Crossroads
Tom wrote vaguely that he did not know when exactly his plan for Hermione’s revenge would be put into motion, that it relied on such a variety of factors that he could not say:
I don’t know, Hermione , he replied for the umpteenth time, in that familiar looping script of his. You’re not all that prepared, are you? I doubt you could take on the Slytherins so soon.
Tom’s words felt like a slap, even through the cool detachment of ink on parchment.
I doubt you could take on the Slytherins so soon.
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the yellowed page, her knuckles blanching. She wanted to tear it to pieces, to crumple it and hurl it into the fire sputtering weakly in the corner of the Slytherin common room. But that would be giving the diary—giving Tom —too much power.
Yet, after only a moment’s pass, the truth of Tom’s words dawned upon Hermione; she wasn’t ready. Not for classes, not for revenge, not for anything . She barely felt prepared to make it through the next day, let alone to confront her tormentors. Pansy Parkinson’s incessant barbs, Draco Malfoy’s sneering superiority, the deliberate nudges from her Housemates in the halls meant to send her sprawling—they were unrelenting.
And Tom, with his endless demands for progress—more spells, more theory, more control—was no refuge. His critiques were sharper than any insult Pansy could muster. He was supposed to be her ally, her guide, but more often than not, he felt like just another judge, measuring her and finding her lacking. But Hermione was too attached to ever properly cut him off - after each attempt, she was writing to him within an hour now, pleading for either his guidance or his solace.
According to him, he’d already been where she was now after but a few months at Hogwarts. What she furiously studied, he had intuited; what she struggled through, he breezed past.
Perhaps she’d never be prepared enough for Tom.
Hermione sighed softly, lugging out a shiny, enormous book; she pulled out a notebook, too, and a quill as well. Tracey would be awfully angry—she had been pushing for action against the Slytherins for ages.
Easter was nearing, and with it, the spring holidays. The castle seemed lighter somehow, the oppressive weight of winter lifting as sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of the Great Hall. Outside, the grounds were dotted with bursts of colour—crocuses and daffodils blooming defiantly against the lingering chill.
And yet, with Easter came the start of a new term—the third, and final, term of Hermione’s first year at Hogwarts. As exams approached, the teachers had ramped up their assignments to an almost absurd degree, inundating students with an increasing amount of essays, practical spellwork, and seemingly impossible challenges. Of all in her year, it was Hermione who felt the most stress—she had drawn up a quite packed timetable for her studying, as well as for any who asked.
“But there’s no breaks!” Neville had cried out, looking up at Hermione with wide blue eyes. Behind him, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe were nodding furiously in a sign of rare agreement with the Gryffindor boy. Their tutoring sessions had been growing more infrequent, but their abilities had seen no cease in growth—in Charms, both Gregory and Vincent had even managed to perform the Dancing Charm before the end of class. “What if we need to go off to the loo?”
Hermione had shot all of the boys with a withering look. “There is no break on the path to greatness!”
Tracey, for her part, had sagely nodded as she read the latest edition of Witch Weekly , paying no heed to the unfolding lesson. “Don’t dare question her. And,” she had added, frowning, “she almost died in a bathroom once, didn’t you know? Maybe use a cup instead…”
But it was not only Hermione who had assumed this sort of behaviour—in fact, a large portion of Hogwarts had as well, some to an even greater extent. The fifth and seventh years, preparing for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s respectively, had conquered the library for themselves, making the previously peaceful sanctuary bustling and clamorous beyond belief. Only Madam Pince, by far the most stalwart of the defenders remaining, could do anything, and yet, overwhelmed by the influx, even she could not handle it all.
Besides Hermione and Percy’s shared table, cloaked in higgledy-piggledy piles of thick and thin tomes, laid the Housekeeping Charms section—a fact Hermione had appreciated, at first. That was perhaps the dustiest and most unused part of the entire Hogwarts Library, discounting only the unplugged depths of the Restricted Section—until, of course, exams had come upon unprepared students; by this time of the week, five students had already come in, shredding their practice O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s as they wailed and searched for books that would teach them more befitting skills.
As Hermione sat alone in the library, immersed in a dense tome titled The Parameterization of the Levitation Charm: Applications to Living Beings —a subject that was as much a philosophical inquiry into the boundaries of sapience as it was a technical guide—she barely noticed Percy Weasley approach. His appearance was uncharacteristically dishevelled, his red hair in wayward tufts and his glasses sitting crooked on his nose. With a huff, Percy dropped into the seat across from her, the weight of his bag causing the table to tremble slightly.
“You’re still working?” he asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “You do know I’m the one studying for my O.W.L.s, not you, right?”
Hermione hummed distractedly, her eyes glued to the book in front of her, barely registering his words.
