The morning light streamed into her eyes far too soon, but Hermione dragged herself out of bed nonetheless. Her mind buzzed with the remnants of restless dreams, fragments of conversations, and the lingering tension from last night's events. She had barely slept, her thoughts consumed by worries about Harry, the looming threat of Voldemort, and the endless uncertainties of the future. She looked at the side table near her bed; she had finished seven hats in her sleepless night of "what ifs."
She dressed mechanically, her hands moving on autopilot as her mind replayed the events of the evening. She could still see the haunted look in Harry's eyes after his first Occlumency lesson, the way he had winced in pain and the weight of the secrets he carried. She wished there was more she could do to help.
Descending the stairs to the common room, Hermione found Ron awake, looking equally sleep-deprived. His eyes met hers, and they shared a moment of silent understanding. They both felt the strain of their responsibilities and the constant worry for their best friend, the Boy Who Lived.
"Morning," Ron muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Morning," Hermione replied softly, forcing a small smile. "Ready for another day?"
Ron shrugged, his expression mirroring her own anxiety. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"How's Harry?"
"Just got up," Ron said, glancing towards the boys' dormitory. "He should be down any minute now."
"Any more…" Hermione searched for the words. "...issues?"
"No," Ron said simply, just as Harry shuffled down the stairs.
Together, they walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. When her Daily Prophet arrived, she smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front page, and gave a yelp that caused everyone in the vicinity to stare at her. She looked again, not trusting her tired eyes.
"What?" said Ron and Harry together.
Unable to speak, she spread the newspaper on the table in front of them so they could see for themselves. She pointed to the ten black-and-white photographs that filled the whole front page, nine showing wizards' faces and the tenth, a witch's. Some of the people in the photographs were silently jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each image was captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban. Hermione couldn't believe the words staring up at her:
MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN
MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT" FOR OLD DEATH EATERS
Her eyes drifted down.
"Antonin Dolohov," read the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at them, "convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett."
Hermione glanced at Ron involuntarily, realising they were his uncles.
"Augustus Rookwood," said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, "convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic secrets to He Who Must Not Be Named."
"Bellatrix Lestrange," read the words under the dark and unkempt witch with an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth, "convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom."
Hermione looked down at the table but did not see Neville. She needed to check on him as soon as she could.
Harry seemed not to understand what he was looking at. She nudged him and pointed to the headline over the pictures announcing the mass breakout.
"Black?" said Harry loudly, "Not—"
"Shhh," whispered Hermione desperately. "Not so loud! Just read it!"
The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.
Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.
'We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped,' said Fudge last night. 'Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals, and we beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached.'
"There you are, Harry," said Ron, looking awestruck. "That's why he was happy last night."
"I don't believe this," snarled Harry. "Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?"
"What other options does he have?" said Hermione bitterly. "He can hardly say, 'Sorry, everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort' - stop whimpering, Ron - 'and now Voldemort's worst supporters have broken out, too.' I mean, he's spent a good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore are liars, hasn't he?"
Hermione didn't wait for an answer. She ripped open the newspaper and continued reading:
In the wake of this alarming development, Minister Fudge has displayed exemplary leadership. He has swiftly mobilised the Ministry's resources, deploying the finest Aurors to track down and apprehend the fugitives. The Minister's quick actions are a testament to his dedication to the safety and security of the wizarding community.
Among the escaped prisoners are several notorious Death Eaters, whose crimes date back to the dark days of Voldemort's reign. Notable among them is Bellatrix Lestrange, a known criminal with a history of violent acts. Other escapees include Antonin Dolohov, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and other dangerous individuals who have been a menace to our society.
The Ministry is leaving no stone unturned in its efforts to recapture these individuals. Minister Fudge has assured the public that these escapees, while dangerous, are being actively pursued and that their capture is imminent.
