The Hogwarts Express rattled as it approached Hogsmeade Station, slowing with a screech of its brakes. Inside the compartment, Hermione Granger wrestled with her bag, trying to cram her books inside without toppling the precarious tower she'd built throughout the journey. Her frustration was palpable, each tug of the zipper accompanied by muttered complaints.
"And what makes it worse," she said, her voice tight with exasperation, "is that Snape is the one who's going to present her with those robes. In front of everyone! Like it's some kind of victory parade!"
Harry Potter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his arms crossed as he tried to find the right words to calm her down. "I don't think anyone's happy about it, Hermione," he said cautiously.
"No one except the Slytherins," Hermione snapped, yanking the zipper closed with a sharp tug. "They'll be cheering her on like she's some great hero. It's disgusting. Winnick deserves better than this."
Ron Weasley leaned back in his seat, looking more exasperated than upset. "Look, I'm not saying it's right, but what do you expect? The Harbinger Tournament is still a Ministry-recognized event, and Gilda won. She's going to get the recognition, no matter how... awful it is."
Hermione turned sharply to him, her eyes flashing. "Awful? It's barbaric, Ron! She didn't just win—she killed someone. And now she's being rewarded for it!"
Harry sighed. "It's not like anyone's pretending what happened wasn't horrible. But the Ministry regulates the tournament, and according to the rules, she technically didn't break them. That's why Dumbledore isn't stepping in—it's not something he can overrule."
Hermione scoffed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "He could still refuse to let Snape present her with the robes. This is Hogwarts, Harry, not some gladiatorial arena. What kind of message does this send to the rest of the school?"
Ron stood, stretching as the train began to slow further. "It sends the message that the Harrows always get what they want. We already know that. Why are you surprised?"
Hermione glared at him, her cheeks flushed with indignation. "I'm not surprised, Ron. I'm angry. Angry that Winnick's family has to live with this. Angry that Gilda gets to walk around like nothing happened."
Harry reached for his bag, his tone quiet but firm. "She's not exactly walking around like nothing happened. You saw her on the platform. She's not trying to hide that scar. If anything, she's using it to make herself look even more untouchable."
Hermione hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. "It's still wrong. And I'm not going to sit there and pretend it's fine when Snape hands her those robes. I'm going to be sick."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look. Ron shrugged helplessly, while Harry reached out and touched Hermione's arm lightly. "We're all going to feel it, Hermione. But you can't let her get to you. She's dangerous."
Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I know she's dangerous. That's why it's even more important to stand up to her. If everyone lets her walk around acting like some untouchable queen, what does that say about us? About Hogwarts? About Winnick?"
Her voice cracked slightly on Winnick's name, and she pressed her lips together, fighting to stay composed.
The train came to a screeching halt, and Hermione straightened, her jaw set with determination. She grabbed her things, adjusting her bag over her shoulder, and took a deep, steadying breath.
"All right," she said, more to herself than to the others. "Let's go."
With renewed conviction, she slid the compartment door open—only to have it slammed shut in her face as Gilda Harrow strode past with the other Slytherins in tow. Gilda didn't so much as glance at her, her expression calm and unbothered as her hood framed her striking features. Caliban perched on her shoulder, his red eyes glinting as he let out a low, guttural sound that made Hermione's skin crawl.
Behind her, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson followed, their smirks daring anyone to get in their way. Eleanor Selwyn brought up the rear, her expression more subdued, though she gave Hermione a fleeting, almost apologetic look before the group disappeared down the corridor.
Hermione stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides. "She slammed the door in my face," she said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with rage.
She made a move to storm after Gilda, but Harry and Ron each grabbed one of her arms, pulling her back into the compartment.
"Hermione, no!" Harry hissed, his grip firm.
"She's not worth it," Ron added, holding her tightly.
"Not worth it?" Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising. "She just—" She broke off, her chest heaving as she tried to pull away.
"Please, Hermione," Harry said urgently. "You don't want to get into it with her. Not now, not like this."
Ron nodded. "She's clearly decided she's not lying low this year. She wants people to know she's still at the top. Don't give her the satisfaction."
Hermione stopped struggling, but her hands remained clenched, her knuckles white. "She's vile," she spat. "And I can't believe I have to sit there while Snape parades her around in those robes. Winnick deserves better than this circus."
Harry and Ron didn't argue, their expressions grim. They knew nothing they could say would make it better, not when Hermione had been so clearly shaken by Winnick's death.
As they stepped out onto the platform, Hermione adjusted her bag and glanced toward the carriages waiting in the distance. The thestrals were invisible to her, but she could see the reins waver as they shifted restlessly in their harnesses.
She frowned, her mind racing. Only those who had seen death could see the thestrals. It struck her suddenly that Gilda could probably see them now.
The thought made her stomach churn. It wasn't just that Gilda had seen death—it was that she had caused it.
With a deep breath, Hermione turned away and followed Harry and Ron toward the carriages. She couldn't let herself get distracted. Not now. There were bigger battles ahead.