CHAPTER 2 - Battles

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She was running.

Her feet were sliding dangerously on the soil, her mouth taking in the humid air of the night in gulps, her chest heaving in pain and exhaustion. Leaves and branches scratched her face like knives on porcelain skin, but she kept running through the dark forest by inertia.

Green and red lights illuminated the wild setting, flying past her as she tried to dodge each curse aimed at her back, bending on sore knees or ducking behind trees before she could sprint forward again.

She had lost sight of him minutes earlier. Or were those hours?

All she wanted to do by now was double over her knees and just breath, or... give up. Stop running. Go out, in the clear, and let it all end with one simple word, one quick glance into Death's eyes and-

No. She couldn't. It just wasn't right. She needed to find him. Stop him.

Her mind wasn't working any more, her body was moving by her sole instinct. She felt like an animal running from a promised feast, a feast of which she was the main course. She was the prey.

She was about to give in the desire to launch herself on the ground and lie there until it was over, whichever way that would be, when blood-curdling screams echoed in the air. Her heart stopped beating and constricted up her throat. The sound pierced her ears and another wave of panic rushed over her.

She dashed behind a tree and tried her best to still her twitching limbs and ease her breathing. Crouching, she tilted her head and listened. Tears ran down her stained cheeks while the screams gradually turned into a distant and weak howling. Then, the aching whimpers abruptly stopped. She choked on air and sobbed, looking through the darkness in the direction of the castle.

When red sparks flew towards her again, missing their goal by inches, she had to talk herself into resuming the run.

She moved foot after foot the fastest she could until she spotted something moving in front of her, through the leaves. A man. Her vision was fogged, but she could make out a tall frame, a ripped and filthy t-shirt. Black messy hair. She could recognise his hair anywhere.

She sped up and the trees thinned out. She saw him run into a clearing, right into their predator's hungry jaws. Why? Why wasn't he running away?

"No!" she shouted with all her remaining forces- in fear. And panic. Why? Why?

He heard her. He stilled for a brief moment. He twisted around to look back at her, an expression of pure horror covering his face.

"Hermione!" he yelled in alarm. "Don't!"

But she kept on running towards him, over the edge of the forest, into the glade.

"Hermione, hide! Run!"

His voice was hoarse but he pleaded for her to run away from there, again and again, until lights and sparks streamed into the night.

Not many feet away from him, she halted, realising what he was doing, why he was shaking his head in silent warning-

"Hermione," he whispered, lifting his chin, fixing his eyes into hers. Into her heart and into her soul. She helplessly held his stare as he looked at her for the last time.

His lips kept on moving in murmurs, relentlessly, a blinding light struck into his back with savage force being the end of his silent mantra. He collapsed to the ground-

She jolted awake in a pool of sweat and crumpled sheets, gasping for air. She rubbed her chest with a trembling hand, violent sobs shaking her whole body into a mess.

For the first time on a Christmas morning, Hermione Granger curled up on her bed, crying in sorrow and despair at the memory of her name dying on the lips of Harry Potter with him.

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I hope it's going to snow soon.

I sit cross-legged on the crumpled covers, motionless, staring with my nose in the air at the grey sky I've conjured on the ceiling of my four-poster bed.

My eyes are fixed on the clouds, but I'm not really looking; I'm in a daze while too many images run at the front of my mind. Chocolate eyes, chocolate cakes, a freckled nose buried in a book I can't find, and other confused fragments of last night's fuzzy dreams.

When I have enough of my comatose state, I decide to drag myself to the edge of the mattress and glance at Feodor's bed. I frown when I find it empty; I check the hour: 10 am. Bugger, I overslept.

I quickly cross the dorm and enter the bathroom to get ready for another absolutely beautiful day.

When I walk into the Common Room ten minutes later, Feodor is sitting on the couch before a crackling fire, eating what I assume is his weekly supply of sweets sent from home.

"Good morning," he greets me.

"'morning," I mutter, running a hand through my damp hair.

I sit on my usual armchair close to the fireplace, yawning.

"Nice tonsils," Feodor grins. I watch absently as he rises to his feet to retrieve something from the Christmas tree in the back of the room. There's a stack of colourful packages and ribbons there- Ah, right.

Feodor returns to our corner and hands me a rectangular package wrapped in green paper. "Merry Christmas, Tom."

"I didn't get you anything, Nott," I say, turning over the present in my hands.

Feodor just shrugs, sinking into the couch. "I already have all I need anyway."

