WINDS OF CHANGE
The summer before their second year at Hogwarts passed with a kind of uneasy calm. The tension in the Black family was palpable but restrained, a careful silence woven through each family gathering. Bellatrix's wedding, which everyone had dreaded, turned out to be an unexpectedly smooth affair. The ceremony, grand as expected, was filled with pomp and ritual, but Sirius, who had been preparing himself for the usual verbal jabs and hostile stares, found himself mostly ignored instead of being openly scolded. It was as if the family's attention had shifted elsewhere, onto the newlyweds and their hopeful future. For once, Sirius wasn't the center of their animosity.
True to his quiet and obedient nature, Regulus was sorted into Slytherin upon entering Hogwarts. The news hit Sirius harder than he cared to admit. There was a growing distance between them, a rift that seemed impossible to bridge. He had hoped, even in his most rebellious moments, that Regulus might somehow defy their family's rigid ideals. But watching his younger brother step into the very house that symbolized the Black family's pureblood obsession made his heart heavy with doubt. It was as though Regulus had chosen to align himself with the very blood purity rhetoric Sirius had tried to escape.
Hermione, in her own way, felt the weight of the shift. She had once thought the three of them—Sirius, Regulus, and herself—might one day stand united, but that dream felt more distant now. She could see the doubt in Sirius's eyes when he looked at Regulus, and she knew it was something more than simple sibling rivalry. It was the kind of doubt that left cracks in the foundation of their once solid bond.
Hermione, with her sharp eye, picked up on the subtle changes in Sirius's behaviour, particularly when he was with his friends. James, Peter, and even Remus seemed a bit off lately. They were quieter, more withdrawn, like something was weighing heavily on their minds. It was particularly striking with Remus. He had always been reserved, but now he seemed almost… evasive. He missed one day of school every month, and the excuses never felt entirely believable. The pattern was too consistent to ignore. Hermione found herself thinking that perhaps there was something more to it—something she wasn’t seeing yet. Could Remus be hiding something? A part of her hesitated to voice the thought, but it gnawed at her nonetheless.
As Hermione, Azza, and Regulus made their way down the corridor, Hermione's mind continued to spin with her unvoiced suspicions about Remus lingering just beneath the surface. Suddenly, she saw them: Sirius, James, and Peter, a trio moving with an almost furtive air, their heads close together. Remus was conspicuously absent. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her suspicions solidifying.
“Is Lupin sick again?” Azza asked, noticing Hermione’s intense gaze.
“I…I don’t know,” Hermione replied, her voice low, her eyes still fixed on the retreating figures. “Not yet.”
Regulus, ever observant, followed her gaze. “He does seem to be perpetually under the weather,” he commented, his tone smooth and polite. “Perhaps he should be quarantined, for the safety of the student body.”
Hermione whipped her head around, surprised by his comment. “Quarantined?” she repeated, her voice laced with incredulity.
“A figure of speech, of course,” Regulus said, his lips twitching slightly. “But if he’s always ill, it does pose a…hygienic concern, wouldn’t you agree?”
Azza snorted, then let out a low chuckle. “You’re terrible, Regulus. You sound like you’re suggesting we build a little leper colony for him in the dungeons, complete with a ‘Keep Out’ sign and a bell.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “One strives for efficiency. Think of the organizational benefits. A designated sick bay, readily available for… containment.”
“Containment?” Hermione echoed, her eyebrows shooting up. “Regulus!”
“Well, one must be practical, Hermione,” he said, his tone perfectly reasonable, as if discussing the merits of a new brand of tea. “Imagine the paperwork saved. No more notes from Madam Pomfrey, no more cryptic excuses from his… associates.”
Azza rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You’re going to get yourself hexed one of these days, Regulus. Especially if your big brother hears you suggesting that his dear friend be contained like a particularly virulent case of Sneezing Snarglefluffs.”
“One simply offers suggestions for the betterment of the school,” Regulus said, his voice dripping with mock-innocence. “If Mr. Lupin or anyone else is offended, perhaps they should consider improving their constitution.”
Hermione, however, was still preoccupied. She couldn’t shake the image of Remus’s frequent absences, the way his friends always covered for him.
“Something’s not right,” she murmured, more to herself than to her companions.
“What’s not right?” Regulus asked, his brow furrowed at his cousin's wan face.
Azza's voice was laced with worry as she grasped Hermione's arm, her eyes wide with an unsettling intensity. “Hermione, stars aligning in a most ominous pattern, what's amiss? You look as though the whispers of the forest are summoning you to a most uncertain fate.”
The possibility settled uneasily in her mind: Remus Lupin, her dear friend, might be a werewolf.
She had read about them, of course, in her ever-growing collection of magical books. The idea seemed both fantastical and terrifying, but the signs—his monthly absences, his withdrawn demeanor, the way his friends always made excuses for him—started to add up. Could Sirius know? Was that why he always stood by Remus, no matter what? Was that the source of the quiet understanding between them?
It was a troubling thought, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. She wanted to ask Sirius, to get to the bottom of it, but she was unsure how. The thought of confronting him about Remus’s secret—if it was even true—made her stomach twist with uncertainty. Sirius had always been fiercely loyal to his friends, and that loyalty had always been a source of admiration for Hermione. But now, she wondered if there was more to it than that. What was Sirius hiding? And why hadn’t he shared it with her?
Hermione’s thoughts were clouded with suspicions and quiet unease, and it wasn’t long before something strange began to happen. A vision, unbidden, crept into her mind in moments of quiet contemplation—glimpses of a girl with wild, frizzy hair running through the dark, misty shadows of the Forbidden Forest. It wasn’t the first time she had seen her; the girl felt oddly familiar, though Hermione couldn’t quite place where she’d encountered her before. The girl’s face was pale with fear, her breath ragged as she ran—ran from something far worse than the trees and thorns.
A boy was with her. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but something about his hair, his presence, reminded her so strongly of James Potter that it made her heart skip a beat. The way he moved, the way he seemed to hold his ground despite the fear, it was as if she was seeing an echo of the past. But there was something else, something that made her breath catch in her throat. Amidst the chaos of their flight, she saw a massive, dark shape emerge from the fog. A large, hulking dog, as black as the night itself, charging through the forest in pursuit. Its eyes were like flames, and its size—its sheer presence—was enough to make the air feel heavy, as though something ancient and dangerous was lurking too close.
The girl and the boy, their faces twisted in fear, ran faster, but it was clear that the creature wasn’t far behind. Hermione couldn’t understand what she was seeing, nor why this vision of a past she didn’t know kept haunting her. But the black dog, the terrifying creature that resembled the Grim, loomed large in her mind. It felt as if it was tied to something—someone.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision faded, leaving Hermione in a silent void of confusion. Her mind was racing, her thoughts tangled like threads she couldn’t unravel. She had to understand. She had to know what was happening, and why she was being shown these pieces of something she couldn’t explain. She didn’t know if she could speak to Sirius about it—not yet. But there was no denying it anymore. Something was amiss, and as much as she feared what it could mean, she knew that the answers were out there—waiting, perhaps, in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, or in the depths of the Black family’s secrets.
Hermione awoke with a start, her body heavy and disoriented. Her head throbbed as if she had been pulled from some deep, relentless dream, and for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Slowly, her surroundings came into focus. She was lying in the Hogwarts infirmary, the faint light of morning creeping through the tall windows. The room was quiet except for the soft murmuring of someone nearby. The scent of antiseptic and herbs filled the air, but it was the soft voice that caught her attention first.
"You need to take your potions, Mr. Lupin," Madam Pomfrey’s voice echoed softly, a mix of concern and weary patience. "You can’t keep avoiding them."
A voice, thin and trembling, barely a whisper, replied. "I'm so tired... just so tired... I can't... please..." A shuddering sob filled the silence, the sound of small hands clutching the bedsheets. "I don't deserve to be here... I don't..." A choked sob, almost childlike in its vulnerability, escaped him. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Hermione blinked, her eyes welling up, her heart aching. The voice, so small and fragile, filled with a child's despair, the self-loathing that shouldn’t belong in one so young... It was Remus. Remus Lupin, a scared and hurting boy, suffering in a way she couldn't comprehend, and the sound of his suppressed cries was almost unbearable.
Her heart stopped as realization settled like a stone in her chest. It hit her all at once—the way he had always been a little off, the way he seemed to have trouble keeping up with the others during certain months. And now, hearing the brokenness in his voice, the raw pain in his words, there was no mistaking it. Remus Lupin was a werewolf.
The truth crashed into her like a tidal wave. The boy who sat next to her in class, who laughed with her, who quietly kept his distance when things grew too heated in their group… He was suffering. And he had been suffering in silence for years.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, frozen, trying to process the weight of the discovery.
She couldn’t bear to think of him in pain like this, alone and struggling through something so terrible. It was so unjust. She wanted to help him. She wanted to fix it, to stop him from hurting, from feeling so isolated and ashamed. If only there was something she could do—some way to make it better for him.
Her eyes darted over to where Remus lay, curled in on himself on one of the beds. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up. Madam Pomfrey was talking to him gently, though her words didn’t seem to reach him.
"I’ll take the potions later… I just… I just don’t deserve it…"
Remus’s voice broke again, and Hermione’s chest tightened. He was talking through the pain, through the brokenness, and yet, even in his misery, there was a hint of guilt—guilt for something he couldn’t control.
It was then that Hermione made a silent promise. She didn’t care what it took. She would do anything to make him feel better, to help him carry the burden that he shouldn’t have had to bear alone. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know what she could do, but she knew one thing for certain: She couldn’t let her friend live in this kind of misery without doing something about it.
As she sat there, still recovering from the weight of her discovery, she saw him try to sit up again, his hands clutching at the bed for support. She felt the urge to go to him, to speak to him, but the words wouldn’t come. Hermione sat up straight and turned toward the nurse.
"Madam Pomfrey," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her, "I need to know what I can do to help him. You can’t keep treating him like this—isolated and ashamed."
The matron gave her a soft, almost pitying look. "Miss Black, you don't understand and need to rest. There’s little that can be done. And the potions—"
"I don’t care about the potions right now." Hermione interrupted, standing up abruptly. "I need to know how to help him. I need to learn how to heal his wounds after the full moon. He doesn’t deserve to suffer like this every month."
Madam Pomfrey’s expression softened, but she remained reluctant. "I don’t know if you truly understand what you’re asking, Miss Black. Healing a werewolf’s wounds is no simple matter. You need to be very careful."
"He’s my friend, and I won’t stand by while he is miserable. Please. I need to help him."
The matron hesitated, looking at Hermione with a mixture of wariness and something like approval. She could see the determination in the young girl’s eyes. After a moment of silence, Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Very well," she said, reluctantly. "But know that you’ll need to be meticulous in your training. And it will take time."
"Of course," Hermione agreed, already preparing herself for the long road ahead.
From that day on, Hermione made a habit of visiting the infirmary every month after the full moon. She stayed by Remus’s side while he recovered, learning the intricacies of healing his wounds from Madam Pomfrey. It was grueling work, but Hermione’s focus never wavered. She mainly helped with cleaning the wounds and paid close attention to any spells and charms Pomfrey used for Remus' treatment.
Hermione was deeply engrossed in a particularly dense tome on ancient runes, her brow furrowed in concentration. Azza, perched on the edge of the table, was idly flipping through a magazine filled with outlandish potion recipes, occasionally making a snide comment about their impracticality.
"Honestly," Azza said, tossing the magazine aside, "who would want to brew a potion that turns your hair into live slugs? Utterly pointless."
Hermione, barely looking up from her book, murmured, "Some might find it… aesthetically interesting."
Azza snorted. "Please. Anyway, did you see McGonagall today? She was practically vibrating with annoyance during Transfiguration."
"Yes," Hermione replied, finally looking up. "Apparently, a some gryffindor guy tried to use Vera Verto on a classmate, and it went horribly wrong. Instead of a goblet, they got… well, a goblet with legs and a very distressed squeak. It was quite a spectacle."
"Oh, I heard about that!" Azza said, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight. "Apparently, the poor kid was hopping around the classroom, trying to drink from his own leg. It was absolute chaos."
Hermione sighed, a hint of disapproval in her voice. "It's hardly amusing, Azza. That sort of spellwork can be dangerous."
"Oh, relax, Hermione," Azza said, waving her hand dismissively. "No one was seriously hurt. Besides, McGonagall looked like she was about to explode. She was pacing like a cat all day, you know, like she does. It was hilarious."
Hermione nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Yes, she was quite agitated. I suppose it's understandable, given the circumstances."
“She was so catty,” Azza continued, emphasizing the pun. "I swear, if she had whiskers, they'd be twitching non-stop. You know, with her being an animagus and all.”
“Yes, I know,” Hermione said quietly. "It's quite remarkable, isn't it?"
"Remarkable?" Azza scoffed. "It's just McGonagall being McGonagall. Always so controlled and… catlike. It's almost predictable."
But for Hermione, the conversation sparked a deeper consideration. She knew McGonagall was an animagus, of course, but the image of her pacing, catlike, throughout the day, brought the reality of the transformation into sharp focus. The ability to change form, to become something else entirely, was a power she had always admired, but never truly considered for herself.
"Imagine," Hermione murmured, more to herself than to Azza, "being able to transform at will. To see the world from a different perspective."
Azza raised an eyebrow. "Imagine the hairballs," she said dryly. "Anyway, why the sudden philosophical musings on animagi? You're starting to sound like Regulus."
Hermione shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No, just… thinking. About the possibilities."
As the weeks passed, however, Hermione felt the weight of another secret creeping in on her. The first step toward becoming an animagus—the first step toward controlling the transformation that Remus couldn’t—was to keep a Mandrake leaf in her mouth for an entire month, from full moon to full moon. She couldn’t risk waiting for permission. And so, with a quiet glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Hermione pocketed a few of the Mandrake leaves, feeling a surge of defiance pulse through her. She knew this was the only way to make a real difference, to take control of the situation and finally help her friend in a way no one else could.
Over the course of the months, Hermione’s friends began to sense the change in her. It wasn’t only the late secret nights spent tending to Remus in the infirmary, or the additional hours in the library, buried in her studies, perfecting spells and potions. There was something more to it—a quiet alteration that seemed to slowly chip away at her, little by little, until she no longer felt like the sharp, bright person they were used to.
Regulus and Narcissa were the first to notice. One evening, Regulus approached her in the common room, concern lining his features. "Ara," he said gently, his voice tinged with worry, "I've observed that you seem a bit... subdued lately. Is there something troubling you?"
Hermione, who had been lost in thought, glanced up at him, her smile forced. "I’m fine," she replied quickly. "Just more studying than usual. I want to be Head Girl one day, so I have to stay on top of things."
But Narcissa, too, had been noticing the distance in her cousin’s behaviour. "You’ve been saying that for months, Ara," she murmured softly, her concern growing. “We’re worried about you. Let's not concern ourselves with that particular matter just yet, shall we? You've plenty of time to navigate such complexities once you are a bit older.”
Remus, too, had noticed the change in her. When they worked together on school projects or when they spoke after class, his sharp eyes would linger on her face, as though trying to read her like an open book. "Hermione," he would say gently, "Are you alright? You look like you haven’t slept in days."
"I’m fine, Remus," she would repeat, though the lie felt heavier each time.
It wasn’t just their concern that made her feel isolated; it was something else. Something far more elusive. Flashes. Small, fleeting moments that came and went in the blink of an eye. A face. A name. The sound of her own voice, echoing in her mind. Hermione Granger.
Each time it happened, she felt a tightening in her chest, as though something deep within her was trying to break free, only to be forced back into the recesses of her mind. But the truth was, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone. Not even her family. Not even Azza. How could she tell them that she wasn’t just studying hard to be Head Girl—that there were pieces of another life inside her, pushing their way to the surface? The last thing she wanted was to burden them with this. They had enough on their plates with their own problems.
The Central Hall Fountain, usually a picture of serene beauty, was currently the epicentre of a miniature water war. Galleons splashed, water droplets flew, and raucous laughter echoed through the hall. Sirius, James, Peter, and Remus were engaged in a spirited contest to see who could create the biggest splash, their robes already damp and their hair plastered to their foreheads.
Hermione, sitting on a nearby bench with a stack of parchment, watched them from a distance. She had been trying to review her Charms notes, but her mind kept drifting back to the fragmented visions, the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. She had considered talking to Sirius, hoping he might have some insight, or at least offer a sympathetic ear.
As she watched him, she noticed the way his eyes lit up as he joked with his friends, the easy camaraderie he shared with them. He seemed so… free. So unburdened. It was a stark contrast to the quiet unease that had been gnawing at her for days.
"Right, Potter, prepare to be vanquished!" Sirius declared, adopting a mock-heroic pose before launching a handful of galleons into the water with a resounding plunk. "For Gryffindor!"
"Oh, you think that's a splash?" James retorted, grinning. "Watch and learn, Black!" He proceeded to mimic Sirius's throw, but with a dramatic leap that sent a wave of water cascading over Peter, who yelped in surprise.
"Oi! Potter! That's my good shirt!" Peter protested, wringing out his sleeve. "I'm going to get you back for that!" He retaliated with a handful of coins, aiming for James's face, but only succeeding in soaking Remus, who had been trying to remain a passive observer.
"Oh, come on!" Remus groaned, wiping water from his face. "I'm already damp enough as it is. It's like a pre-transformation shower in here."
"Sorry, Moony!" James said, laughing. "But you know, a bit of moisture is good for the fur. Keeps it from getting too… matted.
"Says the one who looks like he just swam the Black Lake," Sirius snorted, flicking a stray droplet of water at James. "Honestly, Potter, have you no sense of decorum?"
"Decorum? What's that, some kind of Muggle sweet?" James asked, feigning ignorance. "Anyway, I'm having way too much fun to worry about decorum. Besides, we're making wishes! What did you wish for, Pads?"
"That I'd never have to endure another lecture from Professor Binns," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "And that my hair would always be this perfectly tousled."
"You're ridiculous, Black," Remus muttered, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You already know what I wished. Something about not turning into a giant, furry rug."
"Bit of a downer, Moony," James said, giving Remus a playful shove. "I wished we'd always have adventures like this, and that we'd never get caught by Filch."
"And I wished for unlimited chocolate frogs," Peter added, his eyes gleaming. "And that my mum wouldn't find out about the fireworks we set off in the greenhouse."
"Speaking of which," Sirius said, his eyes widening, "I think I hear Filch's cat. We should probably make a hasty retreat."
They scrambled off the fountain, their laughter echoing through the hall as they dashed towards the nearest corridor, leaving a trail of wet footprints and scattered galleons in their wake.
She glanced back at Sirius, his laughter echoing through the hall. A small, sad smile played on her lips. She was happy for him, truly. But she also felt a pang of loneliness, a sense of isolation that went beyond the walls of the Central Hall.
She stood up, gathering her parchments and books. "Goodnight," she said quietly, to no one in particular.
She made her way towards the Grand Staircase, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast hall. As she walked, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking away from something, or someone, she might never reach again. Hermione decided to keep it to herself, burying the confusion deep inside her, pretending that the flashes weren't there, that they didn't haunt her when she was alone. She would smile and laugh with her friends, answering their questions about her studies and her goals. She would push the flashes away and tell herself that it was nothing more than stress, a side effect of too many late nights spent researching obscure spells and potion ingredients.
But the flashes didn’t stop. Every so often, when she least expected it, they would return—faster, stronger, more vivid than before. She would see the girl again, running through the forest, frizzy hair bouncing in the wind. And then, in a moment of clarity, Hermione would see the boy—one whose face reminded her so much of James Potter, yet unfamiliar all the same. It was as if they were both part of a puzzle that Hermione couldn’t quite complete. Hermione couldn’t understand it, couldn’t make sense of the fragments that swirled around in her mind. But she couldn’t deny the truth either. She was being pulled in two directions: toward the girl she couldn’t remember, and toward the life she had.