A/N: a lot more Harry-centric than usual this chapter; stealing some exact lines for this one bc perhaps THE most iconic scene. Minnie owns me.

Harry steps into Professor McGonagall's office, feeling his heart drop at the sight of Umbridge in a plush chair in the corner.

The toad has recently begun sitting in on the classes of professors she distrusts, but Hermione'd predicted it was only a matter of time until she started infiltrating all other teachers' space—he shouldn't be surprised she was right.

(Still, her presence in his career advising meeting with his head of house is jolting—a reminder that right now, no space is truly safe.)

"Do sit down, Mister Potter. Have a biscuit, if Miss Patil and Mister Finnegan have left any."

He smiles nervously, the kind of lipless upward curve of the mouth that makes him cringe whenever he sees it in a mirror, but reaches for a biscuit nonetheless; if he's eating, he can't say anything incriminating in front of Umbridge.

"So." McGonagall clears her throat, sipping from a mug of coffee despite the late hour, and this being her last meeting for the day. "Obviously you've yet to take your OWLs, but your class performance and experience is a good indicator of subjects you may want to avoid needing, or may want to pursue further. I have pamphlets as well, regarding different careers and the requirements and lifestyles therein, if you need to peruse a bit. Do you have anything in particular in mind?"

Harry fidgets in his seat. "Er—well, I've thought a bit about becoming an Auror."

Her face softens, and she eyes him with an unreadable expression.

(A boy with messy, dark hair and glasses sitting across from her wanting to be an Auror.)

"What?"

(she blinks, drags herself back from the identical memory from twenty years prior, the same conversation with the same boy, the only differences an unblemished forehead and hazel eyes.)

"Nothing—you just reminded me of someone for a moment." She adjusts her spectacles, using the moment to blink back wistful tears and steel herself. "Very well. You'll need Transfiguration, no worries there, as well as Charms, Herbology, Defense, and Potions—yes, Potions, so be sure to keep up with the course regardless of your feelings about Professor Snape."

Umbridge snorts. "He will not be an Auror."

McGonagall's eyes narrow, and she sits up straighter; while Harry's always been intimidated by the older woman, in this moment he truly considers that she is scary—powerful, and fearsome, and he does not ever want to be on the receiving end of that anger.

"Excuse me? He's done well on all of his Defense tests and excelled throughout the courses themselves, let alone his practical application. I see no reason why he can't."

Umbridge sniffs, crossing her arms with a superior smirk. "If you look at the recent data I've provided, he's been doing very poorly in my class."

McGonagall's eyebrow twitches, and it's almost visible, the exact moment she decides to let the bitch have it. "Of course, I'm sorry, I should have made my meaning plainer. He has achieved high marks in all Defense tests set by a competent teacher."

Umbridge's cheeks flush scarlet. "How dare you! I will—"

"You'll what? I'm the best teacher in this school, I have tenure and every qualification, and I think you'll find those you would rally to your side have also been my pupils." She crosses her arms with a raised eyebrow, all of it a statement of fact. "However they may feel about me as a person, I am the reason they passed their OWLs. They won't risk their children not being able to do so."

A scowl forms on Umbridge's face. "He will not be an Auror, I promise you."

"Potter, I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do." McGonagall bites out the words, eyes still locked on the other professor; meanwhile Harry sinks lower in his chair, body tense. "If I have to coach you nightly, I will do so—whatever is necessary to make sure you achieve the required results!"

"The Minister for Magic will never employ Harry Potter!"

"Says you—and on what authority? Whatever shiny badges and decrees Cornelius gives you, you're no more the Queen of England than I am. Besides," her lip curls, "There may well be a new Minister for Magic by the time he is ready to join."

"Aha! Yes! Yes, of course! That's what you want, isn't it, Minerva? You want Dumbledore to replace Cornelius, so that you can be where I am!"

McGonagall rubs at her temples. "You are—utterly delusional. I won't dignify that by responding. Merlin."

"Say whatever you like, I know the truth," Umbridge insists, before storming out of the classroom.

"I thought she'd never leave," the professor sighs, reaching again for her coffee. "It's almost comical, that she thinks I want Albus in any sort of power."

Harry lets out a deep breath, sitting up slowly, the confrontation having sent him into the headspace of his childhood.