“Well,” Percy continued, clearly affronted by her lack of attention, “you’ll be pleased to know my studying is going well. Thanks to those quizzes and study materials you made me go through, I’ve breezed through the first two years and third-year Arithmancy. My professors say I’m on track for mostly EEs and Os.”
That got Hermione’s attention. She snapped her book shut, the sudden motion startling Percy. “ EE’s? ” she gasped, her voice rising in scandalised disbelief. “Percy, of all people, you should know it’s Outstanding or bust! I’ve already told you—there’s no pride in an Exceeds Expectations! Which professors said this?”
“Er... Professors Quirrell and Sprout,” Percy admitted, his tone sheepish. “I’m not exactly stellar in their classes. But honestly, Hermione, OWL scores aren’t the end of the world. Their main purpose is to allow for more NEWT options. An EE here or there won’t matter much, will it?”
Hermione was positively horrified. “Percy, I’ve researched this! OWL scores are everything ! Job offers during seventh year are based on predicted NEWT scores, and those are calculated using OWL results, class ranks, teacher recommendations, and interviews. Yes, perhaps—just perhaps!—one EE won’t ruin your life, but why take the risk?”
Percy sighed and pulled out a stack of colour-coded flashcards with a flick of his wand. “Fine, fine. If you’re so concerned, help me study?”
Despite herself, Hermione felt a small smile tug at her lips. Trust Percy to manipulate her into tutoring him with barely any effort. He really was stressed about his exams—if getting an EE was a real possibility, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.
Snatching the flashcards from his hand, she started with the first question. “What’s the Harmony of Homophones?”
“It’s the pinnacle of linguistic connections drawn between transfigurational subjects,” answered Percy quickly. “And, although, the bonds a linguistic tie creates is typically one of the weakest, if two objects are homophones —like, like a doe and dough, for example—the bond formed between the objects will be perhaps the strongest, and the transfiguration will prove unexpectedly easy.”
“Good. Now, what’s the tria prima ?”
Again, Percy gave the perfect response.
The session continued smoothly until Hermione flipped to a question that made Percy falter. “How does one properly awaken a Shrinking Violet?”
Percy opened his mouth, closed it, and then groaned, slumping back in his chair. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, frustrated.
“Think it through,” Hermione prompted, tapping her quill on the table. “What’s a Shrinking Violet?”
“A magical plant from South America,” Percy began hesitantly, “that... shrinks when animals approach it. It’s used to counter Cherufe venom.”
“That’s a start, then,” Hermione said encouragingly. “So if it draws itself deeper into the earth as a form of protection, what would it hate?”
“High winds?” Percy guessed, his eyes lighting up as the realisation clicked. “Air! Of course—gusts of air wake them up! The classical opposites—fire and water, earth and air. Merlin, why didn’t Herbology ever teach that?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Probably because it’s not universal. Shrinking Violets are just one example. The rules don’t cover the majority of magical flora, especially plants classified under the Vocifere class or influenced by the first three of the astrological decans.”
Percy stared at her blankly. “You’ve got to stop talking like that, Hermione. Half of what you just said is rubbish to me.”
“Perhaps it’d be wise to study more, then,” said Hermione warningly, smirking as she handed him back the flashcards.
Yet, despite Hermione strictly following her own advice, it had not reaped much benefits. Her performance in classes had not altered—she was still rather good, if not exceptional.
“With the impending exam season,” began Professor McGonagall, her eyes and tone sharp as the class groaned at the staggering amount of homework she had assigned, “I believe it necessary to brush up on the basics.”
“But we know all this tosh!” said Pansy Parkinson furiously. Although Hermione was perhaps just as outraged, what with all the readings Tom was demanding she do, she still took a bit of pleasure at this.
“One point from Slytherin for speaking out of turn, Miss Parkinson!” said Professor McGonagall; under the teacher’s harsh gaze, Pansy shrunk down in her seat. “May I remind you all that the General Transfiguration Process has yet to be truly mastered by any of the students here, excepting Miss Granger?”
Hermione, who was rapidly pinkening in pleasure, beamed at the professor. Many of her classmates, both Gryffindor and Slytherin, shot her dirty looks; only their shared hatred of Hermione Granger could ever unite them, it seemed.
“You’re really bad at false modesty, did you know?” said Tracey curiously. “At least bow your head, or wipe that smile off of your face. Everyone already hates you as is—why give them even more reason?”
“You’d understand, if you’d’ve ever had cause to have been complimented by a teacher,” snapped Hermione, her smile now gone.
“My mother homeschooled me for a bit, you know.”
“Oh, you know that’s unfair!”
