Hermione ran a tongue over her teeth and stared in the mirror before cupping her hands under the running faucet. She raised her hands to her mouth, gulped the water and started to gargle. Then she spit it out, watching the clear liquid swirl into the drain.

Her roommates were not early risers, so the suite bathroom the four of them shared was all hers. Hermione turned her head, surveying the skin of her cheek. Her mother's family had moles, and her father's family had freckles. She had been thankful not to inherit either trait, but there were three new developments resting on her cheekbone. It was too early to determine if they were moles or blackheads. They certainly were not beauty marks—she had an excess of those.

Had she been wrong?

The thought had lanced across her mind all of a sudden, and Hermione frowned at her reflection.

Two weeks ago, after dinner last night, Hermione had been walking toward her classroom when she felt a presence behind her. The first time she had turned around. There had been nothing in the corridor. The second time she swore she had felt a finger brushing across her neck and had given the hallway a hard stare. The third time she had waved her hand and saw who had been following her.

Did he expect to scare her? That had been the first question out of her mouth when she saw the dark, curly haired boy. He looked vaguely familiar—at any rate, she could tell he was a Slytherin by the tie color.

No, he had replied. Just curious.

Curious. She had repeated the phrase out loud, noting the distinct differences in their accents. The boy must have been from the continent—perhaps the eastern part. There was something to the way the boy had been considering her. Hermione had wanted to see his hands; they were stuffed in his pockets, and it made her nervous.

What's your name? The urge to know his name had come upon her all of a sudden.

Antonin. An Eastern name, just like she suspected. Czech. Estonian. The Bulgarian seeker she met her fourth year had been a wonderful gateway to a group of pureblooded Durmstrang students who didn't care about blood purity, so long as Viktor Krum endorsed her. Ekaterina. Ruslan. Ilona. Misha. She was well-versed in names from that part of the world.

The boy had not left, and Hermione wondered why the sound of the Great Hall seemed muffled in the quiet. She had felt another, cold sensation sliding over her skin before she had reacted with a wave of her hand.

Even now, two weeks later, she could never explain what had possessed her to cast what she did.

The hex had been her own—a fusion of the Notice-Me-Not, the Confundus, and a dose of forgetfulness to be thorough. The boy clearly had not been expecting her to cast at him, so focused he was on whatever he had been trying to cast at her. Even though she knew her spell had connected, there had been a moment where the boy had not reacted. Hermione had reserved her sigh of relief until the boy turned around and left.

Was she wrong?

In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never hexed anyone. Students got in trouble for casting at others all the time. Was it wrong for her to hex that boy? Who was he, again? Tom Riddle had called him Dolohov.

He was about to hex her, wasn't he?

She would only cast in self-defense. It was self-defense. It had to be. Hermione was not in the habit of hexing people. She had only shot that spell at him to save herself from being hit with something. Besides, he wouldn't remember anything, anyway.

Right?

The spell was newly developed; Hermione had not tested it on anyone. Mind magic was hard to test on nonhumans. The reactions to stimuli were too difficult to catalogue and, besides, Hermione felt uneasy subjecting small rodents to experiments. Principally, it seemed ill-advised to test mind magic on herself. That had been the first time she had used that curse on someone. It hadn't even been a curse. It was a hex. A jinx, really. Nothing serious.

He wouldn't even remember it.

Harmless.

Curious.

Had the spell worked? At this Hermione frowned at the mirror and fingered a tendril of hair. The tresses had grown long again after a stunt a classmate had pulled during sixth year. The sheer weight of her hair elongated her curls and gave them some sense of order, though the shorter pieces along the perimeter of her hairline permanently grew at a slower rate than the rest. Her face was framed with wispy, frizzy curls. Hermione didn't mind; she quite liked it.

Was it bad for her to still be curious?

She didn't have his consent to hex him; she shouldn't have casted something so experimental.

What if she got in trouble?

"Good morning," said a cool voice. Hermione looked up to find one of her suitemates approaching the mirror. The young woman studied the image of the two of them before she observed,

"How peculiar. You look flushed."

Hermione blinked and backed away from the sink, pressing a hand to her cheek. The other girl shot her a slight look of confusion before she picked up her hairbrush.

"Yes," she heard herself say, "I suppose I am."

Impossible, she thought to herself as she put on her clothes. Genetically it is highly unlikely any blush of mine would be detectable. But her head did feel hot. She put two hands over her cheeks, feeling Thinking of summer tans and melanin, Hermione picked up a small bag on her way out of her dorm, not bothering to stop in the common room.