(where yelling meant bruises and beatings, meant going without meals and days upon days locked in the cupboard, staring at the spiders in the crevices of the stairs above him and imagining another life.)

McGonagall settles her gaze on him, eyes once again soft but firm, though her face retains a bit of the angry red. "Now, then—you will not be an Auror."

He blinks at her. "What—but I thought—" he trails off, biting his lip with a frown.

(for a moment, there, it had felt like she believed in him.)

"You misunderstand me." She holds the cookie tin out to him, doesn't put it down until he's chewing on one. "You are perfectly capable of being an Auror—I have no doubt that you would be adept, and up for the job. You could, Mister Potter. But you aren't built for that."

"But I'm good at it. Er—I mean, I've managed with Voldemort and the tournament and the chamber of secrets, so I just figured—I mean, that's what I want to do."

Her gaze is faraway when she responds. "I do not disagree. You are very good at it. But the things we do because we must, the things we do to survive—they are often not the things we do to live." Her eyes find his. "Harry, you hate conflict. You deal with it because you have to, and you have adapted amazingly to this life that continues to challenge you. You are good at combat and stopping dark wizards. But that's not who you are. That's who you've had to be."

"I—" he swallows heavily. "I don't know who I am outside of that, though. This—surviving—is all I know."

McGonagall gives him a small smile. "Close, maybe, but I think you've managed to find your heart nonetheless. This defense group Sirius keeps bragging about—do you enjoy it?"

His heart thumps at the mention of ASA, but she doesn't seem to want to reprimand him for it, so he says, "I—yeah, actually. I was really nervous about it, only went through with it because Mia talked me into it, but—I love seeing how much progress everyone's making. This one second year was struggling so much at the beginning of term, he could barely cast a lumos, and last week he managed the patronus charm, and I have so many ideas for after Christmas and the ways I'm going to introduce offensive spells and—sorry, I'm rambling."

"Don't apologize—you're making me even more certain that my idea was correct." Her eyes shine with—pride, maybe? "Do you know who you sound like, Mister Potter?"

"Who?"

"Me. Remus. Filius." The corners of her lips curve upward. "Any good teacher, who cares deeply about their students."

Harry cocks his head to the side, eyes wide. "You—you think I should teach? That I would be good at it?"

"I think you already are. I think you've never considered it because you've been taught that the only way to be one of the good guys is to be the one changing the world, to be on the frontlines of efforts to shape society. But you can do just as much, if not more, at the front of a classroom—it's changing worlds all the same. You care about those you're teaching—about their learning, but also about them as people, which matters just as much." She adjusts her spectacles. "You and Mister Malfoy both have grown up in circumstances that have made you creatures of war out of necessity—but at heart, you are nurturing beings. I believe it would be a shame not to pursue that."

He nods, agreeing to think on it some, before providing the Quidditch updates she then requests.

He's lost in thought the entire way up to the RoR, where he finds everyone else half chatting half doing homework, a rare night when Hermione, Draco, and Pansy are all off of Prefect patrols.

"How'd it go?" Hermione asks, holding up a bag of m&ms in offering.

He takes a few, chewing before answering. "Good. Er, well, initially not good, but then McGonagall roasted Umbridge and she left and—now I have a lot to think about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, she called Umbridge incompetent to her face."

Blaise grins gleefully. "You're joking!"

"Nope. Umbridge said I wasn't doing well in Defense, and she told her I had done well on all the tests we've had before set by competent teachers."

Ginny pretends to dab at a tear. "I've never been so proud to be a Gryffindor."

Pansy raises an eyebrow from her seat beside Hermione, a smirk forming on her face. "You know what the best part about that is?"

"The way Umbridge's whole face turned purple?" Harry offers, earning more snickers.

"No—well, yes, that is wonderful, and we should get a pensieve so we can all experience it." She looks like she's seriously considering putting an order in as she says it. "But what I mean is that it implies that even Lockhart was more competent than her."

Draco slow claps his appreciation, laughing too hard to speak.

Hermione gives a bemused smile before turning back to Harry. "You said it gave you a lot to think about?"

"Yeah. I mean I went in planning on being an Auror, but—"

He's interrupted by Ginny and Blaise guffawing; he looks to them and then at Hermione, who's clearly concealing her own laughter. "What? Why is that so funny?"

