.
.o.
Blaise was enjoying a moment of solitude when the precious, snark-free quiet of the library was profaned by rudely unmuffled footsteps. He peered over the top of his charms text to find the Grand Swotceress herself hesitating just past the end of a nearby isle, dark hair pulled back into a big, curly poof of a ponytail, ink-stained fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bookbag, a determined look on her golden-brown face— which gave him some suspicions as to why she'd approach him now, after two years of consummately avoiding all things green and silver.
But assumptions, as Mamma liked to say, could be dangerous. So:
"Is there something you want?"
She straightened up a bit, hands stilling, and said: "Yes– your recommendations on literature one should read to develop a thorough understanding of blood supremacist ideology."
That… took him a moment to parse.
"You… want me to recommend you books about blood purity."
"Yes. Specifically ones that propose political action based on blood purity, if possible."
"…might I ask why?"
She blinked. Frowned. "Is it not obvious?"
He suppressed a frown. "I would have thought you'd try to avoid… all of that."
She crossed her arms, shifted her footing– "Would you try to avoid learning about a potion someone's likely to try to poison you with?"
Point.
He considered for a moment, imagining the opinions of his peers. Some would object to the idea of sharing such things with a mudblood, others would advocate for it while firmly concealing any emotion about it, and others yet would find the idea hilarious.
Thankfully for his curiosity and social standing, none of them were present.
"You won't find what you're looking for here," he said. "Not in this library."
A frown that was almost a pout. "And why not?"
He shrugged. "That depends on who you ask."
A glare. "Is there a third interlocutor present?"
Hm. Formal language to mask discomfort, or just a side effect of eating so many books?
"The Headmaster," he said, watching her expression carefully, "has a certain degree of control over the library. He can't have books removed from it, but he can have them relocated to the Restricted Section."
Her frown turned thoughtful. "But why would he restrict access to books about ideology? Dangerous spells I would understand, but…"
Again, he shrugged. "I wouldn't dare presume to speak for the Headmaster."
This seemed to vex her.
There was a smudge of ink on her left cheek. He wondered how long it had been there. How many people had seen it and said nothing?
(How many had laughed behind her back?)
He flipped to a fresh sheet of paper, thought for a moment, jotted down a few titles, slid it across the table towards her– and when she made to take it, he didn't let go.
"Why ask me?" he asked.
Hesitation. Wariness?
"Well," she said, "you're not surrounded by blood bigots, for one."
He raised an eyebrow, and waited.
A huff. "You never are. Surrounded by them, I mean– not like Malfoy or Parkinson. You hang around them, not with them. And you don't bully people, either. Or— at least not in any obvious way that I've seen."
Had she been less controversial, he might have asked just how long –and how carefully– she'd been watching him.
Instead he just watched her, until she fidgeted.
"For someone who spends so much time in the library," he said, "you're not very comfortable with silence."
She scowled– and it might have been a trick of the light, but her hair almost seemed to bristle.
"Books don't stare at me," she said.
He refrained from quipping about the sort of books likely to do exactly that, and instead asked: "How are you not used to being stared at, the way you flap your hand about in class?"
He immediately regretted it, even as he internally scoffed at how soft some of his peers in other houses were. Granger almost flinched, for Circe's sake, hands seeking her bag-strap again, eyes glaring–
"I'll thank you to keep your assumptions about me to yourself," she sniped.
"Will you really?"
A pause. Some blinking.
Merlin's pants, was he flirting with The Mudblood?
Blaise took his hand off the list, and nodded to it. "You should be able to owl-order most of those. Though I wouldn't open them in the Great Hall if I were you– not unless you want to have some awkward conversations with the other noble lions. If those books don't completely put you off, I'm willing to provide further reading. For a price."
"Right." She shifted nervously. "Thank you, er…"
Years of etiquette training warred with aversion to conflict– because Granger thinking herself familiar with him would most certainly cause some conflict.
He decided to stare.
"I'm Hermione," she offered. "Hermione Ijeoma Granger."
"Ijeoma?"
Another beat of hesitation. "It's Igbo— one of the principal native languages of Nigeria. It means 'good journey', in the sense of fruitfulness and/or safety."
Hm.
