The Crash-Landing

The end of the winter break had creeped upon Hermione before she’d even known it, much to her dismay. She loved magic, of course, and a part of her always yearned to return to the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, but these two weeks at home had been more of a relief than she had anticipated. It had been a blessed reprieve from the constant sneers and whispered slurs that awaited her in the shadowy corridors of Slytherin House, where she was the Muggle-born interloper surrounded by pureblood supremacists and those too weak to say anything against their rhetoric. Here, within the comfortable walls of her home, she was just Hermione Granger, beloved daughter and diligent student, free from all the various pressures and prejudices of the magical world.

But now, on the morning of her departure, she was yanked out of her warm cocoon of lily-white blankets by the shrill blaring of her alarm clock. The harsh, metallic sound felt like a rude intrusion, shattering the cosy silence of her bedroom. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she slapped the alarm into submission, groaning as she realised how late it was. A quick glance at the digital numbers confirmed her worst fears: she had overslept.

In a frenzy, Hermione threw herself out of bed, her feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with a shock that jolted her fully awake. Her room, usually a well-organised sanctuary, was now a chaotic mess of half-packed belongings. Her school robes lay crumpled on her desk chair, textbooks were scattered like fallen leaves across her bed, and her trunk was almost bursting full, even though her packing was not yet fully finished.

She hurriedly rushed through the mess of clothes strewn around, throwing them towards her trunk with desperate urgency, a tangle of scarves and mismatched mittens flying across her handsome and large bedroom. With a shrill squeak of frustration, Hermione began squeezing everything into the trunk with all the force that she could muster up; thankfully, she succeeded.

The air was filled with the scent of fresh linen from her newly washed robes mingling with the faint aroma of coffee drifting up from downstairs, where her mother was likely already up and bustling about. The contrast was a comforting reminder of home, one that made her chest tighten as she realised how much she would miss it. Hogwarts was an exciting adventure, yes, but it came with its own set of trials, particularly for someone like her in Slytherin House.

Hermione paused for a moment, her eyes falling on the small black leather-bound diary on her nightstand. Tom’s diary. What had begun as a curious experiment—a way to learn from the mysterious boy whose words appeared on its pages—had turned into something she hadn’t expected. A strange sort of friendship, if it could even be called that. Tom was clever, witty, and always eager to share knowledge, but he was also a puzzle, a riddle that she couldn’t quite solve. There was something so very deeply lonely about him, something that tugged at her heart even as she reminded herself to be cautious.

Shaking off the temptation to write a quick message to him before leaving, she snapped the diary shut and tucked it into the depths of her trunk. There would be plenty of time to talk to him on the train. For now, she had a train to catch and parents to say goodbye to.

“Hermione! Breakfast is ready!” Her father’s voice rang up from downstairs, cheerful and bright. The last breakfast before another long term at Hogwarts. Hermione took a deep breath, savouring the somewhat familiar scent of her father’s pancakes, the comforting notes of maple syrup and melted butter.

Downstairs, the dining room was flooded with the pale winter light streaming through the large windows, bouncing off the sleek glass table and illuminating the minimalist decor of the room. Mum was already seated, sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper, while Dad flipped a pancake with a practised flick of her wrist.

“Morning, darling,” Mum said with a warm smile, peering over the top of her paper. “Ready for another term of witchcraft and wizardry?” Her voice had become strangled a bit at the end, clearly loath to say the words, but her smile never dropped.

Hermione forced a smile, though her stomach felt like it was tying itself into knots. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Dad set a plate of golden pancakes in front of her, and Hermione ate quickly, trying to keep her nervousness at bay. The rich taste of butter and syrup was a small comfort, but it couldn’t quite erase the sinking feeling of dread as she thought about returning to the cold stone walls of Hogwarts. And more specifically, to the snake-emblazoned common room where she was anything but welcome.

They talked about mundane things, her parents asking questions about her studies and whether she needed any more quills or parchment, trying to pretend that everything was perfectly normal. Hermione appreciated their efforts, but she could see the worry in their eyes, the unspoken fears they harboured about the world she was so eager to be part of. It was a relief, in a way, when it was finally time to leave.

King’s Cross Station was a blur of noise and movement as they arrived, the cacophony of Muggle life a stark contrast to the hidden world of magic that lay just beyond the brick barrier. Hermione’s heart gave a little leap as she watched a wizarding family pass through the barrier between platforms nine and ten, disappearing in a flash. It was always a bit thrilling, that moment when the world seemed to split open to reveal the secrets hidden beneath.

Her parents hugged her tightly, her mother’s perfume—the lotus flower scent both floral and zesty—clinging to Hermione as she whispered, “Take care, sweetheart. Write to us, won’t you?”

“Of course I will!” assured Hermione, tightly hugging Mum back.

And then, with a deep breath, she was off, pushing her trolley toward the barrier. She closed her eyes as she rushed forward, feeling the familiar jolt of magic as she was transported from the noisy Muggle station to the bustling chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The scarlet steam engine of the Hogwarts Express stood waiting, hissing clouds of white steam into the crisp January air, and the platform was filled with students and their families, laughter and farewells echoing all around.

She managed to find an empty compartment near the back of the train, dragging her trunk inside and collapsing onto the worn leather seat with a sigh. The Hogwarts Express began to move, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks a soothing, familiar sound. The landscape outside the window blurred into a patchwork of grey skies and snow-covered fields, and Hermione felt a pang of longing for the warmth of her home.

