Final Exams
Hermione’s hands trembled as she tore through the last drawer of her trunk, parchment spilling out in a chaotic mess around her knees. The contents of her dormitory already lay scattered: clothes hanging off bedposts, books piled high on the floor, her bag upended with quills and inkwells rolling in every direction. She’d even pulled apart her pillows, sending feathers drifting through the air like a surreal snowfall.
The little black diary was nowhere to be found.
She sank back on her heels, breathing hard, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The room was eerily silent except for her own ragged breaths and the occasional creak of the castle’s ancient walls. Tracey and Millicent’s beds were suspiciously neat, and Pansy and Daphne’s were only slightly less so, but she’d already turned those upside down in her desperation earlier that week. None of them had known, though.
Tom was well and truly gone.
For days, Hermione had scoured every corner of Hogwarts, her thoughts a ceaseless mantra: Where is it? Who has it? She had interrogated her dormmates with a fervor that bordered on mania, scouring every alibi, every offhand comment, for any inconsistency. Millicent and her had gotten into a duel; Pansy and Daphne had somehow been even worse, turning her questions into opportunities for mockery.
“Looking for your boyfriend, Granger?” Pansy had sneered, her sharp features alight with malice. “Maybe he’s finally had enough of your insufferable bossiness and left you.”
“Or maybe,” Daphne had chimed in, her voice syrupy sweet, “he was never real to begin with. Just a little figment of your overworked, overachieving imagination. How sad.”
Their laughter had followed her like a curse.
Her search hadn’t been limited to her own dormitory. Anyone carrying anything remotely resembling a little black book had drawn her attention. She’d shadowed a seventh-year girl for half of a whole day, her heart pounding every time she caught a glimpse of the diary tucked under the older student’s arm. But when she’d finally confronted her—awkwardly, stammering something about “misplaced belongings”—the girl had turned her wand on Hermione with a hex so quick and vicious that her skin had crawled for many hours afterward.
Now, it seemed the whole House had turned against her. Pansy and Daphne had spread the word of Hermione’s “meltdown,” and the Slytherins had taken to tormenting her with an enthusiasm that was as inventive as it was cruel. They whispered snide comments in the hallways, tripped her on the way to class, and even cursed her books so that they spat ink all over her hands. Yesterday, someone had enchanted her bag to explode, scattering her notes down the length of the dungeon corridor.
The jeers that had followed her as she scrambled to pick everything up were still fresh in her mind.
“Lost something else, Granger?” Calix Parkinson had called, his voice booming after her whilst she skittered away in a panic. “Maybe you should check the library again—or the trash where you belong!”
A curse, then, had caught her; she had fallen to the cold floor, letting loose a high squeal of pure pain.
Hermione pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to block out the memory, but the sting of humiliation and rage was still raw. She had done this to herself, she knew. Ransacking her dormitory, accusing her peers, and obsessively trailing strangers—all of it had painted a target on her back.
But it's what Tom would have done for her.
The diary hadn’t just been a book. It had been her confidant, her guide, her best friend. Tom’s words had been sharp, his expectations often unbearable, but he had always been there, pushing her, challenging her, making her feel like she was capable of something extraordinary.
Without him, the silence was suffocating.
Her shoulders shook as she leaned against the bedpost, her fingers digging into the wood. She had been so sure, so certain that she could find him if she just tried hard enough. But now…
What if he’s gone for good?
The thought sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over her, and she buried her face in her hands. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. The bullying, the endless searching, the gnawing emptiness where Tom’s presence had been—it was all too much.
People reacted to stress in many different ways. Some avoided the root cause, distracting themselves with more enjoyable matters. Others implemented healthy coping mechanisms into their routines, ensuring both their mental health and their obligations were taken care of.
And Hermione? Hermione let it consume her.
“When was Ulric the Oddball’s death?” Hermione demanded, glaring fiercely at Neville.
“November thirteenth, 1282!”
“Exact time of death?”
Neville whimpered. “Ten o’clock?”
“Incorrect,” Hermione said sharply, disappointment evident in her tone. “It was a quarter till two. Cause of death?”
Neville was shaking now. “I—I... shark bite?”
“Magical jellyfish sting in the middle of a Wizengamot session, Neville!” Hermione hissed. “How do you not remember that? His entire thing was wearing jellyfish as hats, which directly led to the Sumptuary Laws! You know, the ones widely criticized as blood purist and classist? Have you even been listening to me, or is my voice just white noise to you?”
Neville opened his mouth to defend himself, but Hermione was already shoving his marked practice test into his hands. “Do corrections. Write out what you did wrong, step by step, and what you should have done to reach the correct answer. Understand?”
Before Neville could respond, a loud bang echoed through the room. Hermione whirled around to see Gregory Goyle standing over his desk, looking sheepishly at the remnants of yet another failed quill-to-fork transfiguration.
“What did you do this time?” Hermione sighed, hurrying over to undo the mess with a quick flick of her wand.
“I dunno,” Goyle muttered. “I tried, but it just blew up.”
“Well, try again!” Hermione encouraged, her patience fraying at the edges.
Goyle hesitated before waving his wand, clearly uncertain. Hermione watched carefully, her sharp eyes catching the flaw in his movements. “Stop. You’re jabbing your wand,” she pointed out. “You can’t jab during any transfiguration involving a feathered object unless you fully understand the Theory of Individuation. Read pages 189 through 194 in your Transfiguration textbook tonight.”
“But the words swim on the page…”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Then make them stop swimming, Gregory! Or borrow a Reciter from Neville!”
She turned away, her eyes already scanning the room for the next disaster. Before she could settle back into her own work, Tracey’s voice rang out.
“Hermione! I need help!”
Hermione’s hands clenched into fists before she forced herself to relax. She liked helping people. Really, she did.
“What is it, Tracey?” Hermione asked, keeping her tone deliberately sweet.
“So, Susan Bones has been saying awful things about us,” Tracey began, leaning in conspiratorially. “I think it’s time you laid down the law on that ginger trollop. It’s hilarious, really, considering her aunt’s Head of the D.M.L.E., which she just loves bragging about—”
“Tracey.” Hermione cut her off, her voice taut with frustration. “Why are you telling me this irrelevant information? I don’t care what Susan Bones thinks, says, or does. If she died today, I wouldn't be happy or sad. I would just be indifferent. That is how thoroughly unimportant she is!”
Tracey raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because you sound awfully bothered—”
“Can you just be quiet for once?” Hermione snapped. “Or better yet, be useful and actually help me practice!”
Tracey sighed dramatically, setting down her notebook. “Fine. Transfigure that desk into a conical hennin.”