Blaise… wished she hadn't said that. She was far too intriguing already.
"So… 'bon voyage'?" he asked.
That perked her up. "À moitié! Parlez-vous français?"
Merda.
"Bien sûr," he said as evenly as he could. "Celui qui limite sa langue limite son esprit."
Her eyebrows began to rise. Her lips began to smile.
"Parlo anche italiano," he added. "Ovviamente."
"Clairement."
Blaise closed his book and started packing. Someone seeing this and whinging about it to Malfoy or Parkinson was the last thing he needed. But Mamma didn't raise a stronzo, so: "Tu peux m'appeler Zabini."
She blinked. "C'est… ton prénom?"
"Cela ressemble -t-il à un prénom?"
A stiffness came over her then. Her hands tightened around the bag-strap. She set her jaw like she was bracing for a bloody duel.
"By the way," Blaise said, standing, "there's some ink on your cheek."
"Oh. Oh!"
He did his best not to make a face as she used her sleeve to scrub at the smudge.
"Thank y—"
"Granger."
"…what?"
"It's best if—" you stay away from me. "If we don't speak in public."
The phrasing didn't matter. She still looked like he'd slapped her in the face— for all of five seconds. Then her eyes narrowed, her hair definitely bristled, and her hands lowered to her sides, clenched into fists.
"I see," she said.
Despite himself, Blaise sort of wished she did.
But if it took a bit of hurt to avoid the trouble she could unwittingly bring him, so be it.
Years later, staring at her blood-smeared, flame-wreathed visage in the paper, Blaise wondered what course his life might have taken if he'd played that interaction just a bit differently— softened his voice, for example, or explained himself a little more. If he had chosen curiosity and friendship over peace and quiet.
He liked to think he would have cultivated a mighty ally… but plenty of people had probably thought that, and look where that had gotten them.
Between staying ahead in classes, honing her spellwork, and studying blood purist rhetoric, Hermione barely noticed the Twins' uncharacteristic lack of joviality.
Ron said they'd lost something and wouldn't say what— but the Twins could be rather secretive, and the mental gymnastics of magical aristocrats were really much more interesting (in an utterly repugnant sort of way).
Then Lockhart completely failed to demonstrate his famed prowess or any sort of practical knowledge, and she had to block out time to design an entirely new defense curriculum for herself, Harry, Ron (who did not appreciate her hard work), Neville, and anyone else who expressed interest. No one had yet, but it was the principle of the thing.
(She really had to look into the hiring process at some point…)
"You're next, mudbloods!"
It rang in her ears long after the crowd had dispersed, after Dumbledore had assured them that no student could have cast the spell, after they'd been herded back to the tower.
You're next.
Dumbledore had been gaining magical knowledge and skill for over a century. He had defeated Grindelwald, and frightened Voldemort. The Headmaster was also the wardmaster, and Hogwarts had some of the most powerful wards in Britain— making it extremely unlikely that the culprit was some unknown infiltrator.
That left the faculty.
You're next.
Every member of the faculty had been working at Hogwarts for at least a decade, save for one.
"Harry," she said. "Ron. Whatever you do, don't be caught alone with Lockhart."
Neither of them needed to be told twice.
Hermione's dormmates, on the other hand, did not appreciate her concern. Hermione's dormmates thought evil couldn't possibly lurk behind a pretty smile, and that Hermione was mad for thinking otherwise.
She probably could have been a mite more tactful about telling them how foolish that was.
Hermione did not storm out of Professor Binn's class, but she came very close. She had been hoping for history, not childish ghost stories!
"Hermione, where are y—"
"Library."
"But what about lunch?"
"What about it?"
"…nothing. Mind if we walk with you?"
"We?" said Ron. "Mate—"
He then grunted, grumbled, and followed along. Hermione didn't look back for details.
Thankfully there was a prefect around to look out for her so the boys didn't have to. They would have also missed dinner, if they'd stuck around.
Harry did sneak her some bread, because he was a treasure.
Harry had just gotten settled in the study hall when a very large, very old-looking book thumped the table in front of him. Said book was attached to a very frizzy, very tired, very intense- looking Hermione.
"Hello?"
"The first written mentions of the Chamber of Secrets don't appear until 1438," she said.