With a furtive glance around to make sure she was alone, she pulled out Tom’s diary from her bag, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened it to the first blank page:

Hello, Tom

Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.

Hermione smiled despite herself, feeling a warmth spread through her at the sight of his elegant script. The train rocked gently as she dipped her quill in ink and began to write her response:

Never. Just had to have one last breakfast with my parents. It’s always strange, leaving them behind.

Tom’s reply came swiftly, the words appearing on the page in that same fluid, confident hand. You must be glad to be going back to Hogwarts, then? I know I myself practically jumped with joy whenever the summer holidays were over, and I simply never left for the winter ones.

Hermione hesitated, the quill hovering above the page. Yes, well, it’s good to be back. Though Slytherin House isn’t exactly… welcoming. Not if you don’t fit their standards.

The admission slipped out before she could stop herself. Hermione bit her lip, wondering if Tom would notice, if he would pry deeper.

You surprise me, Pansy. You, of all people, ought to fit right in. But perhaps that’s what makes you different… perhaps that’s why you intrigue me. And why you need to 

Hermione swallowed, her fingers tightening around the quill. The train sped onward as she wrote:

It’s different for you, Tom, she wrote slowly, in her small, neat script. You’re a boy. Girls are entirely different.

How so?

It’s always about social games, and power plays with them. All a boy can do is beat you up, and then he’ll probably get bored once you stop crying so much—but a girl? A girl will prod and poke at you endlessly, until they’ve found all your weak spots. And once they do…

The black ink glowed slightly, before vanishing. Then, Tom’s own writing began to blossom in his slanted script:

What are your weak spots, exactly? wrote Tom, his concern almost palpable.

Hermione sighed. Well, I’ve told you, Tom—I’m a know-it-all. Nobody likes me. The girls—they mock me whenever I’m reading, or quietly giggle whenever I’m answering a question. One time, I even walked in on them doing impressions of me, bouncing up and down whilst squeaking something like ‘oh, pick me, pick me, professor!’ I don’t even say that sort of stuff all that often—and even if I do, why is it so bad that I want to earn House points for Slytherin?

I don’t know, Pansy, responded Tom, ink spreading a bit more slowly as he deliberated. I was a Muggle-born in Slytherin, so I was bullied very heavily too, but whenever the girls tried to join in, I always found their insults rather puerile. It was my tormentors who hexed me and such that made my life the worst—until I had taught them all some much-needed lessons, of course.

Hermione couldn’t help but scoff.

Obviously their insults didn’t hurt you, Tom. You’re perfect. Some of them may have fancied you a bit, even.

I doubt that very much so, Pansy. And I’m not quite perfect.

Hmm….brilliant, charming, beautiful—what a horrid set of traits to have, wrote Hermione, her eyes rolling. I don’t even know how you got up everyday, really.

A blot of ink bubbled up, before dissolving once again. But, after a few moments:

Do you know why I hated the holidays so much, Pansy?

Hermione’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. Why, Tom? You loved to study magic, beyond anything else?

Partially, granted Tom. But also because I never had any family to return to.

Hermione's quill hovered over the page, her eyes scanning the last sentence as if it were written in a foreign language. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to write back. She’d always sensed that there was something guarded, something carefully concealed behind Tom’s confident words and sharp intellect. But to see this sudden confession laid bare before her…

I didn’t know that, Tom. I’m so sorry. I’ve taken my family for granted, haven’t I? Even when they don’t understand mag me, they’re always there for me.

There was a pause, as if Tom was weighing his response, deciding how much more to reveal. Hermione held her breath, the train's rhythmic clatter suddenly loud in her ears, like a drumbeat underscoring the tension between them.

It’s not something I talk about, really. But I suppose I feel… safe, telling you. You, at least, seem to understand what it’s like to be surrounded by people who don’t truly see you. I grew up in a Muggle orphanage, you know. Wool’s Orphanage in London. It was a dreadful place, filled with cruel children who mocked me for being different, for doing things I couldn’t quite control back then. Magic, wild and untrained, would slip out of me in fits of anger or fear. And the caretakers... they were no better than the children.

The words appeared slowly, as though each one was being pulled from a deep well of memory, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, pouring out his darkest secrets to her, trusting her in a way that was both touching and troubling, while she was hiding behind a lie, pretending to be someone she was not.

Her heart pounded as she dipped her quill back into the ink.

I can’t even imagine, Tom. It sounds… awful. But you turned out so strong, didn’t you? You’re brilliant and confident. You’ve done things I can only dream of.

There was a long pause, the ink blotting slightly where Tom’s words should have been. Hermione leaned back, the leather of the train seat cool against her spine. She stared out the window, where snow-dusted hills rolled past, under a grey, overcast sky. The warmth of the compartment felt suddenly stifling, as if Tom’s revelations had filled the air with something heavy, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

When the words reappeared, they were darker, more deliberate.

I had to be strong. There was no one to protect me, no one to lean on. The other children would taunt me, call me a freak. But I learned to fight back, to make them fear me instead. Fear is a powerful thing, Pansy. It makes people listen, makes them obey. I suppose that’s one lesson I’m grateful to that place for.

Hermione shivered, not from the cold but from the intensity that seemed to burn from the inked letters on the page. Fear. She knew all too well the power of fear, the way it could be used to control, to isolate. It was the very thing that kept her on edge in the dungeons of Slytherin House, after all.

At Hogwarts, he continued, his script sprawling even further, it was no different. I wasn’t bullied for being magical, of course—no, I was instead tormented for being born to non-magicals. When I tried to argue that I was an orphan, that there was no true way of verifying my bloodline, they mocked me even further. But I didn’t let their words affect me, Pansy. Instead, I worked as hard as I could on magic—you should do similarly, I believe.

Hermione’s hands trembled as she read those words. Am I not already? What have I been doing, if not studying magic as hard as I could?

The ink swirled on the page, as though Tom was considering how best to respond.

You’re right, I suppose, he wrote slowly, in a blatant attempt of comfort. You’ve read the book I told you of, on the Epicurus Breakthrough, haven’t you?

Of course! responded Hermione brightly, although a lump had formed in her throat. Was Tom speaking the truth? Was she not pushing herself hard enough? I found the section on the natural ‘urge’ of all objects, and how untransfiguration reveals the basis upon which all ‘cloaking’ urges are laid upon—the fundamental difference between transfiguration and alchemy, actually…

And so, their conversation on magical theory continued, Hermione gasping and giggling whenever Tom sprinkled in his insightful analyses and hilarious jokes. The winter landscape blurred by, but Hermione barely noticed, lost as she was in a conversation with a boy who seemed to know far too much, yet somehow, not nearly enough.

----

Back at Hogwarts, the cold January wind swept through the stone corridors of the castle, rattling the windows and sending a chill that even the roaring fires of the common rooms couldn’t fully dispel. Hermione walked through the dungeons, her Slytherin robes billowing behind her, the dim torchlight casting flickering shadows across her determined face. She had returned to Hogwarts with a heavier heart than she cared to admit, and the moment her feet crossed the threshold of the castle, the pit in her stomach had only deepened.

The first week back was as miserable as ever. The Slytherins were quick to fall back into their old habits: snide remarks, whispered jinxes, and cruel laughter that followed her like a malevolent spectre. But this term, Hermione was prepared. For every hexed they hurled at her, she threw three right back; many times, much nastier ones, at that. Slowly, the Slytherins began to grow wary of her—but some just grew even more aggressive in their attacks.

Tom had introduced her to spells she had never seen in any of her textbooks—spells that existed in the shadowy margins of magical knowledge, spoken of in hushed tones and feared by even the most accomplished wizards. Dark Magic. At first, it was simply academic curiosity, a desire to understand the forbidden arts that had always intrigued her from a safe distance. But Tom was a persuasive teacher. His responses always dripped with charm, the way he spun words like silk, explaining complex theories with ease, all while encouraging her to explore magic beyond the boundaries set by those who feared it.

Some bits of magic he tried to push onto her, Hermione was adamant about never performing; one such example was the Blood Aegis, a protection ritual that conferred a magical resistance around the ‘homeplace’ it was performed upon—thus, if she chose to perform it upon an object she was in frequently, it would help weaken or even fully counter the many hexes and jinxes her Housemates threw at her whilst in that sanctuary. Of course, it would take quite a few days to complete it, but that wasn’t Hermione’s main worry; the protection drew its power from blood—both spilled from the ritualist, and from one they considered an enemy. And, if that hadn’t been terrible enough, then the ritual’s requirement for a constant supply had ruled it out entirely for Hermione. 

But others…others, Tom was able to convince Hermione that they weren’t too Dark. 

And so, late at night, when the Slytherin common room was empty and her roommates’ breathing had settled into the slow rhythm of sleep, Hermione would creep out to an abandoned classroom. The old stone room was dusty and filled with broken desks, but it was private, and more importantly, it was hers. The door was charmed to lock behind her with a hiss, and the only light came from the candles she had enchanted to burn blue.

She knelt on the cold, uneven floor, the ratty diary open before her. Tom’s elegant handwriting glowed in the dim light.

Tonight, I want you to try something different. It’s time to take your studies beyond simple incantations and theory. We’re going to practise Dark Animation. You’ll need something living—a mouse or a rat will do. You will be animating it, bending it to your will. This will teach you the principles of control required for the Locomotion Charm.

Hermione’s hands shook slightly as she read the instructions. She had known this was coming. Tom had been hinting for days that she needed to move from theory to practice. But the idea of taking control over another living thing, of overriding its will, made her skin crawl. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply. This was for the sake of learning. It was all just practice, a way to hone her skills. She’d never do this to another human.

But isn’t the Locomotion Charm quite different? Hermione nevertheless wrote back, her handwriting jagged from her hand’s twitching. With that, your ideal fire is imbued within the object of your choosing. This…this is overcoming another being’s already-existing fire with a part of your own, isn’t it?

And so it is even more difficult. All the better to prepare you with. Don’t feel guilty, Pansy—next year, you’ll be transfiguring animals into objects. Having someone puppet you and being turned into a teapot aren’t all that different, are they?

The diary dropped with a soft thud, bits of dust flying. And then, from a small wooden box, she pulled out a brown field mouse she had caught near the greenhouses. It squeaked in panic as she set it on the floor, its tiny body quivering. Hermione let out a low moan, almost as fearful as the mouse.

Still, she raised her wand, her voice steady. “Imperium Anima!”

The mouse stiffened, its dark eyes going blank. It stood perfectly still, awaiting her next command. A rush of exhilaration filled Hermione as she realised she had done it. She had taken over a living creature’s will. Her heart raced, a strange, almost giddy feeling bubbling up inside her. But then, the reality of what she was doing hit her like a cold slap to the face. She was controlling a living being, forcing it to move and act against its own instincts. The mouse was no longer its own master—it was hers alone.

For a brief moment, she faltered. The mouse twitched, a flicker of its own consciousness breaking through. But Hermione clenched her teeth, her grip tightening on her wand. “Walk,” she commanded, her voice sharper this time. The mouse began to move, its limbs jerking awkwardly, as though it were a puppet on invisible strings.

Hermione’s heart pounded harder. She could feel something shifting inside her, a dark pleasure that spread like wildfire. There was power in this, a sense of control she had never felt before. She was no longer the girl who cowered under the insults of the Slytherin girls, who felt small and insignificant in the shadow of their cruelty. Here, in this moment, she was in command. She had power over life itself.

A soft smile spread its way across her face; the spell was feeding off her emotions, drawing from her frustration, her anger, her desire to prove herself. It was intoxicating, like a fire that burned hotter the more she fed it. All the worries she had disappeared, consumed by pure bliss.

But, then, her eyes fell upon the mouse once again. It was now walking in circles, following her newest command. But its whiskers twitched all the while; there were moments a flash of fear would appear within its eyes, and it would squeak, before her will overcame it once again.

The mouse’s tiny legs began to buckle, its movements growing erratic as Hermione’s concentration wavered, stricken. 

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice cracking. The mouse fell limp, collapsing in a heap, its sides heaving with rapid breaths. Then, it fled, squeaking and wriggling its way through the gap under the closed door.

Her wand clattered to the stone floor, horror washing over her. What had she done? What was she becoming?

I did it, Tom, wrote Hermione faintly, feeling as if she were seconds from retching. I can’t believe I did that, Tom. 

The diary seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy as new words appeared, quick and decisive.

Well done. You see now, don’t you? The world bends to those who are willing to take what they want. Don’t be afraid of what you felt, Pansy. That feeling, that power—it’s the key to everything. Use it, harness it, and no one will ever hurt you again.

Hermione slammed the diary shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She felt sick, her stomach churning with a mix of triumph and revulsion. Tom was right—there was a power in the Dark Arts that was unlike anything she had ever experienced. But it came at a cost, a cost she wasn’t sure she was willing to pay.

She stumbled back, knocking over one of the chairs, the noise echoing in the empty room. The candles flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for her, like dark fingers eager to pull her in deeper. And yet, the darkness whispered to her, promising strength, promising revenge against those who had hurt her. The line between right and wrong, between who she was and who Tom was encouraging her to become, blurred a little more each night she spent practising these sorts of spells.

As she gathered her things and left the room, the weight of what she had done pressed down on her like a physical force. The corridors were silent as she walked back to the Slytherin dormitory, the shadows deepening around her. But even in the darkness, she could still see Tom’s writing, echoing in her mind, urging her to embrace the power she had unlocked.

--

Hermione’s return to classes after the winter break was marked by a renewed focus and determination. If her peers had thought she was a know-it-all before, they hadn’t seen anything yet. The Slytherins sneered and whispered, but Hermione had hardened herself to their cruelty. She had other things to focus on now, a secret world of knowledge far beyond what their taunts could reach.

In Charms class, Professor Flitwick was introducing the Locomotion Charm, a spell that allowed the caster to make objects move and float through the air under their control. The classroom buzzed with excitement as Flitwick demonstrated, sending his own feathered hat into a graceful waltz around the room.

“Locomotor!” he called out, his tiny wand flicking with effortless precision.

Hermione felt a thrill of anticipation. She had been practising something far more difficult with Tom’s guidance: Dark Animation, which was essentially the same as the Locomotion Charm but with the added complexity of overpowering a living being’s will. Making an inanimate object move would be child’s play in comparison.

“Your turn!” Flitwick squeaked, bouncing on his toes as he gestured for the students to try.

Hermione pointed her wand at a stack of parchment and spoke clearly, “Locomotor parchment!” The sheets rose smoothly into the air, beginning to fly in a complex aerial dance, moving with such fluidity that Flitwick clapped his hands together in delight.

“Excellent work, Miss Granger! 10 points to Slytherin!”

She could feel the envious glares from the other Slytherins, particularly from Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode, who had to try three or four times before their objects even twitched. Malfoy’s feather hovered but wobbled uncertainly, his narrowed eyes flickering towards Hermione’s parchments, which were moving in precise arcs like a well-rehearsed troupe of dancers. If controlling a living creature had been a rush, this was a satisfaction of a different sort—pure, unadulterated competence.

In Transfiguration, the assignment was to transform a wooden matchstick into a gleaming silver needle. Professor McGonagall’s stern voice echoed in the background as she supervised the students, her hawk-like gaze catching every mistake.

Hermione had read ahead, of course. She was attempting to use the General Transfiguration Process—a method that could theoretically transform any object into another by manipulating its base properties—rather than just the specific spell for this transformation. She had to go through each of the steps: ‘breaking’ down the essential properties of the matchstick (such as its woodenness or flammability), strategically replacing those traits with those of the metal needle , all while maintaining a constant mental bridge between the ever-changing present state and the ideal of the metal needle. It was slow work, her forehead furrowed in concentration, but by the end of the lesson, she had a perfect needle, gleaming in the torchlight.

“Very good, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said with a tight smile, giving her a brisk nod of approval. “Ahead of the curriculum as usual.”

Hermione beamed back, ignoring the scoffs from her classmates. No one else had even managed a halfway decent needle by the time class was over, which meant she was still miles ahead, even if the activity had taken her the entire period.

Tom, she knew, would’ve likely accomplished the same with a simple flick of his wand.

