Shallow Waters
The long corridors of Hogwarts Castle seemed to stretch further everyday; its torches, once brightly burning, now ever-flickered as their flames struggled against the encroaching shadows. The chill in the air had grown sharper, biting at any exposed skin, and carried with it the faint, earthy scent of damp stone and ancient dust, as though the castle itself exhaled in a slow, cold breath.
Hermione shivered, her robes drawn tightly around her as she perched upon a narrow stone ledge nestled between two of the castle’s great pillars. The moonlight spilled in through the tall, narrow windows, its silver glow filtering through stained glass and casting fractured patterns of colour across the flagstones. The floor beneath her was a mosaic of light and darkness, the gleaming tiles broken by pools of shadow that seemed to stretch and shift with every flicker of the torches. High above, the ceiling soared like the ribs of a slumbering dragon, its ancient arches lost in the murky gloom, lending the corridor an eerie, cavernous silence.
Hunched over a thick, ancient tome, Hermione's brow furrowed as she tried to focus on the words illuminated by the cool, moonlit glow. Magical Transformations: An Anthology of Inanimate-to-Inanimate Transfigurations . Tom had insisted on this one—another dense, arcane text filled with theories and spellcraft far beyond what she had been taught in first-year classes. Each line was a struggle, her fingers tracing the bits of jargon and complex diagrams she couldn’t decipher, her mind straining to grasp the complexities Tom assured her she was to master soon if there was any hope for further pursuit of magical power.
Soon, curfew would be upon her, she knew, and yet Hermione stayed rooted; she would rather incur the wrath of Mr. Filch, the cantankerous Hogwarts caretaker whose wrinkled face was never not twisted in hatred except when any chance for punishing a student was given, than face her Housemates. They hexed her for sport, giggled as her lip wobbled and eyes welled…they had made her a shadow of herself. Even in classes, where she had once so excelled, Hermione shrank back, her voice swallowed by the weight of her fear. And everytime she did so, out of the corner of her downcast eyes, she could see the Slytherins’ silent laughter; Malfoy was especially amused, his sharp grey eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction whenever her mouth clamped shut, the answer she knew dying on her lips. Points for Slytherin dwindled with Hermione’s reluctance to shine, but it was a price the House seemed more than willing to pay if it meant watching her spirit crumble.
But, with a sigh, after she had reread the thirtieth page for the tenth time, Hermione rose. The Slytherin common room was mostly empty - only one jinx hit her, from a boy in the corner she couldn’t even recognize.
The days passed with a painful slowness, each morning greeted with the draft of the castle's dungeons and the ever-looming dread of what the Slytherins had in store for her.
Pansy Parkinson had taken to barking orders at her as if Hermione were her personal house-elf. “Pick up my books, Granger,” she’d say with a cruel smile. “Didn’t you hear me? Now. ” And Hermione would comply, her hands trembling with barely suppressed rage, her jaw clenched so tight it hurt. She could feel Millicent Bulstrode’s eyes on her too—those dark, unforgiving eyes that followed her every move, always ready to shove her into a wall or trip her in the corridors when no one was looking.
Millicent’s bullying was physical—sharp elbows that dug into Hermione’s ribs, a rough shove that sent her books sprawling, or the painful twist of her arm when they were out of sight from the professors. She bore it all with gritted teeth, never daring to retaliate. The few times she dared to look up, her gaze met Tracey Davis’. The other girl always seemed to be watching, her expression a conflicted mix of guilt and pity. But Hermione’s feelings toward Tracey had soured into something darker than hate. Tracey, who had once been her closest thing she’d had to a friend in Slytherin, now stood by and did nothing, pretending as if Hermione’s torment was something beyond her power to stop, as if she hadn’t been the one to begin it.
Classes became her only escape, but even they were not enough. Hermione threw herself into her studies with a desperation that bordered on obsession, spending every free moment in the library or hidden away in secluded corners of the castle with Tom’s diary. Yet, despite all the hours she poured into her work, the extra readings and late-night practice sessions, she had hit a wall. Spells that should have come easily to her—simple charms and transfigurations she’d once mastered—now slipped through her grasp like water through a sieve. The plateau had become a cliff, and she was stuck at the edge, unable to climb any higher no matter how hard she tried.
Tom was the only one who could still make her smile. His inked words would appear across the page, sometimes with a dry wit that cut through her frustration, other times with a rare warmth that felt like a lifeline. They’d talk for hours, with Tom guiding her through complex magical theory, teasing her when she stumbled over a difficult passage, or reminiscing about his own time at Hogwarts.
Honestly, Hermione, you’re making this harder than it needs to be, he’d write in his elegant script. The theory behind Epicurus’ Breakthrough is child’s play if you understand the principles of prima materia and essential properties.
I’m not a child, Tom, she’d scrawl back, the ink bleeding from the ferocity of her pen strokes. It’s just that your books are so… dense.
Tom’s laughter would echo in her mind as if he were standing right beside her. Oh, Hermione, you’re so dramatic. I think you secretly enjoy the challenge.
And in those moments, it was easy to forget everything else—to lose herself in the dance of ink on parchment, the world reduced to just her and the diary. But even Tom, with all his encouragement and wit, could not erase the growing frustration that gnawed at her.
Thursday came, dragging itself along like a wounded beast, and with it, another humiliating Flying lesson. The cold, crisp air bit at Hermione’s cheeks as she stood on the damp grass of the Quidditch pitch, her broom trembling in her grasp. Neville Longbottom stood beside her, his face pale with dread as Madam Hooch barked out instructions.
“Kick off, straight up, hover, then touch back down—simple, isn’t it?” Hooch called, her eyes narrowing as she watched them struggle.
Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest as she kicked off the ground, wobbling unsteadily on her broom. The wind whipped through her frizzy hair, sending it flying in all directions, and for a moment, she thought she might actually have it under control. But then her broom gave a violent lurch, and she nearly tumbled off, barely managing to clutch the handle in time. Beside her, Neville was faring no better. He was swaying precariously, his face green and his knuckles white as he gripped his broom with all his strength.
“Granger! Longbottom! Get down here, now ,” Madam Hooch barked, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.
With great relief, Hermione descended, nearly crashing into the ground as she landed awkwardly. Neville stumbled beside her, looking like he was about to be sick. Hooch’s expression was one of barely concealed frustration as she strode over to them. Behind her, Hermione could see Pansy and Daphne doubled over in laughter, and her cheeks pinkened.
“You two are a danger to yourselves and everyone around you,” she said, hands on her hips. “I’ve never seen such appalling flying in all my years at this school. I’ve discussed the possibility of extra lessons before, and I think it’s time I make good on that. Tuesday, crack of dawn - the both of you.”
Hermione’s heart sank at the thought of yet another burden to add to her already overwhelming list of responsibilities. “How…how long will this arrangement last, professor?” she asked, dreading the answer.
Hooch’s stern expression softened just a fraction, a rare hint of sympathy in her eyes. “Hopefully soon. It all depends on how much work you put in. Try your best, and I’m sure the two of you will become fliers of the highest calibre in no time.” She said the last part unconvincingly, her gaze lingering on Neville Longbottom, who appeared to be halfway to tears.
After what felt like ages, the last class of the week - Potions - approached, and with it, the weekend. Hermione, of course, was practically jumping with joy - she had little time for her actual classes, what with all the knowledge Tom wished to impart on her.
The heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon felt as though it was seeping into Hermione’s very skin, the flickering light from the torches casting long, eerie shadows over the rows of bubbling cauldrons. Professor Snape’s voice cut through the gloom, his drawling monotone perfectly matched to the sinister surroundings.
"Today, you will begin brewing the Herbicide Potion," he announced, his dark eyes sweeping over the class. "It is a simple concoction, but, as always, incompetence will out itself."
Hermione barely registered his words. Her attention was already on the instructions chalked up on the board, memorising them with precision. She had no room for error—not after last week's sneer-laden critique of her draught. Beside her, Tracey shuffled awkwardly, setting up their shared equipment. They had always been partners in Potions, but today, Hermione didn’t even glance her way.
"Add four lionfish spines to the mortar," she murmured to herself, taking up the ingredients with steady hands. Her movements were mechanical, efficient. Lionfish spines clinked softly against the mortar as she dropped them in. Picking up the pestle, she began to crush them into a rough powder, the repetitive motion almost meditative.