"Oh." He blinked. "Really?"
"Slytherin disappeared in the eleventh century."
"Right. I knew that, I think."
"Multiple noble houses were known to foster muggleborn children well into the eighteenth century— including several that claimed descent from Slytherin!" Hermione was no longer using her inside voice. "Which, by the way, wasn't even his name!"
"Wait, what?"
"'Slither' wasn't even a word until the fifteenth century!"
"Hermione," Neville said carefully, "how much sleep have you—"
"Slidrian was a nickname referring to the time he won a battle by freezing a hillside while his enemies were climbing it!"
"That's… pretty clever, actually."
"Yes, remind me to research what spell he might've used." Hermione collapsed into a chair. "Anyway, the first recorded use I could find of the phrase 'pure-blood' wasn't until 1780. The first texts that paint all muggle-borns as threats to Secrecy don't show up decades later— and even then, most of them were advocating for a return to the practice of abducting muggleborns as babies and raising us in magical families so that we'd have no loyalty to the muggle world! Which is obviously horrible, but also pragmatic in a weird, twisted way, not just– just blindly hateful!"
Harry considered owl-ordering a dicta-quill.
"Considering that the practice of waiting until we're eleven to tell us anything is post-Statute policy, Salazar would have had no reason to hate muggleborns in general! The ones raised by christians , maybe, but—"
That was when she got hexed.
"Maybe a civilized family should have snatched her up as a child," Parkinson sneered across the room. "They could have raised her to know when to shut up, unlike her filthy muggle parents."
Silence.
There had been plenty of ugly looks and snide whispers, of course, but no one had been so blatant about it before (with the perpetual exception of Malfoy).
Harry's chair screeched back across the floor as he stood.
"I know some muggles very well, Parkinson," he said quietly, but very clearly. "Petty, nosy muggles who can't feel good about themselves unless they're making someone else feel like shite. You'd fit right in with them."
Parkinson went puce. Ron laughed, but it was too loud and fake and mean , and then wands were out—
Hermione found herself both relieved and oddly frustrated that a prefect arrived before anything else could happen.
She had, however, apparently poked the proverbial beehive. Or snake's nest, or what-have-you. There was certainly plenty of hissing.
"—not even smart, just spends all her time memorizing books because she's got nothing better to do—"
"—should stick to voodoo dolls and chicken-blood—"
"—why on earth would Potter keep her around if she wasn'tdoing all his work for him?"
"—heir will get her next, just wait."
"She'll be next."
"You're next!"
Ron, Harry, and Neville, bless them, started escorting her everywhere. Penny and the Twins had a habit of showing up whenever someone got a little too loud or aggressive with their comments, and Hermione had seen them walking younger muggleborns to and from classes.
Things were alright... for a few days.
"Malfoy?" She asked. "You think Draco Malfoy opened the Chamber of Secrets?"
Ron crossed his arms. "Well, who else could it be? You saw how he crowed about it!"
"Malfoy is the least subtle person in the castle," she said. "Besides, Dumbledore said it couldn't be a student."
"He said a student couldn't have cast a spell to do that," Harry chimed in. "But what if it was a cursed object or something? Ron, didn't your dad say something about the Malfoys hoarding dark artifacts?"
"He says a lot of things about the Malfoys, mate."
"Well, he's not the only one," said Hermione. "According to the Tonkses, most people think Lucius Malfoy lied about being imperiused— or at least falsified it somehow. People are waiting for him to slip up so they can get him back into court— and I'm sure he knows that. Why would he risk his freedom on something as insane as this?"
"Because he knows he can just buy more people off if he gets caught!"
It continued like this for some time. Ron refused to even consider that the Malfoys might not be responsible, while Harry mostly stayed out of it. Hermione told them she would believe Draco was involved when she saw proof of it. Ron said something that cut just a little too close to the 'walking encyclopedia' comments. Hermione noticed the fire flaring up, and excused herself before things could get out of hand.
Ron didn't speak to her for a few days after that.
Then Colin Creevey was found petrified.
.:.
The Weasley Twins insisted on escorting the trio to the first meeting of the Duelling Club.
"Ah," she said, upon sighting the frilly, flamboyant presence on stage.
