Author's Note: Hey there, and thank you for deciding to give this story a chance! This will be a Tomione time travel fic, so if that's not for you, please just don't read it instead of going on to flame it. English isn't my first language, (I'm fifteen and went to a bilingual school for a few years, so basically there's bound to be mistakes) and if you see any mistakes or have constructive criticism, I'd be happy to hear it. Reviews are always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine, everyone knows, and so this is the only time I'm going to say it. Deal with it.
Chapter One: In Which Hermione Loses Her Mind
I must not tell lies.
Hermione couldn't stomach it. Certainly, she'd known that Umbridge was a terrible woman and most certainly an even more terrible teacher — still, some tiny, naïve part of her had clung to the irrational hope that at least, Umbridge possessed scruples.
To think that a teacher would do something like that to a student…!
She'd describe herself as painfully aware of the precarious situation she and her friends were in concerning her Defense education and so, so much more this year now, but from the look of the wound, Harry fitted that description in many more ways than her.
"Umbridge did this?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Well, technically I did," Harry said. "She basically forced me to do it though, so…yeah."
"Mental, that woman." Ron looked disgusted. "Mate, you've got to tell McGonagall. Dumbledore'll be pissed. Get her fired."
Hermione started laughing uncontrollably.
"No." She chuckled. "Don't you see, Ron? It doesn't even make a difference. She's got the entire Ministry covering for her, plus the Prophet. If anything, it'll serve to get Dumbledore sacked quicker, not the other way around."
There was silence for a moment until Ron said, "Well, there's got to be something we can do, though, Mione. Right? There always is."
"Sure," said Hermione. She was still staring at Harry's bloody hand, never having taken her eyes off it. "You can go to Madam Pomfrey and ask for Essence of Dittany or something else against infections. Make sure Harry's hand heals properly. That's about it, though."
She stood up. She felt dizzy. "You know what, why don't you go and do that right now. I think I'm going to take a walk outside, I don't feel too well."
She left the Common Room before any of the two had a chance to speak up.
.oOXOo.
It was almost twilight, and the entire Hogwarts grounds glowed with the evening light. The majority of students were making their way into the castle at this time of day rather than out, and for good reason too, since it was easy to lose oneself on the gigantic grounds once darkness had spread, but Hermione simply couldn't find it in herself to care.
Umbridge had hurt Harry.
Hermione couldn't decide which was worse. The fact that a teacher at Hogwarts possessed the power to physically harm students and get away with it, or the fact that Dumbledore was virtually powerless against it.
The fact that she would most likely only pass her Defense OWL with great trouble and fall behind on practical coursework certainly seemed to pale in comparison.
Either way, she felt like she was about to collapse from the shock of it all.
She ran, ran away from the Castle, from Umbridge, her class, her power; she could see Hagrid's hut in the distance, deserted, cold, without the usual rings of smoke that left its chimney to assert her that the gamekeeper was in fact alive and well. Looking at it now was almost physically painful, and so she ran into another direction.
Turning right, she passed a group of fifth-year Slytherins including Draco Malfoy and mentally readied herself for the condescending words to come.
They didn't.
As she ran past Draco simply looked at her, something vaguely pitiful and vulnerable in his eyes.
Strange.
She ran on.
And all the time, Harry's hand, covered in blood from his teacher's punishment, the senseless, ignorant words cut deep into his flesh, just another scar that needn't have existed, seemed burned into her mind.
I must not tell lies.
Hermione laughed. It seemed ironic that Harry had written the lines and not Umbridge or the Minister himself; it certainly would have been more fitting.
Finally, she came to a stop. The Black Lake lay in front of her, peacefully, as if nothing could disturb it.
Enviable, really.
She found a quiet spot hidden by some bushes where she could be sure she would be neither disturbed nor found. All she needed was some time to think. Alone. Then, everything would be alright.
She removed her shoes and sat, dipping her bare feet into the chilling water, closing her eyes and trying to slow her breathing. Relax.
Inhale. Exhale.
She shouldn't be getting herself worked up like this. No, absolutely not. It simply wouldn't do. She wouldn't get Umbridge to make her react this strongly. She had to be rational, logical, form a plan. She couldn't allow herself to be ruled by her emotions.
Inhale. Exhale.
Alright. Plan. Where to start? Obviously, Defense was bound to be completely useless this year. And if Umbridge wouldn't teach her… well, then she would have to teach herself. Good thing, too, probably. One day there was bound to be a battle between them and You-Know-Who, and she was almost completely sure that even NEWT-level spells wouldn't cut it then.
Inhale.
She shouldn't tell Ron and Harry about that yet though. No, not yet. She couldn't even really trust herself to be in control when with Umbridge — how could she possibly expect the boys to not somehow reveal everything during one of their tantrums? Really, the last thing any of them needed was more trouble with Umbridge.
Then again, the Golden Trio seemed to attract trouble like magnets anyway.
"Greetings."
Exhale.
Hermione opened her eyes. Had Malfoy changed his mind about leaving her alone? Sighing, she slowly turned around, into the direction of the speaker, and found absolutely nothing there except of the bushes, her shoes and a great big snake.
A snake.
She didn't notice that she had lost her balance due to the shock until her elbows, in reflex, prevented her from falling rather ungracefully into the grass.
"What," was her intellectual response.
Someone had to be tricking her. Hermione stood up as if in great haste all of a sudden, searching her surroundings. Yes, that was it. The twins, probably. The twins. What a strange reaction she had had. As if the snake had talked to her. Silly, really. Embarrassing.
Her surroundings were empty.
"Looking for someone in particular?"
There was nobody. Just her and the great snake, the pure black snake with the startling orange eyes that were dangerously close to crimson. Its voice deep and amused, as if it wanted to laugh at her but couldn't since it was a fucking snake. The near three meter long snake that looked like, well, death personified. The snake she was having a conversation with.
She pinched herself, but didn't wake up.
"Alright, Fred, George, very funny. You can come out now."
No-one came.
She must have lost her mind while running. It must have flown out of her head like one grand dandelion seed and headed straight for the clouds.
Hermione Granger was a lot of things, but she wasn't a parselmouth. It just wasn't possible. And still, here she was now, talking to a snake.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're purposely avoiding my company," the snake hissed.
She suddenly remembered that said reptile had been talking to her and collected her manners.
"I'm sorry," she finally replied, albeit wearily. "I.. I didn't mean to insult you. It's just- I've just never talked to a snake before. I'm just…well, a bit…surprised."
"That much was obvious," the snake said.
Her breathing halted as suddenly, the snake slithered forward until it rested about half a meter in front of her. It seemed to be almost effortlessly that it lifted itself up until its eyes were staring at Hermione at the height of a small first-year, examining her closely.
She shivered.
"Was there something you wanted?" she asked timidly.
"That," the snake hissed, "I believe, is for me to know and for you to find out."
Summoning all of her Gryffindor bravery, she stared the animal in the eyes and huffed. "Is there a particular reason you're not telling me or are you getting off on this?"
