The Moment
The peak of springtime had come to Hogwarts with a rather unpredictable temperament. Heavy clouds gathered in the skies like old companions, melding into a dense ceiling that darkened ominously before spilling rain in thick, grey sheets. The downpour stretched the already-sodden wetlands surrounding the Black Lake, turning them into shimmering, transient pools that mirrored the gloom above. And yet, just as abruptly, the storm would retreat—the clouds separating, their edges softening into wisps as sunlight broke through to scatter warmth over the castle grounds. Some days, that sunlight was faint and spectral, a pale glow as if filtered through frosted glass; on others, it blazed with an intensity that gilded every surface it touched.
The whole of Hogwarts seemed alive with the energy of late spring—a peculiar restlessness that accompanied an even odder mercuriality.
Once Easter Break had ended, the castle’s inhabitants had gone into a frightful state like none other; exams drew nearer every day, and the fifth years and seventh years in particular seemed agitated by this development. Thaddeus Fern, a stout blond Ravenclaw boy, had jinxed his own girlfriend after she had scored higher on a practice N.E.W.T. Theory of Charms paper; a few tables away, a gaggle of fifth years had been much too busy switching between laughing and crying to notice.
Yet the worst behaviour by far had, predictably, come from the Slytherins, regardless of year. Their cruelty, which once felt like a steady undercurrent to Hermione, had become as changeable as the very weather outside. Some days, their malice took the form of whispered taunts and cutting remarks, subtle yet sharp enough to leave scars:
“Oh, look,” Pansy Parkinson had whispered loudly during a Transfiguration lecture, her face twisted into a mockery of shock. “The chipmunk’s finally stopped squeaking!”
As her Housemates giggled, Hermione gripped her quill so tightly it nearly snapped, desperately trying to focus on the complex diagram Professor McGonagall had drawn out for them.
But there were other days when it all escalated—days when hexes and jinxes seemed to stalk her through the corridors. Tripping Jinxes sent her sprawling on the cold stone floors; Stinging Spells left her hands trembling as she worked; and once, a Silencing Charm had quieted her for an entire day before they took mercy on her. The shadows in the torchlit hallways seemed to stretch longer on those days, dark and foreboding, and Hermione walked the halls jittery and alert, her heart pounding at every flicker of motion at the edge of her vision. She could feel their gazes, predatory and unrelenting, even when no one was there.
And then there was Tom. When he was kind, he was her sanctuary—a brilliant, charming presence who could draw her out of her darkest thoughts with a well-timed joke or a heartfelt reassurance. He encouraged her, praised her intellect, and made her feel like someone extraordinary, someone capable of more than just surviving. He made her feel special, in that rare way not even professors could; in the way Hermione had always craved from her parents.
But this kindness was never guaranteed. There were moments where it all changed. When he demanded perfection from her—no missteps, no hesitation—and his scolding, though rare, left her reeling. He reminded her, at those times, of how far she still had to go, how weak she was compared to what she could be, compared to how he had been.
Worst of all was the silence. Sometimes, when she displeased him—or when she failed to meet his expectations—he would vanish, his pages refusing to respond no matter how much ink she spilled or how desperately she wrote. There were times Hermione would try to replicate him and do the same when he angered her; they never worked. She would always end up cracking open the diary and profusely apologise. Hermione’s attachment to Tom, it seemed, far eclipsed his to her.
Perhaps this was because Hermione didn’t really have enough friends as is to justify dropping her closest one. After all, of the few in Hogwarts that were close to her, one had already betrayed her.
Her gaze drifted across the library to where Percy Weasley sat laughing with Penelope Clearwater, a blonde, curly-haired Ravenclaw prefect in his year. The pair were bent over a shared book, their heads close together, their mirth obvious even from a distance. Hermione’s lips thinned, clutching the pale blue covers of the slender book she was reading—Mending the Fractured Whole—tighter.
“I can’t believe Percy,” hissed Hermione. “I’ve helped him so much, you know. To—to suddenly drop me is—is—is—”
“Ridiculous?” offered Tracey. “Disloyal? A betrayal of the worst kind?”
“Yes to all!” said Hermione. “I gave him my study guides! My practise exams, too! And it’s not as if he doesn’t know why I want to sit with him—it’s obviously not for his wonderful personality—yet he still kicked me out of my own seat!”
Tracey, lounging back in her chair with an air of practiced nonchalance, blew a strand of hair from her face and examined her nails. “Honestly, Hermione, what did you expect? He’s a Weasley. They’re practically born with disloyalty written into their blood. It’s genetic. Like the freckles.” She wrinkled her nose. “And that awful ginger hair.”
“That’s not fair,” said Hermione, although her glare darted again to Percy and Penelope, still lost in their shared amusement. “Especially when you consider that Malfoy only calls them blood traitors because they’re fine with people like me.”
“I don’t know why you’re defending them, Hermione. They’re a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. You can’t seriously believe their blood got that pure by accident.” Tracey rolled her eyes dramatically. “They love Muggles so much, just not enough to make love to them? As if! Although…I suppose that rule of theirs may be in the process of amendment.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of Percy, her lip curling in exaggerated distaste. Then, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “Anyway, what does Penelope Clearwater even see in him? I mean, she’s not blind, is she?”
Hermione snorted despite herself. “Tracey—”
“No, really! The hair, the glasses, the absolute wooden personality. He’s like an old broomstick that someone dressed up in robes and a terrible wig. And not even a good one—more like a Cleansweep Two than a Nimbus, if you know what I mean.”
Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from laughing but failed miserably, letting out a muffled giggle. Tracey, emboldened, leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know what it is, don’t you?” she said, her amber eyes gleaming with mischief.
“What?” Hermione asked warily.
“Prefect power,” Tracey declared, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s like an aphrodisiac for boring Ravenclaw bints. 'Oh, Percy, tell me more about the rules! Should we reorganize the patrol schedule again? Please, I need to know!'” She clasped her hands dramatically over her chest and fluttered her lashes, sending Hermione into a fit of quiet laughter. “Do you reckon he deducts points whenever she’s being naughty? Five points off for trying to drag him off to a cupboard, ten for—”
“Stop it!” Hermione hissed, though she couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “You’re awful.”
“Awfully right,” Tracey replied smugly, sitting back with a satisfied smirk. But her grin faltered slightly when she noticed Hermione’s gaze drift toward the table of studying fifth year Slytherins at the far end of the library, Calix Parkinson among them. Her tone turned more serious—at least, for Tracey. “Speaking of awful, we really need to do something about them.”
Hermione’s smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “I know,” she said softly, gripping the edges of her book again. “But what can we do? It’s not as if we’re in any position to fight back.”
“We could hex them,” Tracey suggested, her tone almost too chipper. “Or better yet, bribe someone to hex them.”
“With what? Your hidden stash of sugar quills?” Hermione shook her head, sighing. “That’s not a real solution.”
Tracey leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we make them think twice before crossing us. We don’t have to be strong—we just have to seem strong. Like—oh, what’s the word—scary.”
Hermione gave her a skeptical look. “Scary? You think you can scare them?”
Tracey puffed out her chest, tossing her hair again for emphasis. “Don’t laugh, but I can be intimidating when I want to be. Remember that time I almost made Longbottom cry?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Even I’ve made Neville cry by accident before, Tracey. A stiff wind could do it too, I bet. Hardly anything to get excited over.”
“To be fair to the poor boy,” said Tracey, “you’re perfectly made to push him over the edge; his whole thing is about feeling inferior—rightfully so—and your whole thing is about feeling superior—again, rightfully so.”
“I treat everyone equally, Tracey.”
“Yeah—equally below you.”
“Oh, that’s not true at all!” snapped Hermione, scoffing. “Why don’t we get back on track, to the real point—what should we do about the Slytherins?”
Tracey tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…Maybe we curse their Quidditch brooms? Or make fun of Pansy’s new haircut—what is she doing with those bangs, by the way?”
“You had the same sort of bangs a month ago, right?”
“Every girl has those bangs at least once in their lives, Hermione—only a rare, chosen few actually look good in them.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but this time the exasperation was accompanied by a laugh. “Let’s try to focus, Tracey. What is something that two first years could pull off to have an entire House leave them alone? It has to be within our limited abilities…has to have terrible, long-lasting consequences that would make the Slytherins afraid…” Hermione straightened up, her eyes alight. “Why don’t we sabotage Calix Parkinson’s O.W.L.s?”
“Because we’d be spending the rest of our lives rotting in Azkaban, maybe?”
“Then…then…we could plan an ambush!” cried out Hermione. Tracey’s eyes widened, and Hermione lowered her voice: “We can trick them into attacking me, and then attack them.”
“And?” demanded Tracey, raising her eyebrows. “What’ll happen? Will you have a professor on stand-by, or something?”
“I’ve learned basic enchanting,” muttered Hermione, more to herself than Tracey. “I could do a lot just with that—all first years already know animation charms, fire magic, petrification, and such—and even other sorts of magic, like potions. Could they be aerosolized?”
“Aerolosolized?”
“No—aerosolized,” corrected Hermione. “I’m asking whether a liquid potion could somehow have its particles made to suspend in the air, like—like fog, or such, whilst still retaining its magical properties.”
Tracey blinked, her face caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “You’re going to turn the dungeons into some sort of deadly, potion-filled gas chamber? God, you’re terrifying sometimes.”
Hermione frowned, brushing off the comment. “I’m being practical. Potions are powerful, but their delivery methods are often overlooked. If we can disperse a potion invisibly—”
“—we’d be expelled and locked in Azkaban forever,” Tracey interjected, leaning forward on the table. “Look, I love this sudden diabolical side of you, really. But maybe something that doesn’t involve brewing our way onto the Ministry’s Most Wanted list?”
Hermione let out a huff, tapping her quill against the edge of her book. “Oh, it doesn’t have to be deadly! All we need is something potent, contained, and long-lasting enough to take them out of the fight.”
“That’s mad, Hermione,” said Tracey, rapidly shaking her head. “Completely and utterly mad.”
“Sometimes,” responded Hermione, her eyes once again flicking over to the table of Slytherins hurriedly preparing for their O.W.L.s, “you have to be a little mad.”
The next morning, Hermione’s hand trembled as she dipped her quill into the inkpot, smudging the corner of the page in her haste. Her eyelids felt leaden, and her head ached with the relentless thrum of exhaustion. She’d barely slept, and when she had, her dreams were filled with spinning pages and endless words swimming before her eyes. Her entire body felt worn thin, as though stretched too tight from carrying a weight she could no longer bear.
The diary lay open on her cramped desk, its blank pages gleaming faintly in the low light of her flickering lamp. Around her, the dormitory was quiet, the other girls all asleep. Hermione dipped her quill again, though her ink-stained fingers trembled with the effort. She pressed the nib to the parchment.
Tom, she wrote, her script jagged from her unsteady hand. I can’t keep this up. I’m so tired. I’ve been reading the book you suggested—the one on thaumaturgical transference—and I still don’t understand half of it. How am I supposed to master magic when I can’t even follow the theory?
For a moment, the page remained blank, her words sinking into its surface as if absorbed. Then, with a flourish, Tom’s elegant handwriting appeared, sharp and exact as ever.
You can’t possibly be serious, he wrote. That book is foundational. I breezed through it when I was twelve. It isn’t even advanced material, Pansy.
Hermione’s chest tightened at the words. She bit her lip hard, forcing back the sharp reply that leapt to her tongue. She wrote back instead: I’m not you, Tom. I’m trying, but it’s dense and full of words I don’t know. And that’s just the theory. How am I supposed to actually use it?
Tom’s response appeared almost immediately, as though he had been waiting to deliver his judgment. You’re making excuses. Words you don’t know? Isn’t that what dictionaries are for? Magical theory isn’t difficult—it’s tedious, at worst.
Tom, she wrote, her script jagged and uneven from her shaky hand. I need to focus less on magic, and more on the Slytherins. All I’m asking for is your help.
And what will that accomplish? More hexes? More humiliation? You’re playing a child’s game, Hermione.
She clenched her jaw. I can’t just let them win! If I’d had some success in magic, maybe your way would work for me, but I haven't had any! I’ve devoured every single book and paper you’ve told me to, and I’m still falling behind.
The ink vanished, and for a moment, the page remained blank. Then, slowly, Tom’s reply emerged, colder now, his disdain palpable. You’re not falling behind, Hermione. You’re being lazy. Magic isn’t about rushing through spells or flashy results. It’s about understanding every layer, every nuance. If you’re too weak to handle it, perhaps you should go back to squabbling with children in the halls.
Hermione felt her chest tighten further, her breath hitching. She scratched her reply furiously onto the page, her hand shaking with frustration. You don’t understand how hard this is—
Tom’s response cut through her words with brutal precision. I don’t understand? he repeated. I was your age when I began delving into this magic whilst in the very same position as you—and without anyone to guide me. If you find it so difficult with me handing you the tools, I shudder to think how you’d fare on your own.
Her fingers clenched the edge of the diary, her knuckles white. Maybe I’m not as brilliant as you, Tom, but at least I’m trying. If it’s so easy for you, then why don’t you just do it yourself? Oh, wait—you’re just a diary!
The words sank into the page, and she braced herself for the sting of his reply. But none came. The diary remained still and silent, its surface blank as if mocking her.
Hermione sat there for several long moments, the only sound the faint crackle of the lamp overhead. Her breath was uneven, her head pounding. Finally, she slammed the diary shut with a sharp crack and shoved it aside.
Her legs felt like lead as she rose from her chair, her bag slipping from her shoulder as she adjusted the strap with trembling fingers. She trudged toward the dormitory exit, her movements heavy and sluggish.
The corridors were cold and dim as she made her way toward the front of the castle, and when Hermione cut through the courtyard, damp air clung to her skin. Her exhaustion wrapped around her like a shroud, her thoughts foggy as she struggled to focus.