"Hrm," said Gred.
"Indeed," said Forge.
"Right," said Ron. "Still have copies of that defense plan?"
Lockhart got loud before she could get smug.
She ignored the looks her friends gave her when Snape paired her off with Bulstrode, focusing on the warmth of the wand in her hand.
Bulstrode raised hers—
"Expelliarmus!"
—and lost it.
Hermione twisted, trying to catch the wand and showing her back to Bulstrode in the process— which was how she ended up in a headlock with a vicious hand yanking at her hair as the absolute troll hissed in her ear:
"Cry for your filthy monkey parents, mudblood!"
Fear turned to rage turned to heat, flashing through her—
Bulstrode shrieked. Hermione stumbled forward, suddenly free, scalp stinging, eyes watering.
"Whoa!" One of the twins caught her by the shoulders. "Firebug indeed!"
She dashed her tears, and turned.
Bulstrode was hunched over between a worried Parkinson and Greengrass, left sleeve smoldering, her right hand a livid, painful pink.
Then Madam Pomfrey bustled over, blocking her view— and Harry was called up to the stage.
"Wait wait wait." Hermione laid her hands flat on the table. "Wait. You found out you can speak to snakes and just… never did any follow-up research?"
Harry shrugged, eyes darting around the Library. "For all I knew, it was the snake that was weird."
She shot him a deeply skeptical look. He shifted in his chair, and her disapproval dwindled into squirmy guilt. Harry had more than enough people making him uncomfortable already.
"What other accidental magic did you do?" She asked. "I— well, I suppose you've seen what I did. Or a version of it, anyway— I swear it's not usually that violent. Or violent at all, really— though I suppose I've never been in such a physical confrontation before…"
"Hermione." Harry smiled. "I know. I saw the candles at your Bat Mitzvah."
"You…?" But then why hadn't anyone said… oh. Muggles. Mind-altering Secrecy wards. "Right."
"I turned a teacher's hair blue once," he said. "'Cos he was a— not very nice. Oh, and one time I… was playing tag, and then suddenly I was on the roof."
Hermione blinked. "The roof."
"Mhm."
"From the ground."
"Yeah."
"And you remember this."
"…obviously?"
She closed her eyes for a moment. "Right. So either the Ministry doesn't obliviate half-bloods or you're a special case of some sort, probably because of Dumbledore's mysterious protections."
When she opened her eyes again, Harry was frowning. "But you remember your accidental magic."
"Yes, but that mostly happened at home, where only my parents could see. If I'd done something as dramatic as apparating in public, I would have been…"
She trailed off.
"Hermione?"
She had wondered more than once if the atypical ease with which she memorized things had anything to do with her magic… and she had yet to find satisfactory answers on what exactly obliviation did to the physical structure of the brain.
"Hermione!"
Oh. He'd been talking. How embarrassing.
"That's it, we're going to Pomfrey."
How were obliviators even selected? How were they vetted? If people like Lucius Malfoy could strut about blatantly influencing politics and the most prestigious school in the country occasionally hired possessed murderers, how thorough could she reasonably expect the Ministry to be about screening its agents? What if there were blood purists in the Adjustment Corps? What if those blood purists had found her family? What if—
"—just started breathing— well, like this, and I couldn't get her attention—"
There would be no record of any crimes—
"Not to worry, I see this every time NEWT season rolls around."
No defense against them—
"Miss Granger, I need you to drink this."
What?
Oh. Pomfrey. Hospital wing? Yes. Because something was wrong with her— something had probably been done to her and she couldn't remember it—
A hand gripped her jaw and tipped her head back, another poured something thick and faintly minty poured into her mouth and she couldn't spit it out because her mouth had been forced shut so she had to swallow—
When her thoughts (and her heart-rate) slowed down again she was seated on a cot, squeezing Harry's hand rather tightly.
"Alright?"
She nodded, mostly out of habit.
"Right," said Madam Pomfrey, bustling over. "Mister Potter tells me you think your memory might have been modified as a child?"
Another nod.
"Well, I am not a mind-mage, so I can't actually check, but from what I've heard of your talents, it's entirely possible. I can, however, assure you that you were not obliviated."
"…what?"