For the next hour and a half, chaos reigned in the classroom. Neville struggled to keep up with his corrections, Gregory continued to misfire his spells, Crabbe was still trying to get through all the extra written work she’d assigned him, and Tracey alternated between lazily practicing and making snide comments. Through it all, Hermione kept her head down, trying to focus on her own studies even as she juggled the needs of everyone else.
Finally, the boys began to pack up their things, filing out of the room one by one. Hermione watched them go, making sure Crabbe didn’t try to pick a fight with Neville on the way out (although Gregory had softened on the blond boy over time, Crabbe had seemingly never really learned to do so towards anybody), before collapsing into her chair with a heavy sigh.
“Finally,” she muttered, pulling out a wide, dusty Charms tome. It was one Tom had recommended; the mere thought of him made her chest tighten.
Tracey groaned. “Can’t we have a break?”
Hermione rubbed her temples. “I can’t. Not now. There’s simply too much to do. I still have to tutor Neville on his History of Magic essays, help Crabbe and Goyle with their Transfiguration, and figure out why my latest batch of Aerosolized Boil-Cure Potion turned bright pink instead of remaining clear. Oh, and tomorrow, I have yet another Remedial Flying lesson, and I haven’t been making progress at all for weeks on end, so I very well may fail the course in its entirety! So perhaps you can have a break, but preferably do it very, very far away from me.”
“Hermione,” Tracey said, watching her with a concerned expression, “you know you don’t need all this revision, right? You’re going to top every class.”
“It’s not about topping classes,” Hermione said sharply. “If I don’t study, I stagnate. If I stagnate, I fall behind. If I fall behind, I’ll get kicked out of Hogwarts, and if that happens before my O.W.L.s, I’ll have no qualifications, no future in the Wizarding World, not enough money to pay for private tutors because of the strict limits on the exchange of magical and non-magical money, and so I’ll be forced to go back to the Muggle world for the rest of my life!” Hermione’s voice cracked as she finished, the stress of the last few weeks finally catching up with her. Her hands were shaking. “And do you think my parents like failures? I’m sure they’ll be happy that I’m back home, but they won’t be very pleased if it wasn’t by choice, I think. And I’ll be far behind all my Muggle peers anyhow, and depressed to boot, so I’ll probably fail there too!”
Tracey blinked, startled by Hermione’s outburst. For once, the girl seemed at a loss for words. Then, with surprising gentleness, she said, “Alright, alright, calm down, Hermione. I get it—you’re a perfectionist with an unhealthy drive for success. I mean, everyone knows that. But you’re also the smartest person I’ve ever met. You’re not going to fall behind. And even if you did… well, you’d make a fine Muggle, I bet.”
Hermione sighed. “That’s not exactly comforting, Tracey.”
“What?” squawked Tracey, raising her hands defensively. “For once, I’m actually not insulting you. I have Muggle grandparents, you know, and they’re…fine, I suppose. And I went to a Muggle primary school, for what it’s worth, so I know practically all there is to know about them; they’re quite impressive, you know.”
“Really?” said Hermione, raising her bushy eyebrows. “Is that why you once said you’ll only consider a man if he has sufficient purity of blood to make your kids be considered purebloods legally, if not socially?”
“It isn’t blood purist to want pureblooded children, Hermione!” said Tracey exasperatedly. “Nobody likes half-measures.”
For a long moment, Hermione simply stared at the other girl. “You do know,” she began slowly, “that you’re a ‘half-measure’ yourself, right?”
Tracey shut her eyes, rubbing her forehead. “As if I could forget. My little brother—half-brother, that is—always reminds me of it.”
“Oh,” said Hermione softly. “Is your family—?”
“Well, his mere presence reminds me.”
Hermione scoffed; she didn’t respond, instead flipping open her Charms textbook and trying to focus on the chapter about advanced casting techniques. But the words swam before her eyes, and she felt the now-familiar pang of loss in her chest.
It wasn’t about revision, not entirely. Hermione had always been driven to excel, to prove herself, to rise above the low expectations people had set for her. But now, without Tom’s sharp words and impossible challenges pushing her forward, she felt adrift.
She missed him.
She missed the way he challenged her, the way he seemed to understand magic on a level that no one else could. She even missed the way he criticized her, because at least then, he was there.
But Tom was gone, and all she had left were his lessons, his expectations, and the crushing weight of trying to live up to them.
Hermione shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the text in front of her. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the past. Not now. Not when there was still so much to do.
Before Hermione knew it, exam season had begun. The first years were herded into a large, sweltering classroom and handed enchanted quills imbued with Anti-Cheating charms. Written exams came first, and despite the weight of weeks of stress and sleepless nights, Hermione couldn’t deny that they were...easy. Not that she’d ever say it out loud, of course, but it felt like handing a storybook to a Sixth Form student.
In short: a cakewalk.
Hermione answered every question thoroughly and correctly, often adding deeper insights far beyond the scope of first-year coursework. Professor Sinistra, for instance, had likely expected basic answers about constellations, not a detailed explanation of the alchemical composition of dark matter and its reflection on Harlow’s modified dynamics. Similarly, Professor Flitwick’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline at Hermione’s advanced discussion of Ngobean enchantments and the fundamental Theories of Formation. Occasionally, Hermione couldn’t resist challenging the premise of certain questions, pointing out their oversimplified nature and offering a more nuanced perspective.
By the time practical exams rolled around, Hermione was feeling rather confident, if she did say so herself.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall tasked the class with turning a mouse into a snuffbox. Hermione didn’t just meet the requirement—she exceeded it. Her snuffbox was an ornate masterpiece, featuring layers of shimmering mother-of-pearl in a rainbow of hues, bordered with silver mountings engraved with scenes from the Greek myth of Athena’s birth. The level of detail was so exquisite it almost made Professor McGonagall smile. Almost.
With time to spare, Hermione eagerly accepted the offer of extra credit. With effortless jabs of her wand, he transfigured a desk into a sword, the sword into a candle, the candle into an inkpot and quill, and then unraveled each transformation back to the sword using a seamless untransfiguration spell. For a final flourish, as the clock ticked down, she transfigured a marble bust of Professor McGonagall herself—so lifelike it seemed ready to scold a student for slouching.
If she didn’t earn top marks in Transfiguration, she was prepared to riot.
Charms was similarly triumphant. Professor Flitwick tasked her with making a pineapple dance. Hermione, naturally, asked for a second pineapple before having them perform the famously intricate Black Swan pas de deux. Impressed, Flitwick clapped his hands and requested a show.
And show she did.
