Discretely occupying the top tier of the staff section of the stands, Hermione and several other ghosts endured the bright May sunshine to watch the final Quidditch match of the season. Although the game itself was thrilling, as Ravenclaw matched their infrequently brilliant plays against the Hufflepuff's dogged determination, the entire proceedings were rather anti-climactic. Both teams had been soundly defeated by Gryffindor earlier in the year, and Slytherin had likewise lost to Gryffindor by a substantial and embarrassing margin. They had then lost to Ravenclaw. Regardless of the final score, Gryffindor would accept the school Quidditch cup at the completion of today's game.
While Sir Nicholas and Hermione exchanged almost-sincere condolences with the Gray Lady and the Fat Friar, the Bloody Baron crossed his arms and looked displeased. Even though his team was not in the running for the cup, the Baron favored Ravenclaw over the Hufflepuffs. Unfortunately, the persistent yellow-robed Hufflepuff players were leading by nearly two hundred points when the Ravenclaw Seeker caught the Snitch and finally brought the season to a close. Hermione briefly wondered if the Hufflepuff Seeker might have just let his opponent catch the Snitch, but privately she doubted it. Fair play was one thing, but Quidditch was Quidditch.
Once the current players relinquished the field, Madame Hooch blew her whistle and announced that Gryffindor had won the cup. Around the stadium the students began to applaud, some more enthusiastically than others, as Harry and his teammates came out on the pitch in their scarlet robes for the last time. Hermione and Nick both clapped as well, even though their hands made very little noise, and shouted out 'well done' along with the rest of their house when Harry took the cup from Madame Hooch. Hermione could not help but be proud of Harry and Ron; there would now be three plaques in the Trophy Room with Harry's name on them. Of course, they sat next to the one emblazoned with Slytherin and Draco Malfoy's name, but that had been a hard-fought Slytherin victory that even Ron grudgingly had to admit was fair.
The crowds of celebrating students trickled out of the stands without the normal high exuberance usually shown after the final match of the year, but they'd known that Gryffindor had the cup already and that left little drama to wring from the situation. Most turned their attentions back towards school and other mundane issues, making their way back to the castle in sedate clumps. The other ghosts also rose over the pitch and streamed back to their haven, leaving Hermione to make her way to the base of the huge wooden stadium. The team locker rooms were house at the bottom of the structure, each with their own outside entrance, the doors emblazoned with the symbol of each house.
Hermione waited outside the door painted with a golden lion for what she felt was a reasonable amount of time, then cautiously stuck her head through the door. "Everyone decent?" she called out. The Gryffindors hadn't actually played a game so she doubted anyone was changing, but it was only polite to ask since she couldn't knock.
"Never," replied Dennis Creevey with a grin as he reclaimed his camera from his locker. Now in his fourth year, Dennis' cheerful optimism never wavered, even when he and his fellow Chasers were being pounded by their opponents. 'Really annoying,' Ron had once confided to Hermione. Never the less, he was as good on a broom as he was with a camera, and already had plans of being a professional sports photographer when he graduated.
"Um. Hermione. Hello," muttered the remaining Gryffindor player, one whose name Hermione could not remember. The girl was also a fourth year, but had never been eager to be friends before Hermione's death. Now, she hung up her Quidditch robes with haste and quickly fled the locker room. "Coming?" she called to Dennis as she waited for Hermione to finish coming through the door before she opened it.
"Yeah, be right there," he answered. "See you later," he said with a casual wave to his teammates, and followed. Behind him, Ron and Harry gave desultory responses as the sat side by side on the bench.
"Well, congratulations. Another winning season for Gryffindor!"
"Yeah. I guess so," Harry responded.
Hermione raised a pale eyebrow at him, and at Ron's equally less than enthusiastic response. "You guess so? What happened to the pair who used to scream themselves hoarse over every win?"
"We were just talking," Ron replied. "It's all over. We're never going to play another Quidditch game for Gryffindor. Ever."
"Oh," she drawled. "I see. End of an era, and all that."
"Didn't expect you to understand," Ron groused.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked sharply.
"Well, you never did like Quidditch all that much," he answered absently, still toying with his scarlet robe.
Hermione made a non-committal noise, mentally berating herself for jumping to the wrong conclusion. Ron's comment had been about Quidditch, and not suggesting that she no longer understood mortal concerns.
"Come on," Harry said firmly to Ron, giving him a nudge with his elbow. With a deliberation that was almost reverent, he hung his scarlet robe in the locker and firmly shut the door. "We've got a party waiting for us up in the common room. And I've got to break it to Dennis that he's not the new team captain."
"He won't care," Ron said. "He's one of those mad fools who only play for the fun of it."
"Ron, have I ever told you that you take this game much too seriously?" Hermione asked.
"Only about a thousand times," Harry answered for his friend, grinning. "But you usually include me in that. Don't you like me any more, Hermione?"
"Oh, shut up," Hermione told him, grinning as well.
Once inside, Ron and Harry made for the main staircase, heading for Gryffindor Tower with Hermione gliding behind. The boys had just hopped over the trick stair that marked the halfway point when a head popped out over the railing several flights up. An imperative shout gave little doubt as to the owner's identity, thought the red hair would have done the same.
"OI!" shouted Ginny. "Where have you two been? Never mind," she said before they could respond. "We're out of pumpkin juice. You need to go to the kitchens and nick some off the house elves."
"Sure," Harry called back as he paused on the steps. "You go on back. We'll be there in a minute."
"And you thought I was bossy?" Hermione asked archly. "At least I wasn't mad at you all the time. Are you sure you want to go live at the Burrow with the Weasleys after you graduate? Ginny's going to make your life hell."
"She bosses you worse than my Mum does," Ron commented in an undertone as they all turned to go down the stairs once more. "Seriously, you should never have broken up with her. The girl's completely mental -- and you've never seen anyone hold a grudge like she can."
"You're a load of help," Harry complained, taking the lead and steering all three of them down a different staircase towards the kitchen, taking the steps two a time. "First you tell me not to date your sister. Then you tell me not to break up with her. Make up your mind already."
Ron merely shrugged, having no practical advice to give, and grabbed at the handrail as the lower end of the staircase they were on began to grumble and slide. Even though she had no need of it, Hermione felt the urge to hang on to something. Her hand merely slid through the stone baluster, however, and she was forced to drift with the moving stairs. The new landing had been deserted by all other staircases, apparently, and hung lonely and forlorn in mid-air. It also held a single figure waiting to ascend.
Draco Malfoy's face twisted with distaste as he saw the three of them. "Well, if it isn't the Famous Harry Potter. If only your adoring public knew you were too stupid to even find your common room. You're supposed to be going the other direction. All your suck-up fans are just waiting to fawn all over you, aren't they? Everyone knows the Gryffindors can't do a single thing right without Potter showing them how!"
Harry's tired grimace could not quite be called a smile. "Sod off, Malfoy."
"Yeah, get stuffed," Ron echoed. "Go lick your wounds in private. Better yet, go lick your privates."
"Ron!" Hermione burst out, then gave him a resigned look. "Look, why don't you both go up to the Tower, and I'll go to the kitchens for you. I'm sure if I asked, Dobby would be glad to bring everything up for the party."
"Good grief," Draco sneered. "The Mudblood is dead, and she's still telling you what to do, Weasley. Can you even tie your shoe without her?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry ordered.
"Or what, Potter?" Malfoy looked him over. "You may be cock of the walk here, but just you wait until school's over!"
"You know what?" Harry asked him suddenly. "I'm bored with your stupid threats, Malfoy, and I'm bored with you. You couldn't intimidate a First Year without your two bodyguards, and right now you're just wasting my time. Thanks, Hermione. We'll see you in a bit, okay?"
Deliberately turning his back, Harry began to climb the stairs, dismissing Draco's very existence. Ron snorted in agreement and followed his friend.
Incensed, Draco put his foot on the first stair and made to follow the two, but stopped short when he realized Hermione's ghostly form blocked his path. "Get out of the way," he ordered uneasily.
"Make me," Hermione retorted. She held her place on the stair, knowing her cold was radiating to him just as his body heat was radiating to her. Humans were incredibly warm to the ghosts, and the one time she'd accidentally brushed through Ron's arm had felt as though she'd stuck her arm in hot porridge.
"I'm not afraid of you, Mudblood. You're dead, just not as dead as you should be."
"Aren't you afraid? Just a little?" She smiled maliciously and deliberately drifted down another step. Faced with either retreating or allowing her to touch him, Draco waited until the translucent edge of her robes were nearly brushing his chest before he backed down the step, all the while glaring viciously at her.
Hermione gave him a tight, victorious smirk in return before nonchalantly turning and drifting through the stone banister. Sculling her hands gently through the empty air, she floated above the open shaft of the stairwell and narrowed her eyes at Malfoy, thinking longingly of all the things the Bloody Baron and the Gray Lady had told her were strictly forbidden for a Hogwarts ghost to do to a 'live one.'
"If you were half as clever as you pretend to be, Draco Malfoy, you'd be very afraid of me."
The Slytherin muttered under his breath, but said nothing further as Hermione drifted downwards, gaining speed until she ricocheted around the confines of the stairwell, her robes flapping soundlessly. Sir Nicholas had taught her to fly through the air as easily as any school owl, and she reveled in the freedom even as she showed off. To be honest, she had always thought the swirling flight to be a bit much (not to mention it reminded her of watching Moaning Myrtle swirl down the toilet bowl), but she had to admit it was an impressively dramatic way to make an exit.
&&&&&
May turned to June, and the collective tempers of the seventh year students grew progressively shorter as the N.E.W.T.s drew nearer. Madame Pince was forced to intervene several times as disputes over reference books almost descended into fistfights. Everyone was edgy and most of the students were getting red-eyed from too little sleep and too much caffeine. Madame Pomfrey made her usual attempts to curb the amount of coffee served to students and Minerva McGonagall, as usual, pretended to give the matter some serious consideration. In actuality, she had an arrangement with the house elves to be sure they brewed large pots of the stuff and served it to anyone sneaking down to the kitchens for a midnight raid. Anyone coming later than midnight would find only warm milk.
While most of the students would never have considered asking the former Head Girl for help with their subjects, they weren't averse to a accepting a well-timed word of caution. Unable to contribute in any other way, Hermione spent many evenings acting as a lookout for Filch or his cat. She knew the lower levels quite well by now, and kept more than one nocturnal student from getting a detention. The younger students would even talk to her occasionally, having forgotten that she'd been one of them just a few months ago.
It was one of these late nights, just a week short of the exams, when Draco Malfoy wandered into the kitchens and loudly ordered the one house elf still up to make him a sandwich. The elf happily complied. Hermione scowled at the elf, irritated at its subservient behavior, but as she was invisible at the moment the scowl made no impression on the elf.
While the elf served Malfoy his sandwich, along with a glass of lemonade and a precisely quartered apple, Hermione waited patiently for the exact moment. She settled onto the bench opposite the blond Slytherin, gauging her timing until he was in the midst of chewing a large mouthful and had just lifted the glass to his lips to wash it down.
"You're a horrible, nasty little sneak, Draco, and I hope the elves poison you for ordering them around like that," she declared, materializing at the same moment.
The Weasley twins would have applauded; Draco choked and spat the lemony, half-masticated sandwich across the table and through Hermione's translucent form. For several moments, he was coughing too much to utter more than a few disjointed swear words.
"For fuck's sake, Granger!" Draco swore, his face red from rage and partial asphyxiation. "Are you trying to kill me?!"
"Don't think the idea hasn't crossed my mind," she retorted. "But unlike you, I have a few scruples left. I wouldn't try to kill you just because you're the most obnoxious person on the face of the planet. After all, watching you suffer is much more fun."
Draco wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, glaring. "Why aren't you up in Gryffindor country, tutoring those two pathetic idiots? They're never going to pass unless you hold their hands. I really ought to remind Professor Snape to ban ghosts from the Great Hall during exams so you can't tell them the answers."
Hermione shot him a disgusted look. She'd spent quite a bit of time recently tutoring Harry and Ron as they threw themselves into the last few weeks of their academic career, and they weren't quite as ready as she thought they should be. The two boys had rolled their eyes at her and insisted she worried too much.
"Some people, Draco, can make their way on their own. They don't have rich daddies who buy them spots on the Quidditch team or give them jobs in the family firms."
"My father isn't buying me anything. When I get out of here, I'll be in control of the Malfoy fortunes," Malfoy reminded her with his trademark smirk. Officially, Lucius Malfoy was still a fugitive. The confidence in his voice, however, was somewhat lacking.
"Will you?" Hermione asked. "Or will you be taking the Dark Mark along with half the other Slytherins?"
"Shut up, Mudblood. You don't know anything about it."
"I know more than you think," she shot back. "I saw Professor Snape come back with blood on his robes last month. I doubt he was out for an evening stroll."
Actually, Snape had been helping Hagrid deal with an acromantula who'd wandered from the nests in the Forbidden Forest, but Hermione saw no reason to elaborate. She doubted if Malfoy was familiar with the frequency of Voldemort's summons.
Unexpectedly, Draco flinched and his blue-gray eyes dropped away. Without another word, he drained his glass and set it on the plate next to the half-eaten sandwich. His fingers quickly gathered the apple pieces and wrapped them in a thin handkerchief he pulled from a pocket. The food was tucked into his robes as he rose and made for the door.
Watching from the table, Hermione was a bit surprised when he stopped just beside the opening. He appeared to be debating something, and after a moment turned to look at her. For once, his expression lacked any contempt; in fact, if Hermione didn't know better, she would even have said he looked troubled.
"Did it hurt?" he blurted out, and immediately looked as though he wished he could retract the question.
Hermione rose from the table and drifted over towards the young man. "To die?" she asked.
His pale cheeks flushed, but he nodded jerkily.
"No," she said finally. "It didn't hurt. It just annoyed the hell out of me, because I've left so many things undone."
"Like what?" he asked. His question lacked the usual bite of disdain.
"Let's see – there's the N.E.W.T.s, graduating...doing whatever necessary to help Harry defeat Voldemort."
"You may be waiting a long time for that," he warned her.
Hermione smiled easily. She had far more time than Draco Malfoy knew. "Tell me something, Draco. Do you really think Voldemort is going to win? Kill Harry, and Ron, and everyone who doesn't fit into your father's ideal wizard world? Dead half-bloods and Muggle-borns everywhere?"
For once, Draco did not have an immediate answer. When the bowl of fruit still life painting swung open beside him and Harry Potter stepped through opening, Hermione knew he never would.
"What's going on?" Harry asked quietly, giving Draco a wary glance.
"Not much, really," Hermione answered. "Draco and I were just talking about death."
"I thought you knew all about death," Harry told him. "You talk about it easily enough."
Draco frowned and swallowed. His mouth twisted, and perfect teeth worried at his lip but it was a long moment before any words came out. "I'd never seen anyone die before," he admitted, almost as if the words were against will. "But I can see the thestrals, now."
"It's not what you expected, was it?" Harry asked him soberly. Draco's pale eyes meet Harry's, and the understanding there was enough to make the blond boy flinch.
"Granger – when she died..." The young man forced himself to finish the question. "Is that was Diggory looked like?"
"Not like that," Harry said thoughtfully, his dark eyebrows drawn down in memory. "He looked – surprised, more than anything. Hermione just looked like she'd fallen asleep."
"My dad told me it feels like you're a god when you kill," Draco blurted out. "I don't see how. How can that make you feel powerful?" He swallowed again, looking pale and uncertain. "I don't understand anything anymore."
"You're not your dad," Harry told him. "You don't have to feel what he feels."
"Or believe what he believes, Potter?" Draco suddenly sneered, as if finally remembering he was speaking to a mortal enemy. "Think you can save me from my father's evil ways?"
"Do you want to be saved?" Harry asked.
Draco's shoulders hunched, but he didn't answer. Instead, he turned away rudely and went back down to the Slytherin dorms. Harry turned to Hermione, as if to ask what she thought, and she could only shrug in reply.
&&&&&
When the exams finally began, Hermione found she could not bear to be around the students any longer. Hearing them all chattering about the essays they were required to write, and asking what answer had been given for this question or that one and exulting over finally being finished sent her rocketing straight up into the highest reaches of the castle. Even that was not the refuge she thought it might be. Students about to be separated from their current boyfriends and girlfriends could be found snogging madly in every out-of-the-way place Hermione went for solitude. It was nearly enough for her to go in search of Mrs. Norris, just so she could evict the students from her haunts.
Instead, Hermione summoned every shred of fortitude she possessed and went in search of Moaning Myrtle. There wasn't actually much searching necessary; Myrtle seldom left the girls' third floor bathroom, and even when she did she could easily be heard weeping and moaning from quite some distance away. The other ghost was suspicious, but was eventually convinced that Hermione really, truly wanted a full tour of the plumbing system at Hogwarts.
Two days later, Hermione and Myrtle emerged from the drain in the main courtyard, Myrtle almost bubbling with satisfaction at teaching the know-it-all Gryffindor something and Hermione doing her best to maintain a somewhat painful smile. It was an interesting way to get around the castle, and she could see where it might actually come in handy at some unknown point in the future. However, Hermione really didn't think she needed to know how to find the bathrooms for all the boys dorms in all four houses. Quite frankly, it made her wonder about Myrtle, and that was something else Hermione didn't think she needed to know.
&&&&&
Severus Snape drained the last bitter dregs of tea from his cup and set it precariously on the stack of final exam papers at the corner of his desk. He was fairly sure those were the fourth-years, since the drifts of fifth-years' OWL's had, as usual, taken over the center of the black mahogany surface. More papers dripped from the shelves behind him, held in place by a pickled specimen in a jar so old even he was unsure as to which species it had started its existence.
Another nearby chair held even more rolls of parchment, these the essays from the seventh-year N.E.W.T.s. Those, fortunately, were marked already, each bearing the last bits of sarcasm their authors would ever be forced to endure from him. It was well past midnight, but he had little hope of finishing his grading until sunrise. The end of the school year was the one time where his legendary insomnia was of use. A fresh pot of tea, a new economy-size pot of red ink, and he was in business.
The faint sound of feminine throat being cleared came from somewhere in front of his desk, and a form materialized.
"May I have a moment of your time, Professor?"
"No, you may not," he retorted, not bothering to look up. He hadn't missed his personal phantom the last few days, and he very much wanted to not miss her for as long as she could contrive to be away. His quill continued its journey across the parchment, making no allowances for her presence.
Behind her back, Hermione's hands twisted in consternation. This hadn't started well, and her resolve was leaking away quickly. She wasn't at all sure her request was even possible, but hearing her friends discussing the final exams had been the final straw. The calm acceptance she'd been striving for had abruptly evaporated, and now here she was, trying to talk the most uncooperative teacher she'd ever had to do her a favor.
"If you please, Professor, I'd very much like to take my N.E.W.T. exam in potions."
The quill stopped abruptly, and Snape's black eyes suddenly pinned Hermione with a dark, hard stare. "You're not serious," he said repressively.
"Very," she replied. "I died before completing my schooling here at Hogwarts. I'd like to rectify that."
With a dismissive snort, Snape began his grading again. "Then ask your Head of House, not me."
"You're the least likely to say yes," Hermione told him recklessly. "I thought if I could get you to agree first, the other professors would be willing as well."
"Then the answer is no," he shot back. "I'm busy, and I've no time for fulfilling ridiculous fantasies."
"Please, Professor Snape. One more on top of all the others wouldn't really be that much..."
"One more!" Snape barked, and slapped the stacks of parchment nearest him. "One more straw for the camel's back, you mean. The answer is no, Miss Granger, and I demand you go elsewhere and leave me in peace!"
Rather than be intimidated by the thundering deep voice of the Potions Master, Hermione glared back at him. "I would think, considering the facts around my death AND the fact that I would have been taking the N.E.W.T. anyway - IF I hadn't died - would be enough for you to see your way clear to accommodating my request," she argued stubbornly. "You must admit I've been very reasonable. A great many new ghosts come back upset and very unhappy. They've been known to make their place of death uninhabitable. I could have done the same to your classroom."
"And I could have had you bound," Snape retorted brutally.
"I can only be forced to stay where I died." Glaring, she swooped into the air to hover above her old table. "Which was right about here, wasn't it? You could have me shackled right here, Professor, where I could whisper advice to every Longbottom to come through those doors for the rest of your days!"
"All right!" Snape roared. His clenched jaw suddenly relaxed. "You may take your potions N.E.W.T., Miss Granger - just as soon as you can lift a quill to write your answers."
Horrified, Hermione gaped at him. "But I can't do that."
"Can't you? Pity." His unconcern was evident, and he smiled thinly as he retrieved his quill and dipped it in the red ink. She could have sworn he was humming.
&&&&&
The noises from the Common Room were winding down, finally, as Hermione watched Harry and Ron play one last game of chess in their dorm. Seamus Finnegan's voice could still be heard wafting up the stairs as he sang an off-color song to Lavender and several of the younger girls, but the traditional end of term party was rapidly loosing steam. On his bed, Dean Thomas lay snoring loudly, still in his robes. Neville, on the other hand, had last been seen sneaking out the portrait hole with his Hufflepuff girlfriend, who may have been a mere fifth-year but was years ahead of her peers when it came to snogging in out-of-the-way places.
In a few short hours they would be on the Express, heading towards London, the Burrow, and the rest of their lives. It was all Hermione could do to maintain her nonchalance as the three of them talked quietly, trying to be enthusiastic as Harry discussed the various job offers he'd received, while Ron alternated between his own desire to learn curse-breaking like his brother or taking an apprenticeship with his father's department at the Ministry.
"So the greasy git wouldn't budge? Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. It's just like him to use a technicality to get out of doing anything more than he has to." Harry's tolerance for Snape had reached a new low after the grueling potions final.
"Would you not be a ghost if you finished your N.E.W.T.S?" asked Ron, only half paying attention as he swiftly demolished Harry's defensive perimeter.
"Well, I'm told I didn't pass on because I hadn't accomplished some important goals in life. If I can't do them now, I guess I'm stuck here." Hermione shrugged and leaned back against nothingness, only nominally perched on the back of Ron's chair. He occupied only the front few inches of the seat, leaning forward as he was while he studied the chess pieces before him.
"Nick said he was afraid of death," Harry offered. "I got the impression that once you're a ghost, you don't have much choice about sticking around."
"Probably," Hermione said with a sigh. "Oh, well. So I'll never get to take my N.E.W.T.s. I'll get used to the idea sooner or later."
"Was there anything else you'd not finished? Besides the N.E.W.T.S., I mean?" Harry asked, paying only superficial attention to the board as he moved his rook deep into Ron's territory.
"She hasn't read every single book in the library," grumbled Ron as he scowled at the board. He moved a piece, then reconsidered and moved it back.
Hermione made a face at the back of his head. "And now I can't do that. I can't read anything unless someone leaves a book out."
"Why not?" Ron asked absently. "You're sitting down, aren't you? Why is it your bum can do something your hands can't?"
For a long moment, Hermione simply gaped, openmouthed, before staring down at the chair back that served as her seat. "Holy Cricket!" she exclaimed in a disgusted voice. "How can your brain work a problem out so clearly and then express it so crudely?"
"Dunno. Always has," Ron admitted, unembarrassed. "Sorry, mate. Check."
Harry glanced down at the board, tilting his head to one side before nodding significantly at the bishop lurking to one side on the board. With a self-important strut the piece slid forward, demolished Ron's queen with a single blow of his mace, and then crossed his arms and glared at the opposing king in the same diagonal avenue.
"Checkmate," declared Harry. "Good game, though."
While Ron made odd sputtering noises, Harry addressed himself to Hermione. "He might be on to something there, Hermione. I've seen the Gray Lady weaving tapestries before, and Professor Binns always marks our homework. I'm not entirely sure he actually reads it, but he does grade it. There's got to be a way for ghosts to move stuff physically."
"Yeah, look at Peeves. He messes with stuff all the time," Ron chimed in, having accepted defeat if not gracefully at least with only a sour grimace. "You just gotta figure out how."
Racking the pieces into their case, Harry put the game set atop Ron's trunk. "You should have plenty of time to figure it out once we're all out of your hair." His attempt at humor fell flat, and he closed his own trunk quietly. "We're going to miss you, Hermione."
"I'll miss you, too," she replied, smiling bravely and utterly determined not to give in to the threatening tears. Her resolve held while the boys packed their last remaining bits and pieces, removing all traces of their existence from the rooms they'd occupied for the past seven years. It held while Harry instructed Hedwig on how to deliver letters to a specific place, rather than an individual, as Nearly Headless Nick had advised.
Her composure lasted all the way through the mad dash to get everything to the train station in the morning, with everyone rushing around and hugging and promising to keep in touch with each other, no matter what. It wasn't until the train pulled out, billowing white clouds of steam nearly the same color as her spectral robes, and Harry and Ron's waving arms were back inside their compartment, that Hermione burst into tears and took refuge in the dark shadows of the third floor corridor, the same chamber where the three of them had begun their first real adventure together, to sob her heart out.