"Potter, you are not a cop," Draco snorts, shaking his head with disbelief. "You would be miserable doing that for a living."

"It's true, Harry," Hermione agrees with a gentle hand on his shoulder, as though it might cushion the blow. "You can't stand confrontation, you don't like arguing or having to bear bad news, it's…I don't even have words for how not you it is."

The boy in question sprawls on a beanbag on the floor, staring at the ceiling. "Did everyone but me know this?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "You say that like it's not usually the case."

/

While they've all gained newfound respect for McGonagall, her barb has consequences; Umbridge begins sitting in on all teachers' classes, regardless of student performance.

Not that she's doing anything (yet), but her presence is enough to darken the entire atmosphere of each classroom, to stifle the joy and organic interactions that usually occur.

"Does she not have her own classes to teach," Ron mutters when she enters the Charms classroom. "Hermione, I know I promised to try not to get detention, but if she makes any degrading remarks about werewolves, all bets are off."

Hermione's eyes narrow. "If she makes any degrading remarks about werewolves, I'll be in detention with you."

Nonetheless, she turns on the tape recorder she'd charmed to work on Hogwarts grounds almost hoping Umbridge will say something awful, so she can add it to the evidence she's mounting for her eventual takedown.

(The second she'd shed Harry's blood—the second Hermione had found out all the rights she'd worked to strip from Remus—Umbridge was a dead woman.)

They're grouped to work on homeneum revelio, one person practicing at a time before receiving feedback from the other three in their group.

Hermione's grouped with Neville, Pansy, and Crabbe (because Remus is at least pretending to be impartial). Pansy performs it nearly perfectly, and Neville smiles hesitantly. "That was awesome, Pansy. I think—erm, just a suggestion, but—if you change your grip on the wand and emphasize the jerk a bit more you might maximize it a bit?"

Pansy eyes him, but the thing about Neville is that he spent so long being told he was bad at magic, so long being told he's not good enough, that he pays better attention than anyone else in the hopes of getting better—it's just ingrained in him.

(So even if he's not the best in the room at performing spells, he's the best at noticing things—the best at seeing the smallest of differences in execution.)

All of which Pansy has picked up on; she's a person who pays attention to people, which is the way she'd figured out about Draco and Hermione.

(She's paid attention to Neville, too.)

So she does what he'd mentioned—raises her eyebrows when she can feel the charm working with exponentially more strength.

Neville looks nervous—like he expects Pansy to be mad that his advice was helpful.

(but whatever Slytherin façade she maintains, she knows what it's like to feel small. what it's like to know everyone assumes the worst.)

She cocks an eyebrow, pursing her lips. "Thanks, Longbottom."

His mouth drops open in surprise, eyes wide, and she feels herself grin wickedly, a little too pleased by how powerful it makes her feel to be able to shock someone so solid.

Meanwhile, Hermione pays them little attention, tuning into the corner of the room where Umbridge is questioning Remus.

The beauty of Remus Lupin—among about a hundred other things—is that he's so capable of remaining calm.

(It's a skill gained from a lifetime of hiding, a lifetime of discrimination and bigotry and maltreatment—a skill he never should've had to develop.)

(But a skill nonetheless.)

Umbridge does everything she can to provoke him—says shitty things about whether his teaching quality is impacted once a month, or how he feels qualified to train students for careers he'd never be allowed to obtain, about his not truly belonging at Hogwarts. The kind of accusations that would make anyone murderous and lash out, even the most slow to anger of wizards.

But Remus just meets her eyes sagely, says, "it's kind of you to be so invested in my feelings, Dolores," and subdues a grin when she grows visibly pissed off.

The more he remains unbothered, the darker her comments—she continues trying to upset him into reacting negatively so she can mark it down, but there's nothing she can say he hasn't heard before, and she's increasingly enraged by his non-reactions.

Hermione internally cheers him on, though she wants to deck Umbridge for the obscenities she's spewing herself; she takes deep breaths and reminds herself she's recording it all—this monster won't get away with it.

(For as restrained as Remus is, he and Sirius have always been like night and day; Sirius would fight god himself to defend his husband.)