To the tune of Flitwick’s favorite pop song from a decade ago, Hermione orchestrated a magical extravaganza. The pineapples took center stage, while every other object in the room became backup dancers. Textbooks soared through the air, performing acrobatics assisted by Levitation Charms. Smoke effects (courtesy of the Smokescreen Spell), pyrotechnics (complete with fire animals that joined the dance), and flashing multicolored lights filled the room. Predictably, Professor Flitwick seemed overwhelmed by the spectacle, clapping furiously and begging for an encore once it had all ended.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was more subdued but equally successful. Hermione demonstrated her mastery of dark charms and their counters in a one-on-one session with Professor Quirrell. While others might have struggled under his scrutiny, Hermione’s precise spellwork and extensive knowledge, even of more dubious magic, left him excitedly stammering his approval.
By far, the worst of them all had been Potions. Not because Hermione performed poorly—her Forgetfulness Potion was nearly perfect—but because there was no opportunity to shine. The exam required her to follow a recipe she had memorized months ago. While she knew her theoretical exam performance had been exceptional, the practical didn’t allow for creativity or flair. Hermione couldn’t help but feel disappointed, especially knowing that competent brewers like Draco Malfoy or Michael Corner could easily achieve similar results. She could only hope that her excellent performance in the written portion of the examination would push her above the rest.
The last exam of Hermione’s first year was, without question, the most dreaded of all: Flying.
For months, Hermione had been taking remedial lessons with Neville, hoping to gain even a shred of competency on a broomstick. Despite her efforts, improvement came painfully slowly. It wasn’t as though she was a fearful person by nature, nor was she particularly unathletic—her experiences in the Muggle world with swimming and ballet had proven she could excel physically. Yet for some inexplicable reason, flying felt utterly beyond her grasp.
The Flying Exam wasn’t even graded, only a simple pass or fail, but that didn’t ease Hermione’s nerves. Failure meant having to retake Flying next year, and that prospect was too humiliating to bear.
As the students gathered on the training grounds, Hermione’s palms were already clammy. The broomstick trembled beneath her grip as Madame Hooch barked instructions.
“Mount your brooms! When I blow the whistle, rise fifteen feet into the air and hover!”
Hermione’s heart pounded as the shrill whistle cut through the air. Despite her shaking hands, she rose into the sky with the others, her broom wobbling precariously. Fifteen feet wasn’t much, but to Hermione, it felt like she was dangling from the top of the Astronomy Tower.
“Good! Now, let’s see some basic maneuvers,” Madame Hooch called out. “Rolls, twists, and once you’re comfortable, fly through the hoops!”
Hermione’s stomach lurched. Rolls? Twists? Hoops? Surely Madame Hooch didn’t mean for her to attempt such things. Panic clawed at her chest as she watched the other students zip around with varying degrees of finesse. Even Neville, who was still far from graceful, managed to complete a shaky roll.
Hermione swallowed hard. She would not cry. Not here. Not now.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to grip the broom tightly and attempted the roll. Her movements were clumsy, and for a horrifying moment, she nearly tipped upside down, but she managed to correct herself just in time. Encouraged by her survival, Hermione braved a twist. It was jerky and inelegant, but she didn’t fall off.
The hoops came next. They hovered about ten feet apart, suspended at different heights. Hermione willed herself forward, her broom swaying dangerously as she approached the first one. She passed through it—barely—and steeled herself for the next. One by one, she navigated the hoops, each success a small miracle.
By the time she landed, her nerves were completely shot. As her feet touched the ground, Hermione collapsed to her knees, clutching at the earth as if it might float away beneath her. Tears of relief streamed down her face, mingling with the sweat on her cheeks. She had done it. Somehow, she had done it.
Madame Hooch approached with a clipboard and a small smile. “Not bad, Miss Granger. A bit shaky, but you passed.”
Hermione could barely muster a nod in response, too overwhelmed by the sheer relief of never having to touch a flying broomstick again.
Soon after, Hermione and Tracey walked together across the lush, green expanse, their robes swishing against the soft grass.
The early June afternoon was golden, the sky stretched wide and cloudless above Hogwarts grounds. The sun bathed the castle in a warm glow, and a gentle breeze stirred the tall grasses dotted with tiny wildflowers—delicate blues, yellows, and whites. Birds darted overhead, their cheerful trills blending with the distant laughter of students enjoying their post-exam freedom. The air smelled of summer, tinged faintly with the earthy scent of the lake and the faint sweetness of the blooming trees lining the grounds.
Whilst Hermione was still a bit green in the face, Tracey had a spring in her step and a grin that could only be described as insufferable.
“I can’t believe how easy that exam was!” Tracey declared, her voice carrying an undeniable note of triumph. “Did you see my barrel roll? I bet even Flint would be impressed with that level of precision. Honestly, I know Potter got that exemption for being on the Quidditch Team as a first year, and breaking some century-old record or whatever, but I bet if he’d been man enough to actually show up, I’d’ve beat him!”
Hermione sighed, glancing ahead as they walked. She was determined not to engage. “I’m just glad it’s over,” she muttered, hoping Tracey would drop the subject.
But Tracey wasn’t done. “You know,” she said slyly, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “this is comeuppance for all the times you’ve made us go over our written exams in agonizing detail. I still don’t know how you somehow managed to commit every single question to memory.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she refused to rise to the bait. “Enjoy your glory, Tracey,” she said with a small smile. “It’s all yours.”
They wandered down to the lake, the water sparkling as sunlight danced across its surface. Willow trees leaned over the edges, their trailing branches swaying gently in the breeze. Tracey plopped herself down under a particularly shady tree with exaggerated flair, and Hermione followed, settling herself against the gnarled trunk.
Near the shallows, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were crouched by the water, laughing uproariously as they prodded the massive tentacles of the giant squid, which had stretched itself lazily in the warm shallows. One of its tentacles playfully swatted at Fred, who pretended to fall over dramatically, sending the other two into fresh fits of laughter.
Tracey let out a whoop of joy, throwing her arms wide and raising a fist to the sky. “We’re done! We’re finally done!”
“You’re acting as if we went through a world war,” Hermione said flatly, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “It was just exams.”
“You were training as if it were a world war!” Tracey shot back with a giggle, leaning back against the bark of the old pine tree. “I mean, you practically dragged Neville and Goyle through boot camp. And don’t even get me started on the witch hunt for your diary!”
Hermione’s smile faltered slightly, but she covered it by nodding indulgently. “Yes, well, I like being prepared,” she said lightly.
But her chest tightened as Tracey’s words brought the sting of memory rushing back. So far, her search for Tom had yielded nothing but frustration, and the faint flicker of irritation that surfaced now was difficult to smother.