In a show of transparency and accountability, the Ministry has released the names of the escapees to the public:
Mulciber, known for his use of the Imperius Curse
Augustus Rookwood, a former Unspeakable convicted of passing Ministry secrets to Voldemort
Travers, who was involved in the murder of the McKinnons
Jugson, another known Death Eater
Walden Macnair, notorious for his brutal enforcement as an executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures
Thorfinn Rowle, known for his violent tendencies and participation in several attacks
In a related statement, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, emphasised the Ministry's proactive measures. 'We are taking every possible step to ensure the public's safety,' said Umbridge. 'The Ministry's response has been immediate and effective. Our Aurors are working tirelessly, and we are confident that these criminals will be back in custody soon. We urge the magical community to remain calm and trust in the Ministry's efforts.'
Despite the challenges posed by this escape, the Ministry remains steadfast in its commitment to protect the wizarding world. Increased security measures have been implemented at critical locations, including the Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade. Additionally, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will see enhanced security protocols to safeguard its students.
Minister Fudge has also called for a thorough review of Azkaban's defences and the methods used to contain high-risk prisoners. This proactive approach underscores the Minister's dedication to preventing such incidents in the future.
For ongoing coverage and updates on this developing story, stay tuned to the Daily Prophet. Remember, under Minister Fudge's vigilant leadership, the safety and security of our community are in capable hands.
Hermione had to fight the urge to scream. She shifted her eyes to the staff table, trying to control her breathing. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped against a ketchup bottle and was reading the front page with such concentration that she was not noticing the gentle drip of egg yolk falling into her lap from her stationary spoon.
At the far end of the table, Professor Umbridge was tucking into a bowl of porridge. For once, her pouchy toad's eyes were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped down her food, and every now and then, she shot a malevolent glance up the table to where Dumbledore and McGonagall were talking so intently.
Hermione looked down at the newspaper, unable to bring herself to look at Umbridge any longer. Another article caught her eye.
TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER
St Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a pot plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr Bode, who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.
Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr Bode's ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement:
'St Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.
'We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards, but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr Bode's bedside table. As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom but a cutting of Devil's Snare, which, when touched by the convalescent Mr Bode, throttled him instantly.
'St Mungo's is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward.'
Hermione gasped. "Oh my!" she exclaimed.
"What now?" said Harry quickly.
"It's horrible!" said Hermione. She felt as though everything was falling apart around them. The boys quickly scanned the article.
"Bode…" said Ron. "Bode. It rings a bell."
"We saw him," Hermione whispered, sure that her voice would crack if she tried to speak. "In St Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She—the Healer—said it was a Christmas present." She knew that plant looked familiar. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in her throat.
"How come we didn't recognise Devil's Snare? We've seen it before… we could've stopped this from happening," Harry said, voicing precisely what Hermione had been thinking.
"Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?" Ron said sharply. "It's not our fault; whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat—why didn't they check what they were buying?"
While she appreciated Ron's defence of their actions (or lack thereof), she had to get him to understand exactly what had happened. "Oh, come on, Ron," she said shakily. "I don't think anyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realise it tries to kill whoever touches it. This—this was murder… a clever murder, as well… if the plant was sent anonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who did it?"
"I met Bode," Harry said slowly. "I saw him at the Ministry with your dad."
Ron's mouth fell open in realisation. "I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable—he worked in the Department of Mysteries!"
That was the final straw. Something needed to be done. Her eyes re-scanned the front page of the Daily Prophet with mounting frustration. The headline about the mass breakout from Azkaban screamed at her, every word dripping with the Ministry's desperate attempt to maintain control over the narrative. It was blatant propaganda, a farce designed to shield Fudge from the glaring incompetence that had allowed ten high-security prisoners, including Bellatrix Lestrange, to escape.
And, as if that wasn't enough, the article on Mr Bode's murder was buried deep within the paper, almost as an afterthought… though, with his affiliation with the Department of Mysteries, she doubted it was an accident. The tone itself was dismissive, suggesting his death was an unfortunate incident rather than a calculated act of terror by the Death Eaters. The implications were staggering, yet the Prophet spun it to minimise fear and redirect blame away from the Ministry.
Her blood boiled with every paragraph. How could they be so blind? So complicit in deceiving the public? The Wizarding World deserved better than this web of lies and half-truths. People needed to understand the true dangers they were in—the real threats posed by Voldemort and his followers.
Her thoughts raced. She considered the DA and their response to the Ministry's refusal to teach them the necessary information. It was their rebellion against the misinformation and enforced ignorance, their way of taking control of their own education and safety… but it wasn't enough. The DA was a small group within Hogwarts. The entire Wizarding World needed to be armed with the truth.