Breakfast at the Great Hall was a rather quiet affair, until at least an hour had passed, and more began to trickle in. Hermione, long finished with her food, had fallen asleep on her bag, until a fellow Slytherin had jinxed her awake. She jolted up, and sent a glare at the giggling third year responsible, before once again falling asleep.
When the bell tolled, and all the students gathered were forced to scatter, bustling to get to their classes, Hermione let out a yawn.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom reeked of garlic, as always, the pungent odor thick and oppressive in the air, seeping into her robes and hair, clinging to every surface. Hermione slumped into her usual seat at the front, her bag dragging heavily on her shoulder, its weight mirroring the ache in her limbs. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her quill felt clumsy in her hand as she pulled out her parchment.
Professor Quirrell stood at the front of the classroom, his thin frame bent over his notes. He shuffled them absently, his turban sitting slightly askew atop his thin blond hair. He began his lecture with a series of jerky, hesitant motions, his stutter making every sentence drag.
“T-today,” he began, “w-we’ll be—ah—d-d-discussing the Sm-Smokescreen S-Spell, Fumos. I-it’s a d-d-defense tactic, p-p-perfect for obscuring y-y-yourself in d-d-duels or b-battle scenarios.”
Hermione barely managed to pull out her quill. Then, accidentally, Hermione pulled out Tom’s diary instead of her usual notebook, which seemed to be displaced from its usual spot; she groaned and rummaged through her bookbag to find any other free parchment. Professor Quirrell’s eyes strayed for a moment towards her whilst he lectured on, seemingly distracted by the noise she was making; fortunately, her real Defence notebook was soon found. She blinked heavily, struggling to focus as Quirrell continued.
“Contrary to—ah—c-common perception,” Quirrell continued, his eyes darting nervously across the room, “Fumos d-does not create smoke, but instead—ah—manipulates light and visibility.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “This spell operates within the—ah—principles of magical visibility, as described by—ah—Aristotle’s theories on l-light and perception.”
Draco Malfoy raised a hand, his expression already smug. “Professor, Aristotle said light was the actualization of transparency in a medium, didn’t he? The spell must use magic to, er, cancel that actualization—disrupt the transparency and replace it with an obscuring force.”
Quirrell hesitated, his lips twitching in uncertainty. “A-a reasonable interpretation, M-Mr. Malfoy.”
Hermione, despite the dull ache in her temples, spoke up. Her voice was soft but certain. “That’s not quite how Aristotle’s theories fit here.”
Draco turned to her, his gray eyes narrowing. “Oh? Enlighten us, Granger.”
Next to him, Pansy’s face hardened; Hermione knew she was in for a rough time in the dormitory, now. Still, Hermione straightened in her seat, though her exhaustion felt like lead in her bones. “Aristotle defined light as the potentiality of a transparent medium made actual by the presence of a luminous body, yes. But the Smokescreen Spell doesn’t work by negating light itself or transparency—it transforms the medium entirely, changing its relationship to visibility. The spell imposes an artificial ‘veil,’ crafted by intent and powered by the caster’s will.
It’s about the interplay of perception and reality. Fumos bends clarity into concealment. The transparency isn’t erased—it’s altered, made opaque not by material smoke but by the spell’s manipulation of the medium’s nature.”
Quirrell nodded quickly, as if eager to escape the confrontation. “Q-quite so, Miss Granger.”
Hermione beamed.
Next to her, Tracey looked distressed. “Seriously?” she demanded, her eyes wide and her pitch high. “I don’t know why you can never just stop showing off—the Slytherins already hate me for being the friend of a Muggle-born. They don’t need to hate me even more for being the friend of a know-it-all!”
“How considerate,” said Hermione drily, beginning to slowly draw out the wand movements Professor Quirrell was now stammering his way through.
Predictably, the rest of Defense Against the Dark Arts passed in a haze of monotony. Professor Quirrell droned on, his stutter making every explanation of the Smokescreen Spell stretch longer than necessary. The garlic-scented air seemed to thicken, and the classroom grew stifling as the hour wore on.
Crabbe, seated near the back, slumped forward in his chair, his snores blending faintly with Quirrell’s nervous mutterings. Hermione’s eyes threatened to close several times, but she stubbornly forced herself to keep them open, scribbling notes and carefully practicing the intricate flicks and swirls of the wand movement for Fumos.
Next to her, Tracey tapped her quill absentmindedly against her parchment, a faraway look in her eyes. Occasionally, she glanced around the room, clearly uninterested in anything magical but very interested in what others were doing.
Finally, the bell tolled, its chime a blessed relief that jolted Hermione from her daze. She began packing her things with sluggish movements, her exhaustion catching up with her once more.
As the students shuffled out, Pansy Parkinson swept past Hermione, her shoulder jostling her so hard that Hermione’s bag slipped from her hand and landed with a heavy thud.
“Oops,” Pansy said with a saccharine smile, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Didn’t see you there, Granger. Sorry!”
Hermione bent down to retrieve her bag, biting her tongue to hold back a sharp retort. Tracey shot her an ‘I-told-you-so’ look as she hovered nearby, pausing for a moment before following the rest of the class out of the open door.
“Professor Quirrell?” she ventured, her voice low but steady.
He jumped slightly, his turbaned head whipping toward her as if he hadn’t realized she was still there. “M-Miss Granger? Is there s-something you n-need?”
“Yes, sir,” Hermione said. “I was hoping you could give me some advice. It’s about…the other Slytherins.”
Quirrell’s expression flickered briefly, a hint of something unreadable crossing his face before his usual nervous demeanor returned. “Ah, y-yes,” he stammered, gesturing for her to continue.
“They’re relentless,” said Hermione. “I’ve tried ignoring them, but it doesn’t help. And fighting back just makes it worse. Do you—do you have any suggestions for how to deal with them?”
Professor Quirrell frowned. “I-is their behaviour any w-worse than usual?”
“I suppose not,” Hermione admitted reluctantly, “but I mustn’t wait for it to get any worse, yes? The longer that I set this precedent that I’m some—some sort of open target, the more they’ll take advantage of that. I still haven’t forgotten how they set a troll on me, sir!”
By the end of this impassioned argument, Hermione was left quite flushed. Professor Quirrell simply blinked, as if he truly had forgotten all about his theory of how they had set troll on her. “W-what are y-your current plans, then?”
“Well, before, sir, my strategy was just to master all the magic I possibly could, as I felt that my strengths lie mainly in academics and such, rather than—than anything else.” Hermione took a deep breath, squeezing her hands together as she looked earnestly into the Defence Master’s pale eyes. “And so, for months on end, I’ve been running myself ragged—reading books filled with so much jargon and theory and verbosity, practising spells endlessly; but that plan hasn’t been working, clearly—”
“Whatever do y-you m-m-mean by that, Miss Granger?” His eyes widened, astonished. “You are a fine s-student of m-magic, I believe. Y-you have impressed many o-of you t-teachers as well, barring Severus.”
Hermione pinkened. “Oh, thank you, sir! You’re very kind—but I still am aware of my many failings in sorcery. It’s not as if I’m the next Dumbledore, after all.”
Or even the next Tom, she thought bitterly.
Professor Quirrell regarded Hermione with a curious, almost distant look, as though weighing her words. For a moment, she thought he might dismiss her concerns outright, but instead, he steepled his thin fingers and leaned forward slightly.
“Miss Granger,” he began softly, “I th-think you may b-be m-m-missing a very i-important truth a-about m-magic.”
Hermione tilted her head, her tiredness giving way to curiosity. “What truth, sir?”
He gestured vaguely with one hand, as though trying to conjure the right words from the air. “M-magic is not j-just the sum of its theories or the precision of its p-practice. Oh, those are i-important, of c-course—but m-magic, true magic, is s-something far more p-personal. It is shaped by your will, your p-personality, your e-experiences, your a-aims.”
Hermione blinked, surprised by the sudden depth in his voice. “But isn’t magic also about rules, Professor? Laws and structure?”
“Oh, i-it is,” he agreed. “But t-those rules are n-not boundaries—they are a f-framework. A s-starting point. Magic is the p-places where those r-rules connect, the flashes of insight where you see b-beyond the words on a page.”
He fixed her with a sharp look, his pale eyes uncharacteristically intense. “Y-you speak of y-your failings, Miss Granger, but have you n-not noticed how q-quickly your t-transfigurations have been c-coming along? P-Professor McGonagall herself has been quite a-admiring of your p-progress. Or d-did you not hear from P-Professor Sinistra, who was practically t-tickled pink at y-your understanding of the c-celestial sphere?”
“She said that?”
Quirrell inclined his head slightly. “She did. You may n-not be the next D-Dumbledore, but even Dumbledore w-wasn’t Dumbledore overnight. The road to m-mastery is paved with s-small victories, Miss Granger, and y-you are well on your way.”
Hermione’s face warmed at his words, but she looked down at her hands. “I suppose I just feel… I’m always running, always trying to catch up. Everyone else seems so sure of themselves, and I—”
“Miss Granger,” Quirrell interrupted gently, his tone now devoid of its usual nervousness, “if you w-wish to truly excel, to truly master m-magic, you m-must learn to b-be yourself. Stop chasing the shadows of others, b-be they Dumbledore, or anyone else. Ask q-questions. Strike out on y-your own path. Experiment. Fail. A-and learn from it all.”
Hermione looked up at him, her exhaustion briefly forgotten. “You really think I can do that?”
His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “You already are, Miss Granger. Y-you j-just need to believe it.”
She nodded slowly, her mind buzzing with his words as he turned back to his desk. The fatigue in her body was still there, but for the first time in weeks, Hermione felt a small spark of hope. Hermione had been planning to ask him about whether potions could be aerosolized effectively, but…if Professor Quirrell was right, she shouldn’t be asking him—or even Tom—these sorts of questions; she should be testing them herself.
The weeks crawled forward, the slow trudge of time marked by the inexorable approach of exams. Outside, the weather had shifted: the oppressive shield of dark clouds that had loomed over the castle for months now broken into small, fluffy whites scattered across an unbroken blue sky. The sun shone longer each day, casting warm, golden light over the grounds, but the growing brightness did little to ease the tension gripping the castle.
For fifth and seventh years, the pressure was palpable. O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s loomed on the horizon, and the library had become a battlefield of study partners vying for tables and resources. Every chair was occupied, every desk piled with books. Madam Pince patrolled with hawk-like vigilance, ensuring no one disrupted her domain.
For Hermione, the anxiety was no less consuming. Though only a first year, she was certain she was going to fail everything. How could she not? The Slytherins seemed determined to derail her focus at every turn, her classmates in other Houses barely gave her the time of day, and her schedule was overflowing.
Thankfully, Tom was there to help her. One day, after what seemed to be eternity of giving Hermione the silent treatment as she kept the diary forever open beside her, ink blossomed across the page in that familiar, elegant script; instead of any anger, a faint smile was brought about.
Hello, Pansy.
Hermione, her quill poised uncertainty in her hand, had slowly scribbled a response back. Hello, Tom. You’ve decided to stop acting like a big baby, then?
There had been a pause, and then his response had come, curling almost apologetically.
I see how my behaviour could’ve come across that way; though, honestly, I’d say it’s your stubbornness that tends to lead us into those less-than-pleasant moments. But if it eases your mind, I will admit that I could have been... gentler in my approach.
As always, Hermione had frowned, her quill tapping against the edge of the desk. That’s not really an apology, you know.
I notice you didn’t even try at one, yet I didn’t say so, did I?
Hermione had huffed but found herself smiling despite everything. The familiar rhythm of their conversations had soon resumed, any hatchet they had held before left buried; or, at least, temporarily laid down.
But not everything was going well, even with Tom back.
After Percy Weasley had unceremoniously ousted her from their shared study nook, now exclusively keeping it to himself and Penelope Clearwater, Hermione and Tracey had been left scrounging for space in abandoned classrooms late into the night, poring over textbooks by the twinkling light Hermione conjured up.
It didn’t help that Hermione had still chosen to continue tutoring Neville Longbottom, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle. Neville was earnest but scatterbrained, his wand prone to misfires. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, seemed barely aware they were at school to learn magic. Still, Hermione pressed on, determined to improve their understanding of the basics.
Even with all this, Hermione had discovered something extraordinary about revision: the more she investigated what she already knew, the more deeply she understood magic—not just as a collection of spells and incantations but as a coherent, interconnected system.
In Charms, she had begun experimenting with casting on multiple objects at once, her wand flicking sharply as she whispered, "Locomotor," sending two desks into two different dances simultaneously. Flitwick had beamed at her progress, though he reminded her to focus on control when the latter desk began to stumble over itself.
Transfiguration, too, was becoming a realm of experimentation. Hermione had started intentionally omitting parts of the General Transfiguration Process—shaving seconds off her wand movements or leaving incantations unfinished. Sometimes, the transformations still worked perfectly. Other times, they fizzled out, leaving half-changed objects that jittered unnervingly, or worse—her desk partner’s inkwell had once exploded, showering them both in sticky, black liquid.
She couldn’t stop asking questions. Why was it easier to transfigure beetles into buttons than quills? The linguistic link between the objects seemed to play a role—concepts close in a wizard’s mind were easier to shift between. But how much of that was universal? Did wizards in other cultures approach magic the same way? Did language shape their connection to the Ideal Realm?
Hermione had been poring over books on magical theory when she stumbled across an essay on Untransfiguration. The spell relied on recognizing the "true form" of an object, which was rooted in demarcating the difference between the accidental and essential, between Charms and Transfiguration. Yet, the author argued, the line wasn’t as clear as many wizards thought it to be—one could charm an object’s accidental properties away in such a manner that its essence was left altered as well.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, her fingers idly twirling her quill. The implications of this argument were dizzying. If the boundary between Charms and Transfiguration was porous, how could one define the limits of either discipline? Could it be that all magic, at its core, was simply the manipulation of the interplay between essence and accident?