“No, that’s the thing…I think you’re still right. Have I ever been complimented by a teacher, even then?” Tracey frowned, closing her eyes, as she pondered on that. Then, her eyes flew open: “I knew it! You’re wrong—Professor Flitwick said I had the best Colour-Changing Charm in the entire class! Ha! ”
After a long pause, Hermione awkwardly patted Tracey on the shoulder, her annoyance replaced with pity; Tracey just giggled.
Soon enough, Professor McGonagall had assigned a task for the class—to transform the most intricate object they could think of, using any materials they had on hand.
To her left, Neville let out a low moan. “W-what do you think I should do?” he asked Hermione, his watery blue eyes beseeching. “What would be the wand motions for a quill-to-goblet transformation, you think? Or - no, that’s too ambitious…I’m an idiot for even thinking that, aren’t I?” He looked to Hermione desperately, as if he wished she would supply him the answer for that too.
Once she’d given Neville all the advice she could, Hermione pulled out a parchment to transfigure and focused on mounting her own efforts. What was the most intricate object she could think of? Almost immediately, the answer had drifted into her mind; her parents had always loved teaching her about various topics—and, once, they’d told her of the famed Fabergé Eggs. They were jewelled Easter eggs—befitting for the upcoming holidays, Hermione supposed—that the Russian jeweller Fabergé had crafted yearly, on orders from Tsar Nicholas II; one was always for the tsar’s wife, the other for his mother. And one, the Winter Egg, had always stood out from the pictures Mum had shown her—it appeared as if frosted-over glass, the dappled ice made of platinum and over a thousand carefully studded diamonds.
Hermione closed her eyes; she visualised every delicate swirl of platinum, every glimmering shard of diamond frost. Then, with a jab of her wand, she began.
Her movements were swift but controlled: two tight twirls, a sharp jab, a flourish, and then a series of intricate twists. The magic flowed through her like water, each movement precise, her concentration absolute.
Fourteen minutes later, a gleaming replica sat on her desk. It was a masterpiece, seeming to capture the essence of winter itself. Its body, carved from clear rock crystal, glimmered with a translucent and delicate beauty, as softly diffused light danced from within. The surface was intricately adorned with a latticework of platinum, meticulously crafted to resemble bare, frosted branches. Diamonds, like tiny frozen droplets, sparkled along these patterns, catching the light in a delightfully wondrous and wintry way as it cast soft rainbows across the desk.
But Hermione felt no pride, only surveying her work with a critical eye as she attempted to find its flaws. She knew she should have been impressed with herself—most of her classmates were still fumbling with misshapen lumps of metal or partially transformed objects. But only a wave of irritation coursed through her; Tom could have done this with an errant flick of his wand.
Across the room, Professor McGonagall approached, her stern expression softening as she inspected Hermione’s work. “Remarkable craftsmanship, Miss Granger. A flawless piece. Five points to Slytherin.”
Hermione nodded stiffly, muttering a quiet, “Thank you, Professor.”
As McGonagall moved on to inspect other students’ work, Hermione leaned back in her chair, tracing the edge of the egg with her finger.
“Wow,” breathed Tracey, whose own object resembled a miniature torture device. “What even is it?”
“The Winter Egg,” said Hermione softly, still staring at it. “It’s one of the fifty Fabergé Eggs—they were crafted by the Russian jeweller—”
“I didn’t say ‘give me the whole story from humanity’s dawn’.”
“It’s a pretty Easter egg, then,” said Hermione.
“Oooh,” responded Tracey, looking at it with fascination once again. “Does it have chocolate in it? I’m starved.”
“It’s impossible to transfigure chocolate.” At Tracey’s look of confusion, Hermione went on, “Food is one of the Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration. The first one, if I remember correctly.”
“So what is in it?” asked Tracey.
At that, a slight smile finally spread across Hermione’s face. She opened it slowly,revealing the vividly-coloured metallic bloom of miniature flowers within. “Winter gives away to spring.”
“Wow! This is my Easter gift, I’m guessing?”
Hermione raised a single bushy eyebrow.
Tracey’s eyes widened. “Oh, come on! It’s almost my birthday—bet you didn’t even know that, huh?”
“You follow the Witch Weekly horoscopes for Geminis,” said Hermione, her eyebrow still raised. “That means you were born in either late May or June. It’s March, Tracey.”
Tracey pouted
“...Fine, you can have it.”
Hermione’s other classes went in rather similar ways. Her professors, to prepare the class for their first set of Hogwarts exams, had begun with even more practical lessons. Hermione’s results were almost always by far the most impressive in comparison to her struggling peers. Her professors, barring Snape, all lauded her, and yet…
Tom no longer did, and that made all the difference.
Hello, Tom.
Hello, Pansy, came the reply, written in Tom’s familiar looping script. How was your day?
Fine. I have a question for you, though—how did you ever get the hang of flying on a broomstick?