Careful not to tear the paper, I open the present and draw out a book. Its cover seems ancient and the binding feels fragile under my touch, as if it would disintegrate at any moment. I smile, my eyes crinkling at the corners.

Here, placed on my lap, is one of the darkest books of all times. Only ten copies of The truth of Magick – Beyond the Dark and Light Arts by Hereward have ever been printed and seven were destroyed because of the... questionable contents. The whereabouts of the remaining two copies are unknown, but what's certain is that the last one is right here, in my possession.

"Thank you, Feodor," I whisper, touching the embossed inscription with light fingers. "This is... a pleasant surprise."

"You are welcome," he replies, shoving a chocolate frog in his mouth before it can jump away. "Care for a game of chess?"

Unusually happy for the first time in days, I scoot the armchair closer to the coffee table. "Sure."

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Feodor and I had lunch in the kitchens. The house-elves cooked the most exquisite foods, delighted to finally have guests to serve in their own home.

But at four in the afternoon, the sky looks boringly grey from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library. Feodor went to the owlery a couple of hours ago while I've found refuge in my sanctuary.

The place is deserted, as expected, but its silence is giving me a headache, strangely enough. Or maybe that is given by the lack of information on a relatively powerful Location spell to find and get back my bloody book. For Salazar's sake, I'm not asking that much, am I?

So, let's recapitulate. I put wards on the book because- Why couldn't I just take it that day? I could have removed the Summoning Charm on it, it wasn't difficult-

So, I put Wards on the sodding book, someone removes them- how the hell did they- and they remove the Summoning Charm, steal the book and put other Wards on it so I can't Summon it myself. Since I've tried doing just that at least thirty times, this must be the only explanation.

Now, what I know is that the book is hidden and that whoever did this can't be an idiot. No, they know the ropes, they must be somehow smart. Smarter than me? Absolutely not. Unpredictable? Yes, that I can concede. But why?

The reason. This may have nothing to do with me, as it's probably the case, or... I cringe at the idea that whoever has stolen the book might know something about my plans. But it's impossible: I haven't talked about it with anyone, I haven't even found the time to ask Slughorn the question yet. What do I ask him anyway? All the information I had were in Bullock's book.

What I need now is to Locate it. I have the feeling that it's still in the castle, maybe right under my nose.

I quickly browse infinite pages, discarding volume after volume on the desk as soon as I understand that the useless things don't contain what I'm looking for. What exactly am I looking for?

I stop my eyes with unnerving anticipation every time they highlight the words "location", "hidden object", "summon". But every time it's about common spells and when I think I've found a potion that's just the answer to all my problems, this reveals itself to be a cure for love curses and caged hearts.

Resting my forehead on the cool wooden table, dejected, I look at my old but polished black shoes.

Damn it.

I hear a series of muffled thuds from the back of the library, but I ignore them. It's probably Madam Rabnott, the librarian, pulling out misplaced books-

"Bloody hell!"

Disconcerted, I whip my head up when a voice that definitely doesn't belong to Madam Rabnott breaks the silence. I get up from the chair and near the bookshelves.

"Shite- Bloody hell!"

Peering out the gap between two big books on the shelf, I smirk at the sight of one Hermione Granger sitting on the other side, red-faced and snorting while she tosses book after book on the desk. It appears that I'm not the only one having an unproductive day here.

Stepping around the bookcase, I noiselessly approach the Ravenclaw girl, telling myself that I'm doing this for one sole reason and that, the moment I'll satisfy my slight interest in uncovering the secrets behind her dull eyes, I'll leave her alone and go back to ignoring her. Not that I've ever ignored her before now. You can't ignore someone you can't see. How can someone like her remain unseen-

"Bloody-" Granger bangs her head with an old tome. "Admit it, you are royally fucked."

"Yes, you are," I whisper in her right ear. I place my hands on the desk on either side of her.

I realise too late that I'm unconsciously caging her.

"Wha!" Granger screams and pushes back her chair right into my stomach.

The blow knocks the wind out of me. I lose my sight in pain for several seconds, clenching my abdomen.

"Oh bloomin' heck, Riddle!"

I wait for the pain to subside before trying to straighten up again, but I can't hold back a sharp intake when my ribs protest in agony.

"Merlin, I'm so sorry!" Granger cries, laying a hand on my arm. "You alright?"

Now is the time when the desire to torture the girl into next century should kick in, but there's no shadow of it in my mind.

I nod with a bitter smile. "Not really, but guess I asked for it."

I stare down at Granger. Looking into her big chocolate eyes, I catch a series of mixed feelings crossing her face. I frown when she quickly removes her hand from my sleeve as if struck by an electric shock. I decide to let it go for the moment.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, the hint of a scowl ruining her pretty features once more.

Leaning casually on the edge of the table, I cross my arms over my chest. "Not that's any of your business, Miss Granger, but I'm here to find comfort in the written arts on this boring day. As you are doing, it seems."

I peek at the books scattered all over the desk and pick up the closest.

"Advanced Rune Translations," I read. Looking back at the desk, I notice that all the volumes are about ancient runes.

"For an essay," Granger jerks out, her tone defensive. Of course I don't point out that I haven't even asked anything yet, but I see that she's just realised her mistake anyway. Interesting.

"I didn't see you at lunch," the Ravenclaw observes after a moment of silence.

"Again, not that you should care," I say, tossing aside Advanced Rune Translations, "but I had lunch in the kitchens with Feodor. He had the opportunity to eat the double than usual, you see. The house-elves were just thrilled to have us."

I honestly don't know why I'm telling her this. Granger's scowl deepens.

"If by 'have'," she starts acidly, "you mean 'serve us like slaves while we order them around', then I can imagine how thrilled they were."

I see... so the girl thinks I'm a sort of Abraxas Malfoy.

"Well, Miss Granger," I say, pushing myself off the table, "that's their role. We command, they execute. It's in our social order-

"Your social order," she snaps, crossing her arms, her eyes narrowed to slits. "I won't ever consider myself in such a hierarchy made of dumb, conceited pure-bloods who can't move their lordly arses from their sodding thrones of opportunistic laws to save their lives."

"My, my, you do have a clear opinion about this world. But they like their work. Actually love it. How do you explain that?"

"They were brainwashed!" Granger fires back indignantly. "By wizards! And I know what you are going to say, so shut it! You think they are weak creatures, not by magic, but by will, and that's why they weren't able to fight wizards to begin with. But that doesn't justify the cruel act of enslaving them because that just shows how wizards are despicable humans ready to-"

"You are right," I say softly.

"-take away others' freedom only to have unnecessary pow- What?"

Stopping mid-speech, Granger widens her eyes, her mouth hanging open unattractively.

"I said you are right," I repeat slowly, articulating each word with emphasis. "Wizards can't be justified for their actions towards house-elves."

"B-but," Granger stutters, "you've just said- that it's their role, our social order..."

"I have," I confirm with a nod. "But I haven't said that I also share our society's views. Because I don't."

"But-"

"You assumed, Miss Granger," I interrupt her again. "You assumed that I'm another dumb, conceited wizard who orders elves around, but I'm not. You take for granted that I treat house-elves like slaves only because I come from the House of pure-bloods."

"Riddle isn't a pure-blood family name though."

I arch an eyebrow. I didn't see this coming; it's quite obvious that I have no pure-blood name, but no one has ever commented on it. Not since second year at least.

"Granger isn't either and I don't see that many Muggle-borns in Ravenclaw," I counter darkly.

"I may be a half-blood."

I take a step closer to the bushy head. Cocking my head to the side, I smile, "Touchè."

Granger's cheeks are still flushed from our earlier discussion, her hair is bigger than ever, almost standing on its own will like a medusa - but with a certain subtle elegance. The aura coming off her is thick with something I've never perceived from other people and it almost collides with mine. It's close to my magic but it's too distant to touch.

"So, what are you?" I ask, staring down at her. "Are you a half-blood?"

I'm unprepared when she looks up with emotionless eyes. Her whisper is cold but unpleasantly clear.

"I'm a Mudblood."

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Mudblood. Mudblood.

She says she's a Mudblood.

If her voice hadn't been so glacial, I could have caught hatred in her words, memories of psychological pain or... something else. Something worse.

How much I'm imagining what Granger might be hiding about her past is unhealthy for my temples.

Mudblood. They used to call me that too, before third year. I was bullied for being the only half-blood in the House of Slytherin. When things got out of hand, I had to show people that Tom Riddle wasn't a simple Mudblood. No, he's much more powerful than his peers, much more adept at the magical arts than all the adults of the castle – except Dumbledore.

I started using it too, the word, Mudblood, so classmates could start looking up to me. They stopped sneering when I walked through the corridors, they stopped laughing while bumping into my shoulders. They stopped beating me. The roles reversed.