"Obliviation erases memories, Miss Granger. That's all well and good when it comes to adult minds, but with the minds of children, growing and changing as quickly as they do, it would be much riskier— which is why it has been illegal to obliviate a child under the age of twelve since the mid-18th century. If your memories were altered before Hogwarts, it was done via suppression, not erasure."
That… made quite a lot of sense. It did not, unfortunately, address her primary concern.
"What are the possible side effects of childhood memory suppression?" She asked.
"Again, I am not a mind-mage. I'm sure Madam Pince could direct you to some very thorough literature on Ministry regulations. Medically, however, you are in perfectly good health. Now—"
"You're not telling us something," said Harry.
Hermione stared at him. She'd never heard him interrupt an adult like that— or seen him direct that piercing look at one.
"We're talking about Hermione's brain, and there's something you're not telling us. Why? Is it bad?"
Madam Pomfrey regarded him sternly for a long moment, then sighed and flicked her wand. The curtains closed, blocking them off from the rest of the hospital wing, and Hermione heard a faint buzzing—
"Like any professional," said Madam Pomfrey, "I have my theories. Unconfirmed theories. Theories it would be irresponsible of me to share with young students without thorough studies to back it up."
The young students shared a worried glance.
"Theories come from observations," said Hermione. "What have you observed?"
Madame Pomfrey crossed her arms and stared for another moment. Then: "Both I and other faculty members have noticed, in the nearly thirty years I've worked here, a higher incidence of eidetic or near-eidetic memories amongst muggleborns than amongst their magically-raised peers."
Silence.
Harry turned to Hermione.
"You…" she paused, retracing her train of thought to make sure hadn't gotten lost— "You think our magic reacts to childhood memory suppression by… what? Bolstering our capacity to remember?"
"I'll leave the metaphors to the experts, but yes— that is what I suspect, based on a relatively small number of imprecise observations. You're welcome to research it yourself, of course."
"Why haven't you? Surely you're better equipped to do a study than any student!"
"I am quite busy keeping you all in one piece," said Madam Pomfrey.
Again Harry spoke up, again with that piercing look: "But that's not the only reason, is it?"
The healer narrowed her eyes. "No. There are larger concerns and regulations involved, not to mention bureaucracy, and that's all I'll say on the matter. Now run along— I believe you two have class in a few minutes."
Perhaps during a normal school year (or as normal a year as Hogwarts ever had) it would have been easier to interview her muggleborn peers about their accidental magic and cognitive quirks. Behind hunted, however, put a bit of a damper on such things— but she had still almost managed to talk Patrick into it when Justin Finch-Fletchley was found petrified.
Five paces from Harry.
On one hand, the majority of her schoolmates were apparently blithering idiots, and Harry was clearly miserable to the point of agoraphobia. On the other, the Slytherins seemed to be wary of antagonizing a close friend of their potential heir. Also, Malfoy looked constipated for a few days. Hermione wished she'd brought a camera.
Nonetheless, being a good friend, she vocally defended Harry to anyone who would listen, backing up each point with research.
She probably should have foreseen the consequences of inflicting actual historical facts about one of the beloved Founders on her peers.
.:.
The first note showed up on January 5th. It was there when Hermione opened her charms book, scrawled across a shred of parchment in crimson ink.
MUDDY SKIN, MUDDY BLOOD.
She looked around instinctively— but she was in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by people that had vocally against blood purity all year. And she'd had the book open in the library earlier, and during Binns' class…
No matter. Whoever it had written it only did so because they weren't getting to her with their childish whispering.
It smoldered as she crushed it.
How long do you think you have left? read the note she found on her desk in Transfiguration. She showed it to Professor McGonagall after class, asking if she recognized the handwriting. The Professor did not.
The next morning a small paper airplane flew into her head in the Library. By the time she got up, the footsteps had faded away. She set her jaw and unfolded it.
Ten galleons says you're the one who dies this time.
An hour later she had successfully cast the Notice-Me-Not Charm for the first time.
No one bothered her on her way to and from classes. No hexes flew at her, and no whispers dogged her steps. Gazes slid past her in the halls.
Hermione felt like she could really breathe again for the first time in months.