I never did, Tom answered swiftly. My goal was always to fly unaided. Straddling a cleaning utensil felt beneath me.
Hermione rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. Tom could be such an insufferable priss sometimes, but she supposed that was part of his charm.
Their conversation carried on for a few minutes longer—Tom dramatically waxing about his life and once-grand ambitions and Hermione volleying with her curiosity—until Hermione glanced at the time and sighed reluctantly. I’ve got to go. I’ll write again soon.
It was time for her private Flying lessons.
With that, she carefully closed the diary, stowing it beneath her pillow before slipping out of the dormitory.
The common room was quieter than usual, its occupants few and far between—mostly fifth and seventh years bent over textbooks or murmuring in low voices. But as soon as Hermione stepped into view, all conversation halted. Heads turned toward her in unison, and the room filled with a cold, heavy silence.
Their stares were cutting, full of disdain and judgement.
Hermione set her jaw and ignored them, striding purposefully toward the exit. She didn’t slow her pace, didn’t falter, but the familiar tightness in her throat and the prickle behind her eyes were harder to disregard.
As she stepped out into the corridor, the cold stone walls and flickering torchlight proved a welcome reprieve. She took a deep breath, letting the sharp air cool her burning face. The Slytherins would never stop hating her; that much had become glaringly clear. She kept striding to her destination nonetheless. There was no point in spilling tears over what she had already known.
Madam Hooch stood before them on the training pitch, her piercing yellow eyes flicking between Hermione and Neville with a mix of sternness and encouragement. The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows over the neatly trimmed grass, but neither student had time to admire the scenery.
She cracked her eyes open, daring to look around. Madam Hooch’s sharp gaze was fixed on her, and for a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of incredulity in the professor’s expression.
“Neville!” Hooch barked, drawing Hermione’s attention downward. Neville was hovering a few feet below her, his legs shaking so violently they almost slipped off the broom. His face was pale, his eyes wide and glossy, as though he were on the verge of tears.
“You’re doing fine, Longbottom!” Hooch called up to him. “Just hold steady. That’s it—don’t fight the broom, let it guide you.”
Hermione couldn’t help but offer Neville a small, encouraging smile, even as her stomach churned with unease.
“Alright,” she whispered to herself. “Just a little higher.”
Gripping the broom handle tightly, she tilted it again, this time at a steeper angle. The broom shot upward with alarming speed, and Hermione gasped, flattening herself against the polished wood. The wind whipped past her ears, loud and relentless, and her hands grew slick with sweat.
She dared another glance downward—and immediately regretted it. The ground was impossibly far away, a dizzying patchwork of green grass and brown earth. She could see the tops of the nearby trees swaying in the breeze, and her stomach gave an unsettling lurch.
No. Don’t panic.
“Good, Granger!” Madam Hooch’s voice cut through the roar of the wind. “But keep your weight balanced—don’t lean too far forward!”
Hermione adjusted her posture, flattening herself more securely against the broom, but the sensation of hanging in midair, with nothing but a thin stick keeping her from plummeting to the ground, was almost too much to bear. Her fingers ached from clenching the broom, and her thighs felt like jelly.
“Neville, you’re doing better than last week!” Madam Hooch called encouragingly. “A little more confidence now!”
Hermione peeked down again. Neville had managed to climb to just below her level, though his broom wobbled dangerously from side to side. His face was twisted in concentration, and his lips moved as though he were muttering a mantra under his breath.
For a moment, Hermione’s fear ebbed, replaced by a surge of pride for the boy. He was trying so hard, despite his terror.
But then her broom gave an unexpected lurch, jolting her back to her own predicament. She yelped, her heart leaping into her throat as the broom swayed under her, caught by a gust of wind. Her grip tightened reflexively, and she flattened herself against the handle again, breathing hard.
“Well done, both of you!” Hooch called out after a tense moment. “Now, slowly descend. That’s enough for today.”
Hermione exhaled shakily, guiding her broom downward inch by inch. Her feet touched the ground with a thud, and she immediately collapsed onto the grass, her legs trembling like jelly. Neville landed beside her a moment later, clutching his broom like a lifeline.
“That,” Hermione said between gasps, “was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”
Neville nodded mutely, still too pale to speak.
Madam Hooch, however, smiled faintly, her hawk-like eyes glinting. “You’re getting there. Both of you. Flying isn’t about talent—it’s about trust. Trust in your broom and trust in yourself.”
Hermione wasn’t sure she believed her, and as she glanced at Neville, she saw similar scepticism reflected.
“Now that we’ve covered hovering,” Hooch went on, “I think the next lesson will be on actual flying . Is that alright?”
Reluctantly, Hermione and Neville nodded, the former unwilling to ever talk back to a teacher, and the latter unwilling to ever talk back to almost anyone.
