"Merlin's saggy left tes-"
"Frederick Weasley, don't you dare finish that sentence. Imagine if your mother heard you!" Hermione exclaimed, outraged. Fred and George sat on a small sofa in the corner of the common room, wearing their homemade jumpers. Hermione sat with her legs crossed on the floor facing them, a book - she was reading Hogwarts: A History for the seventh time - in her lap, as always.
"For your information Granger, Mum has heard me swear exactly three times. Once when I was eight and Charlie dared me to. I had no idea what it meant," Fred said with a grimace. Hermione raised an eyebrow at this, sceptical of the idea that Fred was ever innocent.
"Once when Ron hit a bludger right into his tenders," George chimed in, nudging Fred's shoulder with his and chuckling.
"Bloody Git. If I can't have kids I blame him," Fred muttered, scowling at Ron, who sat obliviously across the room with Harry, Dean and Seamus. "And finally when one of our pranks backfired and I ended up with my legs stuck together. Godric, do you remember that, George? I had to hop everywhere for days."
"That was genius Fred," he chirped, changing his tone when he saw Hermione's confusion. "Of course I mean the idea was genius. The potion itself just needed a bit of tweaking."
"But each time Mum didn't mind me swearing, because it was completely and one hundred percent justified or not my fault. You know me, Granger, I am a genuine gentleman… oh, don't give me that look," he said with false dismay at Hermione's returning sceptical look. "I only swear when it is absolutely necessary, and this my dear lady, is completely justified."
"And what, dare I ask, warrants this language?" Hermione asked, shaking her head. She closed her book and placed it gently on the floor next to her, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
"That's a very good question, Freddy. What is wrong? I mean, I'm all for saggy left-"
"George!" Hermione hissed.
"Saggy left ears, I was going to say ears, Hermione! But what is wrong Freddy?" He asked, furrowing his brow.
Fred buried his face in his hands, sighing quietly. He rubbed his eyes wearily for a moment, then ran a hand through his flaming hair. He didn't look at his twin or Hermione, rather focusing on the fire that crackled in the corner of the room. The distant light flickered in his eyes, dancing on the surface.
"I just… I'm worried about the thing," he said meaningfully, looking at George.
"Thing?" George replied, bewildered. For a second he stared at Fred, a look of complete confusion on his face. Fred raised his eyebrows and leaned in slightly as Hermione watched, almost as perplexed as George was, witnessing the silent conversation that only the twins could have. The boys would often break off conversations midway through, staring deep into each others eyes to communicate. Eventually one would shake their head or move their eyebrows, but they seemed to have full discussions without using any words. Hermione had been so fascinated by this that she tried to find if there was any evidence of magic enhancing telepathy between twins, but - alas - found nothing. "Oh," George finished, the conversation completed.
"What?" Hermione sounded irritated, but didn't care much, as she hated the exclusion she felt from this conversation. This wasn't the first time in the past week she had been excluded from a friendship. Ron wasn't talking to her because of an argument the previous week about an essay he asked her to write but she had refused to do. This meant that Harry hardly spoke to her, too, as he was always with Ron. Of course, he made conversation whenever possible, but Harry had to choose one of them to talk to more. Ron was his best friend. Hermione understood… she really did.
"Oh, nothing," Fred sighed, faking a smile, and diverted his attention towards Hermione..
"Come on guys," she groaned. "I'm going out of my mind. I haven't had a real conversation with anyone in a week… you can trust me."
"Sorry Hermione," Fred said, sounding genuinely apologetic.
"We wish we could tell you," George carried on. "We really do. But this is serious… and under control."
Hermione sighed and raised an eyebrow. The twins, in serious trouble? What could it be? Knowing these two it could range from anything such as detention to accidently assassinating the Minister of Magic. It was not uncommon for explosions to be heard in their room at The Burrow, and Hermione was aware that they frequently used secret passages within the school. The twins did daring things, but dangerous? Hermione was about to open her mouth to offer help when Ron could be heard across the common room.
"Thanks again, Lavender!" He exclaimed, a little too loudly. "Your essay was great, and really looked like my hand-writing!"
Hermione bit her lip and struggled to not turn around and look at the big group of fourth years. Why did he even ask Lavender? As if she knew what she was writing about! Hermione stopped at this thought. Lavender was an intelligent girl - annoying, a complete show off, but intelligent. Why would Hermione even think something like that? As if she cared who wrote Ron's essay; so long as it wasn't her, it didn't matter.
"That's okay, Ron," in a sickly sweet voice.
"Some people wouldn't do that for me, you know," he drawled, his voice growing louder. "But then again, not everyone's as nice as you."
Hermione suddenly felt very warm. Her chest tightened and her mind clouded. "Excuse me," she mumbled, standing up from the sofa. The twins watched her for a moment then began whispering between themselves. Hermione began to walk out of the common room, squeezing past a group of second years who played exploding snap on the floor in the middle of the room. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears, her cheeks growing hotter by the second. She rushed out of the portrait door sucking in deep, cool breaths. The cold air of the castle was soothing, and as the door close the last few laughs of Ron and Harry could be heard.
Hermione wanted to go back in. She should be with Ron and Harry, laughing with them. She should not out in the dark corridor alone. But why did she have to bribe them, after all these years, to be her friend? Why must she write their essays in exchange for friendship?
Hermione paused. It wasn't Harry; it wasn't both of them. She helped Harry, of course, but she helped half the year with homework. No, it was Ron. He didn't even try… he just wanted her to write the whole thing. But then again, she supposed, she always did. Perhaps if she went back in, apologised, explained that she wouldn't write his essays, but missed him, wanted to be friends again…
Yes, she would. She would swallow her pride for the sake of friendship. Hermione breathed in her last gasps of cold air, closing her eyes. She was ready to go back in there and salvage this friendship, even if it meant apologising when she had clearly done nothing wrong.
Hermione opened her eyes, threw back her shoulders, and turned towards the portrait door. She had to do this. As she grew closer she opened her mouth, began to say "Fickle Fizzles" - the password for that week that Neville had forgotten twice already - when she heard muttering behind her.
"9 more months," it breathed. "9 more months, then he's back. He's back, he's back, he's back, he's-" the voice repeated, hysterical. Hermione turned and looked for who the voice belonged to, but saw no one.
"Hello?" She called. The voice abruptly stopped, but scuffling could be heard around the brick wall a few steps away. Who could it be? Hermione approached the voice, her Gryffindor bravery perhaps making her stupid.
She rounded the corner to see Professor Moody with his back to her, hunched over something, trembling.
"Professor?" She asked, a cold feeling growing in her chest. Something was wrong, she could just feel it; was he hurt? The portrait door was mere steps away, and yet it seemed so far. She couldn't hear anyone in there… if she screamed, would they hear her? No. She was being stupid; he was a professor. Sure, he'd used all three unforgivable curses, but that was for education… wasn't it?
"Granger?" Moody's voice garbled, his back still facing her. As he convulsed he lifted his familiar flask that accompanied him everywhere to his lips, taking an unusually large gulp. "What're you doing out'er your common room? It's late."
"I… I was just going back. Is everything okay, professor?"
Mad eye whipped round at this, facing Hermione. His face was… normal. Of course, he was inspecting her, but he always did. But Hermione couldn't fight the feeling that there was something off… what was wrong? Hermione felt uneasy at the sight of his face, every nerve in her body was screaming… run!
"Professor," Hermione stammered. As she was about to ask what was wrong, she realised herself, and her heart stopped. Ice ran through her veins… how had she not noticed? Moody had been in many fights, scarred from years of being an auror. He looked as if he had been carved from wood, chunks of his face missing. Above the eyebrow, a scar on the cheek, but most shockingly, a large portion of his nose was missing.
This man had scars. A nick on his ear, an eye missing, a chunk missing from above the eyebrow, a scar on his cheek, but… oh, it was so obvious now! His nose was whole, unscathed, and definitely not Professor Moody's. As she watched, however, it began to shift and change as if it were losing a chunk.
Hermione began to walk backwards. Whoever this was, it wasn't Professor Moody! He was an imposter! A fake! But was he a dark wizard? Whoever he was, he was not Alastor Moody.
"Granger," the man grunted, aware that the brightest witch of her age knew his secret. He began to step forward with the great fake leg, reach out for her, his eyes menacing. Suddenly, however, his arm knocked the familiar flask he had gulped from moments ago out of his pocket. As the flask fell, clattering on the ground, Hermione froze. The contents spilled out. A yellowish, putrid slime oozed out, unmistakable and familiar to the young girl who had brewed it only two years prior.
Polyjuice potion.
Hermione stared at it for an eternal moment, shock filling her system. Everything in the world began to slow as she realised she was in great danger - until she had seen the potion she had held out hope that she was being ridiculous. But no, the evidence was leaking out of the flask on the floor, the DNA of the real Alastor Moody staining the pristine bricks on the floor. Suddenly her senses rushed back to her - her brain catching up with her body - and she fumbled for her wand in her back pocket, but this man was quicker on the draw.
"Silentium Pretium!" He hissed, purple light flying at Hermione. She gasped, for this was all she could do, and then let out half a second of a scream; a piercing, powerful scream. After this half second, however, she was silenced. The strange sensation of something invisible wrapping around her neck halted her, taking the air from her lungs. A short moment later she was gone, her vision consumed in darkness.