parkinson’s demands to carry her books or tidy up the girls' dormitory. Gone were the humiliating chores and cruel taunts. Hermione Granger was done playing servant.
Her mastery of the Dark Arts had given her an edge, one that none of her tormentors could have anticipated. Hexes and jinxes flew from her wand with a sharp precision that left even the most vicious bullies wary. Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, even the brutish Crabbe and Goyle—none could catch her off guard anymore. Thanks to Tom’s whispered guidance, Hermione knew every hidden passage, every secret alcove where she could disappear in the blink of an eye, leaving her attackers bewildered and seething.
The library had become her battleground, the Restricted Section her arsenal. Books on the Dark Arts, curses, counter-curses, and ancient hexes filled her nights, while her days were dedicated to her classes, where she dazzled her professors with her newfound prowess. Every spell, every incantation seemed to flow from her wand with effortless grace, as if she were merely a conduit for a deeper magic.
In Charms, she flourished, her incantations ringing through the classroom with clarity and power. During one lesson, Professor Flitwick had them practicing the Hardening Charm, a spell meant to fortify objects against damage. Hermione’s wand flashed, and the cushion before her stiffened into a solid, impenetrable block.
But as she watched the results of her spell, her mind wandered. There was something about the Hardening Charm that called to her, a feeling of drawing upon strength and resilience. Mars, she thought, recalling her late-night readings on celestial magic. The planet associated with strength, war, and aggression. But that made her pause. Mars’s influence was tied to Dark Magic as well, was it not? A magic that thrived on force, on bending the world to one’s will. Yet the Hardening Charm was clearly a protective spell, not meant for destruction but for fortification.
Her brow furrowed as she considered this. It called upon strength, but only to shield, not to harm. The spell structure was fundamentally different from the hexes she had been practicing, more akin to the protective spells she’d seen Aurors use. So it wasn’t Dark, she realized, because it was strength in service of protection, not domination. A curious distinction, but one that fascinated her.
Professor Flitwick clapped his hands, breaking her reverie. “Excellent work, Miss Granger! Ten points to Slytherin!” His praise was genuine, but it only earned her resentful glares from the other Slytherins.
In Transfiguration, she was a force to be reckoned with. Even Professor McGonagall couldn’t hide her astonishment when Hermione turned her steel pipe into a perfectly formed pincushion, complete with gleaming, golden pins. McGonagall had set her an advanced assignment, something even the older students would have struggled with, but Hermione transfigured objects at such a rapid pace that it left the rest of the class gaping.
But it was in Potions class that she truly shone. Today, they were brewing the Draught of Peace, a silvery concoction that promised calm and tranquility to the drinker. Hermione and Tracey Davis worked side by side, their cauldron emitting a gentle, shimmering mist. As she stirred the potion precisely as instructed, the pair whispered about their plans to sway Gregory Goyle to their side. The boy was a lumbering brute, but Hermione knew there were ways to manipulate even the densest of minds.
She glanced down at her Potions textbook, where an illustration showed a serene wizard with a beatific smile, the very picture of tranquility after drinking the Draught of Peace. Hermione paused, her spoon hovering over the cauldron.
If potions could alter the mind so drastically… she thought, watching the serene figure smile up at her from the page. It was one thing to alter a physical object with magic, to transfigure a mouse into a goblet or harden a pillow into stone, but to tamper with someone’s very thoughts, their emotions… That was a different kind of power altogether.
A shiver ran down her spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold dungeon air. Dark charms could do this as well—warp the mind, twist emotions, bind the will. But potions were subtler, weren’t they? They didn’t force; they coaxed, they suggested. They could turn enemies into allies, hatred into love, despair into bliss.
Tom had once spoken of this—of power not just over the physical world, but over the mind and soul.
“Granger,” Tracey hissed, nudging her. “The potion—focus!”
Hermione snapped back to reality, adding the powdered moonstone just in time to see the potion turn the correct pearly color. She forced herself to smile, pushing the dark thoughts away. There would be time to explore similar avenues later, with Tom’s guidance.
For now, she had a potion to perfect.