“This is awful,” said Neville, as they trotted their way across the lawn, the crisp evening air tugging at their robes. “I’m already bad enough—now I have to fly? ”
“Oh, we’ll get the hang of it eventually!” exclaimed Hermione cheerfully, although she felt much the same. “A first year student hasn't failed the Flying exam for over two decades—and she was paraplegic!”
Neville paled. “I’ll be setting a record, you’re saying?”
Hermione tilted her head at that; Neville somehow always managed to take even encouragement in the worst of ways.
“Well,” began Hermione, “I’m sure that Madam Hooch won’t let either of us fail. And if we do, I doubt we’ll be held back or anything of the sort. We’ll just attend Flying lessons with the first years, perhaps until our seventh year if we never get it right. It’d be embarrassing, awfully so, but still nothing to worry about too much.”
Neville’s lip wobbled.
“As long as we try our best, failure will never have us in its hold, though!” added Hermione rapidly. “We may very well turn out to be the best flyers in our year, for all we know. Maybe Potter will get kicked off the Gryffindor Team and you’ll replace him as Seeker!” A laugh escaped Hermione at the end, and she expected Neville’s own to follow.
“Oh, Hermione,” said Neville with a shocking touch of condescension, “you really don’t get it, do you? You’ve never failed before in your life—I’ve done nothing but fail.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “That’s…you shouldn’t say that sort of rubbish, Neville. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy—you’ll never succeed if you’re so intent on maintaining that awful mindset. And, anyway, I’ve failed many times in my life.”
“Really?” asked Neville.
“Really,” echoed Hermione. “Why do you think I work so hard, if I’ve never actually faced what I try to desperately outrun?” She fixed Neville with a stern look, as the mullioned windows of the castle began to roll into view. “You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you, Neville? Summon up some of that famed bravery, and you’ll do fine when flying.”
“I guess,” mumbled Neville, his eyes gaze on the dewy grass below. “I’m not even a proper Gryffindor, though—even the Hat said it saw potential rather than, you know, innate courage or whatever.”
“The Hat’s opinion is a load of tosh, Neville,” said Hermione. “Did you know it told me that I wasn’t fit for Hufflepuff because, supposedly, I wasn’t ‘humble’ or ‘patient’ enough. Can you believe that?”
Neville stared at her for a good few seconds.
“I said ,” repeated Hermione testily, “can you believe that?”
“Er - I can’t believe the Hat said that!” cried Neville. “You are - erm - the - the pinnacle of what a Hufflepuff should be. I’ve never met someone more caring, more loyal, more just-!”
“You don’t need to justify your answer, Neville,” sighed Hermione. “It should be self-evident, really. Yes, I wanted to be a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw the most, but I would’ve fit Hufflepuff House just as well.”
“What about Slytherin?” asked Neville. “Do you…do you think the Hat’s judgement was…?”
It was hard to respond to that. If Hermione answered in the affirmative, she knew Neville would apply that to himself, and start sobbing about how he wasn’t meant for Gryffindor. But…
“I think the Sorting Hat sees what you wish to present,” said Hermione carefully. “I was…overcome with anger and a need to prove myself during the Sorting; I wanted to prove to everyone that I could be great, that I wasn’t bound by my blood. Perhaps that wasn’t all that reflective of my usual nature then—but it is now. So the Hat saw a seed of potential within me, and decided to, you know, flower it, I think.”
At the Welcoming Feast, Hermione would never have spoken of the Hat’s merits. But Tom had been a Slytherin, hadn’t he? He’d taught her the value of ambition, of power—and Hermione was grateful for that. If she hadn’t been Slytherin, she’d never had learned such lessons, never would have held up Tom as an end goal to strive for.
“That makes sense,” said Neville quietly. “Are you…happy, there?”
Just as she opened her mouth to answer, the sound of quick, purposeful footsteps interrupted them.
“Well, well,” came a familiar voice. “If it isn’t Hermione and Longbottom, deep in philosophical musings.”
Hermione scoffed, already recognizing the tone. Tracey Davis strolled toward them, her arms crossed and her dark green scarf trailing behind her in the chilly breeze. She stopped a few feet away, her sharp eyes narrowing as she assessed the pair.
“Tracey,” greeted Hermione shortly. “What are you even doing here? You can’t have been waiting just to make that dramatic entrance.”
“Oh, I just happened to be taking a walk when I overheard you two,” Tracey said lightly. “Longbottom asked a good question back there. Are you happy, Hermione?”
Hermione felt the heat rise to her cheeks, and Neville shifted uncomfortably beside her, his gaze darting between the two girls. A day before, they had been arguing over when to execute their plan to target the Slytherins who had sent Hermione to the Hospital Wing—Tracey wanted it done soon, while Hermione wasn’t ready until Tom thought she was; it would be stupid, in her opinion, to ignore his advice, when he’d once been in her very shoes.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Hermione replied, her voice tight. “Why don’t you stop beating around the bush and just say what you so clearly want to?”