"I have my reasons," the snake said shrewdly.
"Illuminate me, then."
But the snake just looked back at her silently, the amusement still in its eyes, though now greater.
"My, if not for the minor drawback of being a boneless reptile, you would have made a marvelous politician."
Hermione cursed inwardly. She had always thought that it was prejudiced to make snakes the house animals of Slytherin — but now, staring at the uncooperative snake in front of her that seemed to even delight in not telling her something when she wanted to know, she discarded all her previous thoughts on the matter.
There was silence for another moment. And another. And another.
Stupid snake. As if she didn't have enough problems as it was! She could literally feel her hatred for the animal and anything it symbolized increase by the second.
"Well, since you're obviously just going to try and unnerve me further," she took a deep breath, "don't hold it against me that I'm going to leave. See you later. Or not. Whatever. Go and annoy someone else. Bye."
Hermione grabbed her shoes and quickly put them on. To her surprise and relief, the snake did not even move as it watched her in silence.
She was almost five meters away from it when she heard its hiss, distorted from the distance: "Maybe goodbye won't last as long as you hope."
Hermione didn't look back.
.oOXOo.
"You alright?" Harry asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Hermione."
"Well," she said, "I did see Nick on my way back."
She simply couldn't tell the truth. Not to Harry, not to Ron, not to anyone. She had decided that on her way back to the castle. She still remembered the way Harry had been ostracized in his second year for the very same ability that she now possessed. And either way, it was probably for the best if she just ignored it anyway.
There were other, bigger things that needed focusing on.
Like Umbridge. Or Harry's hand, which was even now still bleeding profusely.
What could this one occurence possibly matter in the great scheme of things?
"Ronald Weasley!" she screeched, seeing that the latter was still not treated and gratefully using it as a distraction. "I've been gone for at least thirty minutes! Why didn't you ask Pomfrey for something against infections like I've asked you to? Do you want the wound not to heal?"
Ron hurried off towards the hospital wing at that, only to return with Essence of Dittany fifteen minutes later. Hermione applied it to Harry's still bloody hand slowly, rubbing it onto the cuts with circular hand movements.
She didn't knit clothing for the elves that night.
She went to bed early, though in the end she found herself unable to sleep. So she waited until she was sure that everyone was deeply asleep, snuck into the boys' dorms, grabbed Harry's invisibility cloak and snuck into the library. She was Hermione Granger, after all.
"Accio parseltongue books," she whispered.
A total of two books came flying at her, and a pang of disappointment filled her, though at least ten more books from the Restricted Section tried to bypass the magical barrier that Dumbledore had set up two weeks ago after incidents of students breaking into it had become more and more fervent. Hermione sighed. She would have to talk some teacher into giving her a pass for it.
"Finite incantatem," she whispered, watching the Restricted books drop to the ground as the summoning charm lost its power. Then, "Resortio." Within seconds, the books were at their original places.
It troubled her that the vast majority of books on the subject were in the Restricted Section. In her opinion, it just emphasized what a terrible ability it was. But either way, it was hers, and there was no harm done in researching.
She inspected the two books that she did have access too. "Rare Magical Abilities And Their Wielders" by Leona McKinnon and "An Encyclopedia of Serpents" by Heracles Waterstone. She opened the book about Magical Abilities first, quickly finding the page about parseltongue.
"Parseltongue'" is the term given to the language that a person with the ability to converse with snakes ("parselmouth") uses. It is the oldest known rare magical ability, since numerous sources claim that Salazar Slytherin himself was a parselmouth. It is a hereditary ability, and as such, can only be found in wizards or witches that are related to Slytherin.
Just as she had remembered. She sighed. There was no way in hell that she was related to both Harry and You-Know-Who. There had to be some other explanation.
The ability has often been associated with the dark arts in the past due to its association to Slytherin, who, due to a plethora of sources, carries the title of "Most Influential Dark Wizard In History." This prejudice finds further "proof" in the fact that usually, only pureblooded families carry the necessary genes for parseltongue; these tend to be exceptionally outspoken against muggles or muggleborns and for the Dark Arts in general. There exists no historical proof that any muggleborn or even halfblood ever possessed the ability, and no evidence suggesting that is ever going to occur.
Hermione sighed in displeasure, picking up the second book.
"Parseltongue" is the name given to the ability to talk to snakes and serpents of all kinds. It is found only in distant relations of Salazar Slytherin, who is the oldest known parselmouth. Though it is supposed to only enable wizards and witches to converse with serpents, there are cases known in which parselmouths were able to talk to dragons, lizards and other reptiles.
Since only few people still possess the ability, there are only very few uses for it nowadays. One certain way in which it could come in handy, however, is in relation to Slytherin's legendary Chamber of Secrets, a hidden chamber in Hogwarts that is said to hold a monster. According to a transcript of Salazar Slytherin himself that was recently discovered in Ireland, it can only be discovered and opened by a parseltongue.
The Chamber was once opened in 1943, when third-year Gryffindor student Rubeus Hagrid was found guilty of the murder of the muggleborn Myrtle Warren through an arachnid. Since then, there have been no further incidents.
Waterstone went on about other historical examples of parseltongues for several pages before concluding that it was one of the most pure magical abilities in existence, since it only appeared in families that had no links to muggles genetically at all.
Frustration filled her mind as Hermione closed the book. She had more questions after reading the books than she'd had before. According to both books, it was absolutely impossible for both Harry and her to be parselmouths, and yet, they were. Of course, it was still more logical for Harry to be one than her; after all, the Potter line had been pureblooded up until James had married Lily Evans, and it was possible that they had married some relation of Slytherin's on the way.
But for her?
She was as muggleborn as they came, after all.
And still, no answers on why she would have only now developed the ability.
Extremely frustrated and increasingly tired, Hermione put away the books and made her way back to Gryffindor tower, putting the cloak back into Harry's trunk before returning to her own dormitory and falling asleep the second she hit the mattress. Maybe it really would be better to just ignore her new ability.
.oOXOo.
She was dead tired when she woke up the next morning, but fortunately, it was a Saturday, and so she slept in.
"Sorry," she told Harry and Ron when she finally joined them in the Common Room nearing noon. "Knitting all those hats and socks must've really knocked me out."
She hated lying to them, but she supposed in this situation it really was preferable to the truth. It would just distract them from their homework, after all — and they really were seriously behind. Either way, it wasn't as if it was anything fatal she was hiding.
No, no harm done in lying.
"'s okay," Ron said. "Um…so, you planning to do some reading today?"
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Sure," she said. "Since when do you care, though?"
Harry coughed awkwardly. "Actually, Hermione, that's Ron's way of asking you if it's okay if we get some Quidditch practice done now before the first one as a team, just the two of us."
She shrugged, though disappointed that she wouldn't get to spend time with them. She had hoped that after yesterday evening, she wouldn't have to spend time alone again. "I-I suppose." As an after-thought, she added: "Shouldn't you get some homework done though? You're way behind."
"Later," Ron waved her off.
"You sure you're fine with it…?" Harry trailed off.
"As long as you get your homework done," she shrugged. "Last thing you need is another detention, Harry."
"Sure," he said. "Right, so.. see you in the evening."
"See you."
But they had already disappeared through the portrait hole, and she felt more lonely than ever.
.oOXOo.
Hermione had planned to spend the rest of the day in the library, finishing off her homework, shutting up the loneliness with work for a few hours; but when she had finished it all several hours before lunch —even the extra-credit assignments— she was forced to find a new activity.
Bored, she searched her bag for anything interesting, not intending to leave the library just yet as just the thought of spending the afternoon in the Common Room on her own made her cringe. At least, in the library Hermione had books for company.
She found nothing, save a hairbrush, a stray pen and some rolls of parchment. Eventually though, as she dug a little deeper, she found her copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard sitting at the bottom of her bag.
She sighed, opening it to the first page. She'd have to read it at some point anyway, so why not now?
She read the whole thing within the course of roughly three hours, stopping only once to go to lunch, where she planned to check up with Harry and Ron. But they hadn't been there; likely still on the Quidditch pitch. She had entered the Great Hall, found her friends absent at the Gryffindor table, sighed, felt the loneliness blossom inside her, and made her way straight back to the library. And so her break had been relatively short-lived.
Now she was staring down at the book accusingly, having read the last sentence just a few seconds ago.
"What a loud of rubbish," she commented.
If not for the fact that she still needed it for her classes and OWL revision, Hermione would have probably set the damn thing on fire and be done with it. Apart from being almost excruciating to read, next to all of its information was just wrong. It went against everything she had ever learnt in her previous four years at Hogwarts, stating that while theoretical knowledge in the subject was useful, its practical use could almost never be justified.
Hermione had the feeling that Slinkhard would have been more productive if he had charmed every single hair on his body a different color instead of writing that atrocious book.
"It makes sense, though," she told herself. "She doesn't want us to know anything. The Ministry wants us to be stupid so we can't defend ourselves."
She remembered the train of thought she'd had just before the snake had spoken to her, pulling her out of her thoughts for good. If she wasn't going to learn anything through Umbridge, she'd need to teach herself. It was the only way.
Well. There was something to do.
She stood up, making her way towards Madam Pince. She didn't dare to use the summoning spell when there were other people in the library; she'd witnessed students getting thrown out for less after all, and she didn't know where to go if she got thrown out of the library. She'd feel lonely in the Common Room, and after yesterday, she didn't particularly fancy going outside to the lake again.
"Can I help you with something, dear?" Madam Pince asked once Hermione had reached her desk.
"As a matter of fact you can," Hermione replied. "I need all Defense textbooks you have for fifth-years and up, save all by Wilbert Slinkhard, please."
The librarian shot her a slightly annoyed look before opening a cupboard behind her and, after some minutes of excessive searching, pulled out a meter and a half long piece of parchment, ungracefully throwing it into Hermione's open arms.
Obviously, she wouldn't get them for her.
"That's all the Defense textbooks we have, including exact location," she said, sitting back down. "Go and take whatever suits you, will you? I just need that list back by the end of the day."
Hermione Granger thanked the woman politely and got to work.
.oOXOo.
By the time dinner rolled around, she was very satisfied with herself. She had worked through another two sets of textbooks, one from the early 1980's, and another exceptionally detailed one from the early 1940's by a woman named Leto Catmull. She felt like she'd never been more prepared for a class that didn't include an exam, and yet, she knew that it would not get her in Umbridge's good books if she let her know.
She'd already decided to keep it from Ron and Harry, too, so that was what she did. It wasn't a hard decision, since she figured they would not have really taken interest anyway. That decision proved to be right when throughout the entire dinner, the boys talked about one thing and one thing only.
Quidditch.
She pretended to listen in, but in her mind, she was far away, thinking of the textbooks from other time periods she would want to read still. There was one from the twenties she wanted to work through that night, but by the time dinner was over, Ron practically dragged her to the Common Room.
"Bloody hell, Mione, you study too much! I'm sure the library won't go up in flames if you don't spend every single hour of the day there."
"For your information, I was only there because you two were busy practicing," she practically hissed back.
"And who are you to critize my study habits, Ron Weasley? You haven't even started on your homework!"
"Hey! It's not like I was just sitting there doing nothing!" he defended himself. "Quidditch's important, too!"
"Sure, sure," she said. "Mimbulus mimbletonia!"
The portrait hole opened and they entered the Gryffindor dorms. She tried again to get away to the library, but this time it was Harry that told her that one night in the Common Room wouldn't hurt her.
Sighing, she resigned herself to her fate.
.oOXOo.
When she woke up Sunday morning, she made her way straight towards the library, skipping breakfast. The library had just opened when she got there, and Madam Pince was in the process of sitting down behind her desk when Hermione walked up to her.
"Something I can do for you?" Madam Pince inquired.
"I need the list from yesterday again," she said. "If that's possible."
Madam Pince, a short woman with gray hair and round glasses, sighed.
"As a matter of fact, it's not."
Hermione's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"After you left yesterday the library's list of textbooks for — well, all courses actually — were heavily revised. A bunch of older books were removed, lots of copies of the new ones added."
"What?" she asked. „Why?"
"Don't know," the librarian said. "Take it up with that Ministry woman if you've got a problem."
"That Ministry woman?"
"Yes," she said. "You know, that short one all in pink. Don't know why's she's got the power to do it, but I checked with Dumbledore and he said he'd known it would happen anyway."
Hermione took in a sharp breath.
"So you can go and complain to her, if you want. I wouldn't hold it against you, actually. She's the worst, that woman."
"Dumbledore let her?"
"Said something about some educational reform," the gray-haired woman nodded. "Sounded really serious."
She gulped.
"Thank you anyway," Hermione told her.
Madam Pince waved it off. "Just don't tell anyone I told you, will you?"
"Of course not."
She walked away, walking towards the section where she had gotten the textbooks from yesterday.
Umbridge must have realized that the dedicated students would still be able to study from the older textbooks. Maybe she had seen Hermione in the library? Teachers often went there to plan their lessons, she recalled, and now that she thought about it, she swore she could remember a flash of pink two rows away from her yesterday.
What dedication, though, to have it all removed and replaced within a single night! How scared Umbridge must be to think that just that one Sunday more of the usual books would somehow endanger her and her system.
Then again, all tyrants were afraid of their people.
What a coward that woman was, she thought to herself, turning a corner. What a despicable, loathsome coward.
Only to find an entire row of Slinkhard books staring back at her where yesterday she had found the old textbooks.
She found a chair and sat down distraughtly. This was it. The woman allowed no learning, tyrannized her students, encouraged lying, hurt her students, and to top it all off, she threw out books and replaced it with rubbish.
What kind of people just threw out old books?