(And all of the power Umbridge believes she holds is political—they'll see what happens when the leader of one of the most ancient houses declares himself her enemy.)

Umbridge is disparaging his teaching, now; claiming he's allowing his opinions to influence what he teaches the students to believe.

Remus smiles, lazily tucking his wand behind his ear, in a way that looks suave but Hermione knows has its roots in years of doing the same with a pencil. "Actually, I am especially careful to only ever present objective material, stated in such a way as to not impact student thought at all. I just give the facts. The facts just happen to line up with my beliefs." A corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk. "It's almost like the facts are what I use to form my opinion. You might like to try it sometime."

The smirk, the quip—Hermione has to suck in a breath, shocked for just a beat by how incredibly attracted she is to Harry's uncle.

(It's abundantly clear how managed to ensnare the most eligible bachelor in England.)

/

They'd protean charmed galleons for the DA, as well as sickles for just their inner circle of friends; it's this sickle that Hermione feels warm as she's leaving her last lesson for the day, pulling it out to see Draco calling for an emergency meet up.

When she makes it to the RoR, the others are already there; the twins and Harry looking through a Quidditch magazine with Blaise, Draco pacing before the fireplace, and Ginny sitting near Pansy, both of them looking entirely too happy for everyone to be safe.

"What's going on?" Hermione rubs at her eyes, but no, she's not hallucinating—there's a diamondback rattlesnake wrapped around Pansy's shoulders. "Pansy—why?"

"This is Ella—my familiar."

Hermione clasps her hands, pressing them to her mouth as she searches for words. "I—but—why a poisonous snake?"

Pansy shrugs, stroking the top of the snake's head gently. "Why not? Haven't you ever heard that diamonds are a girl's best friend?"

"Yes, of course, but I believe most girls enjoy diamond jewels, not diamondbacks."

The other girl wiggles her fingers, the light catching on the many rings that adorn them. "I like that kind, too."

Harry smiles at Hermione in greeting. "Ella's really sweet, Mia. I swear. And it's nice—I haven't gotten to use my parsletongue in ages."

Hermione shakes her head, sliding into her usual seat with a baffled expression. "I am already so confused by this day. Am I dreaming?"

"If you are, it's about to become a bit of a nightmare," Draco says with a frown. "We have a problem."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Ten knuts says Dumbledore did dumb shit again."

Fred raises an eyebrow. "You're on—fifteen says someone's trying to kill Harry."

Harry doesn't look bothered by this, merely tilts his head thoughtfully. "I feel like that's not really a fair bet to place since it's pretty much invariably true at any given moment."

Draco tugs at his hair, exasperation on his face. "It doesn't matter, because they're both wrong. It's Umbridge."

Hermione mimes retching, and Pansy snaps in agreement.

"She's created what she's calling the Inquisitorial Squad—it's basically a smaller set of Prefects, handpicked to do her bidding and spy on the rest of the student body. And all members of the Squad will outrank Prefects."

Ginny's eyes blaze with anger. "She did what? What the hell, can she even do that?"

"Evidently."

Harry's brows scrunch together. "When do they start—patrolling, or whatever? And how did you find out about this?"

"Tomorrow at breakfast. And I know because," he grimaces, "because she's chosen me to be one of them. It's all Slytherins."

Blaise frowns. "Why would she do that—not even attempt to pretend?"

Fred frowns, meeting Hermione's eyes to confirm they're thinking the same thing. "She's trying to undermine the interhouse unity ASA's been building—not that she knows that's why, but—if we're all friends we're a lot more likely to hear each other out rather than blindly standing with the side our parents are on."

"Think about it," Hermione continues, a calculating look on her face. "Putting one house in positions of power that undermine the Prefect system means people are going to be inherently resentful. Picking the side that's traditionally been separate from the rest, aligning them with herself when she knows we all hate her—it's going to be incredibly effective."

Harry's eyes grow sad; the unity across the four houses had been—the highlight of his time at Hogwarts.

(And Umbridge is just—snuffing it out, without a care, for the sake of power.)

"What do we do?"

Hermione crosses her arms, jaw set. "We tell them. Next meeting, we're honest with everyone. Not that it will keep it from happening, but…if everyone can keep in mind why it's happening, maybe they can redirect their anger from squad members to her—to remember who the real enemy is."

(At this point, it's all they can do.)

/

Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Pansy are in the RoR having a girls night, complete with wine and an adapted muggle radio playing angsty music they keep stopping to sing along to mid-sentence.

It's something she's never had before—a group of female friends. Maybe it's because she's always been bookish, or because she's not good at verbal expression of emotion, or because she's always been so closed off.

(Maybe it's because for whatever reason, despite her uncle being the perpetrator, she feels such bone deep resentment toward her mother for standing by—for being a woman and yet still allowing her to be hurt like this, for not noticing or caring that it's destroying her.

(For pretending like they have a positive relationship, like she loves her, like if she checks off the other parenting boxes it's fine that she ignores this thing that makes her daughter's knuckles white.)

(it makes no sense, she knows it, but while her uncle makes her scared and hurt, the thought of her mother fills her with unadulterated rage like nothing else.)

It's impacted her relationships with other women for as long as she can remember—she's always struggled to have them, and she's pretty sure it's a big reason why her relationship with Molly Weasley has always been so perilous.

(The woman is used to children trusting and loving her, relying on her, and Hermione's just—not capable of it. at least not yet.)

She and Ginny have been best friends for years now, of course, but it's different there too, because Ginny has six older brothers and as such also had initial difficulty making friends with girls, whose habits and hobbies she'd never known.

(something Ginny quickly adapted to, but nonetheless, Hermione's friendship with her had always been that easy.)

And then there's been Luna, but she's always had the kindest heart—has not even noticed when Hermione was bad at having traditionally feminine conversations, has been happy for their friendship to be whatever works.

But this—having a group of girls, being able to talk about love interests and recent life updates and aspirations and weird things that have happened on their periods and the best places to get cute bras for cheap—it's entirely new to her.

(And she loves it.)

They're playing some truth or dare drinking game, and it's silly and ridiculous but that's what makes it wonderful—they've all been through a lot of shit, and their world is chaos right now, but they can take a break from the horrible burning of life for a moment, and sit here and giggle over such inconsequential things.

(There's a power to it—such a tremendous grounding, in knowing within them is the ability to smile despite life currently being hell.)

(because of it.)

The door opens, and they all straighten up, laughter flowing among them as they wait to see who it is, and Harry comes in, striding over to sit down next to Hermione.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to crash girls' night."

"You're fine, Harry," Hermione promises. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yeah, I was just bored and wanted company but Ron and Seamus are playing the most boring never ending game of chess, so I figured I would come see who was here."

He smiles at Ginny and Pansy, eyes gong wide at the sight of the blonde among them. "Oh, hello! I know you from ASA—you're in Ravenclaw, right? Sorry, I've never been able to catch your name."

Hermione blindly reaches to clutch Ginny's hand beside her, teeming with excitement because whether the redhead knows it or not this is it—finally, and she gets to witness it.

(It takes everything in her to hold back a joyful grin.)

"Yes, that hasn't exactly been an accident," Luna explains, a small smile on her face when Harry grows confused. "You've had a lot on your plate—I didn't want to pile on."

"What do you mean?" His voice is polite, but very clearly lost.

She moves to tuck her hair behind both ears, expression happy but not at all nervous—

(a serene calm, like she knows with Harry there's never any cause for worry.)

"I'm—"

"Luna," he breathes, eyes caught on the back of her hand, where his most recent stretch of detentions (this time incurred after responding to her comments toward Remus, Ron in detention right beside him) has made the I must not tell lies on his hand (and hers) permanent.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Luna says, eyes twinkling when Harry blushes profusely.

/

Hermione squints at the bright light that wakes her, groaning as she opens her eyes feeling not nearly well rested, but immediately alert. "Who—"

It's only then that she realizes it's not a light, but Harry's patronus speaking to her.

"Mia, get Gin—Mr. Weasley's been attacked. Ron and I are going to Dumbledore's office now."

"Lumos," she whispers, grabbing the robe beside her bed and hurrying to the adjacent dormitory to shake Ginny awake.

They grab Fred and George on their way, all stumbling their way through the halls before nearly crashing into McGonagall a few yards from the gargoyle; it's a marker of how serious the situation is that the twins don't comment on her robe and slippers.