The one class that continued to be her nemesis, however, was Flying. Hermione was no natural on a broomstick. The moment she kicked off from the ground, her legs wobbled, her grip tightened until her knuckles turned white, and all she could think of was the unforgiving ground below. While her classmates zoomed around like birds of prey, Hermione could barely manage to stay upright.

The old school broom she was assigned was particularly awful: it had a crooked handle, its bristles were ragged, and it shuddered alarmingly every time she tried to rise more than a few feet. The Slytherins’ mocking laughter followed her through every class, with Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode whispering insults behind their hands, occasionally sending tiny hexes her way to make her broom buck wildly.

By the end of another humiliating Flying lesson, Madam Hooch pulled her and Neville Longbottom aside—causing the Slytherins to giggle even harder.

“Listen, you two,” Madam Hooch said, her voice not unkind but firm as she fixed them with her yellow, hawkish eyes . “I can’t let either of you fall behind like this. You must pass Flying in order to complete your first year. I’m arranging extra sessions for both of you, and I’m considering bringing in a student tutor.”

Hermione’s heart sank. Extra flying lessons with a tutor meant more opportunities for the Slytherins to mock her. Neville, standing beside her, turned a delicate shade of green. “Oh no,” he moaned. “I can’t do it. I’m terrible at flying. And I’m failing Transfiguration and Potions too—I’m practically a Squib!”

“A Squib?” Hermione asked, puzzled.

“Someone born into a wizarding family who can’t do magic,” Neville explained, his eyes downcast. “That’s what my family thinks of me.”

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy. She knew what it was like to feel like you didn’t belong, even if for different reasons. “You’re not a Squib, Neville. You just need a bit of practice,” she said decisively. “Why don’t you join me for some tutoring sessions? I’ve been helping Goyle with Transfiguration. He’s not exactly... gifted in that area either.”

Neville looked sceptical, but agreed. “Thanks. I suppose it’s worth a try,” he mumbled, though he looked unconvinced. “Just…make sure he doesn’t pounce on me again. I spent a day in the Hospital Wing the last time...”

“From what I heard,” said Hermione loftily, “it had actually been you to start that particular fight.”

“Well, y-you aren’t exactly innocent either,” he squeaked in defence. “I didn’t beat Malfoy bloody in the Great Hall.”

Hermione pursed her lips; Neville went quiet.

The tutoring sessions, however, did not go as smoothly as Hermione had hoped. When she arrived at their usual spot in the library, Goyle was not alone. He had brought Crabbe with him, the two of them looking like hulking trolls who had somehow wandered into the school. Hermione’s eyes widened, but Goyle just shrugged.

“He’s struggling with Transfiguration too,” Goyle grunted. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone.”

Hermione didn’t trust them, but she was determined to help. Neville was visibly uncomfortable, shooting her anxious looks as Crabbe and Goyle sat down, their expressions bored but expectant. She drew out the lesson plan Tom had helped her put together, grateful for his advice to keep things simple and clear.

“Alright,” she said briskly, clapping her hands. “We’re going to focus on the basics of Transfiguration, starting with the theory behind restructuring…”

But tutoring three students at once proved to be a challenge, even for her. Crabbe and Goyle were slow to catch on, needing the simplest concepts explained multiple times. Neville was nervous and kept second-guessing himself, his wand trembling in his hand.

“No, Neville, focus on the incantation’s precision,” Hermione said for what felt like the hundredth time. “And Crabbe, you’re supposed to have a desired end goal for your object, not just wave your wand around like you’re trying to swat a fly!”

Crabbe grunted something unintelligible but made another attempt, his matchstick turning into a vaguely metallic blob. Neville managed to transfigure his into a half-formed needle that quickly turned back into wood, but it was progress.

By the end of the session, Hermione was exhausted, her patience stretched thin, but she had managed to get them all to at least understand the theory. As they packed up their books, Goyle gave her a gruff nod.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I don’t get this stuff on my own.”

Neville still looked wary of two other boys but gave Hermione a grateful smile. “I think I actually understand it a bit better now. Maybe I won’t fail, after all—or just fail less…”

“Don’t put yourself down so much, Neville,” said Hermione in a firm voice, clapping the boy on his shoulder. “You know, my grandmother used to know someone exactly like that. Do you know what happened to her?”

“W-what?” asked Neville fearfully, his pale blue eyes wide.

“Well,” began Hermione primly, “rather a lot of bad things. She married this horribly abusive man, and when he threw her out on the streets, her supposed friends pushed her into taking some really bad drugs. And then she got addicted, became a prostitute, and got killed by one of her clients—someone else my grandmother knew, actually. Do you want a life like that, Neville? Do you?”

“I don’t think I’ll become a…a..” he trailed off uncomfortably, shifting in place.

Hermione shrugged, slinging in her own school bag over her shoulder. “She didn’t either, I bet.”

“I really don’t think so, though…”

“If your Potions marks don’t budge, you just might have to,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. Neville’s face crumpled, and after a moment, Hermione realised how awfully rude that had been, rushing to apologise.

When she finally made her way back to the Slytherin common room, the dungeon corridors dark and echoing around her, Hermione pulled out Tom’s diary once more.

How did the tutoring session go, Pansy?

Hermione sighed, her fingers cramping as she wrote back.

Exhausting. But I think I’m getting through to them, even if Crabbe is as thick as a troll. It’s difficult balancing everything.

You’re doing remarkably well, Tom wrote with his typical exquisite penmanship,the slanted scriptcurling upwards at the ends. You’re more capable than you realise. Remember, even the greatest wizards faced obstacles they had to overcome.

She smiled despite herself. 

Soon enough, Hermione was entering her dormitory, pushing the door open with slight hesitance. The dimly lit room smelled faintly of the dampness that seeped into the dungeons, mixed with the scent of the various perfumes and potions the girls kept on their dressers.

The laughter hit her like a wall as she stepped inside. The room was filled with the giggling of her dormmates, clustered together in a tight-knit group. Pansy Parkinson was at the center of it all, straddling her bed frame as if it were a broomstick, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She was mimicking the way Madam Hooch held her broom, leaning forward with an exaggerated, haughty expression.

“Look at me, everyone!” Pansy cried, her voice high-pitched and mocking. “I’m Hermione Granger, the flying disaster! Oh, Madam Hooch, please, notice how I can barely stay on my broom!”

The laughter intensified, filling the room with a cacophony that seemed to bounce off the cold stone walls. Hermione felt her cheeks burn with a mix of humiliation and anger. It wasn’t enough that she struggled in Flying class—now they had to make a spectacle of it too. Her heart sank further when Millicent Bulstrode, her bulky frame shaking with mirth, started bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

“Professor, pick me! Pick me!” Millicent squealed, waving her hand in the air dramatically. “I know the answer, Professor!”

The others howled with laughter, and some of the girls even clapped in delight. Tracey Davis was wiping false tears from her eyes, while Daphne was doubled over, holding her sides as if they might split from the force of her laughter. Hermione stood frozen in the doorway, the weight of their mockery pressing down on her like a physical force. She wanted to turn around and flee, but her feet refused to move.

“Look who’s here,” Pansy sneered, her gaze landing on Hermione with a predatory glint. “Come to give us another lesson on how to be perfect?” She hopped off the bed and sauntered over, her smirk widening. “Or are you just here to practise your crash landing?”

The others snickered, the sound like nails scraping against Hermione’s nerves. She tried to swallow down the hurt, but it sat in her throat, a hard lump she couldn’t quite dislodge.

“I don’t know why you all care so much about what I do,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Maybe if you spent half as much time studying as you do mocking me, you’d actually pass your exams.”

There was a brief, stunned silence. Then, Pansy's face twisted into a sneer. “Oh, listen to her, girls! She thinks she's so much better than us just because she’s a Mudblood swot who’s always sucking up to the professors!”

The word hung in the air like a curse, and Hermione felt as if she had been slapped. The laughter around her grew louder, more vicious, echoing in her ears. For a moment, the room seemed to blur, the faces around her merging into a sea of disdain and cruelty.

She clenched her jaw, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. Part of her wanted to lash out, to hex Pansy into silence, to make them all feel the sting of their own cruelty. The spells she had been practising with Tom whispered temptingly in her mind—she knew exactly how to make Pansy’s mouth snap shut, how to wipe that smug expression off her face.

But, remembering that shivering, squeaking mouse only two nights before…

“I pity you,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly, but still strong enough to carry over the laughter. “You waste so much time tearing others down because you can’t stand to see someone succeed where you fail.” She paused, giggling to herself. “And you know what? I do think I’m better than all of you—you especially.”

Pansy’s eyes flashed. “Oh, shut up, beaver!”

Hermione tilted her head. “You know, I’m not one to go after other people’s looks,” she began, distastefully flicking her eyes over Pansy’s form, “but this is just too rich. You look like a pug, Pansy! You even breathe like one too, a bit, honestly. I can be hopeful, at least, that I will one day fix my hair and teeth—but you?  It’s still a bit shocking whenever you open your fat mouth, and I remember—oh, yes, it can speak!”

There was a moment of silence in the dormitory, only filled by Hermione’s heaving, her face flushed. The girls laying upon the bed, surrounded by magazines and potions, were all looking at the scene with stupefaction. And Pansy -

SMACK!

Pansy’s hand flew, jerking Hermione’s head back. The latter squawked, and repeatedly blinked, shocked at the turn of events.

“You—I—you slapped me!” exclaimed Hermione, holding her reddened cheek, staring at Pansy in horror.

Pansy, blinking rapidly herself, slowly donned a grin. “I did, yeah. What are you going to do about it?”

In a flash, Hermione’s wand was out, and pointed straight at Pansy, who now trembled a bit, her eyes flickering to the other Slytherin girls. They remained on the bed, silently staring.

The reason why Hermione had felt so terrible after hurting that poor mouse was because it was an innocent, she realised. It had done no harm upon her—only she upon it. And yet…Pansy had done quite a lot of harm to Hermione, hadn’t she?

“You really shouldn’t have asked me that,” said Hermione delightedly, her wand beginning to slowly trace through the movements.

“HEY!” called Millicent Bulstrode, her nostrils flaring as she scrambled off the bed . “You can’t -!”

“Locomotor!” hissed Hermione, her eyes still tracked upon Pansy; the sheets and blankets upon the beds all leapt towards Millicent, cocooning her further and further until the only area left uncovered was her horrified face.

“Are there any other objections?” questioned Hermione. Daphne and Tracey glanced at each other before hurriedly shaking their heads.

“Now,” said Hermione lowly, tapping her wand on Pansy absentmindedly, “I’ve been having a spell I’ve been wanting to practise a bit more, you see…”

“Get away from me!” cried Pansy, lunging towards Hermione; but Hermione was faster, jumping back and aiming her wand at Pansy once more: 

“Imperium Anima!”

Pansy’s eyes widened, and she turned to Hermione, about to lunge for her again-

But she did not move.

----

The incident with Pansy Parkinson had changed everything. Word had spread like wildfire throughout Slytherin: Hermione Granger—Muggle-born, bookish, and once their favourite target—had hexed Pansy so severely that Madam Pomfrey had to keep her in the hospital wing for three days. The details were muddled in the retellings, and the rumours had exaggerated greatly, painting Hermione as a terrifying figure capable of dark curses far beyond their limited imaginations. Now, whenever she walked into the Slytherin common room, the laughter died, replaced by sharp whispers and hostile glares. The green flames in the hearth seemed to flicker with a new, ominous intensity, casting eerie shadows that danced across her peers' sneering faces.

And although they hated her more than ever, they could not exact their revenge. Tom’s instructions had been clear: she was never to let them corner her again. He had shown her hidden passageways behind tapestries, shortcuts through forgotten classrooms, even a concealed staircase that led from the dungeons straight up to the fourth floor. It felt like Hogwarts itself had opened up its secrets to her, its ancient walls and labyrinthine corridors offering protection from her enemies. She moved like a ghost now, flitting between classes with barely a sound, always a few steps behind a group of Ravenclaws or Gryffindors. The Slytherins might have been bold, but they weren’t foolish enough to launch an attack in front of witnesses.

But it wasn’t enough. The hatred simmered, growing hotter and hotter, and Hermione knew that sooner or later, they would find a way to strike at her again. Tom was her only lifeline. He urged her to become stronger, to prepare herself for whatever might come next:

Strength is the only language they understand, Pansy, he had written one night in his diary, the ink bleeding into the parchment with an almost menacing urgency. You must become untouchable. And if you cannot yet cast the Shield Charm, then you must find other means to protect yourself.

Tom had already told her of one of those ‘other means’—but the Blood Aegis seemed awfully Dark, even more so than any of the magic he’d introduced to her before. 

And so, Hermione threw herself into her studies of spellcasting with a fervour that bordered on obsession. The Shield Charm—Protego—was quite advanced, a fifth-year spell designed to block most hexes and jinxes. Thus, every time she attempted it, the spell fizzled out, the air shimmering weakly before dissolving into nothingness.

It requires intent, Tom explained, his words unfolding in the neat script she had come to find strangely comforting. You must truly want to be protected, to imagine the shield as an extension of your will.

Hermione frowned. Did Tom think she wanted to get attacked? 

Of course I’m summoning up intent, she scribbled back irritably.

In the absence of success with defensive magic, she turned to the offensive. Tom guided her through curses and hexes that sent shivers down her spine even as they thrilled her with their power. The sensation of magic coursing through her, dark and electric, was unlike anything she had ever felt in Charms or Transfiguration. It was as if she had unlocked a part of herself that had been waiting to be discovered, a deep reservoir of potential that only the Dark Arts could tap into.

Late at night, when the rest of the castle was asleep, she would sneak into unused classrooms or hidden alcoves, practising under the cover of darkness. The spells were difficult, requiring precision and a level of concentration that left her drained, but she relished the challenge. There was a particular thrill in the risk, the knowledge that she was doing something forbidden, something that would horrify her professors if they ever found out.

“Intent, Pansy,” Tom’s words admonished her late one evening as she furiously scribbled about her failures. “You lack the true will to protect yourself because you are not afraid enough. Perhaps, deep down, you believe you deserve their hatred.”

That cut deep, but Hermione couldn’t deny the truth of it. And so, she dove further into her studies, pushing aside the light spells in favour of the darker, more potent magic. The Durmstrang first-year coursebook, which she had once approached with hesitant curiosity, now seemed like child’s play. With Tom’s guidance and the occasional pass from Professor Quirrell into the Restricted Section, she delved into the forbidden tomes that lined those shadowed shelves.

Her classes became an arena where she could demonstrate her prowess. Professor Flitwick was practically breathless with admiration when she proved her mastery of the Locomotion Charm even further, choreographing an intricate dance that half of the books and desks in the class joined in on, twirling and side-stepping with shockingly natural movements. The other students were still fumbling with their wandwork, while Hermione’s objects were still dancing on and on, even after the bell had rung. “Brilliant work, Miss Granger!” Flitwick squeaked, his eyes twinkling behind his tiny spectacles. “Ten points—no, fifteen to Slytherin!”

Astronomy was a rather similar situation. Due to her advanced alchemical studies, she’d been forced to learn quite a bit more than the material covered in the course—which seemed to spur on Professor Sinistra to challenge her even more. 

“What’s the Mars Aspect?”

“Why does orbital resonance occur, and how is it related to musica universalis?”

“Why is the ratio between Mars’ and Jupiter’s angular velocities discordant when compared -?”

On and on this went, and on and on, Hermione answered eagerly, basking in the warm glow of a professor’s special attention.

Transfiguration, however, was a different story. Professor McGonagall was still introducing the class to the General Transfiguration Process, and Hermione, of course, was always the first to complete each task, and her finished products nevertheless suffered no quality deficits for this time efficiency when compared to her classmates’ abysmal efforts that McGonagall was forced to consider ‘acceptable’ work. And yet, Tom was not very impressed at all:

Your speed is abysmal, Pansy, he critiqued her later that evening. Taking an entire class period for one transformation? If you were ever in a duel, that sluggishness would be the end of you.

The Slytherins continued in their efforts to pin her down, but they were in vain. That didn’t stop Hermione from feeling more and more worried over her lack of success with the Shield Charm, though.