Flaws in the Blood Purist Argument
- Lily Potter neé Evans
- No textual evidence of Salazar Slideren hating all muggleborns
- 'A&MN' Houses fostered muggleborns well into 18th century
- Without muggleborn influx, magical population would be half of current size (research magical inbreeding)
- Steam engine, cameras, toilets— all muggle inventions!
- Muggle population size & military technology— if the risk of exposure is so great (video cameras!), does it not make more sense to be less hostile toward muggles?
- If it's about protecting & preserving the magical world, how do you explain the six 'pure' families wiped out by DEs?
- My marks vs Parkinson's (or Bulstrode's, or Goyle's)
- Dumbledore, Grindelwald, McGonagall, Harry Potter— all half-bloods
The problem with a Notice-Me-Not, of course, was that it did absolutely nothing to repel someone who was looking for you specifically.
"Granger!"
Hermione turned just in time to catch a stinging hex in the teat. Bulstrode snorted. Parkinson sneered as she swept past, wand twirling, but there was no flash, no spell Hermione could see—
"You can't hide from us, filth."
Clearly a change of strategy was in order.
Hermione had no luck with the disillusionment charm— and slapping hexes and prank spells wouldn't protect her.
That left defensive magic.
After their next potions class she dragged Harry and Ron to an out-of-use classroom Tonks had told her about, spelled the door locked and less noticeable, and got to work.
None of them had any luck with the shield or stunning charms, and expelliarmus seemed like a bit of a mouthful for situations where a fraction of a second could mean the difference between life and death.
She could reliably cast several different fire charms, as well as the levitation, summoning, and banishing charms— and had, according to her parents, wandlessly summoned her books as a small child. As her capacity to love books and her magical control had exponentially increased since then, she saw no reason she shouldn't be capable of replicating the feat.
She abhorred the thought of using a book as a shield, and couldn't think of any equally portable items to block spells with… but her admittedly limited forays into military history suggested that even the mightiest enemies had trouble attacking when they were busy defending.
Hermione was levitating her heaviest textbook when she remembered that the incantation for the slapping hex —Slæsik— wasn't Latin. Neither were some of the spells she had seen Professor Babbling use… and some languages were more concise than others.
There was, of course, the Diary.
When Harry told her it wrote back, Hermione immediately suspected the Protean Charm. Harry said that it said it was a memory, which only strengthened her suspicion; clearly someone was having him on for a potentially nefarious purpose, and he should take the thing to Dumbledore immediately.
Harry said he would— which made for an unpleasant surprise when he pulled it out three days later and asked if the Protean Charm could show you memories like a telly.
"Explain," Hermione commanded.
Apparently either the Diary itself or the person on the other end of the charm wanted Harry to think that Rubeus bloody Hagrid had opened the Chamber.
It was, perhaps, a bit tactless to mention Tonks and Charlie's warnings about Hagrid having a slightly skewed perception of danger when it came to magical beasts.
Ron looked at her like she'd just praised Malfoy, and Harry— Harry's expression went frighteningly neutral. She hurried to say that Hagrid obviously had nothing against muggleborns, but things were still awkward for a while.
And then the sodding thing disappeared, which meant that someone in Gryffindor was potentially connected to the Heir.
Soon Hermione had very little mental or magical energy to spare for anything that wasn't schoolwork, self-defense, or research on the Chamber. Her study of blood prejudice fell by the wayside. Her marks fell to EEs, and she barely even cared. Academics wouldn't matter to a statue— or a corpse.
.:.
On May 10th, she nearly scalped Pansy Parkinson.
The second-year Gryffindors had been on her way to lunch when Malfoy's lot stalked into the corridor and immediately started in on her, Harry, Ron, and Neville. Knowing they wouldn't draw their wands with so many witnesses, Hermione made a valiant effort of ignoring them— and when that didn't work, pictured them as toddlers poking her for attention.
Then the bint threatened her family.
"Draco," she mused loudly, "do you think your parents would like another house elf?"
"I suspect that would depend on the elf. Why?"
"Well, I seem to recall a mention of the practice of rescuing young mages from uncivilized circumstances and taking them into proper households. You know, so they can learn their place. What might your father think of that? He certainly has the gold…"
Hermione froze mid-step, hand clenched around her wand as terror sparked into rage.
Giggles echoed through the corridor.
She spun on her heel, envisioned snatching Parkinson's wand out of those dainty, ornamental fingers, stabbed her wand at the harpy, and hissed:
"Sheli!"
Mine.
A flash of red, a gasp, wood whistling through the air—
Parkinson's wand shot neatly into Hermione's bookbag.
A hush fell over the corridor. Hermione looked at the shocked, confused faces of her tormentors, and could only think of how profoundly easy that had been.
Again she raised her wand.
The Depilatory Hex was made for plucking annoying hairs. Every hair on Parkinson's head was annoying.
"Extirpat!"
A shrill shriek echoed off the stone walls, startling the Slytherins into action. Wands were drawn, Hermione raised her bookbag like a shield, Harry and Ron started hexing—
After two years of practicing levitation sans baton, Hermione needed no incantation. A wave of her wand pulled the marbles out of her bag, and a series of vicious flicks sent them whistling forward. More yelps and shrieks echoed through the corridor, green-trimmed figures stumbling and flailing, shielding themselves with manicured hands as she launched another salvo—
"Expelliarmus!"
A red flash thumped into her chest, and her wand leapt from her fingers.
"Now!"
Another flash yanked her feet out from under her, tossing her down onto cold, hard stone tailbone-first. Hermione looked up to see four furious Slytherins stalking towards her, wands aglow, and threw her hands up to shield herself with a desperate:
"Protego!"
Heat and light flared through her eyelids. Gasps and shouts filled her ears, and she flinched— but no hexes came.
"'Mione!"
She opened her eyes.
Her sleeve was on fire.
Only when Harry had patted it out did she notice the wide circle of empty stone between them and their peers. The wide-eyed staring from lions and snakes alike. Parkinson was sniveling, trying to hide her half-bald head, Malfoy's face was bruised, Bulstrode's eye swelling shut, Nott clutching his ribs—
Then McGonagall showed up.
The walk to the Headmaster's office was a blur, as was everything said en route. Hermione's heart was a frantic drum and her thoughts a panicked rush as she wondered what exactly she had just cast and tried to reassure herself that there was no way the Malfoys could just take her from her parents even as she realized she'd just left several pureblood heirs bruised and bleeding and tried not to hyperventilate as she remembered the photos she'd seen of the Wizengamot chambers except with herself in the Chair of Judgement—
The Headmaster, thankfully, kept Calming Draughts on hand— though under the combined gazes of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape (though his was really more of a glare), the potion only did so much.
"Miss Granger," said McGonagall, "it has been some years since I was last so appalled by a student's behavior. I did not take you for a girl who would resort so viciously to violence— and over mere words!"
"What of Potter and Weasley?" Snape sneered. "Were their wands not also drawn when you arrived?"
"Indeed they were." McGonagall regarded them sternly. "And while it is usually admirable to defend one's friends, it is also a disservice to protect them from the consequences of their own actions."
"They were talking about stealing her away from her family!" Ron shouted. "Parkinson and Malfoy—"
"Parkinson and Malfoy," said Snape, "did not assault their fellow students with projectiles."
He then set a marble on the Headmaster's desk.
Hermione's heart sank into her gut. She felt very hot and very cold at the same time.
"Mister Potter," said the Headmaster, looking and sounding very disappointed, "Miss Granger. Mister Weasley. Please be honest: do you truly believe we would allow a student under our care to be abducted from her home? Have we earned so little of your trust?"
Hermione thought of little Colin Creevey, lying still in the hospital wing. She thought of hexes and whispers and threatening notes, her potions exploding in her face, of Professor Snape insulting her to the laughter of his snakes—
"Miss Granger," said McGonagall— and then, more softly: "Hermione. You are much too intelligent to resort to such rash, aggressive behavior."
That struck a chord inside her— and struck it wrongly.
(Was Toussaint L'ouverture not intelligent? Were the assassins and saboteurs of the French Resistance not as well?
Was it not smart to know when to fight?
Maybe that was her mistake— perhaps she had picked the wrong moment, the wrong battlefield.)
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
Hermione stared at the desk in front of her for a long moment. Then she looked McGonagall in the eye, and said:
"May I ask a question? For the sake of clarification?"
