Life was chockful of regrets and generally experienced in one of two ways. There was the instant kind like touching a hot plate or petting a stray dog to only be bitten in service for your kindness. Then there was the reflective regret; a type of regret you are blind to, where the consequences won't settle until well after the event and only then would you realize there was a better way.
Hermione's actions on the Quidditch fell into a lesser spoken of regret – the denial regret. This differed from the other two because the person knew there would be consequences, knew there was a better way and knew they should regret it. They simply refused to acknowledge their subconscious thought, and that was very much how Hermione felt about it all.
Returning to her common room, she could hear the wheels of gossip spinning from the whispering bystanders she passed and blocked them out. The problem wasn't a problem if you never paid attention.
In all honesty, she was far too tired to think on it. Her body felt the effect of her thunderous outburst, all her magical muscles were stretched beyond their reach, leaving her a listless shell as she walked away from the Quidditch Pitch.
She knew there were many lectures from her best friends in her future, mainly from Ron as it was his brother she'd faced. She'd need some rest before she could manage either of them.
She entered through the portrait with a half-hearted apology to the Fat Lady for her chaotic exodus earlier. True to her house, the Fat Lady stubbornly crossed her arms and snubbed her apology. The right thing was to stay and assuage the portrait to her side with a sincere apology, something better than 'sorry about earlier'.
Alas, that was a job for a well-rested Hermione.
She had barely moved four feet before the portrait door opened and her chance to rest would be swiped from under weary feet. Stood in the doorway was her Transfiguration Professor in curling midnight robes and her classic pointed, round-brimmed hat.
"Miss Granger. If you would follow me, please," said Professor McGonagall, her Scottish brogue lacked any affection, replaced with the flat monotone of a bringer of doom.
Knowing she would be in trouble was an ocean away from receiving said punishment.
She simpered and bowed her head to avoid the eyes of the stern witch as began her long walk to the plank. She'd never survive a glance at her eyes if there was a tinge of disappointment laying there without uttering a thousand apologies, even if they were hollow words.
The Fat Lady gave her sympathetic look - earlier grievances abandoned, for she understood exactly what it meant when the head of house came knocking. She gave her a sad smile before she followed her professor to the familiar gargoyles of the Headmaster's office. Harry would get a kick out of 'treacle tarts' being enjoyed by Dumbledore, too.
As the stone guards parted to reveal the barren staircase to her courtroom, the climbing panic soared to a new height.
See, Hermione always toed the line and at times she had shamed those who were callous enough to break the few rules set out for them. Of course, she had yet to see the rule opposing the destruction of the Quidditch Pitch, but it was most definitely frowned upon. She doubted she'd there would be any manipulation of her rule-bending to earn house points ahead – she was no Harry Potter.
"After you," said her professor. Hermione gulped, the time to face the music was upon here. With her heart heavier than all the gold in the Malfoy vaults, she trudged up the stairs. The door to his office was already open and in the middle of the trinket-laden room was her Professor, stroking the feathered head of his familiar. Behind her Professor McGonagall coughed, ending the murmured conversation between the man and his bird.
"Ah Miss Granger, take a seat if you would. Lemon drop?" Professor Dumbledore had an affectionate smile adorning his face as he strolled to his desk and held the proffered sweet to her. She felt immense relief, it would take more to destroy her reputation with him.
She kindly declined his offer and took her seat in the armchair opposing his desk. McGonagall decided to loom like a threatening storm cloud behind the headmaster as he sat in his own chair. When she saw two newly conjured armchairs to her left, her curiosity flared, who else was coming to witness her strip down?
That same curiosity became venomous as a Hufflepuff prefect lead the two Gryffindor menaces in. A huff escaped her throat without permission. If they were holding their breath for an apology to the twins, they should've had them accompanied by Madam Pinch as they'd require multiple resuscitations.
Fred or George – who cared - sauntered over and gracelessly slumped in the chair beside her. His legs were spread to near opposing sides of the room, pushing his body to consume as much of the room as his mortal legs allowed. He may as well have put his feet on Dumbledore desk. Her lips curled in distaste.
"Not that I'm sad, but what happened to her halo of death balls? Lost in the wash?" Fred drawled, named by the barely visible crescent scar upon his chin.
"Abominable git," she whispered, but not quietly enough to escape the notice of her professor.
"Miss Granger, that's quite enough," said McGonagall, Hermione looked to her professor to see the disappointment she'd refused to look at earlier. She hung her head and submitted to the woman before her, lest she make her punishment twice as grim.
"What's 'adobo-nimble' mean, Gred?" asked George, the nonsensical name triggered her rolling eyes. For the life of her, she couldn't fathom how Molly had not smothered them in the crib.
"Why devilishly Handsome, of course, Forge," said Fred, he was completely unaffected by the scoff of disbelief from his right.