Her mind raced with questions. How did this theory intersect with counter-charms, which was tailor-made to unravel magic taught in Charms? Did the caster's intent play a role in determining whether a property was deemed accidental or essential? And if so, wasn’t that profoundly subjective?
The essay had mentioned a curious example: a skilled enchanter could charm a block of wood to hover permanently, removing its "accidental" property of being bound to the ground. But if this enchantment endured long enough, could the wood’s essence come to include its levitating nature? Would future wizards look at such an object and assume it had always been a "floating block of wood"?
Hermione couldn’t stop herself. She scribbled a note in the margins of her parchment: Does this challenge the Ideal Realm? If magical alterations could blur the lines between essence and accident, then what did that mean for the Ideal Realm, the supposed objective truth of all forms? Was the Ideal Realm truly universal, or was it shaped by the perspectives and biases of the casters who interacted with it?
Her mind buzzed with questions, new connections firing every day. Gold was the third of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, but leprechauns could create it. Did that mean their magic operated under different rules, or was there a loophole wizards hadn’t discovered?
“Tracey,” Hermione said, her voice urgent after contemplating the latter subject, “I need you to check out a book for me.”
Tracey groaned, sitting up. “Oh, come on, Hermione. I already have half the books you’ve asked me to borrow this week. Pince is going to think I’m starting a library of my own.”
“Please,” Hermione pressed, clutching her parchment to her chest. “I’m already over the limit, and I think this could be really important. I need something on non-wizard magical traditions—maybe the goblin interpretations of magical theory, or something about the enchantments of the fae. Anything that might shed light on how different cultures interact with the Ideal Realm.”
Tracey sighed dramatically but rose from her chair, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. “You’re lucky I have no reputation to uphold. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Hermione’s breakthroughs were not confined to theory. Her practical skills flourished. The night before, she had reduced a cumbersome spell into a few deft flicks, casting a Colour-Changing charm across the room that turned every desk bright orange. Tracey had rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.
“Do you ever stop?” Tracey had asked, watching Hermione scribble furiously in her notebook, cross-referencing spells from half a dozen disciplines.
“No,” Hermione had replied without looking up. “There’s too much to learn. I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.”
Tracey had grumbled but stayed to help, fetching books from the corners of the room and occasionally casting a spell herself, though she preferred to half-listen to Hermione explaining her theories as she herself flicked through the latest editions of Witch Weekly.
This spree of impassioned studying continued, unmarred, for weeks. The Slytherins, too wrapped up in their own affairs, didn’t take much notice of her anymore; they had grown bored, which, for some reason, made Hermione even readier to exact her revenge. Although, of course, the first years hadn’t quite given up on their bullying campaign.
On yet another unremarkable day, the morning sun struggled to pierce through the dewy windows of the Great Hall, casting a pale, diluted light over the rows of long wooden tables. Breakfast was underway, with the usual clatter of cutlery and hum of conversation filling the air. At the Slytherin table, laughter erupted in bursts, sharp and grating, as the House’s usual suspects revelled in their latest round of petty mockery. Hermione sat near the end of the table, her parchment unfurled and ink-stained fingers clutching a quill that had seen better days. Her untouched plate of toast and eggs sat forgotten as she scrawled notes in her precise, looping script, her mind already racing through the day’s tasks.
It was an act of willpower to block out the noise around her. She had learned long ago that being a Muggle-born in Slytherin meant walking a tightrope—one wrong step, one misplaced word, and she would find herself tumbling into another maelstrom of ridicule. But her determination was as solid as iron, even if her body betrayed her with exhaustion.
The laughter at her table grew louder, closer, and then fell abruptly silent as Draco Malfoy’s unmistakable drawl sliced through the air.
“Still scribbling away, Granger?” he sneered, stopping just behind her with Pansy Parkinson and the reedy, rat-faced Theodore Nott in tow. His gray eyes glinted with mischief as he glanced over her shoulder. “Planning to write your way into acceptance, are you?”
Pansy laughed loudly, wheezing; both Nott and Malfoy seemed slightly perturbed at that, but their gazes remained firmly on Hermione, who didn’t look up, although her quill faltered slightly. “At least I’m capable of writing something coherent,” she said coolly.
Pansy’s shrill laugh lasted a few seconds longer, seemingly given a second wind by Hermione’s comment. “Maybe you should write an essay on humility while you’re at it. Oh, wait—you wouldn’t know where to start!”
The sharp edge of Pansy’s voice sliced through Hermione’s thin veneer of calm. Before she could formulate a retort, Draco leaned in closer, his tone softening into mock concern. “It’s not healthy, you know, all this studying. You might burn yourself out before you’ve even made it to exams.” Draco’s cold smile widened. “That could be a good thing, actually—it’d save you the embarrassment of second place.”
A sudden weight landed beside her, and she glanced up to see Tracey, holding a burnt piece of toast. “As if!” she exclaimed, astonished. “No offense, Malfoy, but your spells are about as potent as your father. And given that he still hasn’t had a second child to replace you…”
“Nobody was talking to you, half-blood!” hissed Pansy, her face now inches away from Tracey’s.
Tracey scoffed. “Can you put a muzzle on that thing, Malfoy?” She wrinkled her nose. “I think it's about to attack.”
Pansy flushed, but Draco simply scoffed in turn. “Funny, how the lesser have deluded themselves,” he said airily. “A Mudblood can cast all the spells it likes, but it is still a Mudblood nonetheless. You know, creatures like you, Granger, can be accepted even in polite society—as long as they know their proper place, of course.”
“Believe me,” said Hermione, her voice steady even as her heart pounded, “I know it well.”
Satisfied with the exchange—or perhaps simply bored—Draco gave a dismissive wave and sauntered off, Pansy and Nott trailing behind him. Hermione let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around her quill.
The candlelight flickered softly across the pages of the diary as Hermione leaned over her desk, her hair a frazzled halo around her face. She’d intended to spend the evening organizing her notes, but instead, she found herself once again debating with Tom. His elegant, looping handwriting sprawled across the page, commanding and precise.
I’ve already mentioned Montague’s Compendium of Experimental Charms, but I think Arcane Transformations of the 16th Century would be a valuable companion piece. Have you reviewed the chapters I recommended in Delphinias’s Theoretical Frameworks of Advanced Magic? And how are you progressing with Pritchard’s essays on magical lineages?
Hermione chewed on the end of her quill, her eyes darting to the growing pile of books stacked precariously at the edge of her desk. I— she began, only to falter. Her cheeks flushed as she realized how little she’d actually absorbed from the daunting list of texts Tom had urged her to read over the past week.
Yes? Tom’s response appeared almost instantly, the ink drying with a sharp, impatient flourish.
I’ve been… busy, Hermione said cautiously, her quill poised but reluctant to touch the page.
Tom’s response was slow in coming this time, the words forming with a deliberate slant that betrayed his irritation. Busy doing what, precisely? I trust you haven’t let distractions pull you away from your studies.
Hermione hesitated, her fingers curling tightly around her quill. She didn’t dare admit the truth: that she hadn’t even touched several of the books he’d recommended, and the ones she had read she’d done so only superficially, skimming for key ideas without truly engaging with the material. The weight of his expectations had become suffocating, and for once, she wanted to chart her own course, like Professor Quirrell had so wisely advised.
I’ve been reflecting, she finally wrote, her strokes careful and measured. Trying to better understand the magic I’ve already learned before I add even more to my plate.
There was a pause before Tom replied, and Hermione could almost imagine him narrowing his dark, ethereal eyes at her from within the diary. Reflecting? he repeated, his handwriting clipped. On what?
Hermione glanced at the pile of parchment where she’d been scribbling her thoughts earlier that day. On the connections I may have missed before between different branches of magic, or even just in singular bodies of theory that I may not have fully puzzled together quite yet.
Tom’s ink scrawled back at once, sharp and pointed. That’s all important, yes, but you’ll never truly master magic if you refuse to expand your knowledge. The texts I’ve given you are foundational, Hermione. You can’t simply stop and pick at scraps of what you already know.
Hermione bristled, her frustration simmering just below the surface. I’m not picking at scraps, she wrote firmly. I’m trying to understand magic deeply, in a way that sticks. I don’t have your natural talent, Tom. I can’t just breeze through this material and grasp it immediately.
Nonsense,” he replied, dismissively. “Talent only gets you so far. Hard work is what matters—and I’ve seen you work hard. You’re just making excuses.”
The words stung, and Hermione drew back from the diary for a moment, staring at the page. She could feel his condescension radiating from the elegant curves of his writing, but there was something else too—a faint edge of disappointment.
Taking a deep breath, she dipped her quill back into the inkwell. You don’t understand, she wrote slowly. I have to work to even approach the kind of understanding you take for granted. For you, magic is intuitive. It’s as natural as breathing. But for me, it’s something I have to fight for, to build piece by piece.
Tom’s response came swiftly, but the handwriting seemed more subdued this time. You underestimate yourself, Hermione. You’re far more capable than you believe. But fine—if you think this ‘reflection’ of yours will help, then reflect. Just don’t waste too much time wallowing in self-doubt. I expect those books to be finished soon.
Hermione exhaled, relieved that, for once, he wasn’t pushing further. But she could feel his lingering disapproval like a shadow over her shoulder. Tom might never understand why she needed to slow down, to take stock of everything she’d already learned. He had been a prodigy, someone for whom magic had been as effortless as drawing breath. Hermione, on the other hand, was quite smart, but only stumbled upon similar brilliance in rare flashes. She needed to build the foundations of her understanding of sorcery painstakingly, for all her work would be for naught otherwise.
Still, she wasn’t entirely without pride. I’ll prove it to you, she replied, a challenging smile Tom couldn’t see tugging at her lips. You’ll see. My way works too.
For a long moment, the page remained blank. Then, at last, his response appeared, terse but begrudgingly accepting. We shall see.
The dusty, abandoned classroom on the fifth floor had become a second home for Hermione and Tracey, though Tracey claimed it was more like “a glorified potions accident waiting to happen.” The room was cramped, its windows permanently fogged, and cobwebs hung in neglected corners. The heavy scent of brewed potion and burnt ingredients clung to the air, faintly tinged with periwinkle from Tracey's insistent use of her wand to freshen things up. A cluttered array of cauldrons, enchanted trinkets, and parchment cluttered every surface, transforming the space into a chaotic alchemist’s den.
Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor, her robes dusted with ash and streaked with something that might have been powdered snake fang. Her bushy hair had long since escaped its tight plait, curling into her eyes as she scribbled notes on a piece of parchment already smudged with ink. A vial of pale green potion bubbled softly beside her, held aloft in midair by a careful Levitation Charm.
"Do you ever clean up after yourself?" Tracey asked lazily, lounging against a desk that was miraculously clear of debris. Her hair gleamed in the muted sunlight filtering through the grime-streaked windows. "Honestly, Hermione, this is a disaster zone. Are we sure this isn't some Slytherin plot to sabotage us? Letting you get buried alive under your own genius?"
Hermione didn’t look up, too engrossed in her work. “If you’re not going to help, Tracey, you could at least fetch the chamomile extract from my bag.”
Tracey sighed dramatically but obliged, fetching the vial with a theatrical flourish. “There. Chamomile, my lady. Anything else? Perhaps a spot of tea? Or do you only drink Pepper-Up brewed with existential dread these days?”
Hermione ignored her, pouring the extract into a nearby cauldron and waving her wand over it in a practiced motion. The potion hissed as it frothed, turning a pale lavender as it thinned. She jotted down a quick observation in her notes: Chamomile infusion stabilizes particulate dispersion for potions intended for aerosolization. The Boil-Cure Potion had been a natural starting point—it was stable, forgiving, and far less likely to explode if she got the measurements wrong. O
Not that she was entirely immune to failure. A charred scorch mark on the far wall stood as a grim reminder of her attempt to aerosolize a Pepperup Potion three days earlier. The resulting geyser of steam had nearly melted her notes and left Tracey coughing for hours.
“What exactly are you planning to do with this?” Tracey asked, eyeing the hovering potion warily. “You’re not still thinking about the whole ‘get even with the Slytherins’ plan, are you?”
Hermione finally looked up, her eyes alight with a spark that Tracey was learning to recognize as both brilliance and mild insanity. “Why not? If they’re going to turn every hallway into a battleground, it’s only fair I come prepared.”
Tracey harrumphed. “Well,” she began, “it isn’t as if the Boil-Cure Potion is a very efficient attack. Why not something a bit more advanced?”
“I’ve been looking into that sort of stuff,” said Hermione. “Unfortunately, my search hasn’t revealed an awful amount of candidates quite yet. So far, though, the Nightmare Potion looks rather promising—it would allow me to stop any Slytherins around, and perhaps strike enough fear into them that they won’t dare ever attack me again. And I wouldn’t even have to hurt anyone directly!”
“That’s thoughtful, I guess. Don’t see much of an ethical difference between traumatising people through potions or spells, though…”
Hermione didn’t bother dignifying that remark with any response, instead swirling the potion with a flick of her wand and muttering an incantation under her breath. The lavender mist that rose from the cauldron dispersed in a delicate cloud, shimmering faintly in the light. A welt on Hermione’s forearm, from a self-inflicted Stinging Jinx, vanished as the mist made contact with it. She grinned triumphantly. “It works.”
“What works?” Tracey leaned forward, inspecting the cloud with reluctant interest.
“Aerosolized potions,” Hermione explained, her voice brimming with excitement. “Imagine the applications, Tracey. Most potions are restricted to direct ingestion or topical use, but what if you could disperse them over an area? Healing potions could be administered to a crowd during an emergency. Or—”
“Or you could use a messed-up Boil-Cure Potion to turn Pansy’s skin into a walking alchemy lesson?” Tracey interrupted dryly.