“Fine,” said Tracey, shrugging. “I think you’re being a coward, Hermione. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I was even watching the last bit of your remedial Flying lesson, and even Longbottom was less afraid. Longbottom! ”
“Hey!” exclaimed Neville in a rather small voice.
“No offence, of course,” assured Tracey, before looking back at Hermione. “Look, I’m saying this with all the love and respect I have for you—you need to get off your fat arse, and start working! Lately, it seems like you’re too busy playing it safe to actually do anything. You’re always reading, always waiting. What exactly are you waiting for? A signed invitation from them to destroy you first?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she took a deliberate step forward. “I’m not waiting, Tracey. I’m preparing. There’s a difference. Just because you want to act without thinking doesn’t mean I will.”
Tracey raised an eyebrow. “Preparing? For what, Hermione? Are you planning to write them an essay? Maybe a nice, long speech about equality?”
Neville winced, and Hermione’s hands curled tighter at her sides. “I don’t need to justify myself to you,” she said sharply. “But if you must know, I’ll act when I’m ready—when I know I can succeed.”
Tracey scoffed, stepping closer. “And what happens while you’re waiting?”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Tracey,” said Hermione loftily.
“Yeah, it wasn’t. But you’re no Rome—honestly, you’re more like the Etruscans. Or, no, they kind of invented our alphabet system, didn’t they? I don’t really remember what Binns said…Well, anyway, you’re more like the people the Etruscans conquered. Like, the loser of losers.”
“I love how kind you are,” said Hermione. “It’s one of my favourite things about you, really.”
“Honesty is better than kindness,” responded Tracey, smirking. “Of course, I’m not all that honest in general, but I have no reason to lie to you. It’s your choice, I understand, but when I’m woken up by a hex , it kind of affects me too.”
With that, Tracey spun on her heel and walked off, her scarf trailing behind her like a banner. Hermione watched her go, her chest tight and nostrils flared.
“You two are friends?” asked Neville.
“Of course,” Hermione replied sharply, though her eyes stayed fixed on Tracey’s retreating figure as she pushed open the worn oak doors of the castle and disappeared inside. “Tracey’s just dramatic. Once, she even threatened to murder me after I passed her the wrong flavour of jam, you know.”
But even as she said this, doubt crept into her mind, curling around her thoughts like smoke. Hermione herself had grown tired and sceptical of Tom’s warnings—was there more truth to Tracey’s words than she cared to admit? The doubts lingered through the rest of the evening, gnawing at her resolve until she found herself unable to focus on anything else.
Later that night, in the privacy of her dormitory, Hermione opened the diary, her quill hovering over the yellowed pages as she thought of how to frame her feelings. Tom’s presence had always been a strange comfort, even when he was at his most cutting. Surely he would know what to say.
Hello, Tom. I really need your advice.
His response came almost immediately, the looping script as precise and commanding as ever.
Hello, Pansy. What troubles you tonight?
Hermione hesitated, her quill hovering over the page before she began to write. I had an argument with an… ally. She said I was too cautious. That I’m wasting time waiting and studying when I should be acting. Do you think she’s right? Am I waiting too long?
There was a pause, the parchment remaining blank for longer than usual. When Tom’s words finally appeared, they were deliberate and sharp.
No, Pansy. She is wrong. Acting without preparation is the mark of a fool, not of someone destined for greatness. Power is not achieved by reckless leaps; it is cultivated, step by step, through discipline and knowledge. You are on the right path, if trodding a bit too slowly on it, and I will not allow you to be swayed by the rash whims of lesser minds.
Hermione exhaled, her chest loosening slightly as she read his words. Still, doubt lingered. But what if I’m too cautious? What if I wait too long and miss my chance?
The ink shimmered as Tom’s response emerged, firmer now.
Do you think I would let that happen? I have seen your potential, Pansy. You are meant for far more than petty squabbles and meaningless gestures. Every lesson I have given you, every spell you have practised, every ounce of power you have honed—it is all leading to something greater. But you are not ready yet. Not even nearly. And if you act now, you will lose everything.
The words felt like a cold hand gripping her shoulder, steadying her even as they sent a chill down her spine.
You are brilliant, Pansy, but brilliance must be tempered. Mastery cannot be rushed. When the time comes, you will know—and I will ensure that you are unstoppable. Until then, you must trust me. Do you trust me?
Hermione’s hand shook slightly as she wrote her reply. Of course I trust you, Tom.
The ink bled into the parchment in an almost predatory flourish.
Good. Then continue as I’ve instructed. Perfect your magic. Strengthen your mind. Learn everything you can. When the moment to act arrives, you will be ready—and you will not fail. But only because you waited. Remember that, Pansy. You are not like anyone else in that castle. You are better. Don’t let their impatience drag you down to their level.
Hermione stared at the page, her doubts now smothered under the weight of Tom’s certainty. He was right—he was always right. She closed the diary carefully, pressing her hand against its cover as if to absorb the confidence his words had given her.
Tracey’s words might have left her shaken, but she would not waver. She had Tom, and she had a plan. The others could rush blindly into action if they wished. Hermione would wait, and when the time came, she would rise—not as some impulsive rebel, but as a force to be reckoned with.
Sunlight streamed through the lofty windows of the Charms classroom as Hermione and Tracey entered, casting golden patterns upon the mahogany desks. This cheerful light - for all it seemed to empower Professor Flitwick, who was wondrously beaming at all the incoming students, ushering them in - did nothing to improve their moods; the two girls, still in the infancy of their burgeoning friendship, were still squabbling.
“I still think we need to do something about them soon,” whispered Tracey as she and Hermione took their seats at the front of the Charms classroom. “Do you know how humiliating it is, doing nothing?”
Hermione sighed, her inkpot making the faintest clink as she placed it on the desk. “Yes,” she said tightly, “of course I know, Tracey.” She yawned, then—Hermione had once again been up most of the night, devouring dense tomes that Tom had all but insisted she complete. It was only due to daily Pepper-Up Potions that she felt sure to walk, although having to always wear a Wizard’s Hat to hide the steam pouring out of her ears—one of the many side effects of the potion, alongside increased body temperature and a resistance against the common cold (which was actually the draught’s main purpose, but Hermione had long forgotten that)—was quite the downside.
Tracey opened her mouth to retort but fell silent as Professor Flitwick cleared his throat and hopped atop a stack of books serving as his podium, his high-pitched voice carrying easily over the noise. “Settle down, settle down! Today, we’ll be reviewing the theory and practice of animation charms—an essential topic for your exams!”
The hum of conversation ebbed, though a few whispered exchanges lingered at the edges of the room. Hermione gripped her quill tighter, keeping her eyes fixed on Professor Flitwick.
“Now,” Flitwick continued, his wand tapping the board, where the words Model of Transient Entelechy appeared in flowing script. “Who can tell me about the foundational philosophy behind animation magic?”
The silence that followed was almost deafening.
But then, behind Hermione, she heard a low drawl:
“Oh, does the Mudblood wonder not know this one?” Malfoy tutted, as if disappointed.
Although Hermione knew it was perhaps not the most intelligent act, her hand shot up in the air quicker than even she could have anticipated, her fingers trembling slightly. Behind her, there were muffled snickers.
“Yes, Miss Granger!” Professor Flitwick called.
Hermione gave him a wide grin, her overly-large front teeth on full display. “The Model of Transient Entelechy, developed by Aurelius de Celeris, proposes that every object exists in a state of latent potential called entelechy—a dormant fullness of purpose. Animation magic awakens this potential, aligning the object with its Ideal Form, which allows it to exhibit motion and behaviour without truly being alive.”
Professor Flitwick beamed. “Excellent! And how does this theory connect to practical spellwork?”
Hermione hesitated only briefly, the words forming in her mind as if Tom’s voice were guiding her. “Through the First Principle of Hermetic Law, As above, so below, animation charms align the material world with the immaterial. For instance, to animate a stone, a wizard must invoke the elemental energies of Earth while drawing upon celestial forces that govern motion - such as the Mars Aspect, for impulse. By weaving these correspondences together, the object temporarily mirrors its Ideal Form, creating the illusion of life.”
If possible, Flitwick’s beam shone even brighter. “Wonderful, Miss Granger!” Flitwick squeaked, clapping his hands together. “A precise and thorough explanation—five points to Slytherin!”
The rest of the class, predictably, shifted to practical application, and it was here that Hermione truly came alive. If there was any field in which she had grown the most, it was practical charms. She had practiced tirelessly, night after night, often guided by Tom’s relentless insistence that mastery was the foundation of power.
By the end of the lesson, Hermione had animated nearly every nonliving object in the room that she had been permitted to touch. Quills hopped across desks in perfect synchrony, inkwells performed elaborate pirouettes, and even the chalk on the professor’s board scribbled phrases faster than Flitwick could call them out. More impressively, Hermione managed to animate several objects simultaneously, her wand guiding them with seamless precision.
The other students, especially her Slytherin housemates, were less than thrilled.
“Look at her,” Pansy hissed from her seat, loud enough for those around her to hear. “Always has to be the center of attention, doesn’t she?”
Draco’s lip curled as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Hermione with icy disdain. “Show-off,” he muttered, loud enough for the insult to carry.