What if he told?

He wouldn't, Hermione reminded herself for the n-th time. He had been about to curse her. He wouldn't tell anyone anything, even if his friend was the Head Boy.

Antonin Dolohov was friends with Tom Riddle. Head Boy.

What if the spell hadn't worked? What if he was hurt?

What if she had hurt him?

What if—

The sounds of forks scraping plates roused her. There was a group of Gryffndors roaring with laughter, far too early in the morning. Ravenclaws bent over books and quills. The Hufflepuff table was scarcely populated; the black-and-gold ties were spread out among the blues and reds. Toward the back was the Slytherin table, and Hermione could see the back of a curly head of hair. Hermione took a deep breath and marched to the table, stomach churning.

She took a seat farther down, eyes fastened on him as they had been for the past two weeks, even as she started to fix breakfast.

He didn't look like he remembered. Did he? She didn't know him well enough to tell, but he was interacting with Riddle and a blond. His reaction time seemed fine; his friends didn't look concerned. She was too far away to determine if his pupils were dilated. Could he follow moving objects with his eyes alone? Did he register sensation the same way?

She shared many classes with him—but he was just as quiet as he had been since the beginning of the year, so it was difficult to determine if he knew. It was a miracle she hadn't been caught staring at him—she'd changed seats so as to keep him in her line of sight—all the better to observe—

Would he tell?

As if Dolohov could feel her eyes, he paused in conversation to regard her.

Hermione looked down at the hands holding her teacup. They were shaking.

She set her cup in its saucer and reached for a napkin. There was warm liquid all over the table. Some had even gotten into her bowl of porridge. Instead of throwing it away, Hermione spent a few minutes stirring the tea into her morning meal.

He knew. She was sure of it. He knew she had cursed him—really, it was more of a jinx—and he was friends with the Head Boy, and he was going to report her. Dolohov's parents would undoubtedly get involved, and if they had any pull as purebloods at all she'd be toast, even if he had been preparing to curse her. She'd be kicked out. It was a miracle she had made it this far at Hogwarts. She should have been more careful. She should have waited until he had finished his curse. She should have casted something more reliable.

What if he was hurt?

"Hello, Miss Granger," said a familiar voice. Hermione forcibly had to stop her shoulders from hiking up in surprise.

Hermione tried to smooth out her expression and gave a weak smile.

"Mister Dolohov," she returned. "How are you?"

His pupils looked fine.

"I am well."

Maybe he didn't remember.

"And you?"

"I am well, as well."

"As well? That is good."

Hermione took a moment to sip her tea, hoping all the while her hands wouldn't betray her. Why was he here? Did he remember? He didn't seem at all affected from last night.

"You may be wondering why I am seeking your company," Dolohov started. Hermione paused to breathe before she took another gulp of tea.

"I didn't peg you as the social sort," Hermione said. "May I help you, Mister Dolohov?"

So focused on her tea was she Hermione did not look at the Russian young man as he leaned forward and said, "If you are suffering from guilt over our interaction a fortnight ago, please cease immediately. I attempted to hex you first."

Hermione's throat felt dry, and she reached for a cup of water. Dolohov watched her.

"It was a reflex," she offered hoarsely.

"A wonderful reflex to have," he stated. There was a marveling quality to his voice. Hermione set her water down after a couple long pulls.

"With what did you hit me? I have never seen such a curse. No light. No incantation."

"Yours was similiar."

"You also discovered me. You cancelled my cloak nonverbally." Dolohov was a quiet speaker, barely audible over the sound of early chatter and clinking porcelain.

"It was simple revealing spell."

"That one was an original. What spell did you use?"

It's an original. It had been on the tip of her tongue. Hermione opened her mouth, thought twice, and tilted her head instead. Dolohov took a sip out of a tall glass filled with strawberry kefir and bit into an appetizing dumpling. He caught her gaze and offered her one silently. Hermione shook her head.

"You are missing out," he shrugged.

"You don't plan on reporting me," Hermione said out loud, trying to keep her voice quiet.

Antonin gave her a plain look.

"Truthfully?"

"On my honor," he said lightly, around a mouthful of dumpling. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a clean napkin.

"Dolohov—"

"Pardon my interruption; I should have been straightforward from the start. Where I am from there are more who are interested in spelling and its creation. Here, it is more difficult to find. Britain makes wonderful wands. It is a shame there are few discovering new ways of casting do them justice. I, ah," Dolohov searched for the proper words. "I think I have…" he frowned, "I believe I have found a…"

"Someone like-minded?"

