A/N: Thank you so much for all your kind reviews! Now, onward to year six...
Summer passed in a haze of sunshine and slow recovery. Her release from St Mungo's left her a little stiff and prone to episodes of fatigue, but otherwise well. Her parents were told it was due to an incident at school and Hermione adamantly did not give them any more details than that. After all, magical accidents were common at Hogwarts, and she was fine now. No harm done.
They never spotted the scar. It was an odd thing; a vine-like, twisting line across her front that went from around her liver up to between her breasts. When they had released her, it had been purple, like someone had dribbled paint across her torso, but she caught it changing colour sometimes. She'd spent hours during those first weeks with her bedroom door locked and sat on the ground in front of the window, watching how the sunlight caused it to ripple between dark shades of purple and blue and green. It was bizarrely beautiful, but incredibly conspicuous and difficult to hide behind summer clothes. She was glad to watch it fade and hoped it would only be a mild discolouration by the time it fully healed. That sounded easy enough to obscure with clothes, or even charms if necessary.
Her parents fretted, of course, and she felt terrible for lying about it all. They could tell she was distracted by something, especially when she read the Prophet, but she became irritable when they questioned her about it, and Hermione was ashamed to say she was relieved when it came time to go to the Burrow.
It was nice not to have to worry about checking her neckline was high enough to cover the scarring. Ron and Ginny had their own fair share of marks from that night, after all, if not as dramatic or serious as Hermione's. When the Weasleys had first spotted the sinister discolouration peeking above her shirt, their eyes widened in horror, but the delicate location ensured that they never stared.
The months passed in Mrs Weasley's cooking and watching Crookshanks chase gnomes around the garden. Harry's happy arrival mid-July brought O.W.L. results, his birthday, and the year's booklist. Hermione was relieved to find her exam results would allow her to take all the N.E.W.T. classes she'd planned on (though she eyed her Defence "Exceeds Expectations" with bitterness) and waited for the Diagon Alley trip with excitement and nervousness.
She hadn't thought of Draco Malfoy at all until she saw him through the window of Madam Malkin's. He was just as pale and pointy as usual, though he'd grown a little, and stood a few inches taller than his mother beside him. They were both as pretentious and haughty as ever, and it sent Hermione's blood cold.
Harry and Ron came up behind her, deep in a conversation about broomsticks. She whirled around.
"Hermione?" asked Harry.
"Can't we go to Flourish and Blotts?"
"What? But we agreed, remember? We'll go get robes first, then books, then Ron and I want to look at —"
"Yes, but can't we go now?" She fished for a suitable lie; she'd never been very good at this. "There's a new book released this month — I just remembered — a brand-new discovery about ancient arithmancy. It could completely revolutionise our understanding of prime numbers! Please, can't we go now? We'll still get robes after!"
For a moment, they just stared at her, then shared an exasperated look.
"Thank you!" she cried and looped her arms through theirs to bodily drag them in the opposite direction.
"Harry, could you imagine if Hermione was this mad about Quidditch?"
Harry sighed in longing. "If only."
She lingered by the window of the bookshop, absently flipping through one of the new books on display for passers-by. Harry and Ron had disappeared somewhere deeper in the shelves, dutifully locating the requisite textbooks with the understanding that Hermione would need significant time to peruse.
In reality, the volume in her hands was one of the recently released self-help manuals by the Ministry, full of absolutely rubbish information on Voldemort, the Dark Arts, and how to defend oneself against all of the above. In Hermione's opinion, it wasn't fit for publication or advertisement as anything other than outrageous propaganda.
Her eyes flickered to the street again, and — there. Draco and his mother stepped out of Madam Malkin's, bags in hand, and continued down the street with their patent sneers. The sight of him made Hermione sigh in unexpected relief. The Prophet had said little to nothing about the Malfoys, other than Lucius' incarceration, and Hermione had no idea what that meant. They'd been on almost friendly terms until the Department of Mysteries. What would he do when faced with her in public? Alongside his mother? With Harry and Ron?
It would be a bloodbath. She was incredibly glad she'd managed to avoid it.
"We've got all our books, Hermione. Are you ready to go?" asked Harry hopefully as he and Ron shuffled over, weighed down by textbooks.
"Oh — sorry, I haven't even done school shopping yet." They groaned while Hermione, with a final glance at the Malfoys disappearing down the alley, disappeared into the stacks with relief.
The next time she saw him was through the window of his compartment on the train. He'd failed to show up at the meeting in the prefects' carriage, though everyone had pretended to ignore it. Evidently, he'd felt his time was better spent with his housemates, who were all looking rather serious and self-important.
The shades came down and Hermione jumped back before scolding herself for being silly and continuing her patrol.
The confirmed return of Voldemort had changed the school. Or its student body, at least. Walking down the train, Hermione sensed a communal fear she hadn't felt since third year. This was worse, though. Supposed Death Eater Sirius Black was nothing on You-Know-Who himself. Younger students, especially, were more skittish than usual, and Hermione worked extra hard to be warm and friendly as she herded first-years to Hagrid when they arrived.
"Oi! Hermione — come on!"
"Ron, you're a prefect, too. You should be helping me!"
"They're fine, Hermione. Look — Hagrid's got them all. Now come on — there's hardly any carriages left!"
Hermione let herself be hauled into a carriage and deliberately sat with her back to the Thestral. They were just as horrifying as Harry had described and seeing them made her feel morose; she couldn't stop seeing Sirius' face as he melted into the Veil.
Then again, it was hard not to think of it as she faced the other five who had been at the Ministry that night.
"Hey, Hermione!"
"Hi, Neville. How are you? Your grandmother?"
"Great, yeah. Well, she's furious about what happened in June, but that's alright." Neville grinned and Hermione was momentarily stunned by how much he'd changed. She wondered if facing the witch who had taken his parents from him had anything to do with it.
"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," he remarked.
She shrugged. "St Mungo's fixed me up. I'm fine now."
Glad to see she was well, Neville turned to the rest. "So, year six, yeah? What do you make of our new Defence professor?"
"What," said Ron, "you met him, too?"
"He invited us to lunch in his carriage," explained Harry. "You were doing your patrols. His name's Slughorn. He seems… I dunno. Bit jaunty, maybe?"
"Yeah, jaunty," repeated Ginny, whilst Ron muttered about missing out. "Just who I want to teach me how to defend myself against You-Know-Who."
"Well, at least we have Harry. When are we gonna start D.A. meetings again?"
"Neville, that was only because Umbridge was so — well, useless," said Harry, taken aback. "I don't think we need to do it again. I'm not even sure I'd have the time." Neville looked crestfallen, and Harry quickly added, "Of course, if this Slughorn bloke's a disaster, I'll see if we can arrange something."
"I'd like that, too," chimed Luna. "It was so nice to have a family at Hogwarts." She nodded to the creature pulling the carriage. "They're glad not to be so alone anymore, too."
The Thestral rustled its leathery wings, as though voicing its agreement, and the rest of the journey was spent in quiet contemplation.
Hermione's sombre mood abruptly changed when Dumbledore stood to give his welcoming address.
"Harry," she hissed as the rest of the Great Hall erupted into similar whispers, "what on Earth is wrong with his hand?"
"Oh, right — he didn't tell me, not really. Doesn't seem to be terribly worried about it, though." He squinted. "But it looks a lot worse than last time…"
"Worse?"
Harry swallowed the potato he'd been chewing. "When I saw him in July, it was only his fingers. Now it looks like his whole hand's gone."
It looks dead. It was revolting, frankly, and Hermione put down her fork, too disturbed to eat anymore.
If something was wrong with Dumbledore, that was… not good. Not good at all. She wasn't an expert, of course, but Dumbledore was a powerful wizard with a great deal of knowledge, and if something had managed to do that to him, she couldn't imagine how Dark and powerful it must be.
She listened as the headmaster described Tom Riddle as a student and shivered. To imagine Voldemort here made her uncomfortable. More than that… violated, maybe. Around her, students seemed to be feeling something similar. She didn't look to the Slytherin table.
"And now, onto happier affairs. It is with great pleasure that I announce Professor Hagrid will be returning to us to resume Care of Magical Creatures…"
Cheers from the Gryffindor table. Hermione glanced around the Great Hall, wondering about the rest of the student body. So many of them had fallen for the Ministry's propaganda last year. Sure, they'd loathed Umbridge, but almost no-one had believed Harry or taken his warnings seriously.
"Despite some rather creative staff rearrangements last year, and Professors Trelawney and McGonagall are happily back at their regular posts…"
Would they grasp the seriousness of the situation now? Clearly Dumbledore thought they needed a healthy dose of fear.
"Of course, we do have a new face at the table this evening. Allow me the pleasure of introducing Professor Horace Slughorn who will be taking on Potions this year —"
"What?!"
"Which, of course, gives our dear Professor Snape the thrilling opportunity to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts."
"NO!"
Hermione grabbed Harry by the robes and tugged him back down from where he was about to climb onto the table.
"I'm sure you will all join me in wishing them both the very best of luck in their respective ventures."
The Slytherins cheered while the rest of the school looked like they'd just been condemned. Harry was seething.
Hermione chanced a glance across the hall and spotted Draco, an odd smile on his lips, but otherwise looking pensive.
Later, while Harry fumed in the common room, Hermione mulled things over. She'd known this year would be unprecedented, but in the course of one evening she'd been handed more unexpected turns than she'd anticipated. It wasn't a good sign.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, Ron. I swear, Dumbledore didn't say anything about Slughorn teaching Potions when he took me to meet him."
"Blimey."
"I can't believe Dumbledore would let Snape —"
"We know, Harry," snapped Hermione. She'd grown sick of this. They had classes tomorrow. She didn't want to stay up all night bickering about this.
"What d'you reckon Snape just has us practice the Cruciatus on each other?"
"How could you say that, Ron? Look," she sighed, hands on her hips. She would put them in their proper place, and then she'd be off to bed. "Snape is still a member of the Order. And even if you don't trust him, Dumbledore is still in charge of the school. He won't let anything happen."
"He didn't stop Umbridge," mumbled Harry.
Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She saw the scars on his hand in the firelight.
I must not tell lies.
She bid them both good night and went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be better.
