Ch. 2 – Defiance

She read for hours. The fire continued to roar and burned brighter as time passed, its light eventually reaching every inch of the small room. She had no thoughts of sleep or food and her eyes devoured line after line, as if the words on the pages themselves were providing sustenance. There was no longer any question regarding the veracity of the books at least; every word that was spoken by Hermione the character had been spoken by Hermione the reader in the past. She had to admit that it was looking quite clear that they were one and the same, never mind how this situation came about. In the face of the mounting evidence, and after finding herself mouthing along with her dialogue for the umpteenth time, Hermione gave in and let herself be taken in by this new yet familiar world. Reading about herself was interesting enough to say the least, but seeing those same events that she had experienced from Harry's perspective was what truly gave her a thrill unlike anything else. Many times, his thoughts lined up, more or less, with what she had already known or would have predicted. But those few moments when he surprised her or when she gleaned new information about him was when she could sense her heart and mind expanding, gaps being filled and feeling closer to him than ever before.

The second book began with the Dobby situation, in which the house elf had stopped every letter addressed to Harry to convince him that his friends did not care about him; it had worked. Harry had even thought that she and Ron didn't seem to be missing him at all as neither of them had written to him all summer. Hermione recalled on her side how, after numerous letters with no response—letters that she had started anew many times with much crossing out of words, crumpling of parchment and meticulous reviewing of the contents—she had also briefly thought that maybe, the famous Boy Who Lived no longer wished to be her friend for some reason. The fear had only existed in a dark corner of her mind for mere seconds before she forced it out, but true relief had only come after she had found out that Ron had also been unable to get in contact with him. The drop of self-pity she had been harboring had then quickly morphed into a deluge of worry and guilt. After what they had just been through during the school year, how could she have doubted?

Her worries had not been misplaced; Harry's encounter with Dobby resulted in the most infuriating treatment yet at the hands of his uncle. Hermione was revolted as she read: The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry's window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room around the clock.

Shock. Nobody had told her about the cat-flap and the poor excuses for meals that had been shoved through it. The disgust within her grew and hands twitching with anger, she resolved to confront Harry about this later until she imagined bringing the topic up to him and saw the discomfort on his face. Perhaps this was a conversation he would not welcome with anyone—not even her. She forced the down the urge to meddle and instead remembered how during that summer, she had busied herself with schoolwork in an effort to alleviate her dread. When Ron had said in his letter to her that he and the twins were going to "rescue" Harry, she had not thought much of his word choice. But now that she was aware of the conditions he had been forced under, "rescue" seemed all too fitting. Unable to find the words accurately describing how she had been feeling at the time, she had only written in her reply that she had been "really worried" and that she hoped they hadn't done anything illegal (they very much had).

In Diagon Alley when she had finally met Harry (glasses broken and covered in soot) again, she had held back from throwing her arms around him lest she break something else in his current condition with how hard she wanted to squeeze him. After seeing him safe, Hermione had finally relaxed and it was business as usual as she dragged a distracted Harry and Ron off to buy their school supplies. Though as they approached Flourish and Blotts, she had privately let her own thoughts turn to one Gilderoy Lockhart. But could she really be blamed for that though? she thought as she defended her twelve-year-old self. From then on however, she made sure to conveniently gloss over the text, reading much less carefully whenever it detailed her words and actions regarding the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

She became troubled again though as Lucius Malfoy, with his plot to slip Tom Riddle's diary to Ginny, entered the story. Having stayed silent as insults were exchanged between him and Mr. Weasley, Hermione nonetheless clearly remembered the glare of unmistakable revulsion that had passed over his face when he had seen her parents. He had never met them—had not known a thing about them—but had communicated so much contempt in that single look that even her parents had noticed. The ensuing brawl had stayed in all three of the Grangers' minds until they left Diagon Alley. Once they were back in their car and felt safe, her parents had expressed concern for her wellbeing when she was away from them at Hogwarts. Hermione had been forced to reassure them, relative strangers to prejudice considering their status in the Muggle world, that people like Lucius Malfoy were anomalies and that his attitude was hardly indicative of most wizard-kind.