Tracey shifted beside her. "Hermione—" she started, her voice tentative, barely above a whisper.
Hermione ignored her, focusing instead on the magical theory swirling in her mind. Four lionfish spines… four… order, stability, she thought, her brow furrowing. In Arithmancy, four was a foundational number, representing balance—four elements, four cardinal directions. But what of lionfish spines? She knew spines symbolised structure and resilience, yet lionfish spines were venomous. Was this where the destructive essence of the Herbicide Potion stemmed from? A subtle, almost poetic duality—structural integrity imbued with lethal potency.
She added two measures of Standard Ingredient to the mortar and resumed her work, the pestle grinding against the powdered lionfish spines in a rhythmic cadence. Her mind remained on the potion’s essence, Tom’s teachings echoing in her thoughts. He would want her to think beyond the steps, to understand the very nature of the magic embedded within the brew.
"Three measures of the mixture to the cauldron," she murmured, measuring with precision. Her wand flicked in a practised wave, and she stepped back, satisfied as the potion began to simmer.
“You’re ignoring me,” Tracey whispered, her tone more insistent.
Hermione straightened, brushing stray powder from her robes. "We’ve finished," she said coolly. Together, they moved their cauldron to the front for inspection.
Snape loomed over their potion, his black eyes narrowing as he scrutinised their work. "Too thick," he said with a sneer, his thin lips curling in disdain. "And far too pale. Amateurish." He turned away with a swirl of his robes, muttering something about ‘reckless overachievers’ as he moved on.
“I didn’t orchestrate the attack,” Tracey said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t know they were going to—”
Hermione scoffed, folding her arms as she stared at the simmering cauldron Tom had said that she would say that. "I suspected you’d say that."
Tracey blinked, confusion flashing across her face. "What—why would I?—Hermione, you have to believe me. I didn’t know."
Hermione turned to her with a glare. "Then why did Pansy congratulate you? Why are you still friends with them?"
“I don’t know!” Tracey hissed, her voice laced with frustration. “Maybe they’re pretending I was involved to hurt you more. You think I wanted this?”
Hermione’s expression hardened, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yes, Tracey. Poor you. I’m sure it’s been absolutely awful, standing by and doing nothing while they boss me around and shove me into walls.”
Tracey flinched, looking away. “It’s better if it’s only one of us, isn’t it?” she whispered. “What good would it have done if they turned on me too? And - and, you know, you’re not exactly innocent. I still remember that it was you who’d been messing with me for weeks just to get me to crack. If anyone needs to be forgiven, it’s you.”
Hermione stared at her, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wanted to scream, to rail against Tracey’s excuses, but the weight of Snape’s voice cut through her anger.
"Flobberworm mucus," Snape announced, his tone dry. "An ingredient that, while unremarkable to the untrained mind, is a critical component in the stabilisation of—"
Hermione snatched her quill and parchment, furiously taking notes as Snape droned on. Her anger simmered beneath the surface, every word Tracey had said feeding into her growing distrust. By the time class ended, Hermione shoved her materials into her bag and stormed out of the dungeon, Tracey’s protests fading into the din of the dungeons.
As she made her way to the library, the corridors grew quieter, the muffled sounds of Hogwarts life echoing faintly through the walls. She stuck close to a cluster of Ravenclaws, her footsteps measured and deliberate. Every so often, her eyes darted over her shoulder, watching for the flick of green-and-silver embellishments, the glint of sneering faces. She’d learned quickly: never walk alone.
At last, she slipped into a dusty, secluded corner of the library, the quiet there even heavier than usual. Rows of forgotten tomes and cobwebbed shelves surrounded her, the air thick with the scent of parchment, must, and something faintly sweet—decaying wood, perhaps. She sniffled, stifling a sneeze that tickled at the back of her nose as she pulled Tom’s diary from her bag.
The moment she opened it, the world tilted. A sudden, spinning sensation stole her breath away, colours and shapes swirling together into a chaotic blur. When she blinked again, she was no longer in the library.
The air was crisp and cool, the faint scent of autumn filling her lungs. Hogwarts stood tall and majestic against a sapphire sky, the castle’s turrets and spires bathed in golden light. Around her, the emerald lawn rolled in gentle waves, dappled with pools of red and gold leaves that drifted lazily from the great oaks above. A sluggish wind carried the faintest whisper of the forest beyond, brushing against her cheeks with a gentle chill.