Dumbledore seemed to enjoy the jovial energy the twins exuded as he smiled genially to them. She couldn't relate to him. In fact, Hermione was hard-pressed to recall how she had coped with their presence.
"Hmph, very clever," he said, and wove his fingers together across his antique desk. "Alas, we must discuss what occurred today. We have heard some troubling accounts but would like your accounts before any action is taken," he adopted a serious expression. "Miss Granger, you may proceed," Dumbledore inclined his head to her.
"Well, I was reading–" she began.
"–No surprise there. It's an ailment," George interrupted with a long-winded sigh. She resisted any retaliation, it hadn't exactly worked in her favour earlier on, had it?
Whatever way she looked at it, she knew she'd indulged the boys enough for one day. This was her chance to argue her case - the evidence of her guilt would only strengthen if she lost her cool to two people with the joint intelligence of a marsupial. She ploughed onwards as if nothing had happened.
"Reading 'Morag's Mystifying Mental Maladie–" she said.
"–See? A devastatingly boring disease. Seeking a cure? You should look for 'Certain Poles in Certain Hol–" interrupted George once again emulating false concern for her wellbeing.
"–When Mellie Morgans came into the common room. She'd been given some sort of potioned candy. She was distraught and crying as she'd been trying to make friends, only to vomit in front of everyone-"
"–Terrible way to make friends, truly," said Fred, a hand laid over his heart to bolster his sincerity. She held her breath and tried to stem the dangerous red creeping up her neck. The next interruption would render all her efforts futile.
"Why would you let her do such a thing, Granger? And we're 'Apopo-nimbler'? Ridiculous," finished George.
The red burst.
She was out of her chair instantly – she could deal with their childish interruptions, but she'd be damned if they sullied her with a crime of their machinations.
"It was you two that did this! You think you're funny but you're not –" she tried for words to sting them, but flashy comebacks were a deck of cards that she'd never played. "– You're egotistical, maniacal… and you're bullies!" Her wand hooted from her sleeve, pleading for release.
"Sit down, Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall commanded, while deftly moving around the headmaster and ushering the stubborn Gryffindor back to her seat. She refused to see the twins beam in victory, she stubbornly stared at the patterns of her skirt.
Professor Dumbledore remained in his seat as his deputy wrangled the fleeing flock. Frankly, Hermione wished they'd taken her points and sent her on, rather than continue the charade. The burden of evidence was stacked against her, having her relay the story while the twins pounced her at every opportunity was beating the horse until it disintegrated.
"The statements of entering the pitch without permission," she looked to her professor as he spoke, his gaze lacked the twinkling warmth of his blue eyes.
"Firing bludgers at Mister's Weasley using non-verbal magic – they're accurate, yes?" His chair squeaked as he leaned forward.
"Not entirely," she defended, his silvery brow perked. "It was Fred, George wasn't there" She crossed her arms protectively. It sounded infinitely less heroic when summed up as such. Professor Dumbledore leaned back in his chair as his eyes slowly scanned each of the dastardly duo.
"Interesting. Interesting indeed…" he hummed to himself, his eyes returned to her. "If you would, how can you tell that it was Fred?" His tone buoyed with interest like he was asking her for her secret. He was asking for a secret. So indistinguishable were the identical twins, their own mother had yet to figure it out.
It wasn't a superpower, it was something anyone with eyes could do. Fortunately, on a visit to the optometrist, he had proclaimed her eyes medically perfect and with that weapon in her arsenal, the crescent scar on his chin had never stood a chance.
"I'd tell you, but then they would know, sir."
The Headmaster smiled devilishly as the warmth of his eyes returned. His eyes flicked to the silent twins as though debating dismissing the twins entirely in favour of her intellect. An obvious cough from McGonagall drew him back as he took the mantle of Headmaster once more.
"I understand wanting to stand up for those who cannot themselves, Miss Granger. Disregarding that, you should not have done so. I'm afraid, you'll be punished. As will–"
"–Albus, I have an idea for that particular matter," said Fred, he leaned his elbows across his thighs. Every eye flew to him.
Dumbledore's thickened eyebrow arched, gesturing for the boy to continue. Hermione hadn't the foggiest what was going to fall from his insolent lips.
Even George seemed uneasy, though his infallible trust in his twin over-rides any designs to stop him. That would shatter the illusion, wouldn't it?
"I propose an alternative, sir. Miss Granger should accompany me to Hogsmeade," Fred said, he seemed to be serious about the bile he'd vomited.
"I can safely say that was not what I'd had in mind, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore laughed from surprise, while McGonagall had the appearance of a pressure cooker ready to blow. Fred shrugged his shoulder casually.
"Seems like the best option for me and being the injured party," he scratched his neck. "I think my opinion should be the most valued here," Hermione's jaw fell – injured bloody party?