Tucking her knees up and resting her chin on them, Hermione turned her gaze out over the lake.
Tracey, oblivious to Hermione’s inner turmoil, tapped her fingers on the grass and scanned the surroundings. Her sharp eyes landed on Millicent Bulstrode sitting under a willow tree some distance away, scribbling in a notebook. A smirk curved on Tracey’s lips.
“Look at Bulstrode,” she whispered conspiratorially, nudging Hermione with her elbow. “Bet she’s writing a love letter to Malfoy.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “Why him?”
“Who else has enough red flags to attract the Bull?”
“Tracey!” said Hermione sharply, her tone a mix of reproach and exhaustion.
“What?” Tracey replied innocently, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “It’s just a theory.”
Hermione didn’t answer, her gaze once again drawn back to the Black Lake. Its surface shimmered like liquid gold in the afternoon sun, the calmness of the water soothing in its own way. Tracey followed her gaze and grinned mischievously.
“You’ve been staring at that lake like you’re in love with it or something,” she teased. “Know what we should do, actually? Jump in.”
Hermione blinked, startled. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” Tracey urged, sitting up with a gleam in her eyes. “It’s the end of exams! We’ve earned a little fun, and what’s more fun than a refreshing swim?”
“Tracey, I’m not getting into that lake,” Hermione said firmly, her arms crossing. “Do you have any idea what’s in there? Grindylows, kelpies, giant squid—no, thank you.”
Tracey rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing off her robes. “You’re such a spoilsport,” she declared, marching toward the water’s edge.
“Tracey, don’t you dare—” Hermione began, but her words turned into a gasp as Tracey dramatically threw off her shoes and leapt into the lake with a wild whoop. Water splashed high into the air, catching the sunlight like tiny rainbows.
Tracey surfaced moments later, shaking her hair back and laughing. “Your turn!” she called out, treading water with ease.
“Absolutely not!” Hermione shouted back, though her lips twitched despite herself.
“Oh, live a little, Hermione!” cried out Tracey, splashing water toward the shore. “What’s the worst that could happen? You end up having fun?”
Hermione stayed put, arms crossed, though her faint smile betrayed her amusement. “If you think I’m jumping into that lake, Tracey Davis, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Tracey just laughed and floated lazily on her back. “Suit yourself! But you’re missing out!”
Hermione stood resolutely at the edge of the lake, arms still crossed, determined not to give in to Tracey’s antics. But then her foot caught on something—nothing visible, but it sent her lurching forward.
“Tracey—!” she shrieked, a mixture of outrage and panic, before she toppled unceremoniously into the Black Lake with a loud splash.
The cold water shocked her senses as she flailed briefly, the weight of her soaked robes pulling at her. She managed to surface, spluttering and shoving her hair out of her face, glaring daggers at Tracey, who was now doubled over with laughter.
“You—cast a Tripping Jinx?!” Hermione sputtered, her voice rising with indignation. “Are you serious, Tracey?”
Tracey struggled to catch her breath, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. “You wouldn’t jump in, so I had to help!” she gasped, holding her stomach as she laughed harder.
“You call that help?!” Hermione snapped, though the absurdity of the situation was beginning to seep into her own sense of humor. “You could’ve killed me!”
“Oh, please,” Tracey said, still giggling as she swam closer. “You’re alive, aren’t you? Now, tell me, doesn’t it feel amazing?”
Hermione glared at her, water dripping from every strand of her bushy hair, her robes clinging uncomfortably. “No, it does not feel amazing! It’s freezing, and I’m soaked!”
But Tracey only grinned, splashing water at her. “Stop whining and enjoy it! Exams are over, Hermione! You’re allowed to have a bit of fun, you know!”
Hermione opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but a sudden giggle bubbled up instead. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation—Tracey’s impish grin, the warmth of the June sun on her face despite the chilly water—was too much to resist.
“Fine!” Hermione said, a reluctant smile breaking through. “But I’m getting you back for that jinx!”
Tracey laughed, dodging as Hermione retaliated with a wave of water. For a few moments, the Black Lake was filled with their laughter and splashing as the world of exams and stress faded away.
The two witches began a series of silly games: holding their breath, seeing who could tread water with their hands in the air, and even a makeshift water polo match with a stray floating branch. The carefree laughter and splashing carried on until a rather snotty Ravenclaw prefect stormed over, hands on hips.
“Out of the lake—it's against the rules! You’re not kelpies, and you’re certainly not mermaids!” she snapped, casting a Hot-Air Charm on them both with a sharp flick of her wand.
As the warmth dried Hermione’s robes, she flopped down onto the grassy shore, letting the sunlight soak into her skin. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t buried under a mountain’s worth of a burden. The feeling of pure relief was foreign, but quite pleasant.
Tracey dropped down beside her, stretching out her legs with an exaggerated sigh. A smirk danced across her lips. “Look at Potter,” she said, jerking her chin toward the small, green-eyed Gryffindor boy across the lawn. “Rubbing his scar and wincing like he’s in agony. That attention-seeking prat!”
Hermione followed her gaze. Harry Potter was indeed clutching his forehead, his face twisted in intense discomfort as his friend—the tall, gangly, freckled Ron Weasley—looked on in seeming concern.
“I thought you liked Potter,” said Hermione. “Didn’t you gush about him for a solid week after he asked you to borrow a quill?”
"He was obsessed with me," Tracey argued, pursing her lips. "Not the other way around. He could've asked anybody else for a quill, but he went five seats down just so he could talk to me. I'm not being delusional!"
"Maybe it was because you had a whole assortment of quills on your desk?"
"Oh, shut up! I wish I had a real friendship, like with Potter and Weasley, or Pansy and Daphne.” A sigh escaped Tracey as she rolled on her bed of grass and flowers. “Instead, I'm stuck with a hateful harpy like you."
"I'm not hateful!" squawked Hermione. "And I can assure you that I am much kinder than you are."
"Sure you are," Tracey said, scoffing. "One more good deed, and the Church will have you canonised like that. I mean, if that French bint Joan of Arc could do it, why can't you?"
Under the golden June sun, Hermione and Tracey lingered by the lakeside a while longer, endlessly talking, laughing, and playing with one another. Yet, as the shadows of their bower grew even longer, Tracey finally stood, stretching dramatically. “God,” she groaned, her back releasing a series of worrying pops as she twisted, “that’s the most physical activity I’ve done my whole life, I think.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled, brushing blades of grass off her robes as she rose. "Let’s hope the Slytherins aren’t lurking about. Running away from them would very likely tire you out even more.”
They meandered back to the castle, its towering silhouette gleaming in the warm light of the setting sun. The great stone walls shimmered faintly, the ivy creeping along them almost glowing in the soft light. As the two pulled the small iron postern open, the faint hum of chatter and laughter from students already inside floated out to meet them.
Inside, the air was cooler, the torches along the flagstone walls flickering gently. Portraits of witches and wizards of years past watched lazily as Hermione and Tracey passed, some offering sleepy nods, others muttering grumpy comments about their grassy, wrinkled robes.
"I swear the paintings are judging us," Tracey whispered, nudging Hermione.
“They judge everyone,” said Hermione.
“Well, it’s creepy,” said Tracey, her eyes darting over to a portrait of a wizened wizard whose grey eyes had never left her own.
For a long while, they walked on towards the great staircase in companionable silence, but as they neared a rickety set of stairs leading to one of the less-used wings of the castle, both Hermione and Tracey narrowed their eyes at the sight; Pansy Parkinson, looking quite flushed, was ascending the steps. Her head turned right, left, then—
Quickly, Tracey’s arms shot out and tugged her backwards, the rough, cool stone pressing against their backs. Both girls stilled, barely daring to breathe.
Pansy’s footsteps slowed, her brown eyes sweeping the corridor behind her. Hermione froze, her pulse hammering in her ears as Pansy’s gaze seemed to linger just a moment too long.
But the Slytherin girl turned back and continued her climb, her hurried footsteps echoing up the stairwell.
Tracey let out a quiet breath of relief. “That was close,” she murmured. “I really didn’t want to get involved in whatever the hell she’s doing.”
Hermione leaned out of the alcove, watching as Pansy disappeared around the next landing. “She’s acting strange,” she muttered.
“She’s always strange, Hermione,” Tracey said, rolling her eyes. “Now can we go back to the common room before we—”
But Hermione simply shook her head, as bushy eyebrows knit together. Pansy wasn’t the kind to act nervous or secretive—she usually strode through the castle as if she owned it. Why would a first-year girl be acting so, before curfew was even in effect?
“Not like this,” said Hermione insistently. “She looks like she doesn’t want to be seen. We need to see what she’s up to—what’s if it’s to do with us?”
Or Tom, thought Hermione quietly.
Tracey groaned. “Oh, come on! You can’t possibly want to—”
But Hermione was already moving, her steps light as she followed the faint sound of Pansy’s footsteps. After a long moment, Tracey slowly followed.
Ahead, Pansy continued up the rickety staircase, her movements brisk and purposeful. She paused on the landing, her head swiveling to check her surroundings, and Hermione immediately pressed herself flat against the wall, holding her breath. Tracey did the same, though she shot Hermione a fear-filled glare as she did so.
When Pansy seemed satisfied no one was watching, she ascended to the next level. Hermione motioned for Tracey to follow, pointing toward the stairs.
“You’re going to get us caught,” Tracey hissed, her voice barely audible.
“Then stop whispering so loudly,” hissed Hermione back.
The two girls continued their cautious pursuit. They stopped at the base of each flight of stairs, waiting for Pansy to move out of sight before quickly darting up themselves. At one point, after one step had let out a low groan under the weight of Hermione, Pansy paused again, turning her head sharply. Hermione froze mid-step, balancing precariously as Tracey grabbed her arm to steady her.
“Careful,” Tracey muttered under her breath, her fingers tightening around Hermione’s sleeve.
When Pansy finally moved on, Hermione exhaled softly and pressed forward. The higher they climbed, the dimmer the light became, the torches on the walls fewer and farther between. The castle grew eerily silent, save for the distant sound of Pansy’s footsteps and the occasional creak of the old stairs.
As they reached the next landing, Hermione and Tracey ducked into a shadowed alcove just in time to avoid being seen by Pansy, who had stopped in front of a heavy wooden door; she glanced around nervously before slipping inside.
There was a long, palpable silence as Hermione and Tracey simply stared at each other; then, dashing forward, Hermione pressed her ear against the thick wooden door, her breath hitching as she strained to make out the voices on the other side. Tracey stood behind her, practically hopping in silent protest, her hands wringing nervously as she mouthed, Let’s go!
But Hermione didn’t move. Her curiosity—and now, her growing sense of dread—anchored her in place.
“…Brother says it’s all set,” came Pansy’s voice, high-pitched and eager. “He told me the older ones have it planned down to the last detail. By this time tomorrow, she’ll never dare show her face in Slytherin again.”
“Finally,” Draco drawled, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “I was starting to think exams would delay everything forever. Good riddance, I say. She doesn’t belong here.”
Hermione’s chest tightened as she realized they were talking about her.
“They’ll strike the fear of the Fae into her,” Pansy said gleefully. “That’s what my brother said. And he’d know—he’s helped with things like this before.”
Draco chuckled darkly. “I almost wish I could see her face when it happens. Maybe then the Mudblood will understand her place.”
At once, Hermione froze. Tracey, her face ashen, went forward, tugging at Hermione’s sleeve; yet she stayed put, her rapid blinks and trembling breaths the only outward signs of her fear.
“I told you the others hated her just as much as we did,” Pansy said with a self-satisfied air. “You’ll see—it’ll be the perfect end to the year.”
“Let’s hope they don’t just scare her,” Draco sneered. “A good hex or two wouldn’t go amiss.”
A shrill giggle erupted, so fierce and sudden, Hermione flinched. “You think it’ll only be a hex or two? Draco, do you know Calix? He promised she’ll never sully Slytherin House—or Hogwarts as a whole, for that matter—any longer; for some reason, I really doubt they’ll be baking cookies for the bint.”
They laughed together, then, seemingly finding the mere thought of Hermione not being brutalised hilarious.
Hermione swallowed hard, her legs trembling beneath her. The two of them were gloating, completely unguarded in their cruelty, about how the older Slytherins were plotting something big—something dangerous they would soon inflict on her.
She turned to Tracey, whose wide eyes were filled with horror. Tracey shook her head furiously, her hands gesturing for them to leave right this instant.
For once, Hermione was inclined to agree, reluctantly backing away from the door. Neither dared breathe until they were down the corridor and out of earshot.
“What are we going to do?” Tracey whispered urgently, her voice shaking.
But there was no answer Hermione’s racing mind could produce. Older Slytherins would attack her tomorrow; what could she do, except beg and plead? Now, all Hermione could do was to keep walking forth, as her nose and throat stuffed up, and her eyes began to water.
“Hermione?” ventured Tracey, peering at the girl as she went briskly ahead.
“Yes?” she said with false normalcy, turning her face slightly so as to hurriedly wipe her tears off.
“Do you…w-what do you think we should do?”
“Oh, well, you know Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione. “That girl—she’s thicker than molasses; her brother, too. It’s all just bluster, to impress Malfoy.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“It’s getting quite late, isn’t it?” said Hermione quietly; she made a sharp turn to the left corridor, her pace quickening. In her haste to get to someplace else, Hermione stumbled a bit over a particularly long piece of stone lippage; she recovered quickly, yet the momentary pause allowed Tracey to finally reach her. “You must be getting to bed soon—tomorrow, Professor Flitwick is hosting a special lecture for the Charms Club first thing in the morning, and he told me he’d be delighted if I went. Of course, I have to go to the library now, to get a general idea of the subject matter at hand, but I assume you’d rather have the extra hour of sleep, yes?”
There was a loud silence. Tracey looked rather discombobulated by the question, her entire body tense as she looked at Hermione, who was attempting her best smile. Given by Tracey’s increasingly worried stare, it did not come across quite as cheery as Hermione had hoped. “I…” Tracey sighed, her shoulders dropping. “...I guess you’re right. It’d be best to get some more rest. Good night.” But before Hermione could echo that, Tracey turned, pausing to look at Hermione over her shoulder. Her amber eyes lingered for a while. “You’ll be alright without me, right?”
“Yes,” said Hermione in a brittle manner, still forcing a smile, “of course, Tracey. I just need a bit of time, that’s all. Can’t afford to be unprepared for Professor Flitwick’s lecture, after all. Good night!”
Then, they went their separate ways—Tracey, down the staircase off to the side, and Hermione, still briskly walking ahead. But as Hermione made her way through the long, narrow corridor, her speed lessened, her footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone walls of the corridor. The weight of what she’d heard pressed down on her like a suffocating fog, and her faux-determined stride faltered. She moved slower and slower, each step feeling heavier, until at last, she came to a standstill, staring blankly ahead as if the scarlet fire of the hung torches could enlighten her.
Her breathing hitched. The tightness in her throat she’d been suppressing grew unbearable, and with a sharp gasp, the tears she’d held back spilled over. Hermione slid down the rough stone wall, her legs giving way beneath her as she crumpled to the cold floor.
Silent sobs wracked her small frame, and she buried her face in her hands, trembling.
If only Tom were here.
The thought came unbidden, and Hermione’s wails now grew loud as the ache of his absence swelled within her. Tom had always known what to do—always had the answers she could never find on her own. He would have known how to stop this; he would have saved her.
When she had been in possession of the diary, Hermione had also possessed a sort of untouchability; she could outwit and outperform any other—but only after consulting with Tom, so as to heed his wise words.
Hermione had not lost only her best friend—she had also lost the very source of her power,
For a long moment, Hermione sat there, her sobs echoing in the empty, dim corridor. But as the minutes stretched on, her sobs quieted to shallow, uneven breaths as the reality of her situation dawned on her. She felt hollow and raw and weak. She pressed her palms into the cold stone floor, the sensation grounding her as her breathing steadied.
Tom wasn’t here.
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists.
Tom wasn’t here, and he wasn’t coming.
That simple fact struck like a hammer, but instead of crumbling under it, Hermione felt something else—something small and fierce, like a spark igniting deep within her chest. If Tom were here, what would he do? Would he coddle her, and assure her that everything would be alright? Would he let her simply wallow in despair?
No—Tom would expect her to stand up. To fight back. To be clever and resourceful and unrelenting, no matter the circumstances.
Hermione wiped at her face with trembling hands, her resolve strengthening with each pass. Even if she was alone, she couldn’t afford to falter. She had to think—strategize. She’d faced challenges before, had she not? Perhaps nothing like this, but she had overcome obstacles, solved problems, persevered. That was who she was.
That is what Tom had helped her to become.
Hermione straightened, leaning back against the wall as she stared at the flickering torchlight above. She sniffed hard, wiping away the last of her tears. If this was the test, then she would face it head-on. She wouldn’t let them win.
That’s what he would want.
Her fingers brushed the hem of her robes, smoothing out the fabric as she stood. Her legs were shaky, but her determination was solid. She took a deep breath, the air further filling her with a strange mix of fear and defiance.
Tomorrow, the Slytherins would come for her, expecting just another first year. They planned to humiliate her, to strike her down where she stood. And perhaps they would succeed, despite any efforts to the contrary; but what they wouldn’t do is find an easy target.
Calix Parkinson prided himself on being an easygoing sort of boy. He enjoyed food of all kinds, excelled in his classes—a rare trait for a fifth-year juggling the ever-mounting pressure of O.W.L.s—and got along with almost all he had met.
But Mudbloods? That was the one subject matter which offended his generally genial behaviour. Mudbloods, he hated.
His dislike wasn’t borne of blind prejudice; no, it was rooted in simple history. As a child, Calix had eagerly absorbed his parents' teachings—lessons about the rise and fall of wizarding empires, the founding of the Ministry, and the tragedies of the Blood War. It always circled back to the same thing: the eternal clash between the purebloods and the Mudbloods, between order and chaos—between good and evil.
The war had ended when Calix was six. He could still vividly recall his usually composed mother rushing into the room, her sobs violent and unrelenting. Her brother—Calix’s uncle Cassius—had been killed. The funeral was seared into his memory, a grim procession of black-clad wizards and witches, his mother a hollow shell of herself, staring into nothingness.
The culprit was a name that had burned itself into Calix’s mind: Dirk Cresswell.
Cresswell had been, by all accounts, extraordinary for one of his kind. A top student at Hogwarts who had risen to head the Goblin Liaison Office by thirty—a trajectory almost unheard of for a Muggle-born. Most Mudbloods didn’t even have enough intellect to lead the Muggle-related Offices (which were all pureblood-led, Calix proudly noted), and so, In many circles, Dirk Cresswell had been seen as an anomaly, a rare Mudblood with some semblance of civility. But Cresswell’s brilliance had only made him more dangerous, his savagery all the more shocking when it finally surfaced.
It wasn’t Cresswell’s intelligence that disgusted Calix. It was the truth that intelligence in a Mudblood was nothing but a thin veneer, a mask for their innate barbarity. Cresswell had proven this when he murdered Cassius Parkinson, and Calix had learned an unshakable lesson as a result: that Mudbloods were not only inferior but also inherently dangerous. And, of course, that their inferiority was not due to any trait they were comparatively deficient in—theoretically, a Mudblood could be just as intelligent, well-spoken, and skilled as pureblood—but instead, their very existence.
When Hermione Granger had been sorted into Slytherin, Calix had felt nothing at first. She was just another girl, another face in the crowd. But the day after, when Pansy had informed him with wide-eyed disbelief that Granger was a Mudblood, rage had simmered in his veins.
He had begun watching Granger, studying her every move. She wasn’t like the dull ones who barely scraped by in classes; no, Granger was very bright, in fact—the kind that could be considered extraordinary, like Dirk Cresswell. But her intelligence only deepened Calix’s hatred. She wasn’t just an affront to Slytherin House now; she was a threat to it.
The day Pansy came to him in tears was the day he’d snapped. She’d been given detention—detention!—because of something Granger had done. Calix had barely been able to suppress his fury. When the opportunity came to hex her, to hit her with the Heat Curse and watch her whimper, it had been cathartic. A release.
The months that followed were less about personal satisfaction and more about necessity. Granger wasn’t just a stain on Slytherin House; she was an active danger, one that needed to be removed before she caused irreparable harm. When she attacked Malfoy—brutalized him, as far as Calix was concerned—and once again brought Pansy to tears, the decision was clear.
It wasn’t revenge; it was about integrity. Safety. Slytherin House could not tolerate unchecked violence, especially from a Mudblood. This plan to drive her out wasn’t cruelty—it was justice. It was mercy.
To Calix, their actions were no different than putting down a rabid creature. Necessary, humane even. For Granger’s sake and for everyone else’s, she needed to be dealt with.
The morning of the attack, the common room was a hive of activity, though none of the commotion was outwardly suspicious. It never was—not when it came to their plans. Older years lounged with practiced ease, cloaked in nonchalance, while the younger years, mostly oblivious to the undercurrents, prattled on about their plans for the summer holidays. Calix Parkinson, however, knew better.
He sat at one of the leather-backed chairs near the fireplace, feigning disinterest as he flipped through today’s Daily Prophet paper, but his sharp eyes darted about, observing everything.
“Ready?” whispered a voice beside him. It was Rebecca, a cheerful sixth-year with an infectious smile and a penchant for curses of a most dubious sort.
“Of course,” said Calix, not looking up from the page he wasn’t reading.
Rebecca snorted softly. “Bold of you to assume she’s not already planning something.”
Calix finally glanced up, his expression cool and unreadable. “And that’s precisely why we’ll remind her of her place.” He closed the book with a deliberate snap, standing and straightening his robes. “She may be clever, but cleverness only gets you so far against power.”
The other Slytherins nearby perked up subtly at his movement. No signal was needed; they all knew their roles. A distraction here, a corridor left empty there—it was all meticulously planned. The older years had worked out every detail, ensuring that Granger would be isolated at just the right moment.
Calix’s lips curled into a faint smile. Today wasn’t just about Granger. It was about sending a message—a reminder that Slytherin House did not tolerate filth within its ranks.
As he exited the common room, flanked by Rebecca and quite a few other upperclassmen, Calix felt a surge of anticipation. The corridors were already abuzz with students making their way to breakfast, their chatter a perfect cover for the events soon to occur. Whilst everyone was in the Great Hall, it would be easy to pick off the Mudblood; it was a habit of hers to frequent the library just before breakfast.
Then, they would corner her. Hex her, humiliate her, and let her know she would never belong here. The specifics didn’t matter as much as the execution: it was the fear they wanted, the breaking of her spirit.
Yet as they stalked through the castle, Calix couldn’t shake a nagging thought. Pansy’s report from the night before had been glowing with excitement, but also tinged with desperation. And Granger… she was sharp, almost unnaturally so. Would she truly walk into their trap, or had she already concocted some countermeasure?
He pushed the doubt aside. It didn’t matter. Even if she tried to fight back, she was outnumbered and outclassed.
The castle felt alive around him as they moved, its ancient stones bearing silent witness to the day’s events. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows across the corridors. It was almost serene, the calm before the storm.
As they reached their positions near a secret passageway that Granger thought nobody but her knew, Calix leaned casually against the wall, the picture of calm. The others dispersed subtly, taking up their places in the shadows and alcoves, wands at the ready.
The Disillusionment Charm cast by Rose Carmichael made each of them nearly invisible, blending seamlessly into the shadows of the forest clearing. Calix Parkinson stood amidst the cloaked group, his pulse quickening with anticipation. The Repelling Charms ensured they wouldn’t be interrupted, not that anyone would come looking for a Mudblood like Hermione Granger.
The plan was foolproof—or so they believed. This time, it wasn’t just a handful of younger students like before. Calix’s grin widened as he surveyed the gathering, feeling a tantalizing thrill of both anticipation and satisfaction.
Granger had eluded him once before. Despite her bloodline, she was resourceful, cunning even—qualities he begrudgingly acknowledged. But no amount of cleverness would save her now. The sheer number of participants, coupled with their coordinated spells, would overwhelm her before she even realized what was happening.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a figure appeared at the edge of the clearing. Bushy brown hair framed a small form, and the unmistakable sight of a black robe confirmed it was her. Calix’s heart pounded with excitement. She was walking closer, oblivious to the trap set for her.
The first volley of spells came without warning. Pimple Jinxes shot from multiple wands, a barrage of scarlet jets hurtling toward their unsuspecting target. Yet, to Calix's shock, the spells splashed harmlessly off her like raindrops on glass. The figure didn’t flinch or falter; instead, she continued walking toward them, unflinching.
“What the—?” someone whispered near him, their voice tight with confusion.
No first year should have been able to resist a coordinated assault like that. Calix's grin faltered, replaced by a mixture of disbelief and unease.
“Flipendo!” Calix shouted, determined to knock her down and reveal whatever trick she was pulling. The spell hit its mark, and the girl fell—but not in the way he’d expected.
When she hit the ground, there was no cry of pain or startled yelp. Instead, the clearing echoed with a loud, metallic CLANG! that reverberated through the air.
The bushy-haired figure didn’t move, didn’t make a cry of pain, didn’t do anything.
Calix’s blood ran cold as he stared at the still form. Something was very, very wrong.
After a long moment, two boys rushed over to the fallen body. One bent down, brushing the hair covering the girl’s face, when—
Flames, scarlet and orange, erupted, no ignition needed to cover the boy’s entire form. And, as if sentient, they then jumped to the other, immediately covering him as well. The two began flailing on the ground, their screams sharp and piercing.
Calix could do nothing but look on in horror.The grip on his wand tightened as a cold, sinking feeling settled over him.
The Mudblood knew.
“Aguamenti!” one of the girls cried out desperately, sending a jet of water toward the inferno, but it did nothing. “Aqua Eructo!” she tried again, the larger torrent of water proving equally useless.