She was seated on a stone bench, and beside her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, was Tom. His alabaster skin seemed to glow in the soft autumn light, his usually sharp cheekbones tinged faintly red from the cold. He turned to her with a soft smile, his dark eyes warm and inviting.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Hermione,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “It gets lonely in here, you know. I missed you.”
Her reprimand—that he should have asked whether she wanted to be pulled into the diary—died on her tongue. His expression was so genuine, so kind, that it washed away the sharp edges of her irritation. Instead, she smiled hesitantly.
“You didn’t have to bring me here,” she said softly, though there was no real heat in her tone.
Tom chuckled, leaning back against the bench. “How could I not? You’ve been so distant lately. I thought perhaps you needed a break—a chance to remember how beautiful the world can be.” He gestured to the scene around them, as if to say: This is all for you.
They fell into easy conversation, the kind Hermione had come to treasure. Tom listened so intently, his gaze unwavering, his every word carefully chosen. He made her feel seen, understood, as though every thought she shared with him was worth treasuring.
It was only when a lull in the conversation came that she hesitated. She glanced down at her lap, brushing invisible lint from her skirt before speaking. “Tom… what do you think about Tracey?”
His warm expression faltered, replaced by something darker—an edge of irritation that made Hermione’s stomach twist. “Why are you asking about her?” he demanded. “Have I not been clear? She’s weak. Self-serving. She betrayed you once already, and you want to give her another chance?”
Hermione bristled, a rare flare of defiance sparking within her. “I’m just trying to figure out the truth, Tom. You’re not always there—you don’t see everything.”
His jaw tightened, his voice low and sharp. “And yet, I’ve been right about her all along, haven’t I? What’s troubling is not that you’re doubting Tracey, but that you’re doubting me. And all because you have the time to… socialise. ”
Hermione’s temper flared, her cheeks burning. Tom’s mercurial nature was too much to bear at times. “God! You know, I’m done following your orders like some puppet, Tom! Why do I have to bend to your every whim, afraid to even disagree for fear of upsetting you? You’re barely even proud of me anymore—why should I care what you think?”
Tom’s expression darkened further, disappointment etched into every perfect line of his face. “I thought you were different from the rest, Hermione - the silly, giggling girls of my own time and yours too, apparently. I thought you understood the importance of the work we’re doing. I thought you were… mature.”
The words stung, sharp and cutting. Hermione looked away, anger and shame warring within her. But she refused to back down. “I’m not some pious nun in a convent, Tom,” she snapped. “I’m twelve . I’m in a boarding school. And I’m alone.”
For a moment, Tom said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost mournful. “Am I not enough?”
The question hit her like a physical blow. A wave of pity and guilt crashed over her, and she suddenly felt very small. “You are,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You are , Tom. I’m sorry. I’ll do all the work you’ve assigned me. No breaks, no complaints. I’ll even brew Pepper-Up Potion if it means staying awake longer to finish everything, I swear it.”
Tom’s smile returned, faint but triumphant. He leaned forward, his voice gentle again. “That’s my Hermione.”
Still, she hesitated. “But Tom… I need someone. The Slytherins are cruel. The bullying—it’s getting worse.” She hadn’t wanted to admit it, not even to him, but the truth tumbled out before she could stop it.
His expression softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Don’t worry, Hermione. I can help with that.”
Relief flooded her, and for a moment, the tension eased. They talked on, the conversation turning lighter. Tom asked more and more about her life—her routine, her dreams, her fears. Hermione told him half-truths, sometimes outright lies, but with each passing word, she felt the weight of her loneliness lift just a little.
As they spoke, the world around them seemed to fade, the golden autumn light dimming into a soft, warm haze. Tom’s laughter echoed faintly in her ears, and for the first time in weeks, Hermione felt a strange sense of comfort.
Hermione Granger was an intelligent girl.
It wasn’t vanity or pride; it was simply a fact. She absorbed information faster than her peers, delved into complexities most would overlook, and applied knowledge with a creativity that set her apart. Coupled with her unyielding diligence, Hermione was, by all accounts, a prodigy—an academic force to be reckoned with.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not anymore.