She also thought of SPEW and her attempt to fight for the rights of house-elves and open the eyes of her fellow students to the injustices right under their noses. It was about more than just the house elves, though; it was about standing up against a system that thrived on the subjugation and ignorance of the less fortunate and the ill-informed.
It was all connected. The Ministry's propaganda, the lies in the Daily Prophet, the unwillingness to see or acknowledge the truth—it was all part of the same apathetic disease. Apathy and fear kept people in line, kept them from questioning authority, from standing up and fighting for what was right.
Hermione felt the fire ignite within her. She needed to take action. They all needed to fight back against the lies, to expose the truth, and to rally the Wizarding World… and there was one person she knew who could help them do it, one person who could wield the power of the press for good—if she could be persuaded… and if Hermione could stomach it.
Hermione leapt to her feet.
"Where are you going?" asked Ron, startled.
"To send a letter," said Hermione, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "It… well, I don't know whether… but it's worth trying… and I'm the only one who can."
As Hermione sat down to write what could potentially be the most consequential letter of her life, her thoughts drifted back to her last encounter with the letter's recipient: Rita Skeeter.
Before travelling to Headquarters, Hermione had known it was time to let Rita out of her jar prison. She couldn't risk exposing the scandalous and opportunistic journalist (a term she used loosely) to whatever secrets the summer would bring.
In her bedroom, the light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the floor. Hermione held the jar containing Rita Skeeter in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. The tiny beetle inside scuttled furiously, its wings buzzing against the glass. Hermione took a deep breath to steady her nerves and reminded herself that she had to do this. She had rehearsed what she would say over and over, but Rita was too unpredictable for Hermione to feel confident about how the conversation would unfold.
Carefully, she unscrewed the lid and placed the jar on her desk. The beetle hesitated for a moment before crawling out onto the wooden surface. Hermione pointed her wand at it, ready to act if necessary. With a small pop, the beetle transformed into Rita Skeeter, who glared at Hermione with unrestrained fury.
"Little Miss Perfect," Rita sneered, her eyes blazing. "You think you're so clever, don't you? Keeping me in that jar all summer! Do you have any idea what that was like? I'm a journalist. I have rights!"
"You're also an unregistered Animagus," Hermione countered, her gaze unwavering despite the anxiety churning inside her. "And if you so much as write one more slanderous article for the Prophet, I'll make sure the authorities know exactly what you are. You'll be facing charges before you can say 'exclusive.'"
Rita's face twisted with anger. "You wouldn't dare. You think you're so clever? So perfect? Always doing everything by the book? You have no idea what you're up against in the real world, or else you wouldn't be threatening me."
"I don't think," Hermione replied calmly. "I know. If you ever work for the Daily Prophet again, if you ever try to use your Animagus form to spy on people, I will report you. And I will make sure they throw the book at you. Who are they going to believe? A straight-A student or a manipulative, conniving tabloid tattler?"
Rita's eyes narrowed, but she seemed to understand the gravity of Hermione's words. "You're playing a dangerous game, Granger," she hissed. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
Hermione's grip tightened on her wand. "I know exactly who I'm dealing with. A journalist who doesn't care about ethics or honesty, someone who will do anything for a story. But now, you have a choice. Stay out of trouble, and you'll stay out of Azkaban. It's that simple."
Rita took a step back, her expression a mixture of rage and grudging respect. "Fine," she spat. "But don't think this is over. One day, I'll find a way to pay you back for this."
"We'll see," Hermione said, her voice steady despite the almost cartoonish caricature Rita was painting herself to be. "Now, get out of my house."
With that, Rita transformed back into a beetle and flew out of the window, buzzing angrily. Hermione watched her go, feeling a mix of relief and tension.
Needless to say, they didn't part on very good terms, and a letter from Hermione would not be met with much openness. Nonetheless, Hermione knew she needed to do it. She dipped her quill in her ink and began to write:
Dear Rita,
I realise you may not be thrilled to hear from me, but I ask you to please read on. Despite our past conflicts, I believe we can be of mutual benefit to each other.