Hermione flushed. “That’s… not the primary goal,” she mumbled, though her grin betrayed her. “But it would be rather beneficial to us, no?”
Tracey laughed, a high, melodic sound that filled the dusty room. “You’re unbelievable. Brilliant, but unbelievable.”
Hermione leaned back, her smile fading as she stared at the array of notes scattered around her. She’d been pushing herself harder than ever, not just to keep up with Tom’s relentless pace, but to find her own way through the tangled web of magical theory. It wasn’t enough to master individual spells anymore. She wanted—needed—to understand the deeper connections between them.
She picked up a parchment with a fresh diagram she’d been working on earlier, tracing the lines between all the magic she knew. Every theory, each branch of magic seemed distinct at first glance, but the more she studied, the more she saw the overlaps.
Before Hermione could make any more additions to the parchment, a loud bell chimed through the castle: the warning announcement for the upcoming period.
“Transfiguration!” cried Hermione, her eyes wide as she shot up. “God, I can’t believe I forgot! I just hope we won’t lose too many House points—of course, Slytherin will win the House Cup anyway, given that we’re over a hundred points ahead of any other House, but still…”
“Yeah, I can’t believe you forgot!” said Tracey, fiercely glaring at her. “Minerva already has it out for me—she already wrote to my mum about how my homework is allegedly ‘subpar’, if you can believe it.”
Tracey rushed out, and Hermione, grabbing her bag and cramming as many notes as she could into it, followed in short order. They left the classroom, the faint lavender mist still hanging in the air behind them.
The Transfiguration classroom was buzzing with energy as students shuffled into their seats. The long wooden tables were polished to a shine, and the faint scent of wood polish mingled with the distinctive tang of magical energy that always seemed to hang in the air. Professor McGonagall, stern as ever, stood at the front of the room.
Hermione and Tracey slipped into their seats many seconds after the final bell had boomed, slightly out of breath. Tracey leaned over and whispered, “If McGonagall takes points off, you owe me a shopping spree in Diagon Alley this summer.”
Hermione shot her an apologetic look, but Professor McGonagall seemed more preoccupied with a stack of rocks on her desk to notice their tardiness. Hermione exhaled in relief as the professor began speaking.
“With exams approaching,” McGonagall began, her clipped tone ringing through the room, “we will take a step back from the specific inanimate-to-animate spellwork we’ve been practicing and revisit the fundamentals. Today, we will focus on the General Transfiguration Process as it applies to inanimate-to-inanimate transformations. This exercise will not only test your precision but also your understanding of the principles that underpin all forms of Transfiguration. Each of you will find a rock on your desk. Your task is to transform it into a pail. Begin!”
A faint groan rippled through the room. The General Transfiguration Process was notoriously complex and required intense concentration, and the spells they’d been focusing on for the greater part of the third term had proven much easier. Hermione, however, felt a flicker of excitement. This was foundational magic—the very building blocks of the discipline—and she was determined to excel.
As McGonagall waved her wand, the rocks floated from the front of the room to each student’s desk. Hermione’s rock landed with a soft thud in front of her: a jagged piece of shale, its dark, layered surface catching the light.
“Why a pail?” Tracey whispered, wrinkling her nose as she eyed her own rock like it was something unpleasant that had crawled out of the Black Lake. “Who even uses pails these days? Are we going to be tested on Victorian housework next?”
Hermione fought back a laugh. “It’s about understanding the structure and material properties,” she murmured back, already running through the theory in her mind. “A pail is a good balance of complexity and simplicity—metallic, hollow, and functional.”
“Sounds thrilling,” said Tracey drily, pulling out her wand and flicking it half-heartedly at her rock. It didn’t so much as twitch. “Yep, just as I thought. Totally thrilling.” She sighed. “There’s a reason Merlin is known as the Prince of Enchanters, while Morgana was known for Transfiguration. It’s a field for those with the Darkest of souls—which is weird, because one would assume Dark Magic would fill that role instead .”
“Professor Dumbledore is known for his mastery of the art, you know, and he defeated one of the most powerful Dark wizards of all time.”
Tracey shrugged. “Yeah, and Harry Potter defeated the most powerful Dark wizard of all time.” She nodded in the short, messy-haired boy’s direction; he was glaring at his rock, his wand laying beside it on the desk. “See my point?”
Ignoring her, Hermione placed her wand gently on the surface of the shale and closed her eyes for a moment, focusing her thoughts. She visualized the pail, recalling its smooth surface, the sharp curve of its handle, the gleam of its metallic sides. She thought about the rock, too—its brittle, layered structure, its stubborn density.
And then, suddenly, she saw it.
The pail wasn’t just in her mind—it was there, shimmering in the potentiality of the magic itself. It was as if every connection she’d ever studied, every principle she’d ever learned rushed to the forefront of her mind in a single, overwhelming flood. Every step of the General Transfiguration Process combined, somehow, like cogs in a single, unified machine she had now dissected. The lines between the rock and the pail blurred, and for a moment, she wasn’t transforming the object—she was revealing it, as if it had been a pail all along, hidden beneath the surface.
Her hand steadied, her wand jabbed forward with a finality she hadn’t felt before, and the spell erupted from her with perfect clarity.
The transformation was instantaneous. One moment, the jagged piece of shale sat before her, inert and unremarkable. The next, a polished, gleaming metal pail stood in its place.
Hermione stared at it, her breath caught in her chest. She’d done it. Not just completed the spell, but executed it with such fluidity and precision that it felt as though something within her had finally clicked into place. She glanced down at her wand, her fingers trembling slightly, as if the realization was only just sinking in.
The room quieted, only filled with whispers of her peers as they looked on; for once, it wasn’t only with their usual glares or sneers. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her eyes wide with something Hermione could only describe as astonishment.
“Miss Granger,” she said, her voice unusually soft. “That… was remarkable.”
Hermione blinked, unsure if she’d heard correctly. “I—I did it?”
“You didn’t just do it,” McGonagall said, her gaze flicking between Hermione and the pail. “The ability to forgo certain steps of the General Transfiguration Process is already a rare one—to combine it all into a simple jab…” Her eyes shone, and she smiled widely, her teeth on display as she shook her head. “It requires a level of understanding I’ve never seen at your level.”
Hermione’s mouth opened and closed many times, until: “I—I didn’t—this was just a fluke, professor. I’ve never—never done this before.”
“I’m afraid that is no longer true, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall straightened, her usual composure returning. “Practise more, and I’m sure these flashes of brilliance will come much more often. Fifteen points to Slytherin.”
Tracey nearly dropped her wand. “Fifteen points? For a pail? Hermione, you’ve got to teach me that trick!”
But Hermione barely heard her. Her mind was racing, not with the satisfaction of House points or the professor’s praise, but with a single thought that filled her with an unfamiliar warmth.
Tom will be so proud.
She couldn’t wait to tell him. He’d see that her way worked too, that all her meticulous study and deep reflection weren’t just wasted effort. She was carving her own path, and it was beginning to yield results.