As Tom Riddle demanded more and more of her, Hermione’s sense of self-worth seemed to wither. Her once-unshakeable confidence was crumbling under the weight of expectations she couldn’t meet. She wasn’t eating enough. She wasn’t sleeping enough. She barely spoke to anyone. Her world had narrowed to a singular focus: reading, taking notes, and writing to Tom. It was all she did. All she could do.
The Slytherins had yet to attack her again, which she supposed was a small mercy. But in some twisted part of her mind, she almost wished they would. At least then she might have a reason to step back, to catch her breath. Instead, their disdain had returned to its former expressions: barbed comments, sneaky jinxes, and the degrading acts they’d force her to perform.
The worst part was the lack of progress.
In the wizarding world, knowledge was quite literally power. Mastery of magical theory translated directly into ability, which was why the greatest witches and wizards were invariably the most learned. Yet despite her relentless studying and ceaseless practice, Hermione barely seemed to improve. She could cast spells with marginally greater precision, brew potions with slightly better results—but it wasn’t enough. Tom, after all, had achieved so much more by her age. He reminded her of that often.
Now, Hermione sat in her usual corner of the library, tucked away from prying eyes. The room was quiet save for the occasional rustle of turning pages or the muffled sound of Madam Pince’s footsteps. Her desk was buried beneath a precarious stack of tomes, each more esoteric than the last.
She was poring over The Principles of Transfiguration, a labyrinthine text that Tom had insisted was crucial to her advancement. Around her lay an assortment of other works: The Holy Book of Hermes to Asclepius, an Ancient Greek treatise on astrological botany; Natural Magic: Abridged Version by Giambattista della Porta, which she’d opted for over its unwieldy twenty-volume counterpart; The Depths of Animation by Ibn Nasir; and several others scattered across the table like abandoned relics.
As she flipped another page, her mind drifted, unbidden, to a grim realisation: she owed an apology to everyone she had ever silently judged. For most of her life, Hermione had believed that success was a matter of effort, that those who failed simply didn’t try hard enough. After all, wasn’t that what Edison had famously claimed? Genius was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.
But Tom had proven Edison wrong.
No matter how many hours Hermione poured into her studies, no matter how much sweat and sacrifice she offered, it wasn’t enough. She was too slow, too dense, too ordinary to comprehend the truths that seemed to come so effortlessly to him.
It stung.
Accepting her inadequacy felt like swallowing glass, but living with it was worse. And yet, for all her doubts and despair, Hermione refused to stop. She wasn’t a quitter. She might never be good enough for Tom, never rise to the standards he demanded, but she would keep trying.
Because giving up would mean admitting defeat.
And that was one thing Hermione Granger could never do.
And so, with that same dogged determination, the frosts of February reluctantly gave way to March, and the first whispers of spring began to stir in the air. Birds returned to the spires of Hogwarts, their songs weaving faintly through the cool mornings, but Hermione barely noticed. Her world remained confined to the pages of books, her thoughts consumed by magical theory, her body perpetually on the verge of collapse.
It wasn’t long before even the small pleasures of learning began to taste bitter. The Hermione Granger who had once devoured textbooks for the thrill of discovery was gone. In her place was a hollowed-out version of herself, moving through each day with robotic efficiency, her only goal to meet Tom’s ever-increasing demands.
Classes were no respite. During History of Magic, Professor Binns’ droning lectures lulled Hermione into unplanned naps that became the only moments of true rest she allowed herself, and even in others -
“Miss Granger!”
Hermione jolted awake, her head snapping up from her desk. The hazy remnants of a pleasant dream evaporated as her vision cleared, and she was met with the diminutive, sharp-eyed figure of Professor Flitwick. His usual genial expression was replaced by a frown of uncharacteristic disapproval.
“Y-yes, sir?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse.
“Five points from Slytherin,” he said, his tone clipped. “We are practising the Colour-Changing Charm. I’d suggest you begin immediately.”
He turned to mediate a squabble between Megan Jones and Justin Finch-Fletchley, leaving Hermione to rub her eyes and suppress a yawn. She picked up her wand, dreading the effort it took to perform even the simplest spells.
With a resigned flick of her wrist, she muttered, “ Colovaria .”