And then it had happened to her. It was shortly after they had settled into their second year at Hogwarts—after Harry and Ron's brilliant idea of arriving in Mr. Weasley's flying car—after Mrs. Weasley's Howler—after Harry's exasperated run-ins and misunderstandings with Professor Lockhart ("It's not funny," she told herself with a huge grin as she read about Lockhart stopping to give Harry advice on handing out signed photos). It was after she, in reaching a level of irritation and annoyance with Draco Malfoy that had never been felt before, had taken a shot at him and his father using their wealth to buy his way on to the Slytherin Quidditch team. She had gotten used to Harry and Ron exchanging insults with Malfoy regularly but seeing his smug little face and remembering the discomfort of her parents that day in the bookstore had made her speak up. Draco had then given her the same look of disgust that had been on his father's face and said to her, "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mublood."

Above everything, Hermione remembered the confusion she had felt. Malfoy had said the word with so much hatred—had clearly said it as the worst thing he could think of—as if it should have meant more to her than to him. She had not known what the word meant at the time but the reactions of everyone else plainly told her that she should have been offended. It was a strange feeling after having it explained to her. Concerns about her Muggle upbringing had played a role in how hard she pushed herself of course, but it was such a small part, dwarfed by her natural ambition and desire for knowledge. But it was as if twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy had managed to sniff it out and twist it into something that was supposed to be utterly shameful. That small insecurity of her background deep, deep within her had been forcefully taken and brought out to the public, opening her eyes to the reality that there were people who did not know anything about her but hated her all the same, simply for existing.

It was uncanny how much she heard the word afterwards, as if everyone's discovery of it mirrored hers. Mudblood this and Mudblood that. When he would deign from his throne of self-importance to even address her and wasn't insulting Harry or Ron, Malfoy never missed the opportunity to casually apply it to her. And between holding back other people being offended on her behalf and telling everyone that it did not affect her, despite her resolve to ignore the constant pricks, in her worst times she would eventually succumb to the weight of it all and let her detractors win for just a moment as she felt horrible shame.

How strangely coincidental then that it was that year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and a monster had been unleashed to supposedly purge people like her to prevent further tainting of the school. With fierce determination, she had attempted to find out everything she could about the Chamber, this instance different from all those other times she had sought information, culminating with her suggesting Polyjuice Potion to find out if Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin. She had broken so many rules without a second thought; if her younger self had been told she would one day be stealing from a teacher's private store during class, the sanity of the messenger would surely have been doubted.

"Oh no," she groaned as she sat up straight in the armchair. She had reached the book's description of the Dueling Club and she was painfully (in more ways than one) reminded of what was coming. She remembered that unpleasant sneer of Millicent Bulstrode that had changed into a look of shock when Hermione successfully disarmed her after Lockhart's countdown. Millicent had then angrily marched up to her and the next thing she knew, Hermione was struggling to breathe. She had feebly hit back, her air supply quickly draining, but her fists only bounced off Millicent's bulk, and she was brought to the ground. She had started to feel lightheaded until Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. Rubbing her neck in pain, Hermione had taken solace in at least finding a single hair that was not hers on her robe, relieved that she did not have to do any additional hair-plucking from students twice her size.

Reading further, it struck her how everybody seemed to have taken stupid potions that year as they avoided Harry, thinking he was the Heir of Slytherin and attacking Muggle-borns when he was around her all that time. That he knew Parseltongue, while a surprise, should not have been enough to suspect him when she did not leave his side. Their bond was already strong enough that any fool should have been able to see that he was not responsible for those attacks. She struggled through the passage detailing when they finally drank the Polyjuice Potion, nervously treading until she reached Malfoy telling disguised Harry and Ron, "But I know one thing — last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's a matter of time before one of them's killed this time… I hope it's Granger."

Hermione blinked with troubled consideration. Was this just another flippant comment of adolescence that she was supposed to simply disregard? Of course she did not think much of Draco Malfoy, but did she want him dead? She was still considering how seriously she should be taking Malfoy when she saw something far more terrifying as her eyes read: They heard the lock slide back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled—

"AHHHHHH!" she screamed as she nearly threw the book into the air. She bolted up from the chair, placing the book facedown on the seat for the time being. Her face grew hot at the unbearable memory and she senselessly paced around with her palms pressed against her eyes before falling to her knees. A low groan escaped her and she wanted to curl up into a ball, eternally grateful that at least at that moment, she was alone. As she finally regained enough composure, she cringed her way through the rest of the description. That incident had certainly put a damper on the rest of the holidays.

The dreadful part over with, Hermione read on as Harry found Riddle's diary. The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T.M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he'd had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But this was absurd.

A frown appeared on her face. What was the reason for this inexplicable pull towards the diary? Did his history with Voldemort result in some kind of connection beyond what was already known? Did he write his name in that diary not on a mere whim, but because a deeper force within had actually made him? Between that possibility and hearing voices throughout the year, she marveled at how he had been able to keep it together. If she had been in his position, she was sure she would have gone mad.

She welcomed a brief moment of levity among all this and took a quick mental note of Ginny's singing valentine with a smirk before continuing on past Riddle's "capture" of Hagrid and the upheaval of Harry's belongings. Another pause was needed as she came across book-Hermione saying "Harry — I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!" She had not known then that it would be her last words to him for quite some time.

It gave her a strange feeling to see the reactions of her friends after she had been petrified, almost like she was observing the aftermath of her own death. She had done the unthinkable and had torn out an excerpt from a library book, desperate to get to Harry and Ron with what she had just realized, aware of the possibility that she could never make it back to them. Outside the library, she had run into Penelope Clearwater and it was not long before they heard the hissing. It was another instance of her fearing for her life as she tried to keep the shaking out of her voice, explaining what she knew to the bewildered older girl. Penelope had pulled out her mirror and looked around the corner with it before crumpling to the floor. Terrified, Hermione had only clutched the torn page of the book harder and scrambled to the mirror. But she had had no chance to even think about escape as she too, saw the reflection of the yellow eyes.

She read on as Harry and Ron went into the forest to see Aragog and were almost eaten before being saved by the flying car, something she still struggled to believe despite having heard the story before. And that had only been the beginning of the danger. As Harry and Ron made their way into the Chamber of Secrets to save Ginny, she was filled with awe as she was reminded of the true extent of the danger they had been in, heartbeat racing as Harry came face to face with Riddle, pulled the sword of Gryffindor and slayed the basilisk.

For her part, she had woken up in the hospital wing, thinking at once to go find Harry and Ron but was quickly stopped seconds away from the door as she was told that the mystery had been solved and the monster defeated, literally just moments before. She had rushed out anyway, reaching the Great Hall with her heart ablaze and had spotted Harry in the middle of the celebratory crowd. Overflowing with excitement and pride, she had run towards him and finally given him that tight hug she had held back that day in Diagon Alley.

The second book drew to a close but she was left with a funny feeling upon reading her final words: "Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won't they? When they hear what you did this year?" Hermione almost laughed at the absolute naivete of her past self. She had not known—had never known—the true extent. And now knowing that more details of the Dursleys' abuse awaited her, she grimly put the book down on the floor atop the first. As she reached for the next book in the stack, she now noticed that the different-colored spines of the four significantly thicker books at the bottom were unmarked. She frowned and glanced at the one on top, the spine and cover both bearing Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and placed it to the side for the time being, revealing the completely blank cover of the fourth book. She tilted her head in confusion and opened it to a random page in the middle. Blank. She turned more pages. Blank. There were over six hundred pages bound together but they were all blank. Her attention turned back to the volumes on the floor that she had already read. After reaching down and flipping through them again, she noticed nothing different. They were just as she had left them, words and all. Still puzzled but sensing what she had to do, she took Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and sank into the armchair once more.

It opened with Ron's disastrous use of a telephone to try and contact Harry. Hermione could only stare dumbfounded as Ron and Harry's Uncle Vernon screamed at each other through the phone causing nearly half the page to be taken up with capital letters. It would have almost been funny if she didn't know that it had resulted in Harry being punished. A week and a half into the summer vacation, a letter from Ron had arrived warning her not to call the Dursleys by telephone and "advice" telling her that she did not need to yell if she did. She had stared at the letter, utterly baffled, for a full minute trying to make sense of it.

Hermione was then relieved to find that the book quickly moved on from the phone call to Harry's thirteenth birthday—and his reaction to her present. She remembered seeing the ad for the Broomstick Servicing Kit in the Daily Prophet and instantly knowing it was perfect as it was something Harry would actually use. She had been on holiday in France, thinking about how she wanted the first birthday present she gave him—the first one that made its way to him without being intercepted by a well-meaning, meddling house elf anyway—to be memorable and was shocked to suddenly see Hedwig outside her window. Harry seemed to own the smartest owl in the world; it was as if Hedwig had known she had been wondering how to get the present to Harry. Hermione had let the owl rest while she wrote a card and letter, the words coming to her much easier this time than the year before when she had been beyond worried for his safety.

As it was becoming routine whenever the Dursleys were involved however, Hermione's mood changed for the worse. The smile from remembering Harry's present quickly disappeared as she was introduced to a Ms. Marge Dursley, who unbelievably, seemed even worse than Harry's uncle. Vernon and Petunia had even made up some ridiculous backstory to pretend Harry was a kind of delinquent as it pleased Marge to be able to insult him freely and complain about how apparently, he wasn't being beaten hard enough. Hermione had heard the story about Marge's fate before but reading about how it had been reached, she wasn't sure if she could even blame Harry. He had tried to the best of his ability to hold back but the horrible woman had simply not let up until it resulted in a Harry who had never felt so angry in his life (up to that point anyway) and ran out of the house.

Thankfully, it was not long before the Knight Bus picked him up and Harry was giving the false identity of Neville Longbottom ("Harry!" she said out loud in reaction) to the conductor. He arrived safely at The Leaky Cauldron and soon, Hermione was reading about how he spent the rest of his holidays traversing Diagon Alley. Her heart suddenly dipped as she was told about his instant longing and fascination of a certain broomstick and how he returned, almost every day after that, just to look at the Firebolt. She nervously braced herself for the events that she knew would come later. The text reached when she and Ron finally found him outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and she followed them into the Magical Menagerie where after Ron and Harry had finished chasing down Scabbers, her book-self came out carrying Crookshanks. She had felt an immediate kinship with the cat after the owner had described him as "incredibly clever but unwanted." Whether it was because of the "squashed" face or otherwise, neither other animals nor humans seemed to want anything to do with him. Hermione reasoned that they had sensed something different, and thus unsettling, about him and had kept away. But it was this difference that drew her to the animal, making her feel as if she had reunited with a long-lost friend when she took him in her arms for the first time.

They boarded the Hogwarts Express and soon, the dementor came. Hermione recalled with a shiver the coldness and the slowly settling sense of despair. Every negative feeling she had kept within—the loneliness, the shame, the fear of rejection—threatened to crawl out and take over her mind. But then she had seen Harry collapse and twitch uncontrollably and she now knew that what she had felt was nothing compared to the terrors he had been forced to relive.

Their third year at Hogwarts was soon underway and Hermione sighed as it began detailing one of her most memorable introductions of a class to date. She had to restrain herself from constantly rolling her eyes at everything Professor Trelawney was saying, each statement more ridiculous and irritating than the last. The old fraud had actually began the class saying, "I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in this field…" Hermione thought to herself herself she should have known right then the subject was useless. If it was truly the case that "the Sight" as the professor put it, could not be taught and one must have an innate ability, didn't that mean then that studying it was utterly pointless? The subject could not be learned! She remembered all the wasted hours she had sat in that room listening to Trelawney rattle on about how fate had informed her of something, how they were all bound by fate and no matter what, that fate could not be changed so they all better brace themselves for the demise that was in store for them. She snorted derisively. So free will was an illusion? They were all some sort of puppets, utterly powerless to resist the thoughts and actions that had been written down for them?

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with mounting dislike. "Definitely mutual," Hermione muttered to herself, before continuing to read Trelawney saying, "You'll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future." Little aura? Resonances of the future? More like very little receptivity to absolute rubbish like her subject. She had seen enough of Harry and Ron making things up for their Divination homework over the years that did nothing to convince her of the subject's worth. It even dawned on her that she had done the old bat a favor by dropping the class when she did, lending Trelawney some sort of credibility in account of her remark that "around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever." It was some lucky coincidence. It had probably not even been meant for her. Trelawney's "predictions" were vague enough that they could fit a number of circumstances and she could pretend it applied when she came across a situation that loosely fit; all the other inaccurate predictions were undoubtedly conveniently forgotten about.

Hermione was rewarded for making it through the telling of Divination class by being reminded of their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson and Malfoy's theatrics regarding Buckbeak, followed by Potions where Snape had told her off for showing off. She sighed in exasperation. This year really had been something else. And this was all before the extra classes and Time-Turner usage.

She reached Gryffindor's Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. The conditions had been terrible that day. She had of course, been keeping her eye on Harry and noticed he was flying very uncharacteristically, causing her to preemptively leave the crowd and make her way down to where the team would take a time-out. After taking care of his visibility issue, she had returned to the stands and resumed watching, noting with satisfaction the definite difference in his movement. And then the dementors came.

He had fallen from the sky along with the rain—an increasingly quickening scarlet blur. With a dark expression, she remembered her scream of terror that had risen above the horrified gasps and how despair had gripped her entire body before he inexplicably slowed down. She had turned and seen Dumbledore angrily brandishing his wand, but her shaking had not stopped until she had found out the fate of Harry's Nimbus and was overtaken with sympathy when she imagined his reaction. Her expression softened as she read, "He knew he was being stupid, knew that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn't help it; he felt as though he'd lost one of his best friends. And just as she had done when she had read about Harry's first encounter with the Firebolt, she braced herself.

The Marauder's Map. His stupid grin as he had asked her, "Are you going to report me?" Another fresh torrent of worry for her as they found out about how Sirius Black had supposedly betrayed Harry's parents. Fearing that he would go search for a mass murderer by himself, she had pleaded with him, tears in her eyes. She wanted to pin him down herself but knew she couldn't really stop him if he put his mind to it. It was hard enough to say no to him in the first place. He drove her mad sometimes, honestly.

With growing apprehension, Hermione reached the description of the Christmas feast. She was momentarily distracted as Professor Trelawney entered the scene, explaining her sudden, surprising attendance: "…I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate?" She spoke as if she was being controlled. Hermione snorted again.

"But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous," she read Trelawney say. "HONESTLY!" Hermione exclaimed.

It was good that she had Professor Trelawney to direct her irritation towards once again because it made her focus not so completely on the misery she was about to relive. She had known what that Firebolt had meant to Harry, had known what she had done was going to upset him a great deal. Upset even seemed too light a word as she remembered the pure fury that had been in his eyes after Professor McGonagall had taken away the broom. She asked herself why she had not just told him of her suspicions and she responded silently in her head. He had already seemed unwilling to listen regarding any matters of Sirius Black at the time. She had been afraid he would do something impulsive so she had beaten him to the punch. That incident had certainly put a damper on the rest of the holidays.

Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that didn't stop him from being angry with her. Hermione wore a sad smile as her eyes passed over the words. She remembered how she had felt all too well. If being angry with her was what it took for him to be safe, then she was okay with that. And she knew he had understood why she had done it even before she read the words. But of course, it did not stop her from retreating back into the lonely darkness of her youth. She had found that she was, once again, burying herself in her work. This time it was in an attempt to fight off the fear that she had ruined the closest friendship she had ever had. Because although she had had many fights and periods of furious silence with Ron, that had been the first time that Harry had been so angry with her that he kept his distance. It had hurt in a different way, mentally preparing herself for a possibility of a life without being by his side because of something she did. Overdramatic perhaps, but it had certainly seemed to be the case at the time.

He had finally approached her after he had gotten the stupid broom back, leaving behind the stupid admiring crowd in the middle of the room, walking over with that stupid grin of his. But all the same, she had felt the wave of relief wash over her, feeling renewed because they were talking again. She had just been feeling as if things were okay again—had let herself relax for a moment before she suddenly had that bloody bedsheet shoved in front of her face. It had all come crashing down again and she trembled reading her own words when she had snapped and had had enough of everything: "Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would! First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything's my fault, isn't it! Just leave me alone, Harry, I've got a lot of work to do!"

Once again, she had let herself be swallowed up by her work, this time adding the responsibility of working on a defense for Buckbeak's trial. Anything to keep her mind off the fact that otherwise, the days were so empty. And then Sirius Black had appeared over Ron's bed with a knife. And then Harry had recklessly sneaked into Hogsmeade again. And then she had received Hagrid's blotched out letter telling her Buckbeak was going to be executed. And it seemed as if she could not even make a dent in her ever-increasing massive workload. So she had broken down in front of them. She knew why it felt so unbearable to apologize. It was a spoken admittance that she was wrong. That she had failed at something. But she had done it—had said "sorry" as she let the tears flow. Everything seemed to matter much less after that. She had slapped Malfoy without a second thought, had stormed out of Divination after Trelawney predicted Harry's death once more and had called her hopelessly mundane. She never wanted to hear about how fate had informed anyone or had caused something to happen ever again.

She was soon tested however, as she read about Harry's Divination exam in which Professor Trelawney spoke in a voice quite unlike her own saying, "The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless…" Her eyes widened in disbelief as she read over Professor Trelawney's words. Knowing what would happen later that night, Hermione stayed still with shock. Her brow furrowed in frustration. Had that been…an actual prediction? From that old fraud? Was what happened with Wormtail that night—her head began to hurt—fate?

"No!" she said out loud. She looked up from the book to stare at the stand which held the remaining volumes. She warily gazed at the two books at the bottom holding up the rest. Things yet to come. Supposedly. She wanted nothing more than to read them then but knew they would be blank.

Hermione returned to the story and grimaced as she read the events play out and proved Professor Trelawney's prediction correct. Lupin's truth came out, Sirius told his story, Snape entered. She, Harry, and Ron attacked a teacher. Lupin transformed. Amidst all that, Wormtail escaped. To rejoin his master. And then the dementors came. Snape had been knocked out. Sirius had fallen unconscious. It had only been her and Harry. The coldness had taken over. And then nothing.

Upon waking up and finding out that Sirius was to receive the Kiss, she and Harry had both been horrified. She had felt the same as him apparently, reading: He had grown used to the idea that Dumbledore could solve anything. He had expected Dumbledore to pull some amazing solution out of the air. But no…their last hope was gone. But then Dumbledore had looked at her.

"More time."

Dragging Harry into that broom closet, she had been puzzled. He had then figured out the insane plan Dumbledore had for them: save both Buckbeak and Sirius. Her face had turned pale as it sunk in and she read over her own words: "If we manage that without being seen, it'll be a miracle!" It was supposed to have been impossible. But they had done it. Together, they had done it. Changed what had happened. Changed fate in a way.

She remembered climbing on top of Buckbeak, terrified. "You better hold on to me," Harry had whispered. And she had clutched him harder than ever before, arms around his waist, head on his back, as they flew across the sky. They had been close. So close. She was reminded again of the magnitude of what they had accomplished now that she was reading and reminiscing.

Hermione finally closed the third book. Dumbledore's statement to Harry was still in her mind: "The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed…" She turned to the remaining books. There were now words stamped on the cover and spine of the next one. But before she could make them out clearly, she suddenly felt her eyelids grow very heavy. The fatigue that had been kept at bay finally came to claim her and as she clutched the third book near to her chest, her vision began to fade.

Her eyes opened and she felt her cheek against the floor. She raised herself up and looked around groggily. What had happened to her? As the sight of the Weasleys' kitchen came back into focus, Hermione suddenly felt terribly hungry, parched, and exhausted all at once. She could feel a headache looming as if someone had literally crammed a thick encyclopedia into her skull and the pain signals had just reached her brain. She stared uneasily at the cupboard in front of her with the sense that somehow, it had something to do with how she had found herself and how awful she felt. Hesitantly extending her fingers toward the handle, she took a deep breath, and pulled a door open.

She found rows of stacked plates and cups and her confusion grew. What exactly had she been expecting? Her head then began to throb as if something was trying to claw its way out. She pressed her fingers to each side of her head and felt the tension subside, gone as quick as it had come

"Hermione? What are you doing on the floor?"

She snapped her head back and saw a perplexed Mrs. Weasley. "Could you set the individual plates, dear?"

"Right," Hermione said weakly. She shook her head, still unsure of what had happened, and grabbed a pile of plates to begin setting the table for dinner.

The next day's meal preparation proved to be much less stressful than the previous night's. Fleur had gone off to her part-time job at Gringotts and both Mrs. Weasley and Ginny seemed to be in a far better mood for lunch. Ron had also been ordered to help now that he had seemingly regained his cognitive ability following Fleur's departure. After Hermione and the two youngest Weasleys had eaten their fill of sandwiches, they sat at the table wondering how to spend the rest of the day when Crookshanks lazily wandered in. Upon seeing her cat, Hermione felt a sudden sharp pain in her head and a scratchy, ghostly whisper in her ear. She rubbed her temples with a frown as she wildly shook her head.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" Ginny said.

"What's wrong?" Ron added with a raised eyebrow.

Crookshanks jumped onto Hermione's lap and she scratched him behind his ears.

"Nothing," she muttered. But the voice came back. It repeated itself first in a low murmur, then grew louder and clearer with every repetition until it finally materialized as a concrete word in her head.

"Cat-flap," Hermione said out loud. Another word followed. "Bars," she said.

Ron and Ginny looked at her in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

Hermione ignored the question and instead hugged Crookshanks as she stood up and moved out of the kitchen and into the living room. "Mrs. Weasley?" she called to the older woman who was sitting on the couch with her eyes closed and mouth open.

Mrs. Weasley's head jerked forward as she sat up. "Yes? What is it, dear?"

As she opened her mouth, Hermione realized how strange her sudden question would seem but she asked anyway. "Have you heard anything about Harry lately?"

Mrs. Weasley looked to her in surprise. "Harry? No, dear. Not since Dumbledore sent the message earlier. But he should be coming some time tomorrow morning. Why?"

"It's…nothing," Hermione said. Why indeed had she asked that? She had just been told about Harry last night. Nothing could have changed in that short period of time. But it was as if an inexplicable force of unknown origin inside her had pushed her to ask—had told her that it was important to do so. And why had those words—cat-flap, bars—randomly appeared in her consciousness?

She walked back to the kitchen in a daze, letting Crookshanks down on the floor and watching him scurry out to the yard before sitting back down at her chair.

"...What was that about?" Ron asked.

"I…I…don't know," Hermione said. "I can't explain it. I just…felt something."

"About Harry?" Ginny asked in surprise.

"No, it wasn't about Harry specifically," Hermione said. "But…"

"You think he's in some kind of danger or something?" Ginny said.

"How would you know that?" Ron said. "And besides, he's with Dumbledore, isn't he? He's fine."

"I know. He should be fine," Hermione said earnestly. "But…I just…I don't know. It doesn't make sense to me either."

Ron frowned. "You're not going mad on me, are you?"

Hermione did not answer.

"Let's go outside," Ginny suggested. "Clear your head."

"Okay."

They all stood up from their chairs and were on their way out the door when Hermione heard the voice again; there was a strange familiarity about it. "Open it," it said.

"Open what?" she said out loud.

Ron looked at her in confusion. "Nobody said anything."

"Hermione, is this some kind of joke?" Ginny asked with a frown.

Hermione stared blankly at Ginny for several seconds before deciding. "Yes," she said.

"Well, it wasn't a very good one, was it?" Ron said. "You were never really the funny type though."

"…Let's just take that walk," Ginny said, not seeming entirely convinced.

"Hang on," Hermione said. "Go ahead, I'm just going to check something." She saw Ron and Ginny exchange bemused looks but they stepped out ahead of her.

Hermione doubled back to the kitchen, heart rapidly pounding. "Just go outside," she heard a different voice—her own—telling her. What was she even doing back in the kitchen? The pain returned and pressing deep into the sides of her head, she scanned the area, looking for any type of clue to what was going on with her. Her eyes then locked on to the cupboard in the corner. A feeling of strangeness passed over her. "Just go outside," her voice told her again. "Cat-flap. Bars," she heard the ghostly voice say again. And thinking of Harry again, without being able to explain why she did it, she marched over to the cupboard and flung the doors open.

The darkness peered back. The air changed. She saw the red door at the end of the hall. And she remembered.