"Yes."

Hermione did not know what to say to this, and so took to her porridge again. The tea (a camomile) was not an unwelcome flavoring agent and did a bit to thin out the thick cereal. Porridge was warm and nourishing; a modest bowl would fill her until lunch. Simple. A direct opposition to the way her hands had gone clammy, and to the heat which was creeping along her neck. It wasn't until the bowl was half-empty that she spoke again.

"You're seeking someone like-minded?" she asked.

"Yes," said Dolohov, who had finished his glass of kefir and his plate of dumplings and moved on to a pair of runny eggs. He was chasing the yolk around with a bit of toast. "That is what I offered."

"What you offered."

"Yes, Miss Granger. Along with the syrniki, though you declined." A little disappointed frown here, as though he could not fathom the reason Hermione would not eat something he'd offered.

"Why were you following me?"

Dolohov's brows shot up his forehead, and his grey eyes seemed to be distantly surprised, but Hermione continued, stirring her porridge.

"And why would you curse me?"

"Would you like to know what I was cursing you with?" Yes.

"That's not important." It wasn't. Not when there were more pressing questions which needed answers.

"I told you. I was curious."

"Do you often attempt to curse what piques your interest?"

"Often enough to call it habit," he said. But there was something in his eye which made Hermione doubt him.

She told him so.

"I doubt that's true."

"Perhaps," was his ready reply. "Though you hardly know enough of my character to make an assessment."

"Correct."

Hermione returned to her porridge.

"Intellectual companionship," she said, testing out the idea in her mind.

"And syrniki."

"What else are you offering, Mister Dolohov?"

"My company is not enough?"

It wasn't—Paulina was formidable enough on her own, and she had met plenty of associates in Bulgaria (thank you, Viktor) and access to many more through Professor Hilbert. She even knew a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The addition of Dolohov to her mix would do little. Hermione had to believe the young man thought he would benefit from her—he had been peppering her with questions earlier, about her spells. He wished for someone to talk shop with.

"There are many abroad who would satisfy your desire for a collaborator," she hedged.

"I wish to know someone who is my age. Most are older."

Fair enough. Hermione poured herself a glass of orange juice and sipped from it as she composed herself, shifting in her seat.

Dolohov, thinking she might be leaving soon, leaned forward and said more quietly, "It may do well to associate more closely with those of a more established background. Especially in Slytherin House."

Hermione felt a stiffening in her spine, and there was something bitter which threatened to bubble over her lips from her throat. She felt warm all over; there had been a quick rush of blood to her face.

"Oh?" she said, and she was amazed her tone was so even. "Is there something exceptional about those men and women of this House?"

Dolohov rubbed his chin. "No," he said after a time. "No, I do not believe there is. But it is not unwise to be affiliated with some of us."

Us. Just as quickly as the rage came, it left, leaving Hermione with her normal temperature and a metallic, hollow feeling in her chest. Us was a sphere she would not be a part of. There was no use for anger.

"It would be unwise to entertain an asset-less pureblood," she said, nearly mouthing the words. The Great Hall was nearing capacity now.

"You desire me to list my assets?"

Hermione dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "It's only right."

"It is gauche."

"For some."

"For me."

"Some believe it is gauche to interrupt a woman during a meal. Or to curse her."

"It was unable to land."

"By the grace of my wand. A list—"

"Miss Granger—pardon my interruption again, I assure you—it is not my habit. My family care little for mansions or estate. Pristine reputation is far more difficult to maintain, but we are attentive enough. The Dolohov are well-respected internationally. I imagine an endorsement from one of my name would open doors otherwise closed to you."

"Perhaps—"

The Russian steam-rolled over her. "And though you may accomplish much on merit alone, there are many who overlook magical merit in favor of purity. I wish to spare you disappointment."

The heat was back, and Hermione gripped her napkin hard, took two deep breaths, and relaxed her shoulders.

"I'm delighted." It truly was a miracle her voice revealed nothing, and she thanked the heavens for her upbringing.

Hermione had her limits. She knew that. So she stood up and got her bag. Dolohov gave her a short glance, but continued with his breakfast. He had moved on to a tasty looking cinnamon scone.

"You accept?"

"What you offer—do you offer it on your magic?"

Dolohov nodded, and began to open his mouth.

"Then I think it would be unwise to refuse. Pleasure to meet you, Mister Dolohov." Hermione turned on her heel and walked out the Great Hall.