The book in front of her turned a pale, washed-out pink—not the vibrant hue Flitwick would have preferred, but enough to avoid further scrutiny. Hermione slumped back in her chair, pulling a heavy tome from her bag: Anima and Animus by Venetius Malfoy. Tom had called it “essential reading,” though Hermione doubted he’d ever had to decipher its labyrinthine prose with the same bone-deep exhaustion she now endured.
She opened the book and stared at its densely packed text, willing herself to focus. Once, this would have thrilled her—exploring knowledge that few others dared to touch, unravelling the mysteries of magic like a puzzle meant only for her. But now, the mere act of reading felt like a Sisyphean task.
Hermione’s competitive streak was the only thing keeping her going. Every time Tom compared her progress unfavourably to his own, every time he casually mentioned how easily he’d mastered a spell or theory, a stubborn ember of defiance flared in her chest. She couldn’t let him down. She couldn’t let herself down.
Yet beneath that fire lay the ache of disillusionment.
When she had first stumbled upon Tom’s name in her research, she’d expected to uncover some grand legacy—Chief Warlock, Minister for Magic, maybe even an academic revolutionary. Instead, she found a void. His name wasn’t attached to anything meaningful. That fact haunted her, a reminder that even the brightest minds could fade into obscurity.
And if Tom Riddle, with his charm and intellect, hadn’t left a mark, what chance did she have?
Hermione had always dreamed of achieving greatness. In the Muggle world, she had envisioned herself solving global crises, pioneering new technologies, and shaping a better society. In the magical world, she had hoped for no less.
But as the days dragged on, those dreams seemed to drift further away.
Her body bore the toll of her relentless schedule. She leaned heavily on Pepper-Up and Wit-Sharpening Potions, their sharp, minty tang now as familiar as the taste of water. Sleep was a rare luxury, and her once-bright eyes were shadowed by dark crescents.
Still, she couldn’t stop. To stop was to admit failure—not just to herself, but to Tom. And that was unthinkable.
As Hermione flipped another page of Anima and Animus, her fingers trembling from fatigue, she heard his voice echo softly in her mind: “You’re better than this, Hermione. You just have to try harder.”
"Oh, look!" Professor Flitwick's cheerful, high-pitched voice rang through the classroom. "Mister Macmillan has done it!"
Hermione glanced at Ernie Macmillan's pink textbook - even paler than hers - and stifled a scoff. The colouring was uneven, too, yet Professor Flitwick beamed as though Ernie had revolutionised magic itself.
Class ended soon after, and Hermione packed her things with practised efficiency, trudging out alongside the other Slytherins. History of Magic was next, and it loomed like a yawning void of monotony.
By the time Hermione reached the dusty, abandoned classroom that had become her refuge, her head was pounding from the endless drone of Binns' lecture. The room greeted her with its usual eerie ambiance: animated chalk squeaked aimlessly across the blackboard, drawing meaningless loops and squiggles. Cobwebs veiled the corners, spiders skittering within their fragile, silken domains.
This was where Tom had instructed her to practise the spellwork he claimed would be her tool for revenge.
Pansy Parkinson. Calix Parkinson. Draco Malfoy. The last, that short, smiling older boy she couldn’t recognize - Atticus Lestrange, son of the imprisoned Death Eater Rabastan Lestrange. Their names echoed in her head like a mantra of fury. They had humiliated her, broken her spirit in ways she didn’t want to admit even to herself.
Tom’s solution? Dark fire charms.
Hermione hesitated, gripping her wand tightly. Tom had been insistent, pointing out her natural affinity for fire magic. She had excelled in summoning flames for light, warmth, and protection - balancing the power of the hearth in the unity of creation, or reminiscing on times spent over the campfire in the Forest of Dean spent with her parents, smiling a bit when Mum’s constant complaints floated into her mind. Now, he said, it was time to master its shadowy counterpart: destruction. But the mindset required was rather different.
"Dark fire," Tom’s smooth voice echoed in her thoughts, "isn’t just about incinerating. It’s about dominating. When you summon it, you command ruin itself."
Hermione didn’t want to hurt anyone permanently. She had told Tom that over and over. But the thought of scaring the Slytherins, of finally being left alone—maybe even earning their fear—was enough to make her press on.
Today, her focus was on Ras , a devastatingly hot, silvery flame Tom assured her was one of the most effective. With a steadying breath, she pointed her wand at a decrepit desk across the room.
"Ras. "
A plume of silver fire erupted, engulfing the wood in a radiant blaze. The desk crumbled into ash in moments. Hermione marvelled at the spell’s destructive beauty, shaping the fire into spirals and arcs with deliberate wand movements. It was intoxicating, in a way—a dangerous reminder of just how much power she could wield.
But Dark fire demanded more than focus. It required summoning anger, resentment, and the primal urge to destroy. Hermione closed her eyes, conjuring images of the Slytherins’ jeering faces. She felt the heat of her fury rising, a molten core of hatred that fueled the flames.
The fire flared brighter, hotter, until it began to spiral out of control. Panic seized her, and she quickly extinguished it with a sharp gesture. Her heart raced, her breath uneven.
Hermione shoved her wand into her bag and fled the room.
Someone hit her with a Stinging Hex as she climbed the stairs to the Slytherin dormitory. The sharp pain made her hiss, but she didn’t stop, pushing through the common room’s oppressive atmosphere until she reached the dormitory she shared with the other girls.
Inside, the murky light of the Black Lake filtered through the central window, casting an eerie, greenish glow. Pansy, Daphne, Millicent, and Tracey were lounging on their beds, gossiping loudly.
“Did you see Bones today? Nearly tripped over her own feet—how pathetic !” Pansy snickered, tossing her sleek hair.
“Not as pathetic as her ,” Daphne chimed in, gesturing toward Hermione.
Hermione ignored them, dropping into her bed and pulling out one of her books.
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re too busy to hear us, Granger,” Pansy drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “What are you reading now? Some dusty old tome no one cares about?”
When Hermione didn’t respond, Pansy’s grin turned predatory. She got up, snatching Hermione’s bag from the bed.
“Let’s see what little Miss Know-It-All brought back from the library today.”
Hermione gritted her teeth, her fingers gripping her book so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Pansy rummaged through the bag, pulling out Hermione’s enchanted agenda. It hissed insults at her for each unchecked task, drawing laughter from the other girls.
“Oh, this is rich !” Pansy cackled, passing the agenda to Daphne. “Even it knows she’s worthless!”
Mum had bought that for her, Hermione recalled, as she glared at the pages in front of her, its words spinning.
Millicent leaned over. “Maybe we should see how her precious books hold up to a little… rough handling.”
The girls giggled, their laughter a knife in Hermione’s chest. Her rage burned hot, but she forced herself to stay still. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking.
Then, to Hermione’s shock, a voice spoke up:
“Enough,” said Tracey sharply, her voice cutting through the cruel laughter like a blade.
Pansy froze, her smirk faltering.
“What?”
“I said, leave her alone,” Tracey repeated, her tone firm.
The room fell silent. Hermione stared at Tracey, her heart pounding with a mix of confusion and disbelief.
Pansy’s smirk faltered into a look of incredulity. “Excuse me? Since when do you get a say in this, Tracey?”
Tracey Davis didn’t flinch. Her eyes, usually softened with an air of passivity, were sharp now, her lips pressed into a hard line. She stood from her bed, brushing off the folds of her uniform as though shaking away the weight of conformity.
“Since you’re acting like a pack of bullies,” Tracey said coolly, stepping forward. Her voice didn’t rise, but its clarity filled the room, commanding attention. “And not even clever ones, at that.”
The others exchanged glances. Daphne Greengrass raised an eyebrow, leaning against her bedpost with an amused, disbelieving tilt to her head. Millicent Bulstrode merely grunted, unsure if she was more surprised by Tracey’s sudden defiance or annoyed by the interruption.
Pansy recovered quickly, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrowed, voice dripping with disdain. “Oh, please, Tracey. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly playing hero for the Mudblood.”
At that word, Hermione’s stomach churned, her breath hitching. The insult cut deeper than she cared to admit, but she stayed still, glaring silently over the edge of her book.