After Transfiguration class, Hermione barely waited for Tracey’s usual flurry of dramatic complaints before excusing herself. “I need to head back,” she said, clutching her bag tightly. “There’s something I need to—review.”
“Of course you do,” Tracey sighed, rolling her eyes. “Well, I’ll be in that old classroom if you need me. Somebody’s got to actually learn new things for these exams, after all.”
Hermione flashed her an absent smile and hurried off toward the Slytherin dormitories. The cool, echoing corridors of the castle felt oddly quiet as her mind replayed her triumph of Transfiguration, the vivid moment when everything had clicked. Her heart still thudded with exhilaration, though a small, persistent voice reminded her that there was more to be done—more to understand.
When she entered the dormitory, the rich green and silver furnishings glimmered faintly in the bluish light filtering through the enchanted porthole. She headed straight for her bed, hoping to avoid any interruptions.
Unfortunately, that hope was short-lived.
Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass came soon after, plopping themselves onto Pansy’s bed with an air of affected boredom.
“…and then he said he didn’t even know her,” Pansy was saying, her tone dripping with mockery. “I mean, how embarrassing can you get?”
“Oh, I know!” Daphne chimed in, tossing her sleek blonde hair over her shoulder. “And did you hear what she did in Potions last week? Honestly, some people just shouldn’t bother.”
Hermione kept her head down, willing herself to ignore them as she crossed the room. She could feel their eyes on her, but they didn’t bother to say anything directly. She wasn’t worth their attention—not right now, anyway.
And so Hermione quickly slipped inside her four-poster bed, drawing the heavy green curtains closed, shutting out the murmured gossip and laughter. For a moment, she sat there in the dim, velvet-lined cocoon; then, with deliberate care, she reached into her bag and pulled out the battered black diary. Its surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, and the sight of it sent a thrill through her.
A smug smile was already playing its way across her face as she dipped her quill into the inkwell.
Guess what, Tom? she wrote, the excitement from Transfiguration class still buzzing in her chest. I did it. The General Transfiguration Process—I mastered it! McGonagall was speechless. She even gave Slytherin fifteen points. Fifteen!
For a moment, there was no reply. Then, the ink shimmered as his response appeared, precise and measured.
Mastered? That is a bold claim, Pansy. Are you quite certain it wasn’t mere luck?
Hermione’s smile faltered, her quill pausing mid-air.
No, it wasn’t luck. It wasn’t just me following instructions either. I saw the connections, Tom—the structure, the flow of magic. It all just... clicked.
His reply came quickly. Yes, well, that is to be expected. Magic is built on patterns, after all. It’s nothing extraordinary to notice them if you’ve been practicing diligently. I practically did so on my first day of classes.
Hermione stared at the page, the heat rising in her cheek. Was Tom being serious? It’s not just about practice, she shot back, her letters sharp and bold. This was a breakthrough! I thought you’d be proud of me, Tom.
The ink paused, as though he were considering his next words. When they appeared, they were as detached as ever.
Pride is for accomplishments that are rare. What you’ve achieved is merely a step along the path. There’s still much to learn, Pansy. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to recommend a few more books to you—
Hermione’s grip on her quill tightened, the nib scratching loudly against the parchment as she interrupted him. Are you serious? she wrote, her hand trembling. I just told you something I’ve been working toward for months, and all you can do is give me more homework? Can’t you just say ‘Well done’ for once?
His reply was slower this time, the letters darker, as if pressing back against her indignation.
You misunderstand me. I thought you were more ambitious than this. I thought you wanted to master magic, to rise above the mediocre rabble around you. Have I been wrong? Or have you merely been using me as a crutch to make yourself feel clever?
The words struck like a slap, and Hermione’s breath caught.
Excuse me? she wrote, her strokes jagged now.
You only come to me when you need something, Pansy, he continued. You ask for guidance, for insight, for direction, but the moment you accomplish anything, you forget the effort I’ve put into helping you. I am not some toy for you to discard when convenient.
Hermione’s hands trembled, but this time it wasn’t from hurt—it was fury. She didn’t pause to gather her thoughts, the words spilling out of her in a storm.
No. You don’t get to do this, Tom.
The ink paused, a single ominous dot lingering on the page as though he were waiting.
You don’t get to push me toward a goal I barely even wanted, she wrote, the words shaking slightly. Pile so much work on me that I thought I’d die from either sleep deprivation or the heart palpitations from all the Pepper-Up Potions. Treat me like dirt whenever I didn’t meet your impossible standards—and then play the victim!
The ink flared as his reply came, quick and defensive. You’re overreacting. I’ve done nothing but help you—
Hermione slammed her quill down, her breath coming fast. No. You always do this, Tom. Always! The moment I call you out, you act like some innocent little boy who’s been hurt and used. But that’s not even true! You’re the one who makes others feel small, who makes others completely dependent on your approval. You’re the one who manipulates people, who twists everything around until they’re the ones apologizing. You are, by any standard, the villain!
For a long, tense moment, the page remained blank. Hermione’s chest heaved as she stared at the empty parchment, her own words still glowing faintly in the light she had conjured up. She waited for his response, unsure whether it would come as anger, denial, or silence.
When the ink finally appeared, it was slow, deliberate, and cold.
If that’s what you think of me, Pansy, then perhaps you no longer need my guidance.
Her heart twisted painfully, but her anger was still burning hot. She hesitated for only a second before replying.
Maybe I don’t.
The page remained still, no reply forthcoming. Then:
Goodbye, Pansy.
Hermione stared at the farewell, her breathing uneven, before she closed the diary with a snap and shoved it back into her bag. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions—hurt, rage, and something bitter that she couldn’t quite name.
When Hermione awoke in the dead of night, an awful feeling lingered over her; it took her a few moments to remember why. Instantly, she shot up, tearing off her thick coverings to blindly reach at her bag, through the darkness, off to the side, and past the curtains. Hermione didn’t know what she wished to say to Tom, only that she needed to say something; for the better part of an entire year, she had relentlessly worked towards the goals he had set out for her—if even he couldn’t feel even the slightest amount of pride in her, how could she muster any up for herself? No, Hermione wanted—needed—him to believe in her. And yet, as she rummaged through her bag…there was no diary.
An odd fluttering sensation brushed over Hermione; she shivered.
After a few, hesitant moments of confusion, Hermione searched through her bookbag once more; still, no diary could be found.
As her search became more frantic, and her bedsheets filled with scrolls, tomes, spare parchments, and journals, Hermione felt a panic she had never felt before. Where was Tom? Had he been stolen? He couldn’t have been so angered that he just walked out on her—or could he? But no, that was ridiculous—books, even those as intelligent as Tom, didn’t grow legs and walk!
But he had vanished, nonetheless. Hermione stared ahead, her breaths and hands shaky; tears began to fall, slowly at first, but increasing in force until her body was wracked with uncontrollable sobs.
Tom Riddle was her first friend; the only person to ever truly like her with no strings attached—unlike Percy, Neville, or even Tracey; the brightest mind she had ever encountered; and now, gone.