After watching Ron and Harry's triumphant Quidditch practice (Ron was steadily improving, though still patchy) Hermione trooped up the stairs behind them to the Griffindor Tower.
She had spent most of the time reading 'Eye for an Eye' which she had nearly finished, and making notes in her black book – which, of course, had been magically spelled and bound by the most powerful spells she could find so that only she could read it. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. Hermione Granger did not lack determination, whatever that entailed.
So it was that she tried not to run up the stairs to her dormitory and collect the large pile of knitted hats she had prepared over the summer.
Taking a deep breath as she re-entered the Common Room, she walked over to Ron.
'Hey, Hermione, want to play chess?' he exclaimed through a mouthful of the pumpkin pie that he and Harry had filched from the kitchens on the way up.
'Honestly, Ron, it's nearly lunch, why bother?' she knew better than suggest he wouldn't be able to eat any of the meal, Ron's seemingly bottomless stomach was infamous.
He grinned at her, spraying crumbs in every direction. She grimaced and wiped a bit from her shirt.
'I want to put these around the Boys' dormitory, and if I do it later you'll all just move them again.' She stated, gesturing to the hats in her arms.
'Oh, 'mione, not that again? I'll do it, give them here.' He replied.
'No! I mean, I can't be sure you really will do it, you never really took S.P.E.W. seriously, and Ron' she mimicked a beseeching face 'it really is important to me.'
He heaved a sigh and hefted his gangly self to his feet.
'Hey, Harry!' he hollered across the common room where the boy in question stood talking to Dean Thomas about Muggle football.
'Play chess with me when I get back down, will you?'
Harry groaned theatrically at his imminent defeat, and Ron grinned.
'Come on, then' he told her, striding off in the direction of the staircase.
As they entered the room, furnished much the same as the girls' in red velvet, but much, much messier, Hermione looked around herself, eyes appraising.
'Right.' She turned to Ron. 'You, out, now.'
'But Hermione! It's our bedroom, the boys'–'
She put on her best teacherly voice:
'No, Ron, I know Harry doesn't agree with it and he'll just take them all away again if he knows where they are. And you'll tell him at even the slightest push, I know what you two are like. So go, Ronald!'
She must have sounded so like his mother that he hung his head and left the room.
'And the door.' She added, without turning.
It shut obediently.
Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Now for the hard work.
She quickly hid the hats any which where – that hadn't been what she had come here for.
Then she ducked her under Harry's bed, pulling out his trunk. A good thing it was already so messy, she wouldn't have to worry about putting everything back exactly right.
Nothing, even when she checked for a false bottom. Clearly he'd hidden the thing she was looking for elsewhere – maybe under Ron's bed?
She looked. It wasn't in his trunk either.
Without much hope she checked under the other boys' beds, predictably finding nothing.
Frustrated, she pursed her lips, hands on hips facing Harry's bed. She'd guessed he would have tried to keep it hidden after the many times his room had been broken into, but where could it be?
The leather bound album on his bedside table caught her eye. She could have sworn it was thinner than that…
Suddenly it clicked.
Where better to hide something that had belonged to his father than under his father's image? She carefully opened the book, perching on the edge of his bed, and froze at the sound of Ron's voice.
'Hermione? Are you done yet, I mean, I don't think Harry will look that hard…'
She breathed a sigh of relief, and gave her heart a moment to stop pounding before she replied.
'Only a couple more, Ron! I won't be long.'
I hope, she added silently to herself.
She turned her attention back to the open book in her lap. Flicking through the pages, she found what she was looking for approximately halfway in. There – what looked like pages from the outside was actually a solid box.
The 'page' that topped it framed the photograph of Lily and James Potter's wedding, complete with all the marauders, waving merrily at her.
She felt a twinge of guilt looking at it, and tried to stop her eyes from blurring at the sight of Sirius laughing and smiling. He tipped her a wink – the daredevil and excited child she remembered again.
She smiled a homage back at him. Determination refreshed, Hermione Alohamora-ed the page – it flipped over to reveal the hollow compartment, containing, as she had known it would, the silvery fabric of the Invisibility cloak, neatly folded and topped with Dumbeldore's note.
She hoped he would have approved of her, but did not know, when she could not be sure she approved of herself.
'Hermione…' Ron's plaintive voice came through the door again, breaking her reverie.
'Just one more, Ron.' She tried for a singsong voice.
Quickly, she took out the folded cloak and replaced the note in the book. Walking to the window, she took out her wand and whispered
'Wingardium Leviosa!'
The cloak floated gracefully through the open window of the Girls' dormitory.
She returned her wand to her pocket and opened the door. Ron, who had been leaning on it, fell though the threshold and sprawled at her feet.
He picked himself up, beet red, and muttered
'I'm fine.' to no one in particular.
Hermione raised an eyebrow and followed him back down the stairs, trying not to laugh.
A strange sight met them in the Common Room as they descended – apparently Harry and Dean had been trying to teach Seamus how to play Muggle football, but the Irish boy hadn't quite gotten the idea, and kept deflecting the ball with his wand. The ball was now zooming around the room as if possessed, and ducking it had turned into a game of its own.
'Catch it, Ron!' yelled Harry from behind one of the high-backed chairs.
'Yeah, come on Ron, you're Keeper!' shouted Seamus.
Ron happily ran to attempt the request, Hermione unnoticed and forgotten.
Whish suited Hermione perfectly right now.
She mounted the stairs to her own dormitory, and almost had a heart attack at the door.
Lavender Brown fondled the cloak that Hermione had gone to such trouble to procure.
'Oooh, Hermione, isn't it beautiful!' She cooed. 'Whose do you suppose it is?'
'It's mine.' said Hermione, perhaps a little abruptly.
'Oh, where did you get it? May I try it on?' without waiting for a reply, Lavender swung it over her shoulders.
Hermione looked as if she might be sick.
Lavender started over to the mirror, completely oblivious to the fact that only her head was now visible.
'No!' Hermione's strangled squeak popped out, hand outstretched.
'Why ever not?' Lavender turned to her in surprise.
'It… makes you look fat!' Hermione burst out.
Lavender instantly looked hurt.
'I'm sorry, but you really wouldn't want to lower your self-esteem – you look lovely in a lot of things, but that just isn't one of them.' She continued briskly. She ignored the inner voice, which countered; she doesn't look lovely because you can't see her!
and swept over to Lavender, smoothly taking the cloak off her.
'My… aunt made it, shame really, looks nice off but terrible on.'
Lavender still looked slightly injured, but she did not question the statement.
I have to get rid of her – thought Hermione, so she used the only weapon she knew of that would dispatch people within seconds.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out… a badge.
'Have I told you about the new S.P.E.W. project, Lavender?' she enquired, as innocently as she knew how.
Lavender's expression switched from mildly affronted to fear-for-your-life in an instant. With a garbled excuse, she backed speedily out of the room.
Cloak in her arms, she sank onto her bed, and just listened to her breathing calm down for a full minute.
That could have been very messy.
Now to hide it somewhere of her own, in preparation for tonight, and she knew the perfect place. She opened the wardrobe in the corner – smiling grimly she took down the hideously lurid pink jumper Mrs Weasley had knitted for her birthday last March.
It had a use after all, she thought, tucking the cloak inside it and replacing the jumper at the bottom of the pile. There was no way any of the girls would be tempted to borrow that one.
Ron put the uncharacteristic spring in Hermione's step as they descended to the Great Hall for lunch down to her apparently successful S.P.E.W. mission.
Hermione herself was having a very difficult time concealing the adrenaline rush her success had brought on. She could not remember the last time she'd been so exalted by risk – though she hid it she was usually terrified on Harry's latest adventure.
But this – her own success from her own risk – this was intoxicating and the thrill of it invaded her steps and curved her mouth into a tiny smile.
Draco's Slytherin senses pricked up the moment he saw that self-satisfied grin on Granger's smug little face.
'That Mudblood's up to something…' he muttered to himself.
'What?' said Nott, loudly.
Draco toyed with the idea of telling him about Granger's 'diary' for sheer vindictive pleasure (no-one should be allowed to get over his wrath so quickly) but glancing at Nott, decided not to as the customary wave of disgust washed over him like so much scummy ditch water.
Nott made a particularly unsavoury picture today – a half-chewed vegetable creeping out of the corner of his mouth like a living thing, he gawped at Draco.
'Eat up now Nott, growing boys need their strength.' Draco told him.
Nott recovered his composure somewhat rapidly and treated his blond haired neighbour to an oh-so-terrifying 'I'll tell my Daddy' look, filled with all the menace of a toothless rabbit.
Not without his own special brand of derision, Draco flashed him a sickly sweet smile and turned away. Suddenly his soup didn't seem so appealing. He decided to abandon dinner as any kind of enjoyable addition to the day, and made an unobtrusive exit under the cover of a large group of Ravenclaws – all headed, funnily enough, for the library.
Unfortunately, as Draco realised when they passed though the great doors of the Hall, someone else had also hitched a ride with the unwittingly obliging Ravenclaws.
Granger.
Draco heaved an inner sigh. This day just wasn't getting any better.
'Rat' thought Hermione immediately, when she saw the face – then ' Ha! But I know something you don't!'.
The perfect person to gloat over – he didn't have a blind clue about her. Even though she knew it was stupid even to think it, she wanted to shove her anticipated triumph under his nose, just to prove to him who would have the last laugh – to see his expression of dismay –
Then he'd really see how much that pathetic insult of his really meant. Her blood ran with magic and she'd prove it, even if he never knew.
But she was getting carried away in her triumphant mood – letting her euphoria run away with her. Now was the time for restraint – so she appeased herself with a superior smile burnt into his surprised grey eyes, and a purposeful march in the opposite direction.
Leaving tea early for the library was by not unusual for Hermione, but today there was special reason.
There were preparations to make, which could not be done at any other time.
First, however, a detour.
Checking the corridor ahead and behind her, she melted into the shadows of an alcove.
'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.'
Thank you Padfoot, Moony and Prongs – sod you Wormtail… thought Hermione – and this time she really was up to absolutely no good, the implications of which would become apparent to the rest of Hogwarts imminently.
There was a little girl…Hermione located a special little room, dear to the hearts of many – including Fred and George Weasley, The Marauders, various pranksters of lesser fame, and of course, Peeves the Poltergeist.
Before entering the office of Filch the caretaker, Hermione cast the illusion spell she had spent hours perfecting over herself. It was complicated – not good for use in emergencies - and obscure to the majority of the wizarding population, as it would only fool Muggle and Squib eyes. Its usage had declined in the previous century as the Muggle and wizarding worlds drifted further apart.
She had found it in the back of an old textbook while studying for her History of Magic OWL, and after she had stumbled across it again in a Muggle Studies lesson, she had decided it was fate and added it to her growing list of possibly useful spells for Harry and the DA.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door. It did not open, which was both a good and inconvenient thing – the first because it meant Filch was not around, the second because valuable time would have to be wasted undoing the lock.
Hermione knew from both 'Hogwarts: A History' and personal experience that none of the of the schools doors could be unlocked by a simple 'Alohamora' – if something was to be kept out of reach at this school, then you could be sure it would be.
This, combined with Filch's conspiracy theory that it was the sole purpose of every student who entered the school to raid his office, ensured a tight magical lockdown on the room Hermione was about to break and enter.
She tried all the lock charms she knew (which were numerous) and some general disenchantments, just in case.
After the sixth, she sighed in frustration and checked the Marauder's Map again. Filch was prowling corridors in the fourth floor, nowhere near her.
'Conceited old man, as if some of us don't come here to actually learn, not break into his stupid office' she muttered to herself indignantly, conveniently forgetting that she was at that moment attempting to do just that.
She froze. Was that footsteps?
She checked the Map – 'Pansy Parkinson' rather misrepresented on the parchment as a small dot, was about to round the next corner and Hermione was in plain view.
The would-be trespasser hurriedly replaced her wand and parchment in her robes.
'Oh, hello, Pansy!' who just stared at the bright tone that greeted her.
'Have you seen Mr Filch, by any chance?' Might as well add some gratuitous formality for good measure.
Pansy shook her head slowly from side to side, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was disagreeing with.
An awful temptation struck Hermione then, one that was quite impossible to ignore.
'It's just that I think one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts must have escaped'
'I saw it going down into the dungeons by Professor Snape's classroom, and I thought the caretaker ought to know.'
Pansy paled and looked uncertainly in the direction se had been headed – towards the dungeons – then began to retreat back the way she had come, the apprehensive look on her face growing with each step.
Hermione smiled sweetly at her, and waved a goodbye.
Dear god, she loved to let her bad side out sometimes. It didn't see the light of day much - and definitely not around Harry and Ron. But she couldn't deny the change felt good…
As Pansy disappeared around the corner, Hermione double checked the Map gain – any more intrusions would be most unwelcome at this point – an the resorted to her final solution – the only thing she had ever known to circumvent magical protections on a lock.
She picked it.
With enchanted lock picks, naturally, and expertise courtesy of summers and Christmases spent in the company of the proprietors of 'Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes'. Where ordinary metal would have melted on contact with the lock, the slim metal pick Hermione drew from the packet she held did nothing of the sort.
As the door swung open, she thanked her lucky stars that she'd not been so prissy as to pass up the chance to learn such an apparently vital life-skill.
So, stealth.
Hermione the 'clumsy' (she scowled at the thought of Malfoy – now there was an error she'd be glad not to of having to stare at) crept into the darkened office.
She'd only heard Harry and Ron describe it from their second year visit, never been here herself – thankfully.
The smell was terrible, how you imagined Gregory Goyle would smell if you left them out in the sun all day.
Hermione shuddered to think what she might stumble across in here if she didn't watch her step.
As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she spied a dusty old cabinet behind a rotting desk.
If it had had to be described by a metaphor, it would probably be best compared to a cave troll.
Hermione took a deep breath and tugged open the doors to peer inside.
It was breathtakingly monstrous.
As if the manacles hanging in size order were not enough (some small enough for First Years, she noted, with a shudder of disgust) the sheer scale of the thing, and the misery that permeated the misty air around it. It spoke of generations of impounded treasures, once beloved, then seized in a fit of wanton rage by the caretaker from hell…
And then there were the dung-bombs.
Stuffed in every corner, any niche between trick quills, chess sets, balls, brooms (broken, of course – though before or after their committal into the care of Filch was a matter for speculation), a pink cauldron (colour still unmistakeable through the grime) bottles and potions and various species of mould, several boxes of Canary Creams, even what appeared to be a golden snitch – there were dung-bombs everywhere.
They were probably a large contributor to the smell, Hermione thought.
She cautiously collected five into the oilskin bag she had brought – then after a moment's consideration added another for good measure.
Turning to leave, Hermione realised two things - one, that there was a mangy cat standing in the open doorway, surveying her through glowing eyes – and the other that she could hear Filch's muttering voice growing closer and closer.
Hermione panicked, froze. Stock still just to the left of the still open cabinet, she waited for fate to come.
It arrived in the doorway, dark a Lucifer and muttering like a man possessed. Which was really nothing unusual for Filch the caretaker.
Mrs Norris meowed.
Filch stopped, noticing the open door. His gaze travelled up, past the rotten desk, beyond the chewed and battered old armchair, across the shelves that occupied the back wall, and lit on the open cupboard.
'Well, Mrs Norris!' the words slithered from Filch's mouth like worms from wet earth.
'What have we here? Some students, paying a visit?' his eyes glittered with malicious excitement, and Hermione steeled herself for the worst.
But it never came. Filch's shifty eyes flickered around the room, apparently seeking for traces of the 'visitors'.
And swept straight past Hermione. It was like he couldn't even see her…
Of course! She thought. The spell! Well, at least now she knew it worked.
Now she only had the small problem of getting out of here in one piece.
The caretaker continued his monologue with relish, voice growing more gleeful as it went on.
'A break-in! Dumbeldore will have to listen this time! Overworked, underpaid, disrespected, and now broken into! Them filthy little students'll not know what's hit 'em!'
Then a thought seemed to strike him –
'But let's see, Mrs Norris - 'ave the little rats taken anything?'
He tramped over to the grisly cupboard – Hermione stopped breathing altogether as he flung the doors wide and proceeded to dive into the husk of carpentry.
She held her breath for a full five minutes as Filch rooted through the cupboard like a pig after truffles, occasionally throwing something behind him onto the desk.
Once she had to duck as a bag of fake Gringotts coins nearly hit her during a more frenzied moment of Filch's search.
After what seemed like an eternity to Hermione he gave up, muttering under his breath about 'damn students' and 'taking liberties'.
Then Hermione actually saw the thought occur to him:
'But what,' he said, yellowing teeth bared as a malevolent grin dawned on his face
'What if they did take something, Mrs Norris?'
He extracted a bottle of fire-whisky from his desk.
'What if it was this?' Malicious pleasure lit his gnarled features
'Eh! He'd have to listen then, wouldn't he!'
He jerked himself out of his seat, and before she knew it he was advancing on her, clearly in search of somewhere to hide the wretched thing.
She thrust herself out of his path – but unfortunately haste does not breed caution, and as she stepped back, Hermione knocked a wooden crate. For a single moment, she thought it might settle.
And then it came crashing to the floor with an almighty thud.
Filch stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the box that had seemingly flown straight at him.
All was deathly silent.
Then: 'Who's 'ere? Show yerself!' screeched the caretaker, eyes darting around the room, still missing Hermione, who was plastered against the back wall of the office, not daring to breathe, let alone move.
But Filch was moving closer, and sooner or later he would reach out – and no invisibility spell is impervious to touch, thought Hermione.
She desperately searched her surroundings for something, anything – and then she saw it.
The bag of fake coins lay on the cold stone at her feet, and in a flash of inspiration, Hermione saw her solution.
She took a deep breath, and threw all caution to the winds. Ducking to scoop up the bag of coins, she began pelting them at Filch, cackling madly, just like –
'PEEVES!' screamed Filch, losing all vestige of composure as he scurried backwards, arms raised to protect his face.
Hermione glimpsed the path to freedom he had left and rocketed through the gap, with no regard for obstacles, still flinging coins behind her as she closed the distance between herself and the doorway.
Just in time, as it turned out. Somehow, in the mad dash after his invisible assailant, ('I'll 'av yer out fer this, yer grimy little ghoul') Filch had managed to trip over his precious Mrs Norris and fall onto a box of very old dung-bombs of unknown origin.
The ensuing dull boom blasted Hermione the remaining few feet out into the corridor, and was heard for at least a half-mile radius around the castle.
Hermione stumbled out of the wreckage, spluttering from the dust, fingers in her ears a useless barricade against the deafening cacophony of Mrs Norris' yowls.
She did the only thing she could: ran.
She had to get away from here before she was found, and she had to get cleaned up.
Mercifully the bag containing the dungbombs she had appropriated was still slung over her shoulder.
Hermione ran up the staircase to her right, and paused near a broom cupboard to take stock.
Injuries: a few bruises, that was for sure, but nothing broken – she tenativeley touched her face – there, a scratch, bleeding but essentially superficial.
Good. Where to from here? A bathroom sounded appealing – shower, change, and back in the common room before anyone knew she had been anywhere but the library…
Oh Bugger. The library.
Come on, Hermione, the adrenaline's still going, she told herself. Just one more little thing to do.
She almost snorted out load at the understatement.
She pushed herself off the wall and made her way more carefully this time to the house of books.
On arrival she found the heavy oak door still open – Mrs Pince must have left in a hurry to see what all the fuss was about.
Hermione crept inside – a few books and quills lay abandoned on the long tables, but the room was empty of human presence.
Perfect.
Out came the dungbombs, courtesy of Mr Filch, and Hermione sent a silent apology to whoever guarded books in heaven for what she was about to do.
Then she threw every last one of those six hard won prizes into the depths of the library, and for the second time that day, bolted out of an open door, this time pausing to slam the door shut on her way.
Listening to the dull boom, she decided that a hasty exit was probably well advised, and ran for it.
She didn't stop until she reached the Prefect's bathroom and flung herself inside, checking the way she had come for pursuers. Satisfied that she had not been followed, she shut the door and leant back against it, closing her eyes, and sighed with relief.
Finally, peace.
She opened her eyes.
And found herself confronted with Draco Malfoy, clad only in a towel.
End Chapter 3
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