Tracey’s expression darkened. “You’re disgusting, Pansy.” Her words were quiet but laden with venom. “I’m not doing this for her bloodline. I’m doing it because you’ve crossed the line. Do you hear yourself? Laughing about destroying someone’s property? Mocking someone for doing what none of us have the discipline to do? It’s pathetic, and obsessive. If I were Hermione, I’d be flattered - because, clearly, she’s all you people can talk about!”
The room grew colder, the heavy silence pressing against them. Even the ambient sound of the Black Lake seemed muted, as though the water itself had paused to listen.
Daphne broke the silence with a derisive chuckle. “Wow, Tracey. Didn’t think you’d grow a spine today. Let’s all clap for Tracey the defender of—what did you call her, Pansy? Mudbloods?”
But there was an edge to Daphne’s tone, a forced bravado that hinted at uncertainty. Her voice faltered a tad when she said the slur, and she looked to Pansy, as if in need of affirmation.
Tracey didn’t back down. Her gaze darted to Hermione, who was still frozen, still trying to read her book in vain.
“And you,” Tracey added, turning back to Pansy, “if you keep on your odd infatuation with Hermione, I’ll tell Professor McGonagall. I don’t even care if you jinx me at this point - I’d rather go through that than another minute of this. Seriously, whatever happened to creativity? Slurs aren’t fill-ins for proper insults, you know.”
Pansy’s face twisted in rage. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would,” Tracey shot back, her smile a razor-thin line of defiance. “And unlike you, I can actually make a compelling case without whining about favouritism.”
Millicent snorted, her laugh low and guttural, though whether it was at Pansy or the situation as a whole, Hermione couldn’t tell.
The tension snapped like a breaking string. Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes as though dismissing the entire affair. “Whatever,” she spat. “You’re no fun anymore, Tracey. Didn’t know you were a Mudblood-lover just like your mum .”
She tossed Hermione’s agenda onto the floor with a dramatic flick of her wrist before storming toward the door, Daphne and Millicent following behind her.
The dormitory door slammed shut, leaving only Tracey and Hermione behind.
Hermione sat there for a moment, her mind racing. Tracey, the quietest and most spineless of the group, had come to her defence. Of all people, Tracey .
“You don’t owe me anything,” Tracey said abruptly, her tone even as she leaned against the edge of her bed. “I just couldn’t stand their nonsense anymore.”
Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to say. Finally, she managed, “Thank you.”
Tracey shrugged. “Don’t read too much into it.”
But there was something in her expression—an unreadable flicker in her amber eyes—that hinted at more. A silent understanding, perhaps, or simply a shared exhaustion with the cruelty that seemed to thrive within the Slytherin house.
“I’m sorry,” said Hermione quietly. “I shouldn’t’ve targeted you simply for my own benefit.”
Tracey sighed, plopping herself onto Hermione’s bed without so much as a by-your-leave. “I’m sorry, too, I guess,” she said. “I shouldn’t have, you know, put you in the Hospital Wing, or added Buboter Pus to your sheets -”
“That was you? ” demanded Hermione.
“Let’s not play the ‘blame game’ here, alright? I’m apologising . Anyway…yeah, I shouldn’t have done that stuff, and honestly, I didn’t really blame you all that much in the first place; you screwed me over to benefit yourself - exactly what I’ve been doing for the past year.”
“Until now,” said Hermione, raising one bushy brown brow.
“Again, not about you,” said Tracey blithely, waving her hand errantly. “D’you know how it feels, talking about one girl for, like, half of the day? It got boring. Especially when the discussions were a bit…well, they didn’t exactly consist of statements of the sort that would ever be seen in the papers, if you know what I mean; a bit bigoted for my tastes, I think. And the thing is, if that one girl had been Susan Bones instead? I’d have been the ringleader! I mean, did you hear about her little incident with Moaning Myrtle?” Hermione shook her head bemusedly - Moaning Myrtle was the ghost of the second floor abandoned girls’ lavatory, who did nothing but burst into tears no matter what one said. “Well, she was writing in her diary about her day - so very dramatic for a so very dull girl - and then Myrtle peeks over her shoulder, so that…”
And thus, Hermione Granger and Tracey Davis became friends, or something of the sort; it was not borne of similarities, or even a particular liking of the either. They were girls who, under practically any other circumstances, would have loathed the other. And yet, it was a friendship all the same. Perhaps, even, one made all the more special for it.