I have something of immense value to offer you, something that could elevate your career to heights you haven't seen in years. However, the nature of our correspondence is too sensitive to discuss through mail, given the current climate of surveillance and scrutiny we are all under.
Therefore, I propose a meeting. On the 14th of February, around midday, I will be at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. I trust you know the place well. We can discuss the details in person, where prying eyes and ears will be less of a concern.
Let me assure you, Rita, this is an opportunity you won't want to miss. Should you choose not to meet, I may be forced to reconsider my stance on certain information I've been keeping under wraps—information about your, shall we say, unique abilities.
I look forward to your response and, hopefully, our meeting.
Yours sincerely, Hermione Granger
She read and reread the letter before folding it into an envelope and taking it to the owlery. Hermione could only hope the promise of the story of the year would trump any ill will Rita harboured against her.
Apparently, when Hermione went to write her secret letter to Rita Skeeter, Hagrid let it slip to Ron and Harry that he had been placed on probation because of his evaluation from Umbridge. As with most Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry gossip, the news spread quickly and became common knowledge within the school. The sad truth was, hardly anybody seemed upset about it; some people, Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seemed positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St Mungo's, Hermione, Ron, and Harry seemed to be the only people who knew or cared.
There was only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumours were flying that some of the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and planning to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had once done.
Those from wizarding families had grown up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken with almost as much fear as Voldemort's; the crimes they had committed during his reign of terror were legendary. There were relatives of their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors: Susan Bones, whose uncle, aunt, and cousins had all died at the hands of one of the ten, said miserably during Herbology that she now had a good idea what it felt like to be Harry.
"And I don't know how you stand it – it's horrible," she said bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to wriggle and squeak in discomfort.
It was true that Harry was the subject of much renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these days, yet Hermione thought she detected a slight difference in the tone of the whisperers' voices. They sounded curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice, she was sure she overheard snatches of conversation suggesting that the speakers were not satisfied with the Prophet's version of how and why ten Death Eaters had managed to break out of Azkaban. In their confusion and fear, these doubters now seemed to be turning to the only other explanation available: the one that Harry and Dumbledore had been expounding since the previous year. Hermione took small comfort that the truth had, at the very least, been acknowledged as a slight possibility.
It was not only the students' mood that had changed. It was now quite common to come across two or three teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the corridors, breaking off their conversations the moment they saw students approaching.
"They obviously can't talk freely in the staff room any more," said Hermione in a low voice as she, Harry, and Ron passed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. "Not with Umbridge there."
"Reckon they know anything new?" said Ron, gazing back over his shoulder at the three teachers.
"If they do, we're not going to hear about it, are we?" said Harry angrily. "Not after Decree... what number are we on now?"
New notices had appeared on the house noticeboards the morning after news of the Azkaban breakout:
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS
Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six.
Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor
This latest Decree had been the subject of many jokes among the students. Lee Jordan had pointed out to Umbridge that, by the terms of the new rule, she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class.
"Exploding Snap's got nothing to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That's not information relating to your subject!"
Hermione had to give Lee some essence of Murtlap after that.
Even with Hermione's help in lesson planning, Hagrid still struggled in class, constantly monitored by Professor Umbridge. Although he hadn't shown the class anything more frightening than a Crup—a creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier except for its forked tail—since before Christmas, Hagrid seemed to have lost his nerve. He was oddly distracted and jumpy during lessons, frequently losing the thread of what he was saying to the class, answering questions incorrectly, and glancing anxiously at Umbridge. He was also more distant with Hermione, Ron, and Harry than ever before and had forbidden them to visit him after dark.
"If she catches yeh, it'll be all our necks on the line," he told them flatly, and not wanting to jeopardise his job further, they abstained from walking down to his hut in the evenings.
Neville also continued to distance himself from Hermione and the rest of the group. Hermione tried to talk to him, but he would just smile sadly and walk in the other direction. However, one day, Hermione happened upon Neville hunched over a table in the library, Ancient Runes textbooks spread around him. His face was a mask of concentration, but she could tell he was trying to avoid her gaze. She took a deep breath and walked over, pulling out the chair beside him.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked softly.
Neville looked up, startled. "Oh, uh, sure, Hermione," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
They studied silently for a few minutes, the only sound of the rustling of pages and the scratching of quills. Hermione could sense Neville's discomfort and knew she needed to address the elephant in the room.
"Neville," she began cautiously, "I know it must have been really tough for you when we found out about your parents at St Mungo's. And now, with the escape from Azkaban…"
Neville's face flushed, and he looked down at his parchment. "I don't really want to talk about it," he muttered.
Hermione nodded, understanding his reluctance. "I get that," she said gently. "It's just... I want you to know that you're not alone. I've been scared, too. With everything happening, the Daily Prophet's lies, and what happened to Mr Weasley… it's all a lot to handle."
Neville sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. "It's not just that," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ever since the article, people have been looking at me with pity. Like I'm some kind of... tragedy."
Hermione reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "I can't imagine how hard that must be," she said quietly. "But you're not a tragedy, Neville. You're one of the bravest people I know."
He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "You don't have to say that, Hermione. I just... I don't want Harry and Ron to look at me like that. I don't want anyone to."
"They won't," Hermione assured him. "They care about you, just like I do. And they respect you. We all do. You're stronger than you think."
Neville looked at her, uncertainty in his eyes. "I just wish I didn't feel so... helpless."
"You're not helpless," Hermione said firmly. "Look at what you've done with the DA. You're learning so much, and you're getting better every day. We're all improving, and a lot of that is because of you."
Neville swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I guess... I guess I'll just have to keep going, then."
Hermione smiled, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "That's the spirit. And remember, Neville, you're not alone. We're all in this together."
They returned to their studies, but the atmosphere between them had shifted. There was a new resolve in Neville's eyes that carried into their next DA lesson.
In fact, Neville wasn't the only DA member who seemed to have a renewed drive after the news of ten more Death Eaters on the loose. Ginny's hexing had reached a whole new level, and even Zacharias Smith was complaining less and working harder. Seamus was diligently perfecting his fire spells, losing less and less hair with each lesson.
Still, no one was working as hard as Neville. He applied himself relentlessly to every new jinx and counter-curse Harry taught them, his face set in determined concentration. He seemed indifferent to injuries or accidents, pushing himself harder than anyone else in the room. Neville was improving so rapidly that when Harry taught them the Shield Charm—a spell to deflect minor jinxes back at the attacker—only Hermione mastered it faster than he did.
While everyone in the DA was making strides in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry was struggling with Occlumency. He confided in them that his scar hardly ever stopped prickling and that he often felt sudden lurches of emotion—annoyance or cheerfulness—that had nothing to do with what was happening around him. These were always accompanied by a particularly painful twinge from his scar. Harry also admitted that he was now dreaming almost every night about walking down the corridor towards the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. These dreams always ended with him standing longingly in front of the plain black door.
"Maybe it's a bit like an illness," said Hermione, trying to remain positive. "A fever or something. It has to get worse before it gets better."
"The lessons with Snape are making it worse," said Harry flatly. "I'm getting sick of my scar hurting, and I'm getting bored with walking down that corridor every night." He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I just wish the door would open. I'm sick of standing there staring at it—"
"That's not funny," Hermione said sharply, her patience with Harry's complaints wearing thin. "Dumbledore doesn't want you dreaming about that corridor at all, or he wouldn't have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You're just going to have to work harder in your lessons."
"I am working!" said Harry, nettled. "You try it sometime—Snape trying to get inside your head—it's not exactly a walk in the park, you know."
"Maybe…" Ron began slowly.
"Maybe what?" snapped Hermione.
"Maybe it's not Harry's fault he can't close his mind," Ron said, his expression darkening.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
"Well, maybe Snape isn't really trying to help Harry…" Ron suggested. "Maybe he's actually trying to open Harry's mind a bit wider… make it easier for You-Know—"
"Shut up, Ron!" Hermione barked. "How many times have you suspected Snape, and when have you ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him. He works for the Order—that ought to be enough."
"He used to be a Death Eater," Ron retorted stubbornly. "And we've never seen proof that he really swapped sides."
"Dumbledore trusts him," Hermione repeated firmly. "And if we can't trust Dumbledore, we can't trust anyone."
Hermione realised, however, that she was saying that as much for her own reassurance as theirs.
Even with everything going on, Hermione still found room in her mind to obsess over Valentine's Day and whether Ron would ask her on a proper date. She couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with anxiety whenever the topic came up. Whenever Harry's date with Cho was remotely mentioned, Hermione would drop hints, her words laden with subtle suggestions and hopeful glances. She couldn't tell if Ron was oblivious or just ignoring them. His apparent lack of response was maddening, leaving her in a constant state of uncertainty. Each time he failed to react, her frustration grew, mingling with the other worries that occupied her thoughts.
One night, while Harry was off at his Occlumency lesson, Hermione decided she couldn't take the stress and anxiety any longer. She found Ron in the common room, hunched over a half-finished essay. Determined, she walked over and sat down beside him.
"Ron, can we talk?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Ron looked up, startled. "Er, sure, 'Mione. What's up?"
She took a deep breath. "It's about Valentine's Day."
Ron's ears turned red, clashing horribly with his hair. "Oh, um, right. Valentine's Day." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding her gaze.
"Well, I've been thinking," Hermione began, choosing her words carefully, "about how... nice it would be to spend it with someone special."
Ron swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. "Yeah, um, that sounds... nice."
Hermione felt her patience wearing thin. "Ron, are you going to ask me to go to Hogsmeade or not?"
Ron's mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, "I, uh, I can't, Hermione. I've got Quidditch practice. You know, on the 14th."
She frowned, feeling a pang of disappointment mixed with irritation. "Quidditch practice? On Valentine's Day?"
Ron nodded vigorously, looking relieved to have an excuse. "Yeah, Angelina's really pushing us hard. Wants us in top form."
Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. "So, you really can't come?"
Ron's face grew redder. "Well, it's not that I don't want to, it's just... I mean, I can't... Quidditch is really important, you know? The team needs me."
She breathed in sharply, feeling the sting of rejection. "I see. Well, thanks for letting me know."
"'Mione, wait—"
But she couldn't let him see the tears starting to form.
On the morning of the 14th, Hermione lay in bed longer than usual, the early light filtering through the curtains casting a soft glow on her thoughtful face. She still hadn't heard back from Rita Skeeter, and the silence only added to her anxiety. She was torn between two unappealing choices: going into Hogsmeade alone on Valentine's Day or staying at the castle and potentially running into Ron while he was "practising Quidditch" or doing whatever he was up to. The idea of wandering Hogsmeade's romantic streets by herself seemed like self-imposed torture, but staying back and feeling the sting of Ron's absence felt just as unbearable.
After a few more minutes of restless contemplation, Hermione threw off her covers with a determined sigh. Lingering in bed wasn't going to solve anything. She swung her legs over the side and stood up, stretching her arms above her head before heading to the bathroom to freshen up. She scrutinised her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, her mind racing. Maybe a day in Hogsmeade wouldn't be so bad, she reasoned. She could visit Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop for new writing supplies or browse the shelves at Tomes and Scrolls. Besides, she might even see Harry and Cho, and that would at least be a distraction. She rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face, and resolved to make the best of the day, even if it meant facing it alone.
Hermione dressed quickly and headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon greeted her as she entered, mingling with the hum of morning chatter. She spotted Ron and Harry at the Gryffindor table, engrossed in a conversation with Seamus about Quidditch tactics. Her heart twinged slightly, but she squared her shoulders and walked over to her usual spot.
"Morning, Hermione," Ron said, looking up and giving her a tentative smile.
"Morning," she replied, forcing a cheerful tone as she reached for a piece of toast.
Just then, the post owls flew through the Great Hall, swooping down to deliver letters and packages to the students. An unfamiliar brown owl dove towards the Gryffindor table and landed directly in front of Hermione. Her heart skipped a beat as she reached for the envelope it carried. She could barely control her eagerness.
"And about time! If it hadn't come today…" she muttered, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a small piece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to right as she read the response:
Dear Little Miss Perfect,
I must say, your timing is impeccable. Given our last encounter, I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or furious to receive your letter. However, the prospect of a good story is something I simply cannot resist, especially when it promises to be as juicy as you hinted.
I'll agree to meet you at the Three Broomsticks today (the 14th) at 3pm, but let's get one thing straight: I expect a proper, exclusive scoop. And don't think for a second that I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart. My career is at stake, and I'll need more than just your word to risk associating with you.