Somewhat amused, Antonin met the eyes of Tom Riddle, who had, sometime during the course of the morning meal, entirely ceased pretending to pay attention to whatever Abraxas was sharing to focus further along the table. Antonin gave him a small wave. Tom inclined his head and tuned back in.

He caught up with Antonin later on in the day. They were on their way to Herbology when Tom fell in step with the Russian student. The Slytherins were moving in a large group toward the greenhouses, and the two of them had a clear vision of who was leading the pack.

"Well?" Tom murmured, stare fixed on bushy curls. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail sometime during the day; it hadn't been up during breakfast.

"She is amenable," said Dolohov, lips barely moving.

"Amenable."

"Amenable. And suspicious—but who would not be?"

"Good."

Tom had not bought Hermione's claim of looking for her familiar after hours, and, after seeing her back to the Slytherin common room, had retraced their steps. He had tried all the doors in the corridor—some had opened and some had stuck locks he'd forced open. He had not been rewarded; all of the classrooms were just classrooms, with no interesting bits. There were no signs of magic at all, but something still itched at Tom. His intuition was tingling at him.

On a hunch, he had asked Antonin if he could step into his mind.

Antya's psyche was like a large grassland made of impressions and memories. Nothing had been unusual, though, until Tom came across what best resembled an emptied lake. There was a large depression in the landscape of his mind, not unnatural looking, but new to Tom. It was wet with vestiges of a recent event, but incomprehensibly empty. Someone had tampered with Dolohov's memories—all Tom could pick out was Antonin had attempted to curse someone.

Together, he and Antonin had pieced together a reasonable series of events. Antonin had followed Granger out of the Great Hall. They guessed she had discovered Dolohov. Antonin had tried to curse her. It was unclear whether the cast connected before Granger cursed him in self-defense. But. Tom had asked Antonin why he had attempted to curse Hermione, expecting a candid response. Antonin couldn't remember his motive. Not only did he not remember the specifics of his encounter with Hermione, but he couldn't remember what his intent had been. There was little doubt in their mind Granger had invented an entirely new spell.

A very useful spell. Oblivates had their place, but their effects were reversible. Had Tom not already been familiar with Antonin's psyche, he might not have detected Granger's tampering at all.

So, with Tom's direction, Antonin had bluffed his way through breakfast with the mudgirl.

"Did she curse you?"

"Yes."

"With what?"

"She did not say."

"And then?"

"I—ah—the Americans say—'sweeten the pot.'"

"What did you offer?"

"She was dismissive of another intellectual equal—she must have many of those already—"

Tom made a note. He had never seen Granger interact with a single person in their House, but that did not mean she did not have allies in others.

"—but she seemed interested in influence."

"You offered social lubrication."

"I swore it on my magic."

Tom blinked as Antonin shrugged.

"I have sworn worse."

Tom hummed in agreement. Up ahead, Granger was filing into the greenhouse. "I suppose you have."

Today was a solo working day, and Professor Sprout was not one to care for House relationships, which is how Hermione ended up next to a group of Gryffndors. The trio of young men were bickering good-naturedly.

"and then snot comes rushing out of Ginny's nose—Fred and George belly-out laughing, not even trying to hide they've done it, the gits—Percy's scrambling—snot's everywhere, and it was nearly making him seizure—"

"Where's Molly?"

"Outside drinking with my uncles," here the redheaded one did a horrible imitation of a female voice, all high and pitchy, "Oh, I'ven't seen them in ages! Billy, darling, won't you watch the rest? Catching up is so hard to do."

The one with an unfortunate case of bedhead pushed his glasses up his nose and joined in, in a similarly screechy tone, "Billy and Ronnie, you'll understand when you've families of your own—Charlie, you've failed me, Merlin knows—"

In unison all three said, "I've given up on Percival."

The three of them snickered. One had his arms buried in a large pot of dirt, and he made sure to avoid agitating the Irritable Irises they were in the middle of transplanting. That took some skill.

"She's mastered the art of asking questions. Except they're not questions, are they? She's just… expectant."

"Mine, too," agreed the bed-headed one.

"My mother doesn't even have to ask me," sighed the third male, who had carefully extracted his hand from the potting soil and patted the surface, as if to make sure the plants were settled in. "She always looks so tired—I'm already spelling the dishes clean before she's opened her mouth."