The air in the dungeons was thick with the scent of damp stone, and the echoes of laughter—sharp and cruel—bounced off the ancient walls as the first-year Slytherins prowled through the corridors. At the head of the pack, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson strutted with an air of confidence, their voices carrying through the cold, empty halls. Their robes swished behind them like the tails of hunting cats, their eyes gleaming with the promise of retribution.
“We’ll teach that Mudblood to know her place,” Pansy hissed, her voice dripping with malice. Draco smirked in agreement, his pale face flushed with the thrill of the chase. The group tightened their grip on their wands, ready to unleash whatever curses they had been practicing under the cover of darkness. The dungeon was their domain, and they were not about to let a Muggle-born upstart make a fool of them.
The wind howled through the barred windows, rattling the iron frames and sending a chill that bit through their robes. It was the kind of cold that settled into the bones, but it did nothing to deter their purpose. Millicent Bulstrode, scowling and still nursing the effects of the hex Hermione had thrown at her, stomped along behind them. Her threat to dunk Hermione's head in a toilet had backfired spectacularly, and now, she was determined to exact her revenge.
But Hermione Granger was no easy prey.
Just as the Slytherins rounded a corner, they spotted her—a flash of wild hair disappearing down a side corridor. Draco’s eyes lit up, and he barked a triumphant laugh. “There she is! After her!” The pack surged forward, but as they reached the spot where they’d seen her, she was gone. Vanished, as if she’d melted into the shadows themselves.
Draco cursed under his breath. “Spread out! She couldn’t have gotten far!”
But what they didn’t know was that Hermione had taken refuge in one of Hogwarts’ many secrets—a narrow trapdoor hidden behind a tapestry. It led to a spiraling staircase, a secret that Tom had revealed to her only days before. As the Slytherins fanned out, their footsteps fading into the distance, Hermione’s own feet pounded softly against the cold stone steps as she climbed upward, the sounds of pursuit fading behind her.
The staircase twisted and turned, seeming to climb forever, taking her up, up, up—until she emerged, breathless, on the fifth floor, far beyond the reach of her tormentors. She leaned against the wall, heart racing, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. The thrill of outwitting them, of using the castle’s own secrets to her advantage, was a heady rush.
This was how she had been evading their petty revenge, after Hermione had put an end to her submission to them. With Tom’s guidance, every hidden passageway, every secret door was hers to command. And if the Slytherins thought they could bully her into submission, they were sorely mistaken.
Even with the satisfaction of besting her tormentors, Hermione was feeling the strain of her double life. Between the demands of her classes and her late-night studies of Dark Magic, the days seemed to blur into each other. She spent hours pouring over the tomes Professor Quirrell had lent her— Dark Arts: A Study of Their Origins and Mastery of the Dark Forces —as well as the textbooks that Tom had so eagerly recommended. They were dense, challenging texts, but Hermione devoured them hungrily. She could feel herself growing stronger, her magic sharper, her hexes more precise.
The air in the dungeons was thick with the scent of damp stone, and the echoes of laughter—sharp and cruel—bounced off the ancient walls as the first-year Slytherins prowled through the corridors. At the head of the pack, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson strutted with an air of confidence, their voices carrying through the cold, empty halls. Their robes swished behind them like the tails of hunting cats, their eyes gleaming with the promise of retribution.
“We’ll teach that Mudblood to know her place,” Pansy hissed, her voice dripping with malice. Draco smirked in agreement, his pale face flushed with the thrill of the chase. The group tightened their grip on their wands, ready to unleash whatever curses they had been practicing under the cover of darkness. The dungeon was their domain, and they were not about to let a Muggle-born upstart make a fool of them.
The wind howled through the barred windows, rattling the iron frames and sending a chill that bit through their robes. It was the kind of cold that settled into the bones, but it did nothing to deter their purpose. Millicent Bulstrode, scowling and still nursing the effects of the hex Hermione had thrown at her, stomped along behind them. Her threat to dunk Hermione's head in a toilet had backfired spectacularly, and now, she was determined to exact her revenge.
But Hermione Granger was no easy prey.
Just as the Slytherins rounded a corner, they spotted her—a flash of wild hair disappearing down a side corridor. Draco’s eyes lit up, and he barked a triumphant laugh. “There she is! After her!” The pack surged forward, but as they reached the spot where they’d seen her, she was gone. Vanished, as if she’d melted into the shadows themselves.
Draco cursed under his breath. “Spread out! She couldn’t have gotten far!”
But what they didn’t know was that Hermione had taken refuge in one of Hogwarts’ many secrets—a narrow trapdoor hidden behind a tapestry. It led to a spiraling staircase, a secret that Tom had revealed to her only days before. As the Slytherins fanned out, their footsteps fading into the distance, Hermione’s own feet pounded softly against the cold stone steps as she climbed upward, the sounds of pursuit fading behind her.
The staircase twisted and turned, seeming to climb forever, taking her up, up, up—until she emerged, breathless, on the fifth floor, far beyond the reach of her tormentors. She leaned against the wall, heart racing, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. The thrill of outwitting them, of using the castle’s own secrets to her advantage, was a heady rush.
This was how she had been evading their petty revenge attempts all term. With Tom’s guidance, every hidden passageway, every secret door was hers to command. And if the Slytherins thought they could bully her into submission, they were sorely mistaken.
Even with the satisfaction of besting her bullies, Hermione was feeling the strain of her double life. Between the demands of her classes and her late-night studies of Dark Magic, the days seemed to blur into each other. She spent hours pouring over the tomes Professor Quirrell had lent her— Dark Arts: A Study of Their Origins and Mastery of the Dark Forces —as well as the Durmstrang Dark Magic coursebooks that Tom had so eagerly recommended. They were dense, challenging texts, but Hermione devoured them hungrily. She could feel herself growing stronger, her magic sharper, her hexes more precise.
But with that power came a creeping sense of darkness, a shadow that seemed to linger at the edges of her thoughts. Every spell, every curse she learned only made her hungrier for more. Tom’s influence was undeniable, his words of praise addictive. He encouraged her ambition, her defiance, her thirst for knowledge, even as he pushed her to delve deeper into the forbidden arts.
Tonight, after another close call with Draco and his gang, she found herself once again scribbling furiously into the enchanted diary.
Tom, she wrote, her quill scratching against the yellowed pages, I’ve been thinking about a potion. Something to turn one of Malfoy’s cronies to my side. Goyle is thick as a brick but strong. I need him on my side, or at least… compliant.
The ink shimmered, sank into the page, and after a long, breathless moment, Tom’s elegant script appeared, as if written by an invisible hand.
Oh, Hermione, he responded, his words dripping with admiration, what a brilliantly cunning idea. You remind me of myself at your age, always thinking two steps ahead. There’s a potion that comes to mind, one that could be perfect for your needs—Gregory’s Unctuous Unction.
Hermione frowned, intrigued. What does it do?
It was invented by Gregory the Smarmy, Tom wrote, a potion designed to make the drinker grow fond of the brewer, to the point of unwavering loyalty, for a whole day. Imagine it, Hermione. Goyle, your obedient servant, ready to do your bidding without question. All you need is a bit of the potion slipped into his pumpkin juice… and he’s yours.
Hermione’s pulse quickened. A mind-altering potion to turn the tide in her favor—it was exactly the kind of solution she had been looking for. The idea of having a loyal henchman in Slytherin sent a thrill down her spine. With Goyle under her influence, she could further dismantle Draco’s little empire from within.
The abandoned dungeon classroom was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting a warm, orange glow over the ancient stone walls. Hermione stood at one of the many workbenches, her cauldron bubbling gently before her. The air was thick with the scent of powdered moonstone and crushed peppermint, a sharp yet soothing aroma that tickled her nose. This was the third day of brewing Gregory's Unctuous Unction, and Hermione could feel the pressure mounting. The potion was notoriously difficult, requiring perfect timing and delicate handling of volatile ingredients.
She leaned over her potions textbook, her eyes scanning the fine print. Add a single drop of dragon bile and stir counterclockwise seven times. The instructions seemed simple enough, but the potion had to turn a precise shade of pale lavender—too dark, and it would cause nausea instead of affection; too light, and it would wear off in mere hours.
Hermione carefully measured out the dragon bile, her hands steady, though her heart raced with the thrill of it. She tilted the vial over the cauldron, watching as the viscous, dark liquid dripped into the bubbling brew. One drop... two... she held her breath... three...
She quickly snatched her hand away, snatching up her wand to give the potion seven slow, counterclockwise stirs. The potion swirled and thickened, and for a terrifying moment, she thought it had turned a sickly green. But then, like a breath held and finally released, it shifted into a perfect lavender hue, emitting a faint shimmer under the torchlight.
A smile of triumph spread across her face. It had taken her days to perfect, but it was finally done. She scooped a small sample into a vial, sealing it with a cork. Now all that was left was to get it into Goyle’s goblet without raising suspicion.
That day, the Great Hall was bustling with the clamor of students, the long house tables laden with platters of food and goblets of pumpkin juice. Hermione sat with Tracey Davis, who was chatting animatedly about one of Pansy's recent escapades, though Hermione barely listened. Her eyes darted around, searching for the right moment. Goyle, as usual, was seated beside Draco, shoveling food into his mouth without much thought.
Tracey gave a high-pitched giggle at one of Pansy's jokes, then, as if by accident, knocked over her goblet. “Oh no!” she squealed, drawing everyone's attention as she clumsily switched Goyle’s goblet with the one she’d been holding. It was so smoothly done that even Hermione had to admire Tracey's subtlety.
Goyle, none the wiser, lifted the switched goblet to his lips and took a deep gulp. Hermione watched, her heart thudding in her chest, but outwardly, she remained calm, even disinterested.
A few moments passed, and nothing seemed different. Goyle continued eating as if nothing had changed. But then, slowly, he turned his gaze to Hermione, his usual dull expression softening. He gave her a lopsided grin.
Hermione smiled back.
The next few days passed in a blur of classes, and as always, Hermione excelled. In Charms, she executed the Colour-Changing Charm with flawless precision, her wand movements fluid and controlled.
Meanwhile, poor Goyle struggled. Even after Professor Flitwick had gone over the spell twice, his wand flicks were clumsy, and his incantation barely more than a mumble. Hermione could see the frustration etched on his face as he failed, yet again, to turn his feather into solid stone. Malfoy sneered at him, muttering something under his breath that sent Crabbe - who was only doing marginally better - into fits of laughter.
Hermione seized the moment. As the class was dismissed, she leaned over and whispered, “You know, Goyle, you’re just focusing too hard. The Colour-Changing Charm requires intent but also a certain... flexibility. I could help you with it, if you’d like.”
Goyle blinked at her, clearly confused, but there was a spark of trust in his eyes. “Er... yeah, sure... thanks,” he muttered, glancing nervously at Malfoy, who was glaring daggers at him.
“Meet me in ten minutes” Hermione whispered quickly. “Two doors to the left of the Hogwarts Library entrance. I’ll tutor you on this and anything else you’re struggling with.” Goyle nodded, though he looked utterly lost.
“Do you... know where the library is?” she asked, barely able to suppress a sigh.
“Er... not really,” Goyle admitted, looking sheepish.
“Second floor, right wing. You can’t miss it,” she instructed slowly, stopping herself from rolling her eyes as she gathered her stray parchments.
The classroom that she’d picked out was empty, the lingering scent of old chalk and ink hanging in the air. Hermione had arrived early, as usual, her books and notes meticulously arranged before her. The late afternoon sun streamed through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. She drummed her fingers on the desk, her eyes flicking to the door every few seconds.
Then, at last, it creaked open, and Goyle lumbered in, looking even more clueless than usual. But when his eyes fell on her, they softened, that dopey grin spreading across his face.
“Hermione... uh, I’m here,” he mumbled, almost bashfully.
“Good,” she replied, a smile curving her lips as she gestured for him to sit. “We have a lot to cover. Let’s start with the Hardening Charm, shall we?”
She watched as he settled clumsily into a chair, pulling out his wand with an awkward flourish. As she began to walk him through the incantation, guiding him through the theory behind the spell, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction.
Goyle was hers for now, under her influence, and it was all thanks to the potion she had so skillfully brewed. It was a dangerous game she was playing, but the thrill of it was intoxicating. As she watched him attempt the charm once more, the spark of hope in his eyes as he finally succeeded, she knew she had made her first successful move in the Slytherin game of power.
And she had every intention of winning.