Can you promise me an interview with Harry Potter? If so, I'll be there.
Regards, Rita Skeeter
Hermione hadn't mentioned her plan to Harry for fear it wouldn't come to fruition, not to mention she doubted he would agree to it if he had time to make an actual decision. She had already spoken to Luna Lovegood and looped her in on the potential of a meeting with Rita. While Hermione had no respect for The Quibbler, having the editor's daughter as an ally could be the key to making her plan a reality.
She glanced over at Harry; she knew he had his date (though he had yet to call it that), but Hermione needed him. She couldn't let this opportunity to fight back on a larger scale slip away. "Listen, Harry," she said, looking up at him, "this is really important. Do you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?"
"Well… I dunno," said Harry uncertainly. "Cho might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do."
Hermione had a brief moment of sympathy for Cho; the poor girl didn't realise how unromantic and unobservant Harry James Potter was and was in for a potentially disappointing Valentine's Day.
"Well, bring her along if you must," Hermione said urgently. "But will you come?"
"Well, all right… but why?"
"I haven't got time to tell you now; I've got to answer this quickly," Hermione said, taking off to write a reply to Rita. On her way to the Owlery, as fate would have it, she saw Luna, presumably on her way to breakfast.
"Luna! So glad I ran into you! Listen—"
Hermione's words failed her as her eyes registered Luna's outfit. She wore a flowing, heart-patterned dress in shades of pink and red that seemed to float around her like a cloud. Her earrings were tiny, fluttering cupids, enchanted to occasionally shoot tiny, harmless arrows, and a headband adorned with glittering red hearts perched atop her long, wavy hair. To complete the ensemble, Luna had on a pair of bright red shoes that sparkled with every step, and her nails were painted a shimmery gold. She carried a small handbag shaped like a love letter, adding a final touch to her… unique attire.
"Listen to what?" Luna responded dreamily. "The Wrackspurts are still quietly sleeping."
"Uh, erm—that's, er, good," Hermione stuttered briefly before regaining her train of thought. "Rita Skeeter finally responded! Are you still available to meet with her in Hogsmeade this afternoon?"
"Oh, yes! I've already sent an owl to Daddy, and he is excited about the prospect of publishing anything she has to write."
"Excellent. Then I'll see you around lunchtime, yeah?" Hermione started again for the Owlery.
"It's a Valentine's Day date!" Luna called after her.
Hermione cringed but knew that taking on the Ministry's propaganda machine required sacrifices from them all… and she'd definitely be sacrificing some of her patience by being around Luna Lovegood.
A few minutes later, Hermione had crafted a reply to Rita:
Dear Ms. Skeeter,
I'm glad to hear you're willing to meet. Rest assured, this is an exclusive scoop that will undoubtedly capture the attention of the entire wizarding world. You'll be the first to know about the inner workings and reactions of the people closest to the heart of the conflict, information that even the Daily Prophet hasn't been able to uncover.
As for an interview with Harry Potter, I can't make any promises in writing, but let's just say you won't be disappointed with the information you'll get… but, rest assured, he will be there.
See you around 1pm.
Best, Hermione Granger
Hermione folded the letter and handed it to a school owl for a quick delivery. She watched the owl fly off, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and determination. She knew she was walking a fine line, but the truth needed to be told, and Rita Skeeter, for all her flaws, was the best way to ensure it reached the wizarding world. Satisfied that she had done all she could, Hermione returned to the Great Hall to finish her breakfast and mentally prepare for the day ahead.
As she returned to her seat, Ron glanced up from his conversation and gave her a curious look. "What's all that about?"
"Just... something I needed to handle," Hermione said, siping pumpkin juice. She decided to shift the focus. "How's Quidditch practice looking?"
Ron brightened up immediately, launching into a detailed explanation of their strategy for the upcoming match. Hermione listened, half-distracted, her mind already planning the afternoon's meeting. She couldn't afford any more distractions or doubts; today was too important.
After breakfast, as students began to disperse, Hermione gathered her things. With one last glance at Ron, she took a deep breath and headed out, ready to face the day's challenges and determined to make her plan with Rita a success.