Hermione snuck a glance. The boy's forearms were well-formed, and Hermione thought she could see a quiet sort of strength along the set of his square shoulders. His posture was superb. His profile had a fantastic nose.

A moment of silence stretched too long between the three of them. Hermione focused on the pot in front of her again as one of them scoffed disbelievingly.

"You're better than the both of us, Nev."

Hermione heard someone shifting some supplies along the table. "Honestly, I understand. Nev's mum is an angel. So's his dad—better than mine, anyway—flashy git. When he gets together with the rest of them it's havoc at my place—"

"Sirius is fun, though."

"Yes, when he's not tipsy off rum and butterbeer. Muggle and Wizarding drinks shouldn't mix. The next time he passes out on your—"

BANG.

"Shi—"

Hermione turned around to see two of the boys scrambling to pick up shards of a broken pot. The last boy was sweeping up fallen dirt. The white roots of two iris plants were exposed. Before her eyes, the purple plants started wriggling. With amusement, Hermione watched them stand themselves up. Their stems were hunched over, as if they were little old men and women, looking for all the world desperate for walking canes. Their petals started flapping, and Hermione could hear a crochety sort of complaining from the pair.

The boys paid them no mind, so the plants' grumbling became louder. So focused were the three Gryffndors on cleaning up none of them were concerned with soothing the pair of irises. The loudness drew the attention of the class, and when Hermione witnessed a couple of glares being sent their way, Hermione took out her wand and conjured two tiny walkers, complete with tennis balls.

"There you are," said Hermione in a low voice. As her shadow fell over the plants, their blooms swiveled to face her. She slid the walkers to the couple, who accepted them gratefully. Immediately their complaints stopped.

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," she continued quietly, peering down at the pair as they leaned on the walkers. "You musn't be too cross with those three, hmm? They're boys. Young men make many mistakes, I am quite sure they didn't mean it. That sun up there must feel lovely. Are you two comfortable? They're preparing new beds for you right now. Would you like some more manure in the next pot? Oh, your blooms are so nice…"

Hermione knew how to smooth things over, and she got lost in her own reassurances until she felt someone standing near her side.

"Sorry," she said as she straightened up, hand dusting the front of her robes. "I was looking to help."

"Thank you," replied the Gryffndor boy, pushing up his glasses. The tape on them drew Hermione's attention. It took her a beat to reply it was no problem.

"I think you've managed to reverse any damage those two caused," said a wry voice. The taller boy with the fantastic nose was looking at her with a small smile. Hermione noted his cheeks were boyishly round and pink. The answering smile which rose to her face was natural.

He had a face she wanted to trust.

"Only time will tell," she responded. Irritable Irises were picky growers, but the pay off after their flowering period was well-worth it; after going to seed, well-cared-for irises deposited seven times their plant mass in pure mercury—but in volume. Mercury had many uses in potion-making, and the purity of iris-made mercury was supreme. If irritated at all, instead the iris would deposit the much less valuable graphite.

Thinking of her own plant waiting at her station, Hermione shuffled out the way, being sure not to bump the table where the irises were resting.

Hermione was on her way back when she heard the voice of the redheaded one ask, "What'd that one want?"

"She just took care of the irises while we were cleaning," replied one of them.

"Quite nice for a snake," he quipped. Hermione looked up briefly to see the redhead looking at her playfully. She turned her attention on her pot again.

"Careful, Neville, she'll bite you soon enough," he said.

There was a muffled sound, as if someone was talking into the collar of his shirt.

"Harry!" laughed the redheaded boy.

"Ten points to Slytherin for a wonderful transplants by both Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Riddle. The elderly irises deserve the best—they'll be gone soon, stupid things," Professor Sprout said, meeting the bloom of an indignant iris unapologetically. She made her way to Hermione's section of the room.

"Five points to Mr. Longbottom as well, for a timely transplant. Perhaps it is time to aid your housemates—the walkers are a very nice idea, Misters Potter and Weasley."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. Sprout knew what a muggle walker was. And she certainly didn't expect those three to be related to some of Britain's best Aurors. Frank and Alice Longbottom. James and Lily Potter. Bill Weasley wasn't an Auror, but he was a Curse-Breaker with Gringotts, and Fred and George Weasley owned a storefront. What did they sell again?

"If you're done with your transplants," called Sprout, "you are free to leave."

Hermione picked up her beaded bag and fell in line with the bunch of competent students making their way out the door, happy to leave the sound of complaining flowers behind.