The flames danced on, consuming their targets without mercy. The boys screamed louder and louder, the sound reverberating off the stone walls, and Calix felt his stomach twist in revulsion. Dark fire—magic that even most seventh-years wouldn’t dare to attempt. For a moment, he thought about Pansy, her cheerful naivety and her aimless vanity, and he felt a pang of disgust at this comparative monster. Granger was only twelve, yet she had already wielded magic this horrifying.
“Alright, now!” Lestrange clapped his hands, his voice attempting authority but tinged with panic. “We need to get someone to levitate them to the Hospital Wing—”
“The Hospital Wing won’t help them!” a shrill voice rang out, echoing through the corridor. Everyone froze. “I found the spell in the Restricted Section! Only I know the counter!”
Calix whipped his head toward the left corridor, as did the others. The voice was high-pitched and girlish, but with an edge of mockery that made his blood boil. “We have to find her,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice despite the growing dread. “She has the counter! Let’s go!”
“Confringo!” Rose Carmichael shouted, sending a blast of magic toward the door. The spell rebounded with a burst of light, slamming Rose into the opposite wall with a sickening thud.
“Rose!”
A short blond boy, Janus Robins, rushed to her side, lifting her head and casting a quick healing charm to close the gash on her scalp. “She-she’s’s fine,” he stammered, though his voice wavered. “Maybe a concussion, but she’ll be alright.”
Calix’s palms felt clammy as he stared at the still-locked door. His mind reeled. This was a child, and yet he now felt as if she was more terrifying than a Class XXXX creature
Lestrange, looking as fearful as Calix felt yet determined nonetheless, raised his wand. “Alright, everyone. On three, we all cast the strongest spell we know at the same time. Ready? One…two…THREE!”
A barrage of spells slammed into the door at once, blasting it off its hinges. The Slytherins surged into the room, led by Lestrange—who immediately began to scream.
A viscous purple liquid had rained down from above, coating him completely. Within seconds, angry red boils erupted across his skin, swelling grotesquely until he was almost unrecognizable. Lestrange collapsed to the floor, writhing and howling in pain.
“She’s here!” Calix shouted as his eyes darted upward. A bucket swung gently from the rafters, its contents now empty. “She rigged it! She knew Lestrange would go in first!”
The room quickly devolved into pandemonium. Glitter exploded from the corners, showering the group in harmless but infuriating sparkles. A redheaded boy crouched under a desk to search for her but promptly began to let out awful howls of unadulterated pain, fire consuming him just as it had the two boys before.
Meanwhile, Aurora, one of Calix’s friends, approached a suit of armor tucked into the corner—only to be sucker-punched by the enchanted metal. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Calix’s nerves were fraying, his confidence dwindling. Every step forward felt like walking into another one of the Mudblood’s traps. How could a twelve-year-old do this?
Then, in the doorway, as he was tentatively casting a Revealing Charm on the aforementioned suit of armour, he saw her. Just a flash—a bushy head of hair, black robes rippling underneath.
“She’s there!” he bellowed, pointing wildly. Without waiting for backup, he dashed out of the room and into the corridor.
But the hallway was now shrouded in dense, swirling grey smoke. It was thick enough to obscure his vision, but Calix pushed forward, heart pounding. He reminded himself that she was just a girl—a Mudblood girl at that. She could run, she could hide, but she was no match for someone like him.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Calix charged into the smoke.
The grey smoke was suffocating, clogging Calix’s lungs and making his eyes water as he stumbled forward. The acrid stench clawed at his senses, each breath a struggle. His grip on his wand tightened, his heart pounding as he pressed on. Suddenly, out of the swirling haze, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Mudblood.
“Stupefy!” he shouted, the spell flying from his wand and striking her.
The girl crumpled to the floor but rose with an eerie, mechanical quickness, her wide eyes locking onto him. Without a word, she lunged toward him. Calix’s heart leapt into his throat as fear gripped him. He turned on his heel and sprinted, tearing through the unnaturally long corridor. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his mind racing.
He rounded a corner, relief surging through him at the sight of open space ahead, but his escape was cut short. There, standing at the end of the corridor, was a man he had only seen once before: Dirk Cresswell.
The blood drained from Calix’s face as he skidded to a halt. His lips curled into a snarl. “You.”
Dirk Cresswell said nothing. His expression was calm, unbothered—until he moved. The man lunged toward Calix with an unnatural speed, closing the distance between them in seconds.
Pain exploded in Calix’s skull as he was thrown to the ground, his head bouncing against the cold, unforgiving stone. He gritted his teeth and swung his fist wildly, catching Cresswell in the jaw and sending him stumbling. Fueled by rage, Calix flipped their positions, pinning the man beneath him. His hands closed around Dirk’s throat.
“You deserve this, you filthy—”
His grip faltered.
For a moment, the face beneath him flickered. It wasn’t Dirk Cresswell. It was Adam Wilkins, a Muggle boy Calix had seen once in a Ministry photo. No—it was Dirk. But then it wasn’t.
A sharp memory surged forward.
“Mummy!” a younger Calix whined. “When is Uncle Cass coming back?”
His mother’s face had been hollow that day, her usual sharp composure replaced by a haunted emptiness. When she finally looked at him, her smile was chilling, her eyes vacant. “Never,” she had whispered.
The memory shattered as a red flash of light zipped past Calix’s head. He snapped back to the present, disoriented. He turned wildly, spotting Hermione—or was it her? The corridor twisted, the grey smoke playing tricks on his mind.
He lunged forward and shoved the girl hard against the wall, her scream of pain ringing in his ears. He turned her around, ready to finish this, but—
He was back at the coffin, a single pansy in his trembling hand. Uncle Cass’s coffin. The man inside didn’t look dead. His pale face was still, but there was a smile on his lips, that cheeky grin that always hinted he knew something others didn’t.
“Uncle Cass!” Calix sobbed, dropping the flower as he reached into the coffin. “Wake up! Please—just wake up!”
The coffin dissolved into smoke.
Calix stumbled forward, still running, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. How long was this corridor? It shouldn’t have been this long.
Another figure loomed before him, and he collided with it. He gasped, staring upward.
Dirk Cresswell.
But not as he remembered him from his mother’s stories. This Dirk was younger, softer. Normal. Calix remembered the day he’d first seen him in person, wandering through the Ministry. Calix had bumped into him, and Dirk had chuckled kindly, reaching out with hands that—
Murderer’s hands.
Calix collapsed to his knees, clutching his head. The memories, the faces—they blurred and shifted, disjointed and overwhelming. He didn’t know where he was, or who was before him.
A hand reached out, and Calix scrambled backward, his breaths shallow and frantic. “Stay away!” he whimpered, his voice breaking.
The figure advanced, the smoke thickening around it.
A red light struck Calix square in the chest.
Everything went dark.