Umbridge was doing absolutely everything in her power to control every single aspect of her students' lives. Hermione wouldn't be surprised if next she somehow managed to tell people who they were allowed to talk to and who not.
But not her.
She would do everything she could to make sure that Umbridge wouldn't succeed. At least not with her. She wouldn't let Umbridge get to her. She would learn. She would read. And for Merlin's sake, she would fight back.
Screw S.P.E.W. The elves would live. Most of them hadn't really liked her ideas anyway, and she had had a hunch that it had been Dobby who picked up her hats and socks instead of the other elves all along. But this— this endangered the knowledge and therefore futures of hundreds of students. This was the future generation of witches and wizards Umbridge was corrupting.
And she, Hermione Jean Granger, wouldn't let her.
But for now, since the foul woman seemed to be nowhere in sight —fortunately for her— and it was best to plan before attacking, she picked up Hogwarts: A History and flipped open a random page.
The book flipped open on a page on Emeric the Evil. She closed the book again, opening it up to a new page. She had just learned about Emeric in Binns' class, and she had virtually no desire to read about him again.
The Chamber of Secrets, the title read this time. Hermione moaned. Of all the pages, it simply had had to open the one in the small encyclopedia in the very back that reminded her of the other problem she was trying so very hard to ignore.
Said to have been built by Salazar Slytherin shortly before he left Hogwarts, the Chamber of Secrets is a chamber supposedly hidden on Hogwarts grounds. Many sources claim that a monster lives inside its walls. It has been a topic of discussion for many centuries wether the Chamber exists or not, since it has never been discovered even though it has been searched for excessively.
According to popular opinion, the Chamber has been made immune to Hogwarts wards by complicated Dark Magic installed by Slytherin himself.
Hermione held her breath. Immune to Hogwarts wards, the words repeated in her head. Complicated dark magic.
The thought formed before she could stop it. Umbridge wouldn't teach her how to defend herself. She could study theory in the library, but she would be in need of practical practice in the subject too. The Chamber contained dark magic and if Umbridge wasn't going to teach them how to defend themselves against the Dark Arts, then the Chamber was as practical of a lesson as it could get.
No. No! Absolutely not. She just couldn't. It was incredibly dangerous, and Merlin knew what trouble she'd be in if she was caught. A Gryffindor muggleborn caught opening the Chamber of Secrets! She could imagine the scandal.
But on the other hand, why would anyone ever know? Ron and Harry were busy with the Quidditch tryouts, they'd never even know she'd been gone. This was as fine a chance as she would ever get. Plus, the basilisk was dead and she knew for a fact that you couldn't be killed by looking a dead one in the eye.
It would be purely for research purposes, too. What if Slytherin had hidden something else there? It would make sense, too, since he'd thought only his heir would ever see it. And how would Harry have known? He'd hardly ever left the main part of it, there could be so, so much more.
So much she could learn…
But there were so many downsides. For one, there would be a large, rotting corpse. That couldn't be too cozy. And how could she really tell that there wasn't anymore trouble down there? She was a muggleborn after all, maybe there were wards against that kind of thing?
She would have continued this internal debate, but her feet were already moving towards the exit of the library, apparently having already decided for her. She sighed, closing her eyes. She would be able to learn so much, maybe even more than normal Hogwarts lesson were ever going to be able to teach her, but then again, was that worth the risk?
Then again, wasn't that what being a Gryffindor was all about?
She shut up the voice at the back of her head that in an almost hissing, sarcastic tone told her that going down to the Chamber of Secrets was certainly not something that made a person particularly Gryffindor.
Against all better judgement, she just couldn't resist the temptation of the possible knowledge.
So much for ignoring her parselmouth-status.
Once again, Hogwarts: A History had held all the answers.
.oOXOo.
She reached Myrtle's bathroom within the course of a few minutes, all the while trembling with both fear and anticipation. Fortunately for her, Myrtle seemed to be somewhere else at the moment. It was a lucky coincidence, since it would have been problematic if the ghost had watched her descent; surely she would have told a teacher straight away.
Then again, could she have really blamed her?
Hermione made her way towards the sinks before she could change her mind. It didn't take long to find the one with the tiny snake etched into it. She rubbed her hand across it, closing her eyes. Readying herself.
"Open," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Hermione jumped in reflex as the sink made a loud noise and shifted away, revealing a large, black hole at the bottom of the floor. She gulped.
She wondered if Tom Riddle had felt this way too when he had first opened it. No, that had to have been different. He would have been euphoric. The monster was still alive in his time, after all, and there were people to kill. Hermione was doing it out of necessity. To learn. That was different on so many levels. Justifiable, even.
Hermione gulped again, remembering the startling yellow eyes and then nothing when she had been petrified by the basilisk in her second year.
No, she couldn't think about that. Not now. Now she had to decide, and quick. Myrtle could reappear in her bathroom any minute now, and if she saw Hermione or even just the opened Chamber entrance, it would all be over. This was the time to leave and never come back, or jump forward, into darkness.
Hermione closed her eyes. She thought of Umbridge. She thought of her first lesson with the woman, how she had refused to read, not following teacher's orders for the first time in her life; how Umbridge had given Harry detention even though he had done no wrong; she thought of Harry's wounded hand, I must not tell lies etched into his flesh, too deep to ever heal properly though she wouldn't have dared to tell him; of the library, the thrown-away books, denied knowledge, the Slinkhard books, all the students that wouldn't learn a thing—
And all of a sudden, the floor beneath her feet was gone and she fell, deeper and deeper—
Hermione laughed, knowing she had made the right decision—
She yelled "Close," hoping Myrtle hadn't seen—
And she smiled, imagining Umbridge's expression if only she could see this—
Though she most sincerely hoped she couldn't—
Blackness, darkness everywhere—
And then with a thump she had something beneath her again, cool, polished stone, going, down, down, and she wondered, absentmindedly, while screaming, would Slytherin have really installed a slide of all things in his legendary Chamber of Secrets…?
And she landed.
Whatever she landed on was not nearly as polished a surface as the one in the —slide?— had been, and she let out a little yelp of pain. She looked down. Beneath her were hundreds, possibly thousands of tiny skeletons, mice, as she suspected. Hermione would have yelled in terror, but then again, she knew there would be way worse than mice skeleton where she was going.
There was light, but it was scarce. She cast a quick "Lumos maxima!", then walked forward. There was a great snake skin and what looked like tons of rock here, but really, she had thought it would be worse. At least she hadn't been skinned by random dark curses yet.
Eventually she reached what seemed to be a round door. There were several stone snakes carved into it; she understood immediately.
"Open," she hissed again. Another stone snake appeared out of nowhere and slid around the outline of the door, effectively unlocking it. Slytherin had really used his creativity, she had to give him that. It took half a minute in total, then the spectacle was over and the door flew open.
She walked in.
