The Crash-Landing

The winter weeks at Hogwarts seemed to creep by, the castle still in a wondrous realm of white and silver as snow stubbornly stuck onto its ancient towers and turrets. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall reflected a sky heavy with snow clouds, while the frosted windows of classrooms and dormitories sent dappled light skittering across stone floors. The chill seeped through the walls, and students huddled in their house scarves and gloves, their breath misting in the air as they scurried between lessons.

For Hermione, the season brought a kind of solace. The sharp, cold air outside was a welcome—its bite managed to distract Hermione from all of her worries. Thankfully, there was one less nowadays. 

The Slytherins' relentless bullying had finally dulled to a reluctant truce; they had learned, through harsh lessons of hexes and retaliatory jinxes, that Hermione Granger was no easy target. She had given as good as she got, and now they merely watched her from the corners of their eyes, their whispers still venomous but their wands kept at bay—most of the time, at least. They were watching her, though—she could feel their eyes on her back as she walked to class, hear their whispered conversations halt whenever she entered a room. 

But it wasn’t the Slytherins who pushed her now. It was Tom.

The diary had become her confidant, her instructor, her friend. Tom’s voice was always there, warm and coaxing, encouraging her to push herself harder, to delve deeper into the secrets of magic. His words flowed across the pages in the evenings when the common room had quieted and her dormmates’ breathing had slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.

It had started innocently enough, with Tom guiding her through complex Transfiguration techniques and deep, obscure Charms theories that had her professors raising their eyebrows in surprise. But it quickly spiralled into something more—a rigorous schedule of magical studies that covered every corner of her education.

Mornings were for Astronomy, with Tom explaining the finer points of celestial magic, the influence of planetary alignments on spellwork. Afternoons were spent poring over ancient texts on Herbology and Potions, the pages worn and yellowed, their margins filled with Tom’s elegant notes. Late nights were reserved for both Dark Arts and their defences: protective charms that were far beyond her year, curses and counter-curses that Tom insisted she needed to know if she was to defend herself against any threats. Transfiguration and Charms were sprinkled throughout, Tom somehow always managing to introduce a new magical theory of some sort that he insisted was necessary to truly lay the foundations for a strong magical understanding.

There was something intoxicating in the intensity of it all. She was learning more in these few months than she had in all her years before Hogwarts. She could feel herself growing stronger, sharper, as if every new piece of knowledge was a spark catching fire in her mind. The castle’s hidden corners had become her classroom; secret passageways and forgotten chambers where she could practise the spells Tom described in vivid detail.

Yet, for all the brilliance of her studies, there was an undercurrent of exhaustion. She had little time for anything else. And of that little time, Hermione’s tutorship of Gregory - he’d told her to use his first name -, Crabbe, and sometimes Neville was taking up quite a large portion; the rest, by her and Tracey Davis’ continuing meet-ups to discuss their strategy to ‘take down the Slytherins’. Of course, they didn’t really do anything—Hermione only attended since, despite her not quite liking the half-blood girl all that much, Tracey’s constant commentary never had not managed to make her either smile or, at least, scoff with some amusement. All the while, her marks in classes soared, even as her eyes grew shadowed and her hands shook slightly from too many sleepless nights spent under the dim light of her wand.

Now, cross-legged on her bed, Hermione sat, her curtains drawn tightly shut to hide the brilliant, billowing ball of light she had conjured, now dancing around in the air. The Slytherin dormitory was silent except for the faint snores of her dormmates. She should have been asleep like them, should have let the comforting darkness pull her into slumber, but here she was, hunched over the ever-fascinating diary, quill scratching furiously as she responded to Tom’s latest message.

So, tell me more about your family, Pansy, Tom had written, the ink scrawling itself elegantly across the page in that familiar looping script. Hermione paused, biting her lip. Tom had a way of making his curiosity seem so genuine, his questions so innocent, and yet…

Family’s pretty boring, really, she lied, pausing as the tip of her quill hovered over the parchment. Father’s always going on about the Ministry, Mother’s constantly fussing over the elves at home. Nothing all that exciting.

A new line of ink bled into existence almost immediately, as though Tom had been waiting impatiently for her reply. If I’d have been born into a family of witches and wizards, there would be nary a dull day. I’ve always wondered a bit, actually, as to how it would be…

A wave of guilt crashed into Hermione; she almost dropped her quill, so shaken from Tom’s response. If lying to her only friend wasn’t horrible enough, he also just so happened to be an orphan—and one that, after he’d told her of it, seemed eager to bring it up almost every time that he asked her about her own. And he always did—when he wasn’t discussing magical theory with her, that is. Tom always seemed so eager to pry into her personal life, like he was trying to peel back her layers one question at a time. Unfortunately, this odd fascination of his only made Hermione even less keen on doing so.

But before Hermione could figure out a way to divert whilst not sounding too insensitive, Tom came to her rescue:

But enough about me , he wrote slowly. How have your studies been progressing?

I’ve been reading more of Paracelsus' theories, Tom, Hermione wrote, her quill scratching against the parchment. The Tria Prima, especially—sulphur, mercury, and salt. I think I understand it now, but… there are still some parts that confuse me.

Tom’s reply came almost instantly, his words smooth and reassuring as they formed on the page. Oh, do share, Pansy. I do so enjoy your thoughts on alchemical philosophy.