I abandoned all my weaknesses and started acting like a true Slytherin- but I still kept the perfect façade in place. Students started smiling at me; girls desired me, guys envied me. And a few elected started fearing and serving me.

But the way Granger said it... Mudblood.

The tone of her voice makes me think that she knows she's one. She told me that she doesn't share most of our society's views, yet she accepts one of it, the most loathed. Or maybe she doesn't.

Maybe she said what she expected me to call her after discovering that she's Muggle-born.

I'm sitting at my usual table in the library; Granger left hours ago.

I've lost track of time while going over another series of useless books; the sky is already dark outside.

"Tempus," I say with a lazy movement of my wand. Dinner starts in fifteen minutes.

Mudblood.

It sounds wrong on her lips. She's a Mudblood, she can't change it, but her saying it... it feels just wrong.

I'm so absorbed in the pointless train of thoughts that I close the last book that may have the answer to all my problems with a dusty thump. That's what one word has done to me.

I get up and send all the volumes back to their bookshelves. I look out the tall windows again: the sky is grey and cold, still empty of white dots. Walking out of the library, I think that it doesn't feel like Christmas at all when you're still waiting for the snow to fall.

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At dinner, Granger is someone I've never met. Her face is constantly illuminated by a smile, her voice broken only by warm laughs while talking animatedly with Feodor and Clearwater. The whole table is busy in cheery conversations, a noise that I try to listen to instead of isolating myself from it like usual - only to not acknowledge Granger's near voice. Her bright demeanour is irritating me: it sounds too real for my taste. The problem is that, if it isn't, I have to admit that she's a bloody good actress.

"Seriously, Granger," Feodor is saying, "You aren't as boring as the other Ravenclaws. I should have introduced myself ages ago."

"Why, thank you Nott," Evelyn says, glaring at the boy.

He laughs, holding up his hands. "Sorry Clearwater, but you are boring."

"Look who's talking!" she retorts hotly. "You are the one who lives in the Astronomy Tower. For Merlin's sake, I could jump from it in boredom."

"At least I don't spend my life in the library like you do. Believe it or not, I have a social life."

"Sure you do, you just hang out with constellations... Who tells you that I don't have a social life, anyway?"

Feodor shrugs. "Haven't seen you an awful lot with your friends. If you have friends."

Evelyn narrows her eyes in suspicion. "Have you been stalking me, Nott?"

"Stalking? Are you that self-centred, Clearwater?"

"You stupid... Slytherin."

"Ouch," Feodor clenches his chest. "No one has ever called me stupid before."

I swear I tried my best to ignore Granger, but when desserts appear on the table, a similar scene to the one of the other day catches my whole attention. Granger throws herself on the pudding like a bear on honey.

Sighing, I serve myself of pumpkin cake. I almost choke on the fork when I think I hear a weird contented noise coming from the Ravenclaw girl.

"The pudding doesn't run away, Granger, you can slow down," Nott says, amused at the sight of Granger having spoonfuls of sweet stuff at non-human speed.

The bushy head literally cleans her plate before dabbing her mouth with the napkin. She smiles. "Sorry, but I haven't eaten sweet food for ages."

"Two months of dinners at Hogwarts and you haven't had enough?"

Evelyn shakes her head, her eyes distant. "You should have seen her eating when she arrived. She devoured every single plate on our table during the first week, I swear."

Granger shoots her friend a withering look. "That's so not true."

"Why?" The question pushes past my lips before I can stop myself.

The brunette lifts her gaze but doesn't really meet my eyes. "Why what?"

"Why couldn't you eat sweet food?" I ask again. "I'm curious."

Feodor pushes away his third plate of chocolate cake and looks at Granger. "Right, why?"

The girl clears her throat, thinking over what to say.

"I've been through a difficult time the past year," she starts cautiously, lowering her eyes. Evelyn places a comforting hand on Granger's elbow.

"The war?" Feodor whispers- not for his voice might betray his emotions, but simply because there are people around, and everyone knows: at Hogwarts even the walls have ears.

With a stiff nod, Granger looks up again.

"But now I'm safe," she says softly. "And-"

We all frown when Granger tilts her head towards the ceiling. She stays motionless for an instant, her eyes wide; when she looks at us again, a small grin brightens her face.

"It's snowing!" she exclaims, clapping her hands in excitement.

"What-" Evelyn looks up in confusion and then gasps, "Oh!"