The first thing she noticed was the smell—or, more accurately, the astonishing lack thereof. The second thing was the basilisk skeleton. It really had decayed rather quickly. The eyes that had once petrified her where now gone forever. Not that she wasn't grateful; she wasn't sure to what extent she could have stomached a half-decayed, putrid snake corpse for a longer period of time.
Hermione looked around, taking in her surroundings. There was a stone path in the middle of the room, with about one meter deep water left and right. At the end of the path was an astonishingly large statue of the head of a man with a beard that resembled Dumbledore's. It had to be Slytherin. The basilisk lay right in front of it, or rather, what was left of it.
Though this main Chamber certainly made for a rather impressive sight, magic-wise Hermione found herself quickly disappointed. She had come here to study, to learn even though Umbridge was doing everything in her power to prevent such a practice, and there was absolutely nothing here, magic-wise, for her to analyze or even defend herself against.
She didn't know what she had expected, but this was not it.
"Maybe there's a hidden backroom or something," she thought out loud.
There couldn't have been anything to her left or right; all there was was the water and a variety of other statues, though none of them seemed to have a secret entrance next to or behind them. To be sure she cast a quick magic revealing spell to check for any hiding charms, but there were none. So Hermione walked forward, toward the grand Slytherin statue.
Once again she cast the spell, but yet again, she was disappointed.
She checked its front, back and sides, but there really was absolutely nothing. She couldn't help but feel disappointed. All this trouble, this anxiety, this fear, for this—?
But…
Maybe all that was needed was another sample of parseltongue? It could very well be, after all, that parselmagic was a different branch of magic than human magic; and therefore wouldn't be detected by her human spell. That would have been almost too easy, really, but she couldn't help but try.
"Reveal your secret chamber, Slytherin," she uttered, sounding rather unconfident and, in her own opinion, ridiculous. Not that it mattered, because at that very moment, the mouth of the statue of Slytherin lowered itself, revealing a long, black path.
Hermione, suddenly euphoric, went in. She had to crawl through at first, but near the end of the blackness, only illuminated by her lumos, she was able to walk normally. Finally, the path split into two directions. She walked left; and she walked another good two minutes before she reached what seemed to be a large, empty room.
"This must have been where the basilisk was most of the time," she remarked, covering her nose with her hand. It smelled of feces.
Hermione turned back around, uninterested all of a sudden. Maybe on the right side of the path, there would be something interesting.
This guess proved to be correct. Once she reached the place where the path had split and walked on in the other direction, the path almost instantly changed. After several meters the cold stone walls and floor were replaced by wooden flooring and dark green wallpaper, obviously charmed not to decay; it was obvious that this hallway—because this was what is was, rather than a simple path—was meant for human use, and that excited her.
Finally, she reached a door and opened it without hesitation.
She noticed her eyes widen as they drank in the sight before her. And what a sight it was! The walls were covered in bookcases, filled with notebooks, regular, though extremely old books and disgarded, single pieces of parchment. To her left stood a large leather couch, fourties-style, clad in black; it was certainly a very nice, thoughtful touch of modernism in between all the medieval books. She reckoned Riddle must have added it, and while she felt quite glum at the thought, she was more than grateful for its addition once she sat down.
The walls, like in the hallway, were covered in dark green wallpapers; only that these seemed to be of even richer color, made from what looked like abnormally expensive material. The floor was covered in long, pure black floorboards; the colors, all in all, in perfect harmony.
All in all, although she felt an odd sense of guilt at the thought, she was stunned by the sheer elegance of the room in such a manner that she thought it wouldn't have looked even minimally different had she had to decorate it herself.
Then, remembering what she had come from, she looked around, noticing with the greatest possible satisfaction that the contents of this room alone would give her enough material to study for the rest of her school years.
A victorious smile stole its way onto her lips.
She stood up and walked straight towards the first shelf she could find. A maybe fifty year old notebook, bound in the same black leather as Riddle's diary, caught her eye. Her hand hovered over it, not quite daring to pick it up for fear of any unknown magic it might possess.
"Oh, pick it up, will you?" a deep voice sounded from the corner, causing her to jump. "I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind much."
Her blood boiled with fear at the blasé mention of You-Know-Who. She turned towards the sound, suddenly fearful, the smile vanished.
There, in the corner, hung a large portrait of the man who had built the Chamber. She immediately recognized him from the statue. He had dark brown hair, cut into perfect order, and near black eyes. No beard adorned his aristocratic face though, and Hermione figured that the portrait must have been made many years before he had built the Chamber.
She forgot the books and focused all her attention on him.
"Salazar Slytherin." She felt torn between feeling honored to be in the presence of one of the founders or hateful since that very same founder was Slytherin, the very founder of pureblood supremacy.
"Well, obviously," the man chuckled, a tone of arrogance to his answer. Hermione decided for the second option. "If you don't mind me asking, is there a reason for your visit?" He thought for a second, then added, "And how's Tom faring? Is he still among the living? I haven't seen that boy for decades!"
Hermione sincerely hoped that portraits couldn't cast magic towards people existing on the non-portrait plane, or she was certain she wouldn't ever leave the Chamber again.
"No reason," she told him nervously, weighing every single word. "Except, well, you see…there's some things I was… hoping to learn…" She gulped. "Tom… well, yes, he is quite alive, you see. And I would say that Tom is faring very well, actually."
This had to be the most bizarre situation she had ever had the displeasure to find herself in, and she had once seen a boggart of Professor Snape in women's clothing.
"Really?" Slytherin asked, interest suddenly peaked. He leaned forward slightly and looked her straight into the eyes with a gaze that said, I know what you're up to. "Tell me, how is my heir doing?"
Hermione really didn't know what she was supposed to answer to that, especially since she had just answered almost the same question moments ago. Meanwhile, she felt his intrigued gaze burn into her face.
"Gathering followers," she said, deciding that it probably wouldn't hurt to tell him the truth— or at least, some parts of it. It would probably even please him, stop him from asking more unwanted questions. "Spreading fear and panic. Hunting muggleborns and blood traitors."
Slytherin seemed to be pleased with that answer, since he didn't pose a third question to follow his second one. Then again, he was the very epitome of cunning; how in Merlin's beard was she supposed to know what was going on in his mind? It scared her.
Eventually he told her, decidedly more merry than before, "Well, you were looking for that notebook weren't you? I saw the way you looked at it. Go on, take it, as I said I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind."
"A-Alright," Hermione said.
She almost deadly certain that the notebook held similar magic to the diary now, for why else would Slytherin so willingly offer it to some intruder? But she wasn't about to start an argument about it; the cleverest thing to do now was to take the damn thing, get out of the Chamber before Slytherin decided to kill her even quicker than through the aid of You-Know-Who's notebook, and set out to destroy it.
Now, that would be one hell of a practical lesson.
She walked towards the shelves again, picking up the book that she knew for certain now was Riddle's. This time she didn't hesitate, though fear was pulsing through her like never before. She remembered what the diary had done to Ginny and gulped. Meanwhile, Slytherin smiled.
