Walking toward Hermione was Professor McGonagall, her familiar figure in a tartan gown, the pointy hat on her head. Relief surged through Hermione at the sight of her. Finally, someone she could trust.

BUT WHAT WAS SHE DOING HERE?

"Professor?" Hermione called, her voice trembling with both hope and confusion.

But something was wrong.

McGonagall's steps were slow, almost too slow like a snail. Her lips twisted into a grin—one Hermione had never seen on her before. It was unsettling, sharp.

Hermione's stomach dropped, unease creeping in.

McGonagall stopped, her eyes narrowing as she looked down at Hermione. Her voice came out cold, unfamiliar.

"No, Miss Granger," she said, her eerie tone lower than usual.

Suddenly, McGonagall's body began to shift, her face twitching and contorting. Her form started stretching unnaturally, growing taller and larger right before Hermione's eyes. The tartan robe, once a perfect fit, began to strain, pulling tight across McGonagall's chest and arms. The seams groaned under the pressure as her body expanded, and the fabric started to tear.

First, the robe split across her chest, the sound of fabric ripping filled the room. Then it stretched down, tearing along her arms and torso, revealing pale skin underneath. The gown continued to rip down her hips, the fabric barely holding together around her giant thighs, splitting further with each passing moment.

Hermione stared in horror as the figure before her grew taller, until she was towering above, more than twice Hermione's height.

When the transformation stopped, Hermione saw the face fully—Madame Olympe Maxime. The remnants of McGonagall's robe clung awkwardly to her massive frame, tattered and barely covering her body. The torn fabric strained across Maxime's broad shoulders and chest, exposing pale skin where the gown had ripped apart. Her arms were mostly bare, the sleeves shredded, hanging loosely around her elbows. The gown, once floor-length, was now torn high up her thighs, revealing strong, muscular legs, with jagged strips of fabric dangling helplessly around them. The robe, clearly never meant for a giantess, was now a ragged mess barely hanging on to Maxime's towering form.

Hermione's voice faltered. "Madame Maxime?" she whispered, her mind reeling. How could Maxime be behind this?

She said nothing, but her menacing presence was all the answer Hermione needed.

Hermione's fury boiled over. "What happened to Professor McGonagall?"

Maxime casually brushed off dust from her torn sleeves, her expression unreadable. "That secret is safe with me."

Without hesitation, Hermione pulled out her wand and pointed it straight at Maxime. "Tell me, or I won't hesitate."

Maxime merely smiled, gliding around the room with an unnerving grace. "You are weak, Granger. Outnumbered. You can't do anything."

Hermione felt the sting of being fooled. "So, all that time I discussed the Skarooth situation with Professor McGonagall—it was you."

Maxime chuckled, mockingly. "Ten points to Gryffindor. You guessed it right."

Hermione's wand trembled in her hand. The thought of McGonagall—so strong and formidable—being harmed was unthinkable. "Did you harm her in any way?"

Maxime shrugged dismissively, as if it were beneath her. "Oh, harm? Just a little. But I think you're really asking if she's alive, or if I've already sent your precious, goody two-shoes teacher to heaven."

Hermione's grip on her wand tightened, her voice low and dangerous. "Mind your words."

Without another thought, she raised her wand, shouting, "Incendio!"

Flames burst from the tip, but before they could reach Maxime, a humanized Dementor darted forward with impossible speed, extinguishing the fire with a chilling breath.

Maxime's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "Take her wand."

The Dementor advanced on Hermione, its cold presence suffocating. Hermione swung her wand desperately, "Expecto—"

But before she could finish, icy fingers wrapped around her wrist, snatching the wand from her grasp. The Dementor turned and handed it over to Maxime.

Maxime glanced at it dismissively. "I don't need that piece of wood. Break it."

The Dementor, without hesitation, snapped the wand in half. The sharp crack echoed through the temple, louder than any sound Hermione had ever heard. It wasn't just a weapon—it had been her trusted companion for six years.

The broken pieces fell to the ground like shattered hopes.

Hermione dropped to her knees, staring at the fragments of what had once been her lifeline.

Maxime sneered, "That's all it took—to snatch away years of your knowledge and magic."

A tear threatened to spill from Hermione's eyes, but she forced it back. "You feel proud of this? Torturing me? Imprisoning your own students? I never expected such cruelty from the headmistress of a prestigious school."

Maxime turned her head in disgust, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Prestigious? You don't know anything, silly girl. Beauxbatons was the best magical school in the world—until our legend died. Until Skarooths went extinct. After that, my school was discarded, abandoned like some bastard child."

Pieces of the puzzle began to click into place for Hermione, her eyes narrowing. "You resurrected a Skarooth using the lives of your own students. Shame on you!"

Maxime's expression darkened, but her voice remained steady, as if justifying a righteous cause. "Why wouldn't I? Our school hasn't had a single opportunity in decades, not even a chance to host the Triwizard Tournament. Beauxbatons has become a last resort, Hermione. Girls don't even want to enroll. They all dream of Hogwarts—the so-called best at everything. When they can't get into Hogwarts, we get the leftovers."

Hermione rose to her feet, her voice sharp with defiance. "You might be tall and strong, Maxime, but your head is as small as your heart. Hogwarts has its reputation because of headmasters like Dumbledore—leaders with integrity, who inspire greatness. Beauxbatons was prestigious because it had a headmistress who led with wisdom and grace, not some incompetent witch clinging to the past like you."

Maxime stomped her foot against the stone floor, her voice filled with venom. "Shut your mouth, mudblood."

The insult stung, but Hermione had endured worse. She straightened, refusing to let Maxime's words sink deeper than her skin.

"Skarooths were a symbol of power and fear," Maxime continued, her voice rising in intensity. "Even Dementors feared them. Every school trembled before us."

Hermione let out a bitter chuckle. "Fear never earns real respect, Maxime. You have to earn that."

Maxime's patience snapped. "Enough with your boring lessons, girl! I will earn what was rightfully mine—and you can watch."

Hermione had never felt so powerless in her life.

Maxime sneered as she circled Hermione. "You won't be interrupting my plans like you always do. I had planned to give the symbols of the wand to my girls—to my Beauxbatons—but then you meddled, didn't you? Talking about Hogwarts students visiting my school, disrupting the spell. And instead of my girls, Ginny, and that Scamander one received the other symbols."

Hermione's eyes flashed. She hadn't even realized she'd interfered with Maxime's spell, but the idea gave her some satisfaction.

Maxime's voice grew colder. "But no interruptions today, Granger. Not this time. I will gladly sacrifice these three girls and claim the Skarwand for myself. Then with the power of that I will raise thousands of Skarooths from the dead."