The girls' eyes light up with glee as small, candid snowflakes fall from the ceiling of the Great Hall, gently swaying in perfect circles only to fade before they can touch our shoulders.

All of a sudden, an irritating sound of chairs scraping on the floor interrupts the surreal and idiotic scene of Feodor, Clearwater, and Granger staring in awe at the fake snow.

I shift my eyes to the end of the table where most of the professors and the few other students are getting up from their seats.

"Snowball fight in the courtyard!" announces Dumbledore. What the f- "In five minutes!"

The two first years immediately run off towards the entrance, followed by many teachers (the youngest led by the redhead coot), while the third-year boy from Ravenclaw walks up to us, smiling mischievously at Granger and Clearwater.

"Oh, wipe that smirk off your face," Clearwater threatens, standing up as well. "I'm going to get back for that prank you and Lovegood set last week, Davies!"

After Evelyn disappears behind the oak door, Granger and Feodor share an odd look, pushing back their chairs at the same time.

It's when I think that everyone is abandoning the Great Hall, leaving me behind to my solitude, that I feel both my arms being pulled forward.

No way in hell.

"You two," I protest, trying to yank my arms back from Feodor and Granger's tight grip, "let go of me this instant. Nott, if you don't-"

"Oh, come on Riddle," Granger sings airily, letting go of my arm. "You can't spend Christmas holed up in the library!"

I forget all my objections when the bushy head flashes me a smile.

One step closer to her is one step closer to her secrets, I tell myself.

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I've never heard Clearwater laugh so hard. She's usually quiet and shy, much like Feodor, but now she's worse than a hurricane, running to the back of the enemies with a handful of snow to be shoved over their heads.

Feodor is having fun like Satan whipping the damned as well. I never thought he could have fun without books and telescopes, let alone plan pranks, but he turns out to be a real strategist.

Granger, however, is another story. She's the most creative and evil creature on the battlefield. The official rule is "no wands", but the mystery-girl is actually using non-verbals, hiding the stick behind her back when attacking her enemies with shitloads of snow.

The only player who isn't really playing is me. I'm supposed to take the females by surprise – the enemy – like Feodor is doing, but what I limit myself to do is quietly follow the other Slytherin around.

This reminds me of the summers and winters spent at the orphanage, when the children always came up with boys-against-girls games, and we were supposed to make the girls jump, run after them with a squirming worm in our hands, or simply try to take a look up their skirts while tree climbing.

Not that I enjoyed those stupid contests.

Or maybe I did.

I did smile at six years old, winning all the hide-and-seek games because I was good at hiding and the best at running fast to save everyone. I laughed when the boys and I searched the little garden of the institute for insects to show the girls, or when we used to jump in and out of abandoned tyres and always ended up with scorched legs because the rubber was hot under the sun.

But the older I got, the more distance I had to put between them and me. At eight I started preferring to stay inside and look at the few picture books we had rather than enjoy the sunny afternoons with the other children, and at nine no one even remembered I had played outside with the others once- carefree, laughing and living.

At ten I was the lonely boy who had taught himself to write and read and had never played one game of tug of war, or Jinx during supper, in his whole life.

No one didn't bother to ask why. But I knew, I remembered, I do even now- how I hadn't liked it when the girls had suddenly decided to run away from me and rat me out to Mrs Cole for showing them the snakes of the garden, or when, playing, the other boys had pushed me to the ground and stood over me, sneering – because whenever something like that had happened, always an accident had followed. Once back on my feet, that one time, I remember they didn't laugh, but I did, proud I wasn't giving them any satisfaction of seeing me kneeling in the mud.

"Come on Tom," Feodor starts again, crouching behind a low wall while I stand behind a column, distant from the heart of the battle, "you should throw a little ball in his general direction. It will be fun!"

"Yes," I snort loudly, pinching the bridge of my nose, "so he can have a reason to expel me for good this time."

The sight of Dumbledore hurling snowballs at the ladies is sickening and I sniff the use of wandless magic when the snow accidentally explodes into water on Granger and Clearwater's heads even from here. I thank Morgana I'm not the one under a bucket of ice-cold water.

I hear Granger laugh, pulling away the neck of her wet jumper. "Professor, that wasn't fair!"

"If something goes wrong, I'll say it was me," Feodor offers, sparing me a glance before looking back at the girls getting their revenge on Dumbledore and Professor Noel.