"Are you lack-witted? Did you leave your senses in the burrow behind with the few brain cells you have?" Hermione hissed.
She looked to McGonagall begging for adult intervention, but McGonagall was busy rubbing the temples of her skull.
"You seem to be against it," he said quizzically, she whipped her head to Fred. He could have asked to line the barrel of a gun to the head of a squirrel, and she would protest less than she would now.
"Against it?" she laughed in disbelief or mania; she didn't rightly know. Fred nodded his head. "I'd sooner go to Azkaban."
"Well, I was thinking of Madam Puddifoots," he tilted his head. "Dementors would suck the fun right out of it, I would think," Fred said, he tapped his chin in consideration.
The twilight zones. That's where she'd fallen. All occurring in front of the man who defeated Grindelwald with nothing but his wand and prowess. She must have misremembered leaving the Quidditch pitch, she was really in the Hospital Wing unconscious after being hit by a fallen wood post.
Maybe the day never happened at all. She'd somehow discovered the twin Mirror of Erised, which brought to life the opposite of your greatest dreams. Ah, if only a quick pinch to her thigh could guide her to the beautiful mundane of her normal life – couldn't hurt to try.
When she wasn't sucked from the illusion, there was no denying her reality. Her terrorizing, chilling, and extremely horrifying reality.
Her eyes skipped beyond Fred, whose staring was frankly unnerving, to his brother George. George's looked like a soldier who'd just heard they'd lost the war after winning every skirmish.
They normally thought as one and now there was a noticeable separation of minds. It would seem he was in his own twilight zone. Though, decidedly less horrific than hers.
She looked beseechingly to her professors. McGonagall had yet to appear from behind her hands so there was little chance of help from her. Professor Dumbledore didn't hide, he was enjoying his mid-day entertainment.
She was standing alone against a two-hundred-foot tidal wave and all she could do was let the water take her. Hermione slumped in her chair and wondered how she'd gotten here. When she opened her wardrobe this morning, had she missed the escape of a Fred shaped boggart?
"Are you a boggart?" She asked desperately, turning to Fred. Dumbledore muffled his laughter through his wizened beard.
"All wizard, baby," Fred clucked his tongue. If only casting Ridikulus would end this elaborate prank.
George may be three years behind but she knew what this was. A convoluted prank designed to take the only possession she had - her sane mind. With that in mind, she would break the cycle before he could complete his masterpiece.
"Excuse me, Professor. if you could assign me the required detentions, or any other punishment," She said, angling her body away from Fred's resolute brown eyes. "So, I can go shower – extensively."
"Ever heard that before, Minerva?" Dumbledore smiled a secret smile, towards the stern witch who crawled further into her hand cocoon. He turned back to Hermione. "Yes dear, we've all learned some lessons today. Fifty points from each of you should suffice, I think." Her eyes blew wide, that was more than their house had.
"That said, I politely decline your offer, Mister Weasley. It is not for me to decide such things, you see." He turned to Fred with a humorful smile.
"Not to worry Albus, still be a delightful story for the children one day," Whether he smiled, or cringey wink, she never saw. She was sure he was grinning like a dud. She'd rather mate with the Giant Squid. She muttered as much.
"That's enough, Mister Weasley," McGonagall had found her voice, but it was an hour too late. It seemed Hermione's mental health was not as valuable as McGonagall's need for decorum.
"Don't be jealous,Minnie. We can go to the three broomsticks," George said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mister Weasley. I'd rather not lose the house cup for another year, so if you please," she said, holding her hand out to the door. Dumbledore wanted the twins to spread their mischief around him some more judging by his wrinkling eyes.
George saluted to his chief and walked to the top of the stairwell, before he was out of sight, he called back once more
"Alright… Hogshead then. Your choice, Minnie," George winked, before vanishing down the stairs to avoid further strife.
"Damned ghosts," she muttered McGonagall, luckily for them she didn't take any more points as their House was sure to be aflame with their null house points already.
Hermione would leave as soon as the othertwin had evacuated to grant a sufficient head start. She was sure to lose more points when their frozen bodies were found by Peeves.
"See you at home," Fred winked to her before his grand escape with a conciliatory bow to the room.
She'd hex him. she'd hex his brother for sharing his face, she'd hex Ron for his red hair, and she'd curse Molly for giving life to them.
"Funny thing, hmm? The cyclic nature of life," Dumbledore said, his lips disappeared beneath his silvery beard. McGonagall squeezed his shoulder in solidarity.
Every student at Hogwarts knew of his penchant for spouting wisdom only he could appreciate - at least he had McGonagall. Hermione muttered a goodbye, eager to escape the gloomy air that'd had taken hold of her dazed professors.
She pushed the problems of tomorrow from her mind as she left the office as they were exactly that – a problem for tomorrow.
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Edited as of 17/05/2020