Hermione smiled despite herself, a warmth blooming in her chest. Tom was the only one who truly seemed interested in her ideas, the only one who pushed her to dig deeper. Well, sulphur is the soul, she began, the fiery, expansive force that drives transformation. It’s the essence that seeks to break free, to expand and change. Mercury is the mind—the fluid, adaptable quality that binds everything together, like the spirit that connects the body to the soul. And salt is the body, the solid, stable form that grounds us. All three, they’re the building blocks of everything in the physical world, aren’t they? Just like how we’re all microcosms of the macrocosm. But what I don't fully grasp is astrology and its importance. A few girls I know love reading magazines that tell them their Zodiac signs and horoscopes and such, but that doesn’t really make sense, does it? The stars are the soul of the cosmos, and just as we have our own inner, spiritual light in the forms of our soul, it has its own physical light. A lot of Paracelsus' writings mention this split between natural and divine light, and he too claims that studying the stars gives a greater insight into the inner workings of your very own being. But it should only give you insight into the inner workings of the universe, shouldn’t it?

Are we not a part of the universe?

Hermione scoffed. Obviously I know that. But we’re rather insignificant for there to be entire constellations devoted to mapping out our personalities and fates based on what time we were born. And, really, it’s not as if we can even determine our own fates by doing personal soul-searching - why should the ‘soul’ of the physical realm in its totality be able to do so?

It’s…finicky magic, Divination - not truly an exact science. Still, I think you’re forgetting the concept of the World Soul, Pansy. If the stars are that soul…it's also all of ours.

Hermione paused, her quill hovering over the page as Tom's response materialised in swirling ink. She could almost see him smirking behind those words, that clever, knowing tone that always made her feel both challenged and intrigued.

The World Soul? she wrote back, her letters sharp and swift, I’ve read about it, of course. But the idea that the stars are connected to us in such a direct way still feels… fanciful. I mean, it’s one thing to say we’re all part of the universe, that the cosmos influences the flow of magic in the world. But horoscopes? Birth charts? That just seems like… nonsense. Even Professor McGonagall has said fortune-telling is a rather woolly branch of magic.

A blot of ink appeared as if Tom was considering his response, then continued with a flourish. You’re confusing the symbolism with the substance. Astrology isn’t about predicting the future as if by some predetermined fate. It’s about understanding the currents of magic that flow through the cosmos. When you were born, Pansy, the stars were aligned in a certain way. Those alignments reflect the nature of your soul’s entry into the physical world. They can show tendencies, inclinations, strengths… weaknesses. It’s not as crude as the magazine horoscopes, I assure you.

She tapped the end of her quill against her lips, thinking. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was something compelling in what he was saying. The idea that the cosmos itself held secrets about who they were… it was intoxicating in its possibilities. Still, she wasn’t ready to concede just yet.

Why doesn’t it work the opposite way, then? Why can’t I take a look at myself and figure out the laws of magic based on that? If we’re all microcosms of the larger macrocosm of the cosmos, there should be a bit of feedback, no?

Ah, you’ve forgotten the As Above, So Below Theory of Alchemy. Studying the natural world  helps understand the spiritual one - never the other way around…

As the night drifted away, Hermione wrote more and more to Tom - all about magical theory. Tom seemed to have made it his personal goal to make her understand it as much as humanly possible, and, although Hermione really was fascinated with it, she had to admit that a large reason she put in so much effort was Tom. He was so eager, so earnest that it hurt her. And Hermione wouldn’t be the one to let him down. If he’d been able to do all of this in his first year, why couldn’t she?

The likely answer to that very question was beginning to dawn on Hermione, but she refused to entertain it, focusing on conversing with Tom instead.

But Tom, she wrote, if everything in our world is a reflection of the Ideal World, then why are there so many differences between objects of the same kind? Like the types of woods in wandlore… I’ve been reading that book you recommended, and it’s fascinating but confusing.

There was a brief pause, the ink pooling on the page as if Tom was considering her words. Ah, yes, wandwoods, he wrote at last. Tell me, what have you discovered?

Hermione's brow furrowed as she put her thoughts into words. Ebony is said to have transformative properties due to its natural resilience and strength. But fir… why does it have similar qualities? I understand that it’s an evergreen, symbolising eternal light and the sun, which are connected to fire, the element of change… but it doesn’t make sense! There are so many evergreens, yet they don’t all have the same properties.

You’re getting close, Pansy, Tom encouraged, his tone almost teasing. But you’re missing one crucial detail. Think beyond just the symbolism.

Hermione’s eyes widened as realisation struck her. "Oh my! It’s not just the symbolism of the tree itself, is it? It’s the shape—the structure. Fir trees grow straight and narrow, always reaching upward. It’s a representation of focused growth, of striving towards a goal, which aligns with its transformative properties.

Tom’s next words came slowly, deliberately, as though he were savouring her revelation. "Precisely. It’s not just the essence of the tree but the form it takes in the physical world. That’s why each wandwood is unique, reflecting not only the material properties but the shape and growth of the tree itself. The Ideal World provides a blueprint, yes, but the interpretation of that blueprint in the physical realm is what creates diversity. Just as every wizard's magic is shaped by their own selves, every wood is shaped by the qualities of its tree.

Hermione sat back, feeling a thrill of accomplishment as she absorbed Tom’s words. He had a way of making everything seem so clear, so much deeper than anything they were taught in their regular classes. She found herself wondering what it would be like to study magic without limits, to explore all the forbidden corners of knowledge that Tom hinted at.

You’re a natural at this, Pansy, Tom wrote, his words like a caress on the page. You’ve always had the intellect and drive, but now you’re starting to see the deeper connections. I believe there’s no limit to what you can achieve… as long as you remain open to the possibilities.

Hermione's quill trembled as she wrote back, her mind racing with thoughts of the power she could unlock. "Thank you, Tom… I won’t let you down."

“I know you won’t, he replied, and for a moment, Hermione thought she could feel the warmth of his approval, as if the ink itself was glowing with it. Still, I’ve been getting a bit worried at the pace you’ve been going to get through the books I’ve been urging you to read…

A smile played its way across Hermione’s face. He cared about her. I know. I’ve been focusing all of my free time on those horribly long books, just so I could get through it. I hadn’t thought you’d notice.

But her beam dimmed as she read Tom’s response:

All of your free time? he questioned, his writing scrawling and sharp. What do you have to do, outside of studying and perhaps go to classes? If it keeps taking this long, Pansy…

Hermione’s fingers paused over the page, the scratch of her quill silencing as Tom's words stared back at her, dark and demanding. For a moment, the room seemed to grow colder, the warm glow of the conjured light above her dimming just slightly. She could almost imagine Tom's voice, rich and smooth, yet carrying an edge that sent a shiver down her spine.

A lump formed in her throat. Hermione had thought she’d been doing rather well. She couldn’t let him down. Not after everything he’d done for her.

It’s just… you know, the usual distractions, she wrote back quickly, trying to keep her tone light. The assignments for my classes are all quite demanding—most of it I already understand, but it’s necessary to show the teachers my best effort, isn’t it? And I made a new…well, I wouldn’t say that Tracey and I are friends, really, but she makes me laugh a lot when we talk. Sometimes just from mere shock—last week, when we were —

Her words flashed and sunk into the diary’s weathered pages, replaced by Tom’s own:

Fascinating, Tom wrote sharply, his words like a cold hand brushing against her skin. But remember, Pansy, those around you are not your equals. They will never understand you as I do. They will never be more than distractions—no better than gnats buzzing in your ear. You have a gift, a brilliance that sets you apart. Don't waste it on some girl who could never even comprehend it.

Hermione swallowed, a flush creeping up her neck. But —

There are no excuses, Pansy. Only efforts and results. If the Slytherins try to attack you, will you start shouting gossip and jokes, or incantations?

With a sigh, Hermione’s shoulders dropped. It was true, wasn't it? Her classmates couldn’t begin to grasp the depths she was exploring, the vast oceans of knowledge Tom was opening up to her. It felt good, having someone recognize her potential—someone who didn’t see her as an insufferable know-it-all, but rather as an equal, a prodigy in the making.

I understand, Tom, she wrote back, her quill moving faster now, her hesitation gone. I’ll do better. I won’t let anything get in the way of my studies. I promise.

For a few heartbeats, there was no reply. Hermione’s hand hovered uncertainly over the diary, her pulse quickening. The soft snores of her dormmates filled the air, the heavy curtains around her bed rustling faintly from the endless draughtiness of the dungeons.

Then, at last, the ink began to spread across the page, the letters faintly glowing.

That’s what I like to hear, Tom responded, his tone slipping back into that familiar, almost affectionate cadence. You’re so close to unlocking your full potential, Pansy. I can feel it. Just a little more dedication, a little more sacrifice, and you'll achieve things you never thought possible. Trust me.

Hermione’s heart swelled, and yet the lump in her throat remained. She’d tried harder than she even had to master what Tom had taught her, and her efforts still hadn’t been good enough. For a moment, she frowned, wondering how Tom dared to expect even more from her,

But Tom was right. If she could just push a little harder, stay up a little later, then she’d gain enough power. She’d be exactly like him—a Muggle-born Slytherin who had clawed his way to the top of his House through sheer magical power.

Drawing her fluttering bedside curtains open, Hermione stared at the stack of books on her bedside table—thick, aged tomes with spines cracked and pages yellowed with age. There were still so many she had yet to finish, so many secrets yet to uncover.

I trust you. I’ll work harder. I’ll make you proud.

Then, the ink swirled on the page, forming words she had come to crave:

You already do, Pansy. But remember… power comes to those who are willing to reach for it. Don’t let anything hold you back.

Hermione closed the diary with a snap, her hands trembling slightly. The warmth of Tom's praise still lingered in her mind, a heady mixture of validation and ambition. And so, with a resolute sigh, she picked up the next book on the stack and forced her eyes to focus. Tom was right—she was capable of so much more. And she would prove it.

The days passed in a blur of parchment, ink-stained fingers, and endless tomes. Winter had finally loosened its icy grasp around Hogwarts, snow no longer falling upon and cloaking the grounds, but Hermione hardly noticed. She was a constant fixture in the library, buried under piles of books, the crackle of the fireplace a distant whisper as she lost herself in the ancient texts that Tom insisted she master. The library was nearly deserted most of the time; even the  most studious Ravenclaws had their limits, retreating to the common rooms as the afternoons stretched into evenings.

Hermione, however, stayed. Her spot was always the same: a small table by the frosted window, where she sat across from Percy Weasley. At first, the Head Boy had been surprised to see her there so frequently—after all, Hermione was only a first-year, while he was preparing for his O.W.L.s. But any concern he might have had quickly vanished when she handed him meticulously organised notes on Charms and Transfiguration, even slipping in third-year Arithmancy notes, which left him blinking in astonishment.

Arithmancy had become Hermione’s latest obsession, thanks to Tom. She remembered his elegantly written words on the diary pages, urging her to dive into the mystical connections between numbers and nature. 

Arithmancy isn’t just about numbers, Pansy, he had written. It’s the foundation of understanding the world around us. From the ratios governing planetary orbits to the patterns that dictate the growth of magical plants, it’s all connected. And if you truly wish to grasp the deeper aspects of spellwork, you must understand the numbers behind it.

So, she did. She studied the complexities of the Platonic Solids, each representing a different element, and how they related to the very fabric of magic. She traced the lines of Sacred Geometry, connecting dots on dusty star maps, trying to see the patterns hidden in the cosmos. Tom had her cross-referencing Astronomy and Arithmancy, telling her about the musica universalis , the harmony of the spheres, where the planets themselves seemed to sing in their silent dance across the sky.

But with every bit of knowledge she gained, every new connection she made, there was a nagging feeling of inadequacy. A cold, creeping sense that she wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t learning fast enough. It lingered at the back of her mind like a shadow, whispering that she should be pushing harder, reaching further. The professors praised her in class, awarding her more points than ever for her clever answers and precise spellwork, but their compliments felt hollow. She should be doing better. She should be perfect.

Hermione pushed herself to the brink, eyes burning as she stayed up late, scribbling notes by the light of her wand when the dormitory lights had long since been extinguished. The other Slytherins still left her alone; after her hex on Pansy Parkinson, they seemed to shrink away from her in the corridors, whispers and sidelong glances following her every move. She could see the way Pansy shivered when their eyes met, the memory of their last confrontation still raw, even after all this time.

This endless lull in the Slytherins' bullying was strange. No more cruel jinxes in the hallways, no mocking laughter behind her back. It was as if they were waiting for something, holding their breath, afraid of what she might do next. Or perhaps it was something more—something Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on. Either way, she didn’t have the time to think about it.

Late one evening, as the glittering green grass of the grounds lost their remaining vestiges of winter, she found herself in a different place, though. The hidden alcove behind the tapestry on the third floor had become a sanctuary for Hermione and Tracey. It was a narrow, dusty space, the kind of place students overlooked, making it the perfect spot for their secret meetings. Initially, these clandestine rendezvous had been all about strategy: a way to fight against their bigoted Slytherin housemates. Together, they had devised ways to avoid the worst of the hexes and jinxes, planning routes through the castle that would minimise confrontation. But somewhere along the line, those serious conversations had dissolved into something else entirely.

Now, as Hermione leaned against the cold stone wall, she found herself listening to Tracey's excited chatter, her words tumbling over one another in a breathless rush. It was a dizzying monologue about the latest Quidditch match, full of terms and tactics that went over Hermione’s head. She had never paid much attention to Quidditch, beyond what was required to understand the rules. To her, it was a game of brooms and balls, little more than a distraction from her studies. But to Tracey, it was something akin to a battlefield, full of intricate manoeuvres and hidden strategies.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it, Hermione!” Tracey exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement. “Potter was brilliant! He pulled off the Wronski Feint—Merlin, I swear my heart stopped—and Diggory fell for it! Poor Cedric, he’s usually so quick, but Potter just outsmarted him completely! And when the Snitch was right there, practically at his fingertips…” She sighed dramatically, a dreamy look in her eyes. “Cedric still looked good, though, even when he lost. I mean, have you seen him up close? I almost thought I was in heaven, greeted by the great Lord himself.”

Hermione snorted. “Do you even believe in God?”

“It’s difficult to say,” said Tracey slowly, a pensive look on her face. “On one hand, the idea that there’s a perfect being who dares judge me is offensive. On the other hand…I mean, when I see my face in the mirror…I know that beauty couldn’t be forged by mere accident. It’d be like a boulder naturally eroding to look like some Renaissance sculpture, you know?”

Hermione couldn't help but let out a surprised laugh, quickly covering her smile with her hand. Tracey had a way of turning even the most mundane conversations into something completely absurd. For a moment, Hermione was quite glad she'd agreed to this meetup, even if it was just to hear Tracey's ridiculous musings.

"You're absolutely insufferable, you know that?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress her grin.

Tracey flashed her a wicked smile, leaning back against the stone wall. "I don't hear you denying it, though. You agree, don’t you? With a face like mine, there’s definitely some sort of divine influence at play."

"Or just an unfortunate twist of fate," Hermione teased back, still smiling. But Tracey merely shrugged, unbothered by the jab.

"Fine, fine. Be a sceptic," Tracey said with a dramatic sigh, waving a hand as if to dismiss Hermione’s lack of appreciation. "But you have to admit, Diggory really is a sight for sore eyes. And Potter! Honestly, I didn’t expect much from him, especially with all the Gryffindor hype, but he’s got something about him, doesn’t he? Maybe it's just luck, but... well, even Slytherins are grudgingly impressed."

"Are you sure it’s not just your obsession with good-looking Quidditch players?” Hermione shot back, arching an eyebrow.

Tracey pretended to think it over, tapping her chin. "Perhaps... or maybe I just have a keen eye for talent," she said with a wink, causing Hermione to roll her eyes again. “And, you know, if anything, this shows how I’m not shallow. I usually hate short people!”

But as their banter continued, Hermione couldn't fully relax. Tracey’s light-hearted chatter was a stark contrast to the pressure that had been building inside her, the weight of Tom's expectations heavy on her shoulders. Even here, in this hidden corner of the castle, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she was wasting time, that she should be pouring over one of Tom’s books instead of indulging in these trivial conversations.

Tom’s last message had been a clear warning. If it keeps taking this long... The words echoed in her mind, relentless as a ticking clock, driving her back into the depths of her thoughts even as Tracey rambled on.

“...but you’re not even listening, are you?” Tracey’s voice cut through her reverie, sounding more amused than annoyed.

Hermione blinked, realising she had completely lost the thread of the conversation. “Sorry, I was... thinking about something,” she mumbled, trying to shake off the fog of anxiety.

Tracey studied her for a moment, a rare flicker of concern crossing her usually carefree features. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Zoning out, I mean. You’re not still worried about Pansy and the others, are you?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Hermione said quickly, though the lie came out more easily than she expected. She couldn't very well tell Tracey the truth — that it wasn’t the Slytherins she was afraid of, but the demanding presence of the boy in the diary, his expectations hanging over her like a dark cloud.

“Well, good,” Tracey said, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “You know, you’ve got to learn to relax, Hermione. Not everything’s a matter of life and death, you know?”

Hermione forced a smile, nodding along even though her mind was already drifting back to her studies, to the next book Tom had insisted she read, to the ever-growing pile of knowledge she felt she had to conquer. She didn't have the heart to tell Tracey that, for her, it really did feel like life and death. That with every turn of a page, every scrawled note in the margins of her textbooks, she was edging closer to something — something she wasn’t even sure she wanted, but felt compelled to reach for, all the same.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said instead, forcing a casual tone. “Maybe I’ll take a break... after I finish my next assignment.”

“That's what you said last time,” Tracey teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What were you discussing before, again?”

“The forty-nine key reasons why Cedric Diggory should be my husband,” answered Tracey promptly, straightening herself up. “The first is, of course, his amazing jawline. That could cut glass , Hermione. Honestly, I’m a bit shocked that it’s not considered a deadly weapon. Really!”

“In a world where you can alter reality itself at eleven?”

“Merlin, you really don’t understand, do you?” said Tracey in astonishment. “Power isn’t only of the magical variety, you know. And the greatest kind of all is that of a pretty boy. It’s different from being a pretty girl—boys, by virtue of being able to fully separate their feelings towards a girl’s looks and her as a person, are much less worshipful of those they’re attracted to.”

“That is so awful to say!” chided Hermione firmly, her chin raised. “Women are no more shallow than men!”

“But that’s not what I’m saying at all!” exclaimed Tracey, shaking her head with a smile. “No, you see, the thing is, most boys either don’t like or respect most girls anyway! So they base their decisions off of looks too — but just because they like pretty girls doesn’t mean they have to be nice to them. Meanwhile, girls…our minds are more fluid, I’d say. If a man wed an ugly woman, even if he truly loves her, she is still ugly . But if it’s in reverse? You may think I’m lying, but I’ve seen cases where these witches are with creatures that make me sick to my stomach—no offence to the husbands, most were fine people, just ugly—but were convinced these men looked like angels. And it works the other way around, too! Pretty boys can get away with anything —if Diggory suddenly snapped and beat McGonagall silly…honestly, what would you do?”

“I’d be horrified!”

“I would be too, of course,” assured Tracey quickly, before she looked off, sighing. “But then, I’d start thinking — what made him snap, actually? Is he having issues at home? Perhaps McGonagall had been secretly torturing him before! Whatever the cause is, we should never judge based on mere appearances , you know? And, honestly, he sort of would look so vulnerable anyway…all bloody, and flushed, and — and so, so sweaty…”

Hermione gasped; Tracey burst into a fit of giggles.

“That’s awful!”

“That’s the truth!” said Tracey, throwing her hands up defensively. “You’ve heard the other Slytherin girls talk, haven’t you? If I’m shallow, Daphne’s depth wouldn’t even be comparable to a raindrop . And Pansy — well, Pansy’s an example of the first case. She is so in love with Malfoy even though he sort of looks like those babies in St Mungo’s that they curtain away right after the baby’s popped out of the mother; you know, the ones that just had to come out weeks before they should’ve, because they thought they were too good to wait like the rest of us. Meanwhile, Malfoy is.. fine with her, I suppose, but there are moments where you can see that he looks at her and then looks at every other girl, and is just…so, so disappointed; until he looks at Millie the Bull, and then he realises there are even worse options.”

“I cannot believe how cruel you are,” said Hermione primly, shooting Tracey a sharp look. “Beauty can be found in all of us— even if you’re too narrow-minded to see it.”

“No, I agree with you, honestly! Deep down, I’m sure Pansy looks just the same as I do— blood, brain, beauty of life rubbish, and all that — and, you know, I even believe that witches especially shouldn’t be judged on the basis of such arbitrary standards. Like, you know how everyone is always super protective of pregnant women? I feel like, if you have the possibility of becoming pregnant...I mean, what if I call a random girl fat and ugly, and she turns out to be carrying a baby in that belly of hers? It would ruin my reputation!”

Hermione blinked rapidly. “That's…I - I don’t really understand why you’d call a random girl fat and ugly..?”

Tracey scoffed. “Dunno. Maybe I was in the mood, Hermione.”

“Er — well, assuming she’s a similar age, I doubt she’d be pregnant, then.”

“But she could be!” cried Tracey. “That’s why it’s so dangerous to go after other girls—unless, of course, you’re a boy with sufficient looks. God, if I were with child and Cedric Diggory backhanded me…suddenly, I’d be carrying twins .”

A giggle escaped Hermione before she could stop herself, quickly covering her mouth to stifle the sound. “Honestly, Tracey, I don’t even know how you managed to look at Diggory without swooning if you’re so obsessed with him.”

Tracey lifted her chin with a haughty look, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. “I’m not a fool, Hermione. I can keep myself composed, even in the face of perfection itself,” she said with a dramatic flourish of her hand. “And besides, it was between classes, so I only had a fleeting glimpse. No time to lose my head over him... though it was just enough to last me through Potions,” she added with a wink. But then, her smile faded slightly, her gaze darkening. “Actually, it happened to be right after those blood purists started targeting me out of nowhere. Merlin, such an annoying time in my life.”

At that, Hermione’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, guilt gnawing at her. She kept her expression neutral, forcing herself to nod along. Tracey didn’t know, couldn’t know, that it had been Hermione herself who had done all that to her. At the time, it had seemed like a strategic move — a bit of misdirection, a way to draw Tracey closer and away from the other Slytherins who were starting to close ranks. But now, with Tracey sitting right in front of her…

Tracey shook her head, her lips pursed in a thin line. “Those were some miserable weeks,” she muttered, her tone heavy with lingering resentment. “It felt like it would never end. But then…” She trailed off, her brow furrowing in thought. “...it was strange, really. Everything just stopped out of nowhere.”

Hermione kept her face carefully neutral, nodding along as if she were simply listening, her heart racing in her chest.

Tracey glanced up, her eyes sharp and inquisitive. “You know, now that I think about it… it all ended around the same time I started having these meetings with you.” She leaned back, her fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. “It’s almost like… they got bored, or maybe they realised it wasn’t worth the trouble, even though I hadn’t given them any. But it was all so sudden, wasn’t it? One day they were tormenting me, and the next… nothing.”

Hermione forced a small, tight smile, carefully folding her hands on her lap to keep them from trembling. “Maybe they just found someone else to bother,” she said lightly, hoping her voice didn’t betray the turmoil brewing inside her. “Or maybe they finally realised that you weren’t an easy target anymore.”

Tracey gave a half-hearted shrug, but her frown deepened, her gaze piercing. “Maybe,” she said slowly. “But it’s odd, don’t you think? As far as they knew, nothing had changed.”

“Perhaps it was an internal change on your behalf?” offered Hermione quickly. “Beating up on others is a remarkably easy way to make one gain more self-confidence, so our little plot on Malfoy might’ve helped you out a bit in that area, you know.”

“True,” agreed Tracey, a grin now spreading across her face, “getting back at Malfoy with you? That was the most fun I’ve had in ages. The only more enjoyable thing I did this year, I think, was calling Bulstrode ‘the Bull’. I mean, how clever is that? And the thing is, even people not in our House use it!”

Hermione forced a smile, pushing down the guilt that threatened to rise again. “Yeah, that was something,” she agreed. “Malfoy never saw it coming when we started misplacing his stuff, stealing his homework, and hitting him with those annoying little jinxes.”

But Tracey’s smile faded, and a thoughtful frown creased her forehead. “You know… it’s funny. All those things we did to Malfoy... they’re the same sort of tricks that were pulled on me.”

“Well,” Hermione said, forcing a chuckle that felt hollow in her throat, “those are really, really common bullying techniques, Tracey.” 

“But what I don’t really get,” began Tracey softly, studying Hermione with a strangely quiet intensity, “is why anybody cared about me. I’m not like you, Hermione—I catered to Pansy and Daphne. Still do, honestly. And I’m a half-blood, to boot—just like a pretty good chunk of Slytherin House. It doesn’t make sense. I know it wasn’t the girls in our year doing it, and Pansy probably would’ve joined in if Malfoy had been the one to orchestrate, so what upper year did I somehow anger? The only Slytherins in general I ever really wronged were Millicent and…”

Tracey looked away, smiling. “Oh, I’d best not walk too far down memory lane!” she exclaimed brightly. “Now, onto why I believe Harry Potter should be my second husband…”

Hermione nodded, forcing herself to relax, to fall back into the comfortable rhythm of Tracey’s neverending chatter. 

As February crept in, the days melded together even further, a constant stream of spell practice, scribbled assignments, and early mornings for Hermione.

Monday mornings began with the stern gaze of Professor McGonagall in Transfiguration. Hermione excelled under her watchful eye, consistently impressing with her precision and determination. McGonagall, though rarely one to dole out praise, would give a satisfied nod whenever Hermione managed a particularly tricky bit of magic.

From there, the week carried her through a steady march of lessons: History of Magic, where her quill scratched feverishly to keep up with Professor Binns' monotonous drone, followed by Charms with Professor Flitwick, where Hermione's precision with spellwork often earned her house points.

Tuesdays brought the dreaded double Herbology with Professor Sprout. Hermione was slowly becoming accustomed to the damp, earthy scent of the greenhouse, though the sight of wriggling Tentacula still sent shivers down her spine. They were learning about the properties of various magical fungi, which Hermione managed with a blend of fascination and disgust.

All throughout the week, she was consistently top of the class, her spells and techniques precise and controlled, earning her points from almost every teacher. 

Yet, what her professors didn’t know was that her mastery came not just from following their lessons but from Tom’s relentless insistence that she go deeper.

Tom was determined that Hermione truly understood magic—not just how to perform it, but the intricate theories behind it. Outside of her classes, her free time was swallowed up by his endless reading list. Every spell they learned in Transfiguration, Charms, or Defense Against the Dark Arts had to be studied at its roots. Tom directed her to obscure books on spell creation, ancient magical theory, and dusty anthologies detailing how each incantation was crafted. She spent hours buried in journals like Advances in Charming and Transfiguration Today , poring over essays that analysed the most subtle nuances of spell mechanics and papers on inanimate-to-inanimate transformations that went well beyond the school curriculum.

As the week wore on, she was barely keeping her head above water, moving from one demanding class to the next. 

After the last echoes of laughter and chatter from the Defense Against the Dark Arts class faded down the hall, Hermione lingered in the doorway. Professor Quirrell was absently collecting his notes, and didn’t even seem to notice her at first.

“Professor Quirrell?” Hermione asked, approaching him slowly.

"Ah, M-Miss Granger,” he said, his reedy voice a soft drawl, “back again s-s-so soon? You d-d-do have an insatiable appetite for knowledge, don’t you?”

Hermione stood a little straighter. “I believe that’s the only way to truly understand magic,” she replied confidently. “Theoretical knowledge, the origins of spells, their history… It’s all interconnected, and I need to understand the roots of magic if I’m to excel.”

He chuckled softly, the sound almost a rasp as it passed through his throat. “I-I-Indeed. Quite the admirable sentiment, my dear. I w-would expect nothing less from someone of your… determination.”

There was something almost predatory in the way Quirrell’s eyes glinted as he regarded her, but Hermione didn’t flinch. The admiration in his voice felt like a warm, satisfying stroke of approval. He had always encouraged her desire for knowledge, even when it led her into forbidden areas. Although he was perhaps the worst of her professors, he was perhaps her favourite teacher.

"Another p-pass to the Restricted Section, then?" Quirrell continued, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the desk. “Y-you’ve been making excellent progress with your studies, Hermione. I’ve b-b-been impressed by your discipline, your f-focus… and your w-willingness to dive d-d-deeper into the d-darker, m-more obscure areas of magic. A rare tr-trait, indeed.”

Hermione gave a small, polite nod. “I just want to learn everything I can. Understanding the origins and true meanings of magic is the key to mastering it.”

Quirrell’s smile widened. “Ah, b-but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Y-you’re beginning to understand the very h-heart of magic, Hermione. And that heart l-lies in understanding b-both the light and the shadow. Magic is not merely a force to be wielded; it’s a language—one that can b-be spoken in m-many different tones. The D-Dark Arts... w-well, they’re just another d-dialect, r-really. Not e-evil, not inherently bad. J-just p-powerful. Y-you, my dear, s-s-seem to understand that d-d-distinction.”

Hermione felt a twinge of unease, pursing her lips. “I want to know all of it,” she whispered, almost to herself. “The theory, the practice—everything.”

Quirrell tilted his head slightly, studying her with that unnerving, knowing smile. "Of c-c-course you do. Y-you always have. And w-why shouldn’t you? I b-b-believe y-you'll find yourself far ahead of your c-classmates if you c-continue this pursuit. B-but remember, M-Miss Granger, magic is a d-d-double-edged sword, especially the d-darker magics. It can empower y-you… or it can c-consume you."

Her pulse quickened at the thrill of his words, but she managed to keep her composure. "I’ll be careful,” she said. “I know how dangerous it can be."

Quirrell’s laugh was quiet but filled with a strange kind of satisfaction. “I-I have no d-doubt you will b-be. Y-you’re clever, Hermione. P-Perhaps too clever for your own g-good.”

After he’d asked Hermione which books on Dark Magic she wished to read now, Professor Quirrell slid the Restricted Section pass across the desk, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “D-don’t let me stop you, then. C-continue your studies, Miss Granger. D-dive deep. If you w-wish to truly understand magic, you’ll n-need all the resources you c-can find.”

Hermione took the pass with a mixture of gratitude and eagerness. “Thank you, Professor. I won’t disappoint you, I swear.”

“No, I d-don’t think you will,” Quirrell replied softly.

Immediately after was Double Potions. Professor Snape wasted no time in reminding his first-year Slytherins that there was no excuse for anything less than perfection in their potion-brewing, a sentiment he reiterated with pointed glances in Hermione's direction.

“Excellence is expected, not merely hoped for,” he sneered as he inspected each of their Pepper-Up Potions. “And if you fail to meet these standards, rest assured, there will be consequences.”

As the last bell of the week rang, signalling the end of Potions, Hermione let out a quiet sigh of relief and gathered her things. The class had been as gruelling as ever, but she was used to that by now. Potions had always been a challenge, and yet, with Tom's encouragement, she had come to appreciate the precision and the deep theory that lay behind every ingredient, every stir, every flick of the wrist. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly pulled in a dozen directions—first by Tom's relentless demands for deeper understanding, and now by her growing list of responsibilities.

As Hermione made her way toward the library, her mind already half-engaged in the mountain of reading Tom had assigned her, she was startled when a hand shot out, gripping her arm and pulling her into the shadowy alcove just around the corner.

"Hey!" she gasped, her heart skipping a beat as she stumbled, her books nearly slipping from her grip.

Tracey stood in front of her, a grin stretched wide across her face, her eyes alight with something mischievous. "Gotcha," she said. "I thought I’d catch you before you buried yourself in another pile of books."

Hermione quickly righted herself, brushing her robes with a mixture of irritation and unease. "What is it, Tracey?" she asked, her tone curt. "I have work to do." 

Tracey tilted her head, eyes glimmering with amusement. "Oh, don’t worry," she said, her voice sweet, but with a sharp undertone that Hermione didn’t miss. "It won’t take long."

Hermione gave a frustrated huff and adjusted the strap of her bag. She didn’t have time for games. "I’m really not in the mood for whatever this is. Again, I have lots of work, Tracey!"

Tracey didn’t step aside. Instead, she studied Hermione carefully, her gaze like a predator watching its prey as she smiled. "You’ve been playing me, haven’t you?"

Hermione froze, her stomach tightening at the accusation. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice low, though she could already feel the unease crawling up her spine.

"I know it’s you," Tracey said flatly, crossing her arms. "You’re the one who’d been messing with me. You made me think it was the blood purists causing trouble when it was you all along."

Hermione’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected Tracey to figure it out, not like this. Her mind raced for a way to deflect, to deny it, but Tracey was watching her too closely. The flicker of realisation in her eyes told Hermione there was no hiding it anymore.

"I knew it," Tracey continued, her voice hardening. "You wanted me to think the blood purists were after me so that I’d trust you, be your ally in Slytherin. And I fell for it." There was a bitterness in her words now, the sting of betrayal mixing with disbelief. "I’ve been a fool."

Hermione's stomach churned. Tracey’s words were cutting deep, but she couldn’t afford to back down. Not now, not when the stakes were so high. "I didn’t make you trust me," Hermione said, her voice colder than she intended. "I never even told you anything that wasn’t true. You chose to."

Tracey let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humour in it. "Is that how you see it? You really think you’re just a bystander in all of this rather than the perpetrator? That I’m the one who’s too stupid to see what you’re doing?" She shook her head in disgust. "You’ve got some nerve."

Hermione felt the familiar pulse of anger rise in her chest, a cold fire that threatened to burn through her carefully constructed calm. She had played the game well, too well. She had known how to manipulate the situation, how to push the right buttons. And now, for the first time, it felt like it was slipping through her fingers. 

"You wanted to play this game, Tracey," Hermione said, her voice low and dangerous, every word wrapped in venom. "You wanted to be part of it. Don’t pretend like you’re innocent in all of this. I never landed you in the Hospital Wing, I never told others that it was acceptable to call you slurs, I never did anything worse than what you’ve done to me!"

Tracey’s face twisted with anger, but something flickered in her eyes—something that might have been regret.

Just as the words left Hermione's mouth, a sharp creak echoed through the alcove, followed by a soft whoosh of the portrait door swinging open. Both Hermione and Tracey froze, turning instinctively toward the noise.

Through the doorway stepped a group of Slytherins—familiar faces, all of them, but ones Hermione had tried not to think about for months. Their eyes gleamed with cold malice, and their expressions were tight with expectation. Draco Malfoy’s blond hair shone in the dim light of the alcove, and his expression sharp as a dagger; Pansy Parkinson trailed him with her usual sneer, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. And behind them, three upper-year Slytherins entered—Calix Parkinson, Pansy’s older brother, and two others—the girl, Hall, who always followed the eldest Parkinson around, and a short boy with curly brown hair and an unsettlingly eager grin. 

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

For months, there had been an uncomfortable lull in the harassment that had once felt constant. At first, she thought it was the product of her increasing power. But now, seeing the smug, victorious expressions on Draco and Pansy’s faces, the realisation struck Hermione like a cold, sharp blade.

They had been waiting. And she had walked right into their trap.

Draco’s eyes glittered as he met her gaze, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Did you really think you could keep playing this game, Granger?" he asked, his voice smooth and mocking, his tone cutting through the silence. "Did you think we’d allow it?"

Hermione took a slow, steadying breath, her heart racing. She had always prided herself on being two steps ahead, but now she realised how deeply she had miscalculated. 

Pansy stepped forward, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, we won’t, of course," she said, sneering as she sized Hermione up, clearly savouring the moment. "You must’ve been so relieved when we finally stopped messing with you. Must’ve thought that cursing me was something I’d ever let a filthy little Mudblood get away with. But we were just biding our time."

A cold flush blossomed over her skin. She had assumed that the lack of aggression from Slytherin over the past few months was a sign that she had finally earned some respect. It hadn’t been respect. It had been a trick, a lull before the storm. 

A lazy, almost bored smile spread across Calix Parkinson’s as he surveyed her with icy eyes. He was tall, lean, and his hair fell in a messy wave, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made him dangerous. "You thought yourself too strong for retribution?" he drawled, his voice smooth as silk, but edged with ice.

Hermione’s stomach churned, but she stood tall. "I’ve done nothing that any of you haven’t done yourself," she said, her voice steady despite the rush of panic coursing through her. "Yes, I cursed Pansy—a girl who’d been torturing me for months .  What are all of your excuses for doing much worse to me?"

Draco snorted in disdain, cutting her off. "Our excuses? You think we need excuses?" His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped low, venomous. "You’re nothing, Granger. You never were. You’re a disgrace to this House, and you’ve overstayed your welcome."

Pansy took a step closer, her voice dripping with derision. "You thought we were afraid of you? Thought we were going to stand aside and let you win? " She let out a cruel laugh. "No, Granger. We were waiting for you to make that one mistake. That’s the thing about us—we don’t make mistakes. And you just made yours."

Calix stepped forward then, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling calmness. "You thought you could scare everyone in this house, Granger," he said, his voice soft, almost conversational. "But the truth is, you’ll never be even tolerated ."

Hermione’s breath quickened. Her palms were slick with sweat. She had never felt more trapped. They had known all along. Tracey—for all Hermione knew, Tracey might have been informing Malfoy of her little bullying campaign she’d planned. Perhaps that’s why he’d appeared so unaffected…

"Do you know what your mistake was?" Pansy asked, stepping even closer, her voice venomous. "You thought you could hide behind your cleverness. And now," she said with a twisted smile, "look where it got you. Maybe if you’d been more like Tracey, none of this would’ve ever had to happened"

Hermione’s pulse hammered in her chest. Her eyes flickered over to Tracey, who had gone silent, her face pale as she stared at the other Slytherins. “I’d rather go through hell than lap up to you.”

"You’ll get your wish soon enough, Mudblood," Draco said with a cold smile, stepping toward her with deliberate slowness.

Hermione’s throat went dry, and she took an instinctive step back. They had trapped her. All her studying, her planning... it had all been for nothing.

"Don’t worry," Pansy said, as though reading her thoughts, with a wide smile. "This is just the beginning."

The Slytherins around her—all of them—began to close in as they raised their wands, their glares colder than ever, their presence suffocating. Tracey, who had been silently standing to the side, took another hesitant step back, her face unreadable. And Hermione knew, with a sickening clarity, that Tracey wasn’t going to help her. She wasn’t even going to try.

For a moment, it felt like the world was closing in. Hermione had nowhere to run, no escape.

She raised her own with a trembling hand.