It felt strange in her hand, both right and wrong at the same time.
"Tell Tom my greetings when you see him, will you?"
Hermione froze, suddenly feeling as if she was going to be sick. Had Slytherin somehow informed You-Know-Who of all people that she had entered the Chamber? The mere notion sounded ridiculous to her ears, but then again, she really had no idea what Slytherin was capable of or to what lengths he would go just for a little entertainment after Merlin knew how many lonely years in this study.
Maybe the Dark Lord had a portrait of himself hanging in his bedroom, and that very portrait was informing him this very instant… was that even possible? Oh, damn her and her non-existing knowledge on magical portraits!
Either way, Hermione saw one option and one option only for the near future, and while it pained her that this option led away from the what must have been hundreds of other books, it led straight out of that door.
"I-I will," she replied, her fingers trembling. The notebook almost fell out of her hands, but she managed to catch it at the last moment. "I think I should.. go now."
"Of course," Slytherin nodded. The smile on his face was starting give her the creeps. "Well, it was nice seeing you. Goodbye, my dear."
"Goodbye."
It was just a whisper, but the second it had left her lips, she was out of the door and running for her life.
She should have just stuck to her plan and ignored it.
.oOXOo.
In the end, of course, You-Know-Who didn't turn up out of thin air to torture and maim her, but she didn't know wether that was due to chance, Hogwarts wards or because Slytherin's threat had been empty. She never would, though, since she had promised herself the very instant she was standing in Myrtle's bathroom again, alive and well, that she never would go down to that god forsaken place again. And she was quite happy about it, too.
She had been to the library earlier on, and, with more luck than she would have dared to imagine, found a book on parselmagic including several spells that was not from the Restricted Section. To her immense happiness, it had even included a parseltongue charm to reveal magic; much like the equivalent of the human one she had cast in the chamber.
Of course, once back in her dormitory she had cast it on the diary — only to find out with the greatest possible surprise that there wasn't a single trace of hidden magic to it.
She was lying in bed now. The other girls were asleep already, but Hermione had cast silencing and hiding spells around her bed, inspecting Tom Riddle's notebook under the light of a lumos. It seemed to be safe, after all.
It was written in parselscript; that much she knew for certain. Earlier on it had fallen out of her bag while the other girls were getting ready for bed and before she had had a chance to pick it up and pack it away again, Lavender had already asked what "these weird scribbly signs" were. Hermione had been momentarily dumbfounded, about to point out that there were no scribbly signs, only normal letters, when she had instantaneously understood.
Fortunately Ginny hadn't been in the room, or Hermione was sure she would have recognized that something was amiss immediately. The diary and the notebook were identical from the outside, after all.
Now it was one o'clock in the morning and she was reading the fifty year old notes of teenage You-Know-Who. Most if it wasn't too interesting or revealing; here and there, however, there were some interesting, though morbid and near psychopathic parts. A recorded experiment in which he had cast the Cruciatus curse on some escaped toad in the Chamber, for instance, only to find that the curse had not been picked up by Hogwarts wards and the Chamber was therefore a safe zone.
A plethora of things concerning Voldemort too, things Hermione was sure Dumbledore would have killed to have. The original page on which he had created multiple anagrams of his full name, only to end up with I Am Lord Voldemort on his thirteenth try. Six consecutive pages of Dark Mark designs. A page with possible names for his followers, of which he had apparently picked Knights of Walpurgis first, only to change it to Death Eaters way after his Hogwarts times. Random notes on how to overthrow the Ministry and what to do afterwards on every other page.
And yet, Dumbledore would never see them. If Hermione ever handed them to him, she would be forced to explain how she had gotten them in the first place, and that alone would get her into greater trouble than she would dare to imagine. Then again, it was not like he could read the notebook's contents anyway.
Despite its disturbing contents, however, it was an intriguing read. Now and again Tom Riddle's neat, orderly script was replaced by a strangely familiar, curly one. Hermione's lips curved at the mere thought that Riddle would have had a confidante so trusted that he would go ever these things with him. Or her. She could just see them in front of her inner eye, bickering in a friendly way about world domination and homicide.
In a strange way, it made her almost regretful that she was born too late to ever find out who this mystery person was.
But there were other things, too. A bad drawing of a snake curled up around a smiling cat —complete with artist's signature and all— made her laugh out so loud she was suddenly very glad she had put up the silencing charm, although her laughter stopped abruptly when she realized that she was laughing at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's early artistic efforts.
And, of course, spells. Self-invented, she assumed, since he usually described step by step how they had come to be. Like the world domination ideas, they popped up on every other page, although more frequently. Hermione felt impressed that Riddle had been so talented in spell creating still during his Hogwarts years — from what she had heard, the majority of adults were unable to ever invent a single spell.
She was astounded by many of them, surprised more times than one by Riddle's creativity. Ignem mitto, for instance, a spell that apparently sent a ball of fire to a location of the caster's choosing up to ten kilometers away, made her eyebrows rise into her hairline. One spell, however, caught her attention more than anything else.
It sat at the bottom of a page listing up muggleborns he intended for the basilisk to kill; it was written in the middle of a neat circle, obviously meant to be emphasized.
Anagnorisis (parselt.) — ultimate revenge.
She shouldn't have been intrigued by it, and she knew. The mere mention of any spell by any form of You-Know-Who that brought "revenge" should have her mentally running for her life. It didn't, though.
She didn't ponder on it. There were a lot of things about her that didn't add up lately, so why should one single out-of-line sentiment be enough to disturb her?
Hermione read on for a few more minutes, then fell asleep with the notebook in hand.
.oOXOo.
The next morning at breakfast, Hermione received the shock of her life. She had barely sat down, still sleepy from last night's reading, when Ron all but threw that morning's Daily Prophet at her, whispering "Bloody mental" every few seconds.
The headline read, Ministry Seeks Educational Reform. Dolores Umbridge Appointed First Ever High Inquisitor.
Hermione thought of the replaced books in the library and the librarian telling her that Dumbledore had told her of an educational reform. This had to be it.
„What—?"
"It gives her the power to inspect the other professors' classes," Harry summarized, "And sack them."
"What?" She almost spilled her pumpkin juice. "But that's outrageous!"
"There's more," Ron said, looking grim. "Every time Dumbledore can't find a teacher now, the Ministry gets to choose one. That's how we got Umbridge."
"But that's — that's — simply atrocious!" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "That toad just keeps getting more and more support from the Ministry, it's absolutely horrible, did I tell you, they threw out all the old textbooks at the library so we can't learn—?"
"Gotta be honest with you there, Mione," Ron said, "You're probably the only one who seriously minds."
"But Ron! Don't you see—?"
"You know what?" Ron interrupted her, "I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected. Umbridge won't know what hit her."
Hermione huffed in annoyance at Ron's rudeness.
"Well, come along," she finally said, shooting up, "We don't want to be late if she's inspecting Snape's class."
Unfortunately, though, no Umbridge appeared in their Potions lesson, and everything passed as it usually did; in the beginning Snape handed back their latest essays, informing them that he had graded them according to OWL standards (which led Hermione to be uncharacteristically happy about the small, spiky "E" on top of hers), then they were told to brew the Draught of Peace, an unusually tricky potion to brew since it was incredibly complicated and required absurd levels of precision.
Hermione's turned out just fine; Harry's, however, was vanished by an annoyed Snape who told him that he had forgotten to add an ingredient, losing Gryffindor ten points, and Ron restarted three times before finally giving up.
The usual, however, stopped occurring the second the lesson ended.
"I will see you lot on Friday. Longbottom, you will see me for detention tonight at eight. Class dismissed."
Hermione was just in the process of standing up and leaving the classroom when Snape added, "Miss Granger, please stay behind."
She froze, trading a suspicious look with Harry and Ron. There was absolutely no reason he would ask her to talk to her.
Although, her subconscious whispered traitorously at the very back of her mind, of course she had an inkling…
"Mister Weasley, Mister Potter, this is none of your concern… and I suggest that you get going to Professor Umbridge's lesson, lest you earn yourselves another detention for tardiness."
Hermione and the boys traded another significant look before the boys made for Defense, not bothering to close the door behind them. It fell shut with a loud thump.
"I apologize that I am keeping you behind Miss Granger," Snape spoke up. His voice sounded even deeper and rawer than usually. "Please rest assured that this does not concern your appearance in my class, which is, as always, more than satisfactory."
"Then why—"
"What I am about to tell you is extremely important, girl, and extremely secret. It is absolutely essential that this knowledge does not leave this room, nobody, not even your friends Potter and Weasley may know, for if it does, it is not your, but my head on the chopping block. And while you may even enjoy that thought, this goes far beyond a mere dislike between student and professor, do you understand? This is far, far bigger."
Hermione gulped, hoping with every inch of her being that this did not involve Tom.
The Potions Master sighed. "Since you are friends with Potter, I suppose you are aware of my… associations during the First Wizarding War?"
Hermione nodded, not liking the direction in which this was going at all. "Yes, I am."
"Then are you aware too that I am still… associated thusly for the sake of the Order?"
Again she nodded, "Yes."
"Miss Granger, the information that I am about to give you… the Headmaster is not yet aware of it, nor shall he ever be. The Dark Lord only informed his hand-picked elite, keeping it a secret, Miss Granger, and were it to become public that the Headmaster is aware, I would be immediately suspected. As it is, I am taking a foolishly big risk in telling you. Do you comprehend this?"
Feeling her insides grow cold in fear, she nodded.
"I am afraid that I will require your vow on this, Miss Granger. Your Unbreakable Vow. I cannot tell you otherwise. It is too risky. I am truly sorry."
It obviously had to be a matter of grave importance for Snape to even be minimally civil towards her in the first place. And if the matter truly was that secret, Hermione wondered, then why on Earth would Snape confide in her of all people? A Gryffindor, no less? She shivered. Truly, did she even want to know? But then again, could she afford not knowing?
She obviously couldn't.
"Alright."
Professor Snape held out his left hand and she took it. With a flick of his hand, he summoned a house elf to trace thin lines around their arms with his wand.
"Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, hereby solemnly swear that you shall not disclose any information given by me, Severus Tobias Snape, on this day, October 12th 1995 to anyone you are acquainted to, or ever will make the acquaintance of, from this moment in time on until the end of your life?"
God, did that sound serious. "I do."
Snape gave her a cold, calculating look, then removed his hand from hers and banished the House Elf.
"That was satisfactory," he said, then paused. He seemed to think of how he was best going to word what he was going to say.
"Now, no-one knows why," he began, "but I am afraid that I have to tell you, Miss Granger, that as of Friday last week…"
The Professor halted. Cold sweat ran down her back.
"Just tell me," Hermione said. Quietly but determinedly.
"Miss Granger, I am sorry to tell you that as of Friday last week you have… you have, in fact, bypassed Harry Potter as the Dark Lord's most wanted person."
At first she was utterly unable to understand what her Potions Professor had just said. Numbness enveloped her like a veil. Then, when it finally lifted, her jaw dropped.
That… that-
It made no sense at all.
None.
It simply couldn't be. She hadn't even been in the Chamber and talked to Slytherin's portrait until Sunday. It was completely impossible.
"I… I don't understand."
"That is most unfortunate," said Snape, who appeared to be seriously relieved that he had finally told her. "Neither do I. I was hoping you would perhaps know the reasoning behind it."
None of them said anything for a while.
"He does not want you harmed," he commented seriously. "Do you really have no clue as to why? Miss Granger, if I have nothing to go on then I can truly not protect you. This is a matter of grave importance. I urge you to think."
For a moment, Hermione seriously contemplated spilling the beans about the entire parseltongue incident to Snape right then.
"I…"
But then she thought better of it. Really, she was… she felt as if someone had turned her brain all fuzzy to prevent her from forming any coherent thoughts. She was in no state to do most anything, let alone share one of her biggest secrets with one of the shiftiest people she had the misfortune of knowing. She was in no state to determine wether or not Snape was on her side, let alone think of a way to change certain parts of the story, should she want to leave certain parts out.
And who was to say that Snape wasn't a double double agent, working for You-Know-Who instead of Dumbledore?
She would deal with this later.
"I have to get to Defense, Professor, or Professor Umbridge will have my head."
Snape nodded shortly, then turned around towards his desk and wrote her a small note. "Take this to her," he said, "perhaps it will vanquish her anger."
Hermione gratefully took his note.
"Come to my office tonight at seven," Snape told her. "I shall use Legilimency on you to search for any details that you have missed, if that is fine with you, Miss Granger. It is for your safety after all."
It was not at all fine with her, but really, in what plausible way could she have explained? She nodded brusquely, then left, note in hand.
As the door closed behind her, truly, the Defense lesson was the absolute last thing on her mind. Before, everything had been relatively harmless; Umbridge at least wasn't out to kill her, and neither was her newfound parseltongue ability. Voldemort, however —and yes, now that he was out to get her she saw no use not addressing him by his name— was as real and terrible of a problem as it fucking got.
Voldemort was after her, for Godric's sake.
But why? Why? There was absolutely no reason Voldemort would want her, and even less reason that he would want her more than Harry freaking Potter! Nothing had happened last Friday!
Umbridge had tortured Harry, Harry had shown her the wound, and she had run out into the open and talked to a snake. True, the snake incident was unusual, but she was sure that it had been just her and the snake, with no-one else watching. And even if there had been — so what if she was a parselmouth?
And what in Merlin's Beard did that matter to Lord freaking Voldemort?
She felt like she was missing something big.
It was all too much for her all of a sudden, and she felt like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Why? It bothered her to no end, not knowing.
She had to hurry to Defense if she still wanted to be in time, but really, she was close to hyperventilating. Her breathing grew hasty and irregular, her heart pumping blood through her body at an unnaturally quick pace, and really, all she wanted was to sit down and cry. Or tell Ron, or Harry. Harry at least would understand.
But no, she couldn't do that. Neither of those things. If she cried now, she would be late for Defense, and Umbridge would give her detention. She didn't care about the condition of her hand, not really; what she really cared about and what made her hurry up even though she was so close to falling, and with every step, she came a little bit closer to actually tripping over her own feet, was Harry's suspicion that the woman could be a Death Eater. Of course, Harry could be wrong — because who knew, really?— but she was absolutely not willing to take the risk of being left alone in a room with her.
And if she told Harry or Ron, well, then she was dead. Snape had seen to that.
In the end, she made Defense just in time, appearing in front of the Defense class room half covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Draco screamed something condescending including the word mudblood at her from across the corridor, then laughed. Hermione didn't defend herself.
She wondered if Draco's father had informed his son of the new development. She wondered if he was already counting the days until his hated Gryffindor mudblood finally disappeared only to never make a reappearance.
Suddenly, Harry stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder. "Hermione?" he asked. She looked away. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to talk to anyone. "Hermione?" She wondered if she would be able to miss Defense if she fainted now. "Are you okay? Hello? Hermione? What on earth did Snape do to you? You look, well, traumatized…"
The door opened; Umbridge, wearing her usual pink cardigan, stepped out into the hallway and greeted her students. Then she retreated into her room and all of a sudden there was a wave of fifth years pushing through the crowd to get to their favorite seats the quickest.
Hermione felt slightly dizzy, and even if she had wanted to, she couldn't go away now; the others were pushing her into the classroom.
She entered the classroom as if looking through mist. Everything seemed distant, distorted. She found herself a seat in between Harry and Ron, then took out her book, a quill and parchment from her bag.
Why?
Harry and Ron were trying to talk to her from both sides of her, but she wasn't listening to them; there was only one thought on her mind, repeated into oblivion: Why is he looking for me, Why is he looking for me, Why is he looking for me, and then, all of a sudden, as Umbridge made her way to the front of the room and started the class with her usual "Hem hem": Ignorance isn't bliss.
"Wands away," Umbridge instructed, that painfully self-satisfied smile on her face. "As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen and commence "Chapter Two: Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation". There will be no need to talk."
The class gave a collective sigh, and suddenly, the mist lifted and all of Hermione's anger redirected towards Umbridge. It was all that woman's fault; without her she would have never talked to the snake, she would have never entered the Chamber, and therefore even Voldemort would have surely left her alone, just going back to ignoring her existence and giving a rat's arse about the muggleborn Hermione Granger until the end of time, like she wanted it to be. Like it was supposed to be.
Her rational side died a slow, unworthy, painful death as her hand was raised into the air and the determined, slightly insane smile appeared on her face.
It was insanity.
Umbridge smiled right back at her. She gave one stern look at the class, ordering them to start reading, then walked towards Hermione's desk until she stood directly before her, saying, very quietly so as to not disturb the other students: "What is it this time, Miss Granger?"
Hermione wasn't thinking straight. She wanted to get away from the woman as quickly as her feet could take her just as much as she wanted to provoke her, fight her, scream into her face.
"I already read Chapter Two." There was no hint of her internal battle in her voice; she sounded confident, bold, certain.
"Well, then proceed to Chapter Three." She sounded polite, nice even, but her eyes were filled with fire-like fury.
"I've read that too," Hermione said. "I've read the whole book." She didn't even care about herself in that moment. She just wanted to see that toad, that foul, loathsome parody of a Professor burn in flames; she imagined the fire in the woman's eyes devouring her alive and smirked maliciously.
Umbridge blinked but quickly regained her poise.
"Well, then you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen."
"He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named," Hermione said without hesitation, watching Umbridge's reaction closely. "He says "counter-jinx" is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable." Umbridge raised her eyebrows, but Hermione wasn't done by far.
"I disagree, however."
Hermione swore she could visibly see the fire pouring out of her eyes then.
"You disagree!" All the softness had vanished from her voice; her reply was almost shouted, resulting in at least half the class looking up from their books to stare at them.
"Yes, I do." Hermione raised her voice, too. There was no doubt in her voice as she said this. "Mr Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they're quite useful, when they're used defensively."
Harry shot her a desperate glance. She didn't mind. It was all her fault, all Umbridge, the snake, the library, Voldemort— all her, all her…
"Oh, you do, do you?" said Professor Umbridge, straightening up. "Well, I'm afraid that it is Mr Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that counts in this classroom, Miss Granger."
"But—"
"ENOUGH!" screamed Umbridge. Hermione stopped talking at once, proud of herself. She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. "Miss Granger, you will stop interrupting my lesson and join me in my office for a little talk while the rest of the class continues to read as they were instructed. Now."
Hermione walked towards Umbridge proudly, like one would when they were about to receive a medal. She shrugged as she stood up.
A minute later, she was sitting on a chair in her Defense Professor's all-pink office, surrounded by at least twenty cats.
"Miss Granger," Umbridge said, staring right at Hermione, "I am appalled by your impertinence! I usually do not hold detentions during lessons, but you- well, you just leave me with no choice." She reached into a drawer behind her, fishing out an ancient looking quill. Hermione's eyes flashed in recognition.
"I will make sure that you will never behave that way towards me or any superior of yours again, is that clear?" Again, her voice sounded polite, but her eyes told a different story.
"I won't apologize," Hermione told her, very clearly. "You can make me "write lines" like Harry if you want, but I won't. You won't make me feel sorry." She took a deep breath, then said:
"It's all your fault. I'm going to die, you foul, loathsome little cockroach, and it's all because of you! I HATE YOU!"
And Hermione's anger was a living thing, filling her, completing her with its irrational heartbeat; she felt it beat quicker and quicker inside of her in excitement, and a warm sort of feeling spread through her, and it felt right, so right, so it had to be right, and she stood up, pointing her wand directly at Umbridge, and a vengeful sort of smile curved on her lips, and she remembered Riddle's notebook, the spell, emphasized by the circle, and its goal, revenge. One word, one thought, one concept; so tiny, so insignificant, and yet, in that one moment, it was everything. Revenge. Nothing else mattered. Revenge, revenge, revenge.
She could almost physically hear her rational side screaming at her to snap out of it. But she didn't listen.
Because suddenly Umbridge had a thousand faces, all at once; the face of the great black snake with the almost crimson eyes, the face of the founder of Slytherin house, the face of Snape, for only teling her now, the face of Lord Voldemort, or at least how she imagined it to be. Revenge, revenge, revenge.
She didn't listen to Umbridge's plea as she saw the sadistic glimmer in Hermione's eyes. She didn't listen as Umbridge screamed, didn't care as she tried to run past her. What a bloody coward.
Revenge.
She didn't think as she cast the spell. She just did.
"Anagnorisis!"
Then everything faded into black.