True to Dumbledore's word, the following Monday, Professor McGonagall was back in class, prepared to pick up right where she left off. Several students asked her what had happened, but she wouldn't answer, telling them that it was none of their business.

"How are you feeling, Professor?" Hermione asked as she entered the room and took her seat.

McGonagall looked sterner than ever, but her face softened slightly at Hermione's question. "Better, Miss Granger, much better, thank you." Turning to the class, she said, "Now, we've got a lot of work to catch up on, so I hope you are all prepared."

After class, Ron caught up with Hermione and Harry. "Had to stay behind," he huffed. "Apparently I suck at transfiguring teacup saucers into mice. Who would have thought?"

"Wasn't it weird how McGonagall wouldn't talk about what happened?" Harry asked, thoughtfully.

"Not really," replied Hermione, although she very much agreed. "Would you want the entire world knowing you were attacked by Voldemort?" She winced. Although she had been using his name for two years, it still drove a stake into her throat every time she said it.

"Regardless," Ron said, still trying to catch his breath, "I think the whole thing is wacky. McGonagall, a professor at Hogwarts, being attacked by You-Know-Who. Funny how she wasn't attacked at school."

"Not really, Ron." It was Hermione's turn to look thoughtful. "Voldemort is scared of Dumbledore. There's no way he would even try to attack a teacher while they're on school grounds. He simply waited until one of ours left the premises." Her explanation seemed simple enough but behind her words, she was shaking. She was due to take the train home to her parents' for her grandmother's birthday in a week. They would be transported in groups, all the people that were taking the train that day, but it was still a frightening thought.

Hermione worked hard that evening, trying to catch up on all the work McGonagall had assigned. She didn't mind it much; it kept her busy, that was for sure. But Harry and Ron's complaining drove her mad.

"If I have to read one more thing on cross-transfiguration, I think I'll go cross-eyed!" cried Ron, throwing down his quill in frustration. "I can't do this stuff! I don't get it."

"We've been doing cross-transfiguration for a few years now, Ron. How come you just don't seem to get it now?" Hermione put down her own quill to interrogate him.

"Because I'm a dunce," Ron said moodily, crossing his arms across his chest and pouting.

"Not a dunce, Ron!" Harry said cheerfully, still working on his work. "Just slow is all."

Ron shot Harry a dirty look and Hermione intercepted before anything else could be said. Tensions had been high ever since Voldemort returned, but this year they were hitting a whole new record. Even teachers were snapping at each other. It was a tough time and Dumbledore's encouragement of sticking together was running thinner and thinner with each passing day. He kept reminding them that they were all friends under the roof, but Hermione found that advice was slowly slipping away, too.

"Okay, you guys, enough," she said, holding up her hands. "Let's get back to work."

"I don't want to work anymore," Ron said, slamming his book shut. "I guess I'm too slow for his royal highness here." Harry's jaw dropped. "So I guess I'll just go up to bed."

"You rotten, no-good prat," Harry muttered under his breath as soon as Ron was out of sight. Harry didn't seem to care much about fighting lately, as long as he got his two cents worth in.

Hermione shook her head and chose to ignore the snide comments coming from Harry every once in awhile. Almost an hour later, Hermione also decided to go up to bed. Bidding Harry goodnight, she packed up her things and started climbing the stairs to her dorm.

It was that night that the nightmares started. Hermione couldn't really call them nightmares considering she felt like she was awake the entire time. A strong pair of unfamiliar hands came across her throat, but gently. It felt like someone was trying to put a spell on her, but they couldn't quite seem to figure out how. Over and over again she felt the cold hands until she awoke with a start. The cold hands just happened to be the breeze from the open window beside her bed. She got up and closed the window slightly, causing the drapes to quit blowing softly. She sat for a moment on the windowsill, reflecting on what a lucid dream she had just had. What did it mean, though? Deciding she would look it up in her dream dictionary the next morning, she went back to bed and fell into a peaceful slumber.