I mull over the idea of freezing the Transfiguration professor's face with a well-placed shot. Crouching next to Feodor, I think yes, why not, he's the one who has conjured this little fight after all, so, "yes, Nott, I think I will- Ppffooo!"

It's painful and cold and it tastes bad, very bad.

The moment I lift my head over the wall, the ball hits my nose, not too hard, but the snow manages to enter my mouth and my nostrils. What the hell.

I spit, shooting daggers at Feodor, who is restraining himself from rolling over with laughter.

"Fucking hell," I growl, drawing out my wand to dry my sweater. I'm immediately on my feet, scanning the courtyard for the culprit- until my eyes stumble upon a smug Clearwater, another snowball readily held in her gloved hand.

I squint at the girl, my wand inconspicuously moving at my side. If Evelyn Clearwater thinks she can make me play this stupid game, I won't be the one to prove her wrong.

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It doesn't matter how many times Clearwater is asking me, I will never admit I had fun this evening. Not that I really had, obviously. I decided to play along only to kill time since standing beside Feodor as he planned the end of the world was getting boring.

In the end no one really won; to say it better, we all had to leave the battlefield when Dippet made an appearance. Red-faced in annoyance, the old man sent us to our dorms while the professors had to stay behind and put up with another of the headmaster's long and monotonous speeches as to why kids can't shove snow down each other's throats on school ground.

I'm sure that the teachers are saving Dumbledore's arse anyway. It may have been his idea, the snow war, but the others followed him like idiots – that's what I think while ambling down the corridor with Feodor, Clearwater, and Granger.

"That was so fun," Evelyn sighs, walking in front of us. "I wish Dippet was as laid back as Dumbledore. Really, I love the man."

Feodor makes a gagging noise and I roll my eyes. Of course everyone here loves saint Dumbledore.

Evelyn spins around, struck by an idea. "Why don't we all go to Hogsmeade tomorrow? We should get out of the castle now that the kids are away."

"Hmm," Feodor nods slowly, considering it. "Sure, I'm in."

"Me too," Granger assents, yawning. She's dragging herself behind her classmate, exhausted after two hours of running across the courtyard and dashing behind columns. "I will let Davies know. We won't hear the end of it if we go without him."

Clearwater smiles happily before turning her eyes on me. "What about you, Tom?"

I shrug, "Okay." I don't have anything better to do anyway. My book is gone.

"Splendid!"

I think I feel Granger's nervous stare on the side of my face for a moment, but when I look at her, her expression is unreadable.

"I can't wait for tomorrow," Evelyn blabbers on with dreamy eyes- and to think that not many days ago she couldn't even shove off stupid Charlus Potter. It's like Hermione Granger has brought a new side of the girl to the surface. A very talkative and annoying side, unfortunately. "I want to go to Zonko's, I have a crave for Sugar Quills-"

"-must be up the duff then," Feodor mutters under his breath.

"-and I can bet all my galleons that Hermione needs to strip Honeydukes for-"

"Bloody hell!"

Startled, Evelyn, Feodor, and I turn around when a yelp makes us jump. During Clearwater's incessant ranting, Granger must have fallen behind for now the girl's standing firmly on the spot, trying to twist her torso and waving her arms as if they were the wings of a mad hippogriff.

"Bloody hell," she cries again, blowing wild curls out of her face.

"What's wrong, Granger?" Feodor asks with a tint of concern in his voice. He walks back to the bushy head, "What's- bloody hell."

Following Feodor's eyes, we all lift our heads to the ceiling.

Clearwater breaks in evil giggles the moment sprigs of white mistletoe merrily grow over Granger's head. "Oh my, guess the worst kind got you, Hermione dear."

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A/N: I apologise for the little cliffhanger - or maybe I don't.

Here's something interesting: the snowball fight was inspired by a real snowball fight. I had this crazy teacher back in high school who believed herself more of a student than a real adult, Merlin bless her, and she started an amazing fight in the courtyard. That's until the principal showed up and ruined the fun. Ah, the good times...

Anyway, this story will pick up a much better pace with the next chapter, I promise. Chapter 3 will further define the plot.

And yes, I'm writing more scenes from Hermione's POV from now on because there are too many blanks to fill, especially about her past. But dropping hints is my hobby, so, please, bear with it. You will thank me in the end, you'll see.

I don't mind telling you that we will even see more of Harry Potter in the future. He's the main character of JK Ro's series after all.

Reviews encourage me to keep writing, so they are very welcome! (: