As he reached for his wand, Harry couldn't help but reflect on how brilliant it felt to have to force somebody not to follow him into mortal peril. Of course, the knowledge that this action would likely irreparably affect his friendship with that someone, lead to yet more guilt on his conscience, and quite possibly lead to his ostracism from the Lion's Den was not, as he would term it, a 'brilliant feeling'. However, the realisation that he was friends with somebody who was willing to risk their life for him, not out of ambition or expectation of future reward, but merely for the sake of loyalty was a welcome change of pace.
It was a shame that friendship was about to come to an end.
His fingers curled around the familiar yew of his wand, his heartbeat quickening as they made contact with the sublimely crafted wood.
Then, something particularly curious happened.
Harry Potter hesitated.
This was not, in and of itself, an unusual occurrence. Harry knew that he was impulsive, and made every effort to rein in those impulses. Usually, he did this so successfully he was oft compared with the mascot of his (former) house.
But this. This was different.
This was a chance to stun Ron Weasley. The boy who had been somewhere between irritating and downright cruel for much of his post-cupboard life. And he didn't want to do it.
If only his past (and future) self could see him now.
Slowly, reluctantly, his grasp on the yew began to loosen. Part of his mind screamed at him to do it, to take out the wand and blast the redhead with a stupefy. Another, more insidious part of his mind congratulated him on not letting morality and misplaced guilt get in the way. The chess match would be far easier with a child prodigy on his side.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
He opened his eyes to see Ron still staring at him, his eyes painfully guileless. As far as Harry could tell, he hadn't moved an inch when Harry had gone for his wand. They locked eyes for a moment. There was a slight, almost imperceptible nod that passed between them.
"Fine." Harry said, almost bitterly. "Let's do it."
Hermione Granger was, to put it mildly, not having the most pleasant day.
It had started well, of course. She'd gotten out of bed, read a little, done some homework. The usual routine. Nobody had spoken to her at breakfast, of course, but she'd chosen to eat early to avoid people anyway. In fact, by the time for Charms had rolled around, she was feeling more confident than usual since she'd arrived in this strange world.
Then, in class, the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Ron Weasley couldn't do it. He was saying the words wrong, he was stabbing more than he was flicking, and Hermione knew how to fix it. She had felt destiny calling out to her. That had been her chance to make a new friend. A first friend.
Of course, the universe loved to play with Hermione Granger. It had all gone terribly wrong.
Several hours of tears and breakdowns later, Hermione was almost feeling better. Her eyes may have been puffy, and she suspected she was missing the feast, but the pain was mostly drowned in a sea of tears.
She had cringed as she heard the door open and close, hoping the mysterious interloper didn't hear her piteous sniffles.
Then he'd said her name. The boy-who-lived-and-didn't-like-her was looking for her. For a second she'd allowed herself to hope. But she'd quashed that spark, ruthlessly. It was another trick. She was certain. Her suspicions had been confirmed when Potter had claimed a troll, of all things, had managed to infiltrate the castle! Well, Hermione had read Hogwarts: A History more than enough times to know that there were dozens of enchantments to make that next to impossible.
And then he'd said sorry.
And it sounded like he meant it.
What felt like an eternity later, and she could still hear him saying it.
"I'm sorry."
Every time she thought of it, a little bit of her felt warm inside. Nobody had ever apologised to her before. Well, nobody her own age, at any rate.
And then he'd done something nobody her own age had done.
He'd saved her from a troll. He'd put his own life at risk, just to protect her, and his friends.
The Harry Potter she'd read about had come alive in that instant, and she felt like she was reading one of her stories.
Then, she'd been given a chance to join in. To join in the story of a lifetime. Professor Quirrell was trying to steal the "Philosopher's Stone" from the school, and Harry wanted to stop him alone.
No way.
Hermione Granger was many things, but a coward was not one of them. She was, after all, a Gryffindor. Of course, that isn't to say she hadn't reconsidered her course of action when it turned out to she'd have to work through a gauntlet of trials, including a Cerberus and a Devil's Snare. But she comforted herself by thinking how she was alongside Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Surely he would protect them! He'd already done so much. He'd solved the mystery of the Black Wand when he was only seven years old! Surely he could do this.
Well, she wasn't wrong. He could do it just fine. She, on the other hand, was not having as easy a time. It turned out that an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of a variety of spells and books, both fiction and non-fiction, was not particularly helpful with helping one escape death at the hands of ravenous three headed dogs, or murderous tentacle-plants. The realisation that she was in a situation that books could not help with had, of course, set her mind reeling, but she had mostly stayed in control.
And then she saw the wound. Ron Weasley was not, to put it mildly, her favourite person. Admittedly, the fact that he had helped her get away from a three-headed dog had been a point in his favour, but it was hardly an equaliser to several months of exclusion, and the occasional brutal argument. But despite their fractious history, she really, really did not want him to die. But once again, Harry Potter had swooped in to the rescue. Hermione had watched in awe as Harry cast a spell she had never even heard of before (because of course he could do that) and, magically, the deep gashes in Ron's leg had closed up. She'd been so caught up in the euphoria that she hadn't noticed his body going loose, or his eyes fluttering. Then suddenly, he was falling, and she was rushing forward to catch him.
That had been the last straw. If Harry Potter couldn't do it, how could she? Harry was exhausted, unconscious on the floor, and she had just stood there and let it happen! She regretted even coming on this stupid jaunt. She was useless. She was just an anchor, weighing him down as he heroically charged into danger. She felt like she wanted to cry, or hit the wall, do anything that didn't make her feel totally, utterly superfluous. Some Gryffindor she was turning out to be. She was cracking under the slightest pressure…and she hadn't even had to do anything. Pathetic.
At least Ron had some semblance of composure. Found a place to hide if Harry didn't wake up soon. Admittedly he had chosen a corner of the room, but it was still better than she'd done. She had spent the time panicking about..everything. What if Harry was wrong? Would she get expelled? Detention? Surely the penalties for risking the lives of herself and her friends would be beyond severe. Worse yet, what if Harry wasn't wrong? What if Quirrell really was trying to resurrect Voldemort? Not only would she be helping him by slowing Harry down, she would be putting the entirety of Wizarding Britain at risk! Just so she could-
He'd woken up, and gotten right to work. But that was just like Harry Potter. Pushing through all the pain he must be feeling to do the right thing. That was a real Gryffindor. Not like…not like her.
As she was standing there, in the middle of the room where they would have had to fight a troll, it hit her. They were going to get hurt. Or worse.
No. He couldn't do this. And she couldn't just let Harry and Ron go to their deaths without at least trying to stop them.
But they didn't care what she had to say. Why would they? She was Hermione Granger, bookworm. Hermione Granger, the girl who would rather read what was happening to others than live what was happening to her. Hermione Granger, the girl who would be known as the one who let Harry Potter and Ron Weasley go to their deaths alone because she was too much of a coward to go with them.
No.
She wasn't about to let that happen. Hermione Granger would not be remembered as the sniffling little girl who sat on the stone floor while others went and did something she'd read about later. If they were going to…to die, then she was going to die alongside them.
For once, Hermione Granger was going to write her own story.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd have friends beside her when she did.
"Wait."
Harry froze, and looked back over his shoulder. Hermione stalked over towards him, her hands balled up into fists. He could even see her knuckles whitening with the intensity of her grip.
"I'm coming with you." She announced defiantly.
Harry sighed dramatically. He was really beginning to regret bringing these two along. Not enough to stop them, admittedly, but it was still annoying. And worrying, his subconscious added. "Do you really have to?" He asked wearily.
Hermione coloured, but stood her ground. "Yes." She replied in that haughty tone of hers that brooked no arguments.
"Alright, c'mon then." Ron cut in. "Let's go." With that, he pushed open the door, marching into the room.
Hermione followed him, stomping past Harry determinedly.
"Well…here we go." Harry said, to nobody in particular.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stormed through the cold stone corridors of the dungeons, whipping his head back and forth with an agility that belied his age. "Harry?" He cried, his tone something between panic and anger. "Harry? Come out my boy, you're not in trouble!"
Nothing. There was definitely something amiss. And he suspected he knew what that something was.
Professor Quirrell had always been an odd man. Prone to stuttering, and afraid of his own shadow, his accession to the prized title of DADA Professor had raised many eyebrows amongst those in the know in Wizarding Britain. Even with the paucity of qualified professors for the subject willing to risk the curse, surely, they argued, there was somebody better than a stuttering moron who habitually smelt of garlic. They weren't wrong. There were plenty of qualified professors willing to brave the curse, if he asked them to. It was highly unlikely, however, that any of those teachers had the strategic value of having the spirit of Voldemort attached to them.
When 'Quirrell' had claimed there was a troll in the dungeons, Albus had believed him. Why wouldn't he? Assuming the man's goal was the Philosopher's Stone, why not put the distraction as far away as possible from the entrance to the gauntlet? When Severus had turned white, and explained Harry was down there, it had all seemed to make sense.
But Harry wasn't down there. Neither was the troll.
For the first time in a decade, Albus was truly, terribly afraid.
He'd been outmanoeuvred. Outplayed, and now his main weapon in the fi-
"Professor!" A squeaky voice shouted from behind him.
Dumbledore's heart leapt for a moment.
"Professor!" The voice said again, closer this time. Dumbledore frowned. It wasn't Harry. He turned around to see the chubby form of Neville Longbottom, red faced and out of breath, charging towards him faster than his usual physical aptitude suggested possible.
"Professor, it's Harry! He's gone with Ron and Hermione Granger!" He breathed heavily in and out, trying desperately to get his next sentence out.
"Do calm yourself, Mr Longbottom." Dumbledore fished in his robe for a moment, before pulling out a yellow lolly, wrapped in plastic. "Sherbet Lemon?" He said, with a calmness that contradicted his rapidly growing sense of anxiety.
Neville waved away the sweet. "No, Professor, you don't understand. It's Quirrell! Harry says he's trying to take the..er" The boy squinted for a moment, and his face adopted a quizzical expression. "Er…Philosopher's Stone! He's trying to take the Philosopher's Stone, and Harry's gone to stop him!"
Dumbledore's kindly façade dropped, replaced with a blazing intensity.
"You're sure? Harry has gone with Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger to stop the Professor from stealing the Philosopher's Stone?"
Neville was defiant. "I know it's hard to believe, but I'm telling the truth, professor, I swear!"
Damnit. Potter was ahead of schedule. The boy didn't know enough about his parents yet to understand the power of love. Not to mention, would his friendship with the young Weasley be strong enough to survive the gauntlet? The tasks had been designed to test the boy's abilities, but young Potter had barely learnt a single spell! How could he complete the flying keys when he barely knew how to fly? And what of Granger? As far as he was concerned-
"Please sir, we need to get the other Professors, and go help him, immediately!"
"Indeed, dear boy." Albus said distractedly as he reached into his robe. "But wait here for a moment, if you would be kind." As his fingers closed around his wand, he surreptitiously looked around, in case any of the faculty were nearby. Nobody. Finally, some luck that had gone his way.
Neville obediently looked up at him as he pulled his wand out. "Are you going to appar-"
A red light shot from the headmaster's wand, striking the boy in the chest. The last thought in Neville's mind wasn't fear, or confusion. It was regret. He'd forgotten to tell the professor about the troll.
Neville slumped, and almost fell, before being caught by Dumbledore's outstretched hand. "My apologies, Mr. Longbottom." He mumbled. "Obliviate!"
Sorry this chapter took so long, everybody, I don't know why, but it was very difficult to write, and I'm still not entirely happy with the final product. But still, it's done now, which I'm greatly relieved by. Hermione's little arc has been wrapped up..ish, by this chapter, so don't expect anything major from her POV for a little while. Also, for any Dumbledore fans out there, this is not going to be a Evil Dumbledore bashing story. He has a plan. He's not evil. I'll say no more, save that I'm really excited to write more of him.