It seemed she was destined to be an eavesdropper today. The group of boys in front of her formed a solid line in front of her, making it hard to overtake them as one normally would. Besides, the presence of Dolohov made her reluctant to do so.

"—willfully anonymous. It is difficult to find anything at all about them. My uncle, even, has little but suspicions."

"An order of wizards that powerful cannot be that elusive surely."

"It is because they are powerful," spoke Dolohov.

"Not mighty enough; if they were, would they not be more brazen? Like Grinde—"

"Well," interrupted Dolohov, "he is no longer an example for us, is he?"

"Yes," agreed Riddle. "Dumbledore bested him."

Grindelwald was not a good example for anyone. For several reasons, and none involved Dumbledore.

The dark haired boy who had mentioned Grindelwald fell silent. Hermione could only see the side of his face, but it didn't appear he much enjoyed being shut up.

"You've discovered nothing, Abraxas? At all?"

"Nothing for certain. My family has suspicions, but it is difficult to separate their own work biases from their observations. Work posses and all."

"Something is better than nothing," replied Riddle.

Behind them, Hermione furrowed her brow. She had never thought the Head Boy could sound so commandeering.

"Uncle Cyrus is of the opinion some in the Auror's Office are at the very least sympathetic to the group. He doubts they have any real pull though; the acquisition was worth too much money, and the sympathetizers don't have any real, generational wealth."

"Could it be new money?"

"My uncle works in Law Enforcement, not Finance. Besides, is no real way to know until it is time for Collections. Even then, it is difficult."

"Oh?"

"New businesses do not need to report earnings for five years if they do not earn much in their first year—if they operate through a store. It's just unlikely any group looking to stay silent would earn money through a company which is required by law and magic to report their earnings."

"People don't misrepresent their earnings?"

"My uncle says unless they've several talented contract lawyers it is near impossible."

"The firm could," said Dolohov. Riddle made a thoughtful noise, and Hermione wondered just how long this hallway was.

"And the Wizengamot?" asked Riddle.

"The Wizengamot seats are tried and true. My uncle believes their ruling was innocent, and does not think they anticipated what they were doing."

"What families?"

"The Crouches. The Umbridges. The Bones. The Rosiers. The Pettigrews. The Potters. The Dumbledores."

"My family as well, though no one has filled the seat as of now," said the Grindelwald-Boy.

"Mine also," supplied the boy named Abraxas. The name rang a very distant bell in Hermione's memory.

"Why not fill the seat if you have it?" asked Riddle.

The boys traveled further down the hall for a few beats before the Head Boy received an answer

"It can be frustrating to occupy space with adamant families who seek to destroy what works for little reason," replied the blonde boy. The Grindelwald-Boy bobbed his head.

"You understand, Riddle, surely? Being locked in a room with loud mudblood-lovers or passive purists."

"All the more reason to claim your rightful place," said Riddle swiftly. He seemed unphased (unphased!) at the boy's casual use of the word, but hearing it uttered made Hermione's body go hot and cold, and a very queer feeling fed itself into her sinuses through her nostrils. It spread along her body. It was in every limb. Before she knew it, her hand not holding her bag was curling in the air, as if scooping up some invisible substance.

All of a sudden, Grindelwald-Lover's bag split open. Books fell out. Hermione was sad to see them upended. A heavy-looking pouch of Galleons spilled in the most troubling manner—all over and in a crowded hallway full of delighted fourth years, who quickly pocketed what they could. In the middle of the scramble, Hermione spied a magical-looking bit of wood, and felt a vicious pride when her boot came down on it.

The crack was lost in Grindelwald-Lover's sudden and loud attempt to conserve as much of his money as possible. No one had seen her do it. It had happened so fast.

She picked up one of the boy's books and stepped closer to the four boys.

"Excuse me, did your friend drop this?" she said to the blonde one. The boy looked down his nose at her as he reclaimed the book.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Hermione said airily, already turning away. She met the sentiment in more ways than one. That hot-cold feeling was all in her chest now. With a swipe of her wand, she directed the scattered books to the blond's unsuspecting arms, savagely watching him struggle under their weight. Genteel prick.

She spared a glance for Riddle, who was not far away, watching his schoolmate trying reclaim his belongings, before choosing to start climbling a staircase. With each step upward, she thought of the conversation she'd overheard. Hermione couldn't fathom why the four of them were so invested in the Brunelleschi story, but she was certain there was a fundamental unfairness afoot.

Someone had selected a bigot to Head her school.

What do you think? Tell me your thoughts.

Thank you for reading.