The feast was as welcoming as always. Dumbledore's new scapegoat -a woman this time- had given a speech about being honoured to serve as the new DADA professor, but Hermione hadn't paid any attention to it at all. Fred and George were telling her about household Charms, and it just seemed so interesting. Apparently you could do them at age five, but they still bore a remarkable similarity to charms they were studying in class.

Hermione just didn't understand. No five-year old should be able to do anything concerning magic. This was interesting. A short lady in a too-pink suit was decidedly not.


She is quickly and efficiently separated from the Twins. Dinners are the only time the three of them have. During the day their classes form a barrier and during the evening everyone is studying: Hermione because she simply wants to, and the Twins because they want to score well enough to please their mum just a bit. Hogwarts' strictest rule is that sleeping is to be done in your own bed and no one else's, so their time really is limited to dinner time.

But dinner time is the time to eat food. And the Weasleys have grown up one overabundant meals. Theoretically, Hermione and the Twins have more than an hour a day to talk, but in reality it's not even ten minutes.

They keep an ambient atmosphere, and theirs is a general consensus of later. Holidays are plenty, and they'll find their time.


Hogwarts feels like coming home. The halls, the arches, the Great Hall and the classrooms. At the sight of them, affection rises up in her throat and chokes her windpipe. She doesn't know where it came from, this love for the castle. It's inside of her, and wells up on the strangest moments. The transfiguration classroom left her empty and feeling cold, but the dungeons of the Potions classrooms almost choke her with nostalgia.

The people leave her cold. She can't connect with the girls in her year- she never could. Now that she has ostracised herself from Harry and Ron, company is scarce. The conversations at dinner and at breakfast flow around her like air: it doesn't affect her, doesn't touch her, doesn't do anything except provide background noise for her thoughts.


Hermione sat down at the table. Defence against the Dark Arts. Her worst subject, yet something in her was excited, longing fiercely for the moment she could raise her wand and start casting.

The class was quiet as it entered the room: professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said, when finally the whole class had sat down. There was something vaguely condescending in her tone, and something in Hermione bristled and shook awake.

A few people mumbled "good afternoon" in reply.

"Tut, tut," said Professor Umbridge. "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!".

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,", they chanted back at her. Hermione's teeth clenched just a bit.

"There now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order "wands away" had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Hermione shoved her wand back inside her bag and pulled out quill, ink and parchment. Something inside her chest tightened and grew, and she felt her cheeks heat just a bit.

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year."

"You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Has everybody got a copy of the assigned books?'

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, "Yes, Professor Umbridge", or "No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of the assigned books?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.

"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read "Chapter One, Basics for Beginners". There will be no need to talk."

Hermione daintly closed her book with a quiet snap. She got out a Black library book on the different uses of Transfigurational methods and started reading. It seemed to make no difference to professor Umbridge.


She makes up with Ron and Harry. She doesn't intend to, but it happens anyway.

The boys had been seated at the dinner table in their usual place. She had been walking while thinking, and sat down in the first place available.

Ron had continued eating, but Harry had cleared his throat. The both of them had fallen silent and still, and stared at her. She'd looked up, realised where she was, and made a move to stand up.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I'll...," sit somewhere else, is what she meant to say. I'll make it up to you, is what the boys heard. Twin grins had sprung into existence.

"'Mione! You can't believe how long we've been bloody waiting for you. Cor, all the homework!" Ron dramatically struck a pose. "The homework! There has been suffering, Mione, suffering. Can't believe we ever managed a school week on our own without you." He had winked at her, and ruffled her hair, like he used to do before.

Harry had simply smiled at her. His green eyes were twinkling behind his glasses, as if all was right with the world now his errant friend had apologised.

Hermione had simply sat there. This was all she had had to do? The entire summer spend on her own, all because she hadn't said that she was sorry? She didn't get it. It felt so petty.

If a few words had fixed the situation, the situation surely couldn't have been so dire to start with.


A week gone by yet again.

You'd think her renewed friendship with her best friends would have had an impact in her life. It didn't. Nothing changed. Instead of curling up with a good book at the fireplace, she now curled up with a good book at the fire place with two boys playing Gobblestones in front of it. In classes she sat with three instead of one, which meant she sat alone in front of Harry and Ron. At dinner she sat with the Twins or with her friends. Either way, her thoughts were somewhere else.

She didn't know exactly where she drifted off to, but the last few weeks saw Hermione staring into nothing for any length of time more than a few times. She'd be thinking about the new homework for Transfiguration, and before she realised it, it would be dinner time. It felt pleasant, the drifting off. It felt like a good nights rest or a good hot bath. She'd startle conscious, awake and freshened and somehow sharper than she was before.


"'Miooone...? D'you think we could...". -

-"No, Ron."

"Aww, Maine! You know we could never match your genius if we tried. There's no way Harry and I would get anywhere without you. We'd be lost without you. A little bit of homework and we'd be eternally grateful-".

"No, Ronald. Piss off."

Ron did, in fact, move somewhere else. He stormed off, to God-knows-where, out of the common room. Where he was going didn't matter: what he said to Harry was what was important.

"I'm telling you mate, no reasoning with that one. Bloody useless."

Bloody useless.

Hermione was less patient with her friends than she used to be.