----

It began with frustration—anger that brewed and churned in Hermione’s chest as she opened the diary late one evening. The Slytherin girls, led by Pansy, had woken her up with a volley of cruel jinxes and hexes, which had left her shrieking and shaking as they’d simply giggled and jinxed her more, until she couldn’t speak or move at all, too thoroughly injured to do anything. They had dragged her then-unrecognizable form to the common room, where the older Slytherins spent quite a long time trying to heal her. With her lack of success with the Shield Charm, the Blood Aegis ritual had been lingering in her mind for days now. Tom had detailed every step, every line of the incantation, every stroke of the necessary symbols. For so long, she’d hesitated, her natural instincts wary of such a Dark and irreversible magic. But tonight, her resolve hardened. She wanted—no, needed— to be able to defend herself.

The dormitory was quiet, filled only with the rhythmic breathing of her roommates. Hermione slipped out of her bed, her pink nightgown whispering against her skin, her white slippers muffling her movements. The emerald-green curtains swished softly as she stepped into the cool, stone-floored room, walking to the lavatory; since the other Slytherin girls had forced her into taking the four-poster nearest the bathroom, it was quite easy to practice discretion whilst doing so. 

Hermione tiptoed into the bathroom, pulling a crumpled cloth from her bag. She dampened it with soap and water, and then wrung it furiously to cleanse away the unneeded water. Her hands shook as she worked.

With the cloth fit for the cleansing stage of the Blood Aegis, she turned up to look at the bronze candelabra hung above her. The wax candles floated away at her command, trailing behind her like obedient shadows as she returned to her bed. She placed them carefully at each corner of the mattress, their soft golden glow casting long, flickering shadows across the green-draped canopy.

Next came the knife. She reached into her bag, pulling out a simple quill, its feathered edge trembling slightly as her hand hovered over it. Transfiguration had always been a strength of hers, but tonight, each step felt heavier, more deliberate. She performed the transformation as carefully as she could, the quill twisting and hardening with each careful adjustment. Minutes stretched on as she refined the blade, sharp and gleaming in the candlelight.

Hermione swallowed heavily as she held it—feeling its crude, cold weight—before turning her sights back to getting her bed ready. Quickly, she cleared her four-poster bed of everything—books, quills, blankets—leaving only bare wood and the flickering glow of many candles. She scrubbed the posts with the cloth she had dampened, looking suspiciously around all the while. The air seemed to grow heavier with each stroke, the candlelight casting jagged shadows that danced across the room like restless spirits.

Finally, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, the knife in one hand, her other clutching the diary for reassurance. Tom’s words seemed to burn its image in her mind, calm and instructive.

Your blood is the key, he had written. It binds the magic to your will. Draw the shapes carefully, and speak the words with conviction. Fire and earth will guard your sanctuary.

With a swift, decisive movement, she dragged the blade across her left palm, wincing as the pain flared hot and bright. Blood welled up, dark and rich, pooling into her cupped hand. She felt a rush of power, a surge that made her gasp, her wand hand trembling. The pain was secondary to the thrill, the electric jolt of magic prematurely responding to her sacrifice, seeming to sense the very intention of the act itself.

She turned her other palm over, then, letting it drip onto the wooden posts of her bed, tracing the outlines of the shapes. First, the tetrahedron, to summon fire—the element of defiance. Then, the cube, to summon earth—the element of stability. Hermione took special care to ensure those symbols overlapped perfectly, for the Blood Aegis demanded both aggression and grounded resolve. In the candlelight, Hermione’s blood gleamed unnaturally in the candlelight, the lines seeming to shift and pulse as if alive.

When the marks were complete, she began the incantation, her voice a whisper that grew stronger with each repetition:

"Ignis et Terra, coniungite potentiam. Sanguis meus, scutum meum. Locus hic inviolabilis erit, dum animam traho."

The air around her seemed to thicken, a weight pressing down on her chest as the symbols began to glow faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The candles flickered violently, their flames dancing higher and brighter, and then they roared, until—

They extinguished themselves in unison.

The room plunged into darkness, but Hermione could feel the power settling into place. Her bed was no longer just a bed; it was a fortress, an unyielding barrier that wrapped around her like an invisible shield. She could feel the magic binding to its very essence. The pain dulled, replaced by a cold numbness that spread through her fingers. Her hand throbbed, the wound refusing to close, but she relished the sensation. It was a mere reminder of the power she had claimed.

All she would need to truly seal the ritual’s potency would be one other source of blood—the Slytherins’. Hermione frowned for a moment, wondering—would she rather brutalise them, or have to wringe the blood out of her dormmates’ menstrual materials?

The next morning, she moved through her classes with a newfound confidence. The whispers followed her, but they felt distant, inconsequential. She had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

Tom’s praise was waiting for her when she returned to the dormitory that evening, his words blooming across the pages like a caress. You did well, Pansy. I knew you were capable of greatness. The Dark Arts are not for the faint of heart, but you have proven yourself worthy.

A thrill shot through her at his words. She was no longer the scared little girl who hid behind books and academic prowess. She was something more now, something powerful and feared.

The Slytherins still hated her, still plotted behind her back, but it didn’t matter. Hermione was no longer afraid. She had Tom, and she had the darkness that now flowed through her veins—a promise of power. Hogwarts was her battlefield, and she was ready to conquer it, one spell, one secret, one sacrifice at a time.

And deep down, where the last vestiges of her old self still lingered, a small voice whispered warnings that she no longer heeded. The price of the Dark Arts was steep, but Hermione Granger was more than willing to pay it. Power was worth more than any of its costs.