Hermione, for her part, ignored them entirely. As the class wrapped up, she flicked her wand, and the animated objects returned neatly to their places. She could feel the stares—daggers from her housemates, admiration from the Ravenclaws, and something unreadable from Neville—but she kept her head high.
Tracey sidled up to her as they packed their things. “The Slytherins didn’t like that,” she whispered warningly. “Perhaps if you’d spent a bit more time planning…”
Soon enough, after all their classes for the day had come to an end, they were off to do even more exam preparation. The library was dimly lit, quiet except for the occasional rustle of parchment and the soft hum of students murmuring over their work. Hermione sat at a small table tucked in a corner, surrounded by towering shelves of books. Her quill scratched furiously against a roll of parchment, her thoughts a whirl of spells and theories. Tracey sat opposite her, reclining lazily, occasionally flipping through a book without any real interest.
“Who do you think is cuter?” said Tracey in a monotone voice as she read the textbook. “‘Roger Davies or Cedric Diggory?”
Hermione didn’t look up. “I thought Diggory was your future husband?”
“Yeah, but now that I think about it, Davies is practically just as handsome and I’ll have to barely change my last name!”
“Or you could just…not change your last name at all?”
Tracey wrinkled her nose. “That’s just not done. I’m a traditional woman, Hermione. That means taking on my husband’s last name, laughing at all of his unfunny jokes…the works, really.”
Before Hermione could reply, a shadow fell over their table. She looked up, her fingers tightening on her quill.
Draco Malfoy stood there, flanked by Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, with Daphne Greengrass lurking behind them. Blaise Zabini leaned casually against a nearby bookshelf, his expression unreadable as he toyed with the edge of his sleeve.
“Well, well,” Draco drawled, his pale eyes glinting with malice. “If it isn’t Slytherin’s little know-it-all, hiding away in her favorite nest of books.”
Hermione’s stomach tightened, but she refused to let her fear show. She placed her quill down deliberately and met his gaze. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“To remind you of your place,” Pansy snapped, her eyes narrowing. “You think just because you can waggle your wand better than the rest of us, you’re something special?”
“Better than you ?” Tracey piped up, smirking. “Not exactly a high bar, Parkinson. You’re not exactly the best dog in the show, are you?”
Pansy’s face flushed a deep red, but Draco raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze remained fixed on Hermione. “You may have impressed Flitwick,” he sneered, “but don’t think for a second that it means anything. Being the teacher’s pet doesn’t make you powerful, Granger. It makes you insufferable.”
Hermione stood slowly, her chair scraping against the floor. She didn’t flinch under the weight of their glares, though her heart pounded in her chest. “If you’re done wasting my time, I have studying to do. Not all of us can get by on our daddy’s reputation, after all.”
Draco’s lip curled into a sneer, and before she could react, his wand was out, pointed directly at her. “ Locomotor Mortis! ” he hissed.
Hermione felt her legs snap together, and she stumbled backward, catching herself against the table. Tracey shot to her feet, drawing her own wand. “Oh, come on!” Zabini called from his perch. “Whatever happened to House pride? Slytherin unity!” He lazily pumped his fist up.
“Shut up, Zabini,” Millicent barked, stepping closer to Hermione. “You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you, Granger?”
Hermione gritted her teeth, her wand clenched tightly in her hand as she cast the counter-curse. Her legs freed, and she pointed her wand at Draco, her voice steady despite the fury building inside her. She didn’t care for Tom’s words any longer, her anger overpowering any other feeling. “Try that again, and I’ll show you exactly how much better I am.”
“Oh, scary,” Daphne mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you going to do? Lecture us to death?”
“What happened to Pansy over here last time she tried to find out?” Tracey chimed in, her wand trained on Pansy.
For a tense moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken threats. Zabini sighed dramatically, stepping forward with his hands raised. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath, shall we? Love, not war, remember?”
Draco glared at Zabini but didn’t lower his wand. “This isn’t over, Granger,” he spat. “You’re a disgrace to Slytherin.”
With that, he turned on his heel, stalking away with Pansy, Millicent, and Daphne trailing after him. Zabini lingered for a moment, his dark eyes flicking between Hermione and Tracey. “You might want to be careful,” he said lightly. “Draco doesn’t like being humiliated much.”
“Neither do I,” Hermione shot back, her wand still raised.
Zabini smirked faintly, then shrugged and sauntered off. As the group disappeared into the shadows of the library, Tracey let out a soft sigh, slumping back into her chair. “Well, that was fun. Are you sure you don’t want to transfer to Hufflepuff? I hear they’re much nicer.”
Hermione sank into her seat, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up her quill. “Let them come,” she said, more to herself than to Tracey. “They’ll see soon enough.”