It was night. All seemed dark in the Gryffindor rooms. In the girls fifth year room, one bed had the curtains drawn.

Hermione was curled up in her four poster, knees tucked underneath her and her blanket worn like a cape. Her necklace was precariously placed on the bedside stand, as close to her bed as possible, and her book was perched up on her lap. Every few minutes a dainty hand came up to turn the pages.

"Tempus."

03:16

She should be sleeping. She should go to sleep. She'd almost fallen asleep during their last transfiguration lesson. Hermione glances at her book. Seventy more pages to go.

She dismisses the tempus spell and dims the light as to not accidentally wake someone else in their dormitory. Then she settles in for the night and turns the page.


She is so absorbed in her books and her learning that it takes her a while. She sees the way Dean storms off during breakfasts, but doesn't observe the clenching in Harry's face or the murder in Ron's eyes. It's only when Malfoy stops at their table five weeks into the school year and sneers at them, that she realises her best friend is hurting. Hurting badly.

"Potter. Are you free to walk around? You'd think they'd lock you up just to make sure your crazy doesn't spread around." Malfoy's following lets out an obedient chuckle at the weak quip. Hermione frowns, unsure at the direction this new taunt is taking, but Harry's knuckles have whitened and Ron is halfway out of his seat. It is obviously of importance.

She turns around. "Are you sure your family should even be allowed to procreate, Malfoy? I mean, between the crazy of your aunt Bella and the idiotic stupidity of your father, you'd think the Malfoy line would've been sacrificed for the good of society, right?".

Malfoy sputters for a moment, but seems ready to retort -no doubt something concerning her unfortunate heritage or his father-dear - when Mcgonagall rigidly walks past.

He shoots a glare and scurries off, and Hermione is left with a satisfied curl of bitterness in her stomach. As she turns around, Ron querries her on her knowledge of "aunt Bella", but she shrugs her shoulders and looks at her nails.

"I probably read it somewhere, Ron. You'd understand, too, if you bothered to open a book once in a while."

This leads to a thorough debate -which is held only on Rons part- about the pros and cons of reading: mainly, that it takes too much time away from the more important things in life; meaning quidditch. Hermione finishes her breakfast to the sound of Ron mooning over the sport.


Their second DADA lesson goes no better. If anything, things escalate.

Instead of taking a different book with her, Hermione was set on confronting Professor Umbridge this time around. Not to say that she would be rude and confrontational to a teacher- goodness, no. Rather, she was planning on asking a few in-depth questions about the course material.

When the lesson started, Hermione did not even bother opening her book. She stared at Professor Umbridge. She put her hand up.

Professor Umbridge stared just as resolutely the other way.

Behind her, Hermione could feel Harry taking notice of her rebellious action and sitting up. This caught the attention of a few other students attempting to struggle on with "Basics for Beginners".

When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.

"Not about the chapter, no," said Hermione. Her heart was thrumming in her chest.

"Well, we're reading just now," said Professor Umbridge, showing her small teeth. "If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," said Hermione bravely.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.

"And your name is?"

"… Hermione Granger," said Hermione (why did she hesitate?).

"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully. They are described thoroughly on page seven, which you should have read last class," said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.

"Well, I don't," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing written there about using defensive spells."

There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to leaf through their books and frown at the course aims.

"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

"We're not going to use magic?" Ron exclaimed loudly.

"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.-?"

"Weasley," said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice.

"No, but-"

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the "whole point" of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way-"

"What use is that?' said Harry loudly. 'If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a-"

"Hand, Mr Potter!" sang Professor Umbridge.

Harry thrust his fist in the air. Again, Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him, but now several other people had their hands up, too.

Hermione saw the situation escalating. Something in her bristled and shook awake. She felt incredibly disconnected, and ever so cold. She raised her hand, but started talking without any prompt from the Professor.

"Right you are, Professor. Absolutely no use in practicing those kind of things. We'll be absolutely fine, of course. Thank you for answering my question. We'll all be fine, guys, right?" She glanced around the room, trying to catch the eyes of as many as she could. Most were looking at her like she'd grown another head that had started spitting fire, but on her glare, all of them slowly lowered their hands. For them, comprehension seems to be no requisite for cooperation. For all of them, except for Harry.

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since breakfast, was reaching boiling point.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

"Hmm, let's think …" said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. "Maybe ... Lord Voldemort?"

Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool: Hermione's heart stuttered and started racing. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

"Detention, Mr Potter! Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. You will not be spreading lies in my class." She turned to the class at large. "The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If any of you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page ten, "Basics for Beginners".'

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him.

"Harry, no!" Hermione whispered in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.

There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face. Hermione's face was made of stone.

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Professor Umbridge said coldly.

"It was murder," said Harry. Hermione could feel the curiosity of all thirty students in the classroom, and for a moment, she could have hit Harry and his stupid Gryffindorness. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."

Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment, Hermione thought she was going to scream at Harry. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear."

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk.

Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink and started scribbling. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.

"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.

He took it from her without saying a word, turned on his heel and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, slamming the classroom door shut behind him. Hermione growned, and exchanged glances with Ron.

"Now he's done it."


Next up: the DA! & Hermione is feeling... tired? Mmm, wonder why?