She sighs, looking like she would reprimand them if the circumstances were anything else. "I should've known you'd already be on your way. Come along, then—Professor Dumbledore is arranging an emergency portkey for you."

"How's our dad?" George demands, voicing what they're all thinking.

"He's—not well, yet, but he will be. They got him in time," McGonagall promises as they make their way up the spiral staircase to the headmaster's office.

When they enter, Dumbledore smiles calmly like everything is fine, speaking in his lilting way of making everything seem under control that makes Hermione want to stun him into the cinderblock.

It's not her parent, but Arthur was the first adult to ever truly care about her, she thinks—and while Sirius and Remus are like fathers to her, before they were in her life Arthur was the one greeting her parents and attempting to use muggle things to pick her up to come stay at the Burrow, and—

(he has to be okay.)

She's so anxious she can't breathe, and her chest hurts, and then the floo fires up and a sleepy but alert Remus comes inside, having identity-locked floo capabilities as a teacher straightening his sweater before stepping to hug and reassure them all.

(And then she and Harry both exhale, because if Remus is here—they're okay.)

Ron clenches his arms, stiff in the way that means he's terrified. "Professor Lupin—not that we're not always happy to see you, but—what are you doing here?"

Remus gives an understanding smile. "Your mother asked that I come collect you, take the Portkey with you to make sure you get home okay. She's at St. Mungo's now—you'll be coming to Tonks Manor for a bit, just until he's out of critical care and can have visitors. Percy's already there with Dora setting up rooms for you all."

"Somehow I have a feeling he was already there anyway," Fred whispers, trying to lighten the mood.

They spin into the Manor living room, where all three Tonks family members are waiting; Sirius is beside them, immediately pulling Harry in for a tight hug without a word.

The Weasleys, all emotionally volatile and worried and drained, follow Ted and Andy to the guest rooms; Harry's eyes are wide awake, so Hermione doesn't move towards her own bedroom.

(Where all of her things are, because she lives here permanently, now—she hadn't processed it fully until now.)

(this is home now—she never has to go back.)

"What's wrong, Harry?" she asks, following his lead as he shakily seats on the couch.

"They found out because of me. I had another one of my dreams—nightmares—but…it was real. It really happened." He shivers, face pale. "Voldemort's snake attacked Mr. Weasley and I—saw it. In my own head."

Before she can come up with a reply, Sirius reappears, holding hot mugs of tea out to both of them before throwing a knit blanket over both of their laps.

"There is nothing wrong with you," he promises Harry, kneeling down to be at eye level, knowing just as Hermione does that that's where the boy's thoughts have gone. "What Voldemort did all those years ago formed a connection, somehow. It has nothing to do with whether or not you were a good person or not; you have a psychic link. It's a tangible thing, not something you could have impacted. You saved Arthur's life tonight."

Harry nods, but looks unconvinced, worrying at his lip even as Hermione squeezes his hand reassuringly.

"Now that you're home, we can start all the Christmas festivities early," Sirius promises. "I've already started on both of your gifts, of course, but the house is only partway decorated. Maybe we can watch some of the classics while the Weasleys are staying with us, yeah? Or go ice skating?"

The thought seems to cheer Harry, and as Sirius chatters on about all the things they can do over the next few weeks, the adrenaline slowly recedes from the teenager's body, until he's yawning and Hermione's tugging him to his feet and towards their wing.

Harry stops short before they go down the hallway, turning back towards Sirius, eyes flickering between his godfather and his sister. "Pads?"

"Yes, pup?"

"The thing is—" he hesitates, but continues, eyes squeezed shut. "I told Dumbledore I saw from above, but—I saw from the snake's eyes. I was the snake." Harry opens his eyes, looking soothed at the lack of disgust on Sirius and Hermione's face he had anticipated but nervous regardless. "But how could I have been the snake if it's inside Voldemort's head that I'm seeing?"

A/N: chapter title from pretty venom by all time low

ty for reading you lovely humans! expect an update around Wednesday (?)
(I'm putting this here so I feel obligated to get my shit together by then)

also I finally am caught up on cassie clare books so if anyone wants to DISCUSS I have SO MANY FEELINGS. (on a related note I am getting back into tumblr, drop your handle I want to follow more people)

much love as always.