The Professor's lips somehow pursed even tighter. "If you must."
Hermione took a deep breath. She looked at Snape, with his cold eyes and disdainful sneer. She looked at Dumbledore, with his grandfatherly disappointment. She looked at McGonagall, with her matronly exasperation.
All half-bloods.
When, she wondered, had a muggleborn last been employed at Hogwarts?
A question for later.
"Are you familiar with the word nigger, Professor?"
Snape twitched. McGonagall blinked, eyes widening.
"It's quite popular in some parts of the United States," said Hermione, struggling to keep her voice even, "amongst those that harass, assault, and even murder people who share coloring with my father. With me. That word is not an innocent expression of the speaker's opinion; it is a reminder of violence that has been and is being done— much like a certain word that's quite popular here at Hogwarts."
"Be that as it may, Miss Granger—"
"'Mudblood' is no mere insult, Professor— no mere word." A hot rush of feeling filled her then, straightening her back and strengthening her voice. "It is a threat of violence, and I have a right to defend myself whether or not this superstitious, backwards society—"
"Miss Granger!"
Hermione clamped her jaw shut, and focused on breathing. On glaring at the carpet, instead of at people with the power to expel her.
For a moment there was silence, save for her own heavy breathing. "Clearly this has been building for some time," said Professor McGonagall. "Your detentions, therefore, will center on anger management. Every weekend for the rest of the term."
Hermione said nothing. She had nothing left to say. Not to McGonagall.
She wondered if Ted Tonks or Lily Evans (or any of their dead friends) had ever sat in this chair feeling what she felt right now.
"Am I understood, Miss Granger?"
"Yes," she said.
McGonagall's eyebrows twitched up in a warning Hermione no longer cared to heed.
"Mister Potter. Mister Weasley. You will join Miss Granger in detention for escalating the situation instead of removing her from it."
"Yes, Professor."
"Yes, Pr'fesser."
"Good. Back to your dormitories, then."
Harry and Ron hurried for the door— only to pause when they saw Hermione, though she had risen from her chair, was not following.
"Deputy Headmistress," she said. "How would I go about having my academic records sent to Académie Lys-des-Cendres?"
Silence.
(For a moment it was 1978, and Minerva was looking at a very different face.
Not since the War had any muggleborn transferred out of Hogwarts.
She examined the girl's expression, her posture, and saw not the fiery, impulsive anger of a few minutes past, but something controlled, something grimly determined.)
"Miss Granger," said McGonagall, "I understand your concerns."
Academically, perhaps, Hermione thought.
"I was, after all, not so much older than you when last the Chamber was opened— but now, unlike then, the faculty and the prefects are taking every reasonable precaution to ensure the safety of our students."
Had they said the same to Myrtle Warren?
"Transferring out of a school as prestigious as Hogwarts is not a choice to be made lightly. However, if by the end of term your feelings have not changed, we can most certainly discuss it further."
As if it hadn't even occurred to her that Hermione might have been considering this for some time.
(How could she praise her intelligence, then speak to her like she was an impulsive child?)
Hermione stared at her for a moment.
McGonagall's imperious eyebrow-raise seemed to have lost its power. Curious.
"Was there something else you needed, Miss Granger?"
Need was a strong word— but she did feel compelled, and let that compulsion reign, reciting from memory:
"Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection."
And then she turned and left, the boys trailing dazedly after her.
She never did make it to those detentions.
.
.:.
Twenty-six days later, a very bruised, very exhausted Harry Potter watched Madame Pomfrey pour steaming green potion between his best friend's stony lips.
For an endless moment afterwards, nothing happened.
Then her color started to change. Splotches of healthy brown slowly bloomed through that horrible grey, until she looked like she was only sleeping.
She twitched— first her face, then her fingers, then her arms, neck, legs, back, as if a puppet-master was randomly tugging on her strings.
Her eyes fluttered open, and Harry slumped in relief— but then he saw how they were darting about, wide and confused, and how quickly she was breathing—
"Hermione? It's alright, you're safe now."
She raised her trembling hands and stared at them, breath coming in ragged gasps—
"Hermion—"
That was when she started screaming.