April 1st was no ordinary day at Hogwarts. It was a sacred holiday for the Marauders, and this year, their pranks were to be nothing short of legendary. Weeks of careful planning, experimentation, and whispered conversations behind Muffliato spells had culminated in a series of elaborate tricks set to unfold throughout the castle. Even Hermione, ever the voice of reason, had been roped into the chaos again, though she claimed her involvement was "purely for the sake of damage control."
Lily, as a prefect, tried to maintain an air of authority but found herself trailing behind the group, equal parts amazed and exasperated. "You know, you're all completely insufferable," she said, arms crossed, though there was a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "And I can't believe you're part of this, Remus."
Remus gave her an apologetic shrug, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Moral support," he said simply, though he was holding a wand suspiciously close to Sirius's bag of enchanted supplies.
The day began with a seemingly harmless charm cast on every mirror in the castle. Instead of reflecting the viewer, the mirrors offered sassy commentary, often poking fun at their insecurities—or in James's case, their egos.
"Looking sharp, Potter," one mirror said with exaggerated admiration. "But maybe don't spend quite so much time preening for Prewett. She already said yes, mate."
James froze mid-hair-flip, his cheeks tinging pink as Sirius practically fell to the floor laughing. "Kitten's already yours, Prongs! Why do you even bother anymore?"
"Because," James replied with mock indignation, straightening up and giving his reflection an exaggerated once-over, "I believe in maintaining high standards."
Hermione, passing by, gave him a playful shove. "High standards or your overinflated ego?"
Another mirror, not missing a beat, chimed in, "Definitely ego, Prewett. But at least he's consistent."
James groaned, muttering, "Why did we let Sirius come up with the dialogue for these things?"
Hermione smirked. "You're lucky I didn't come up with them, or it would've been worse."
Even Sirius wasn't spared, though he pretended to revel in the attention. "Black, you look fantastic," one mirror purred. "But maybe tone it down—you're already the star of your own show."
"Finally, a mirror with taste!" Sirius declared, throwing an arm around Remus, who shook his head, clearly unimpressed.
"Sirius, even enchanted mirrors are tired of you," Remus said dryly.
Lily couldn't resist laughing when the mirror in the girls' bathroom declared, "Evans, don't even bother with the eyeliner today. You're already putting the rest of them to shame."
"Well," Lily said, arching an eyebrow at Hermione as they crossed paths in the corridor, "at least these mirrors are flattering."
Hermione snorted. "Don't let them fool you. That's just how they hook you in before they rip you apart. Wait until the one in the Great Hall gives you fashion advice."
At lunch, the Gryffindor table was filled with students recounting their encounters with the enchanted mirrors, laughter echoing around the hall. Hermione, sitting next to James, caught his eye as he leaned in close. "Tell me the truth," he whispered, his lips twitching with a grin. "Did you have anything to do with these?"
"Me?" she asked innocently, reaching for a pumpkin pasty. "Why would I participate in such juvenile pranks?"
"Because you're dating one of the ringleaders," James replied, nudging her lightly. "And I happen to know you secretly enjoy the chaos."
Hermione just smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Secretly?"
Just as all the students were all seated, chatting, laughing at their respective house tables, the Great Hall suddenly came alive, starting with the Gryffindor lion statue at the front of the Hall serenading students with ridiculous ballads.
"Oh Gryffindors brave, with hearts so true,Charging ahead without a clue!""
The lion's booming baritone echoed off the enchanted ceiling, drawing everyone's attention. James, grinning like a Cheshire cat, gave a mock bow from the Gryffindor table as his housemates burst into cheers and laughter.
"Merlin's beard, you lot are insufferable," Lily muttered, but she couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at her lips.
The Slytherin serpent statue, however, wasn't about to let Gryffindor steal the show. It reared up dramatically, its hissing voice filled with mockery:
"Oh hail to Salazar, cunning and sly,Your schemes are great, but your grades? Oh my!"
The Slytherin table erupted into groans and a few scattered laughs, though one seventh-year muttered something about hexing whoever was responsible.
Lily whipped around to glare at the Marauders. "Did you seriously enchant them to roast everyone?" she demanded, hands on her hips.
Before anyone could answer, the Ravenclaw eagle statue chimed in with an operatic warble,
"Books, books, glorious books,Who needs friends when you have looks?"
Hermione, trying and failing to suppress her laughter, whispered, "That was definitely Sirius's line."
"No way," Sirius countered with a wink. "Kitten's idea. She insisted it had to be 'equitable chaos.'"
"I did not write that line!" Hermione hissed, though her cheeks flushed slightly as James slung an arm around her, grinning ear to ear.
The final blow came when the Hufflepuff badger joined the fray, its jaunty tune spreading cheer even as it delivered a sly jab:
"Oh loyal and fair, hard working to boot,But honestly, friends, where's the pursuit?"
At this, the entire Hall was in uproar—students laughing, groaning, and trading jabs across house tables. Even the teachers seemed torn between exasperation and amusement. Professor McGonagall's lips twitched as though fighting a smile, while Professor Flitwick clapped along to the beat.
"I hate to admit it," Lily said as the statues launched into a coordinated finale, their voices harmonising in a hilariously discordant tune, "but this is… kind of brilliant."
"And that, Lilyflower, is why we are the Marauders," Sirius declared, puffing out his chest.
"Don't you dare call me that," Lily shot back, though her smirk undermined the sting of her words.
As the Hall erupted into a standing ovation—students banging on tables and cheering—the Marauders exchanged triumphant glances. Even Hermione allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Equitable chaos, indeed.
The afternoon chaos began innocently enough during an otherwise mundane Charms lesson. The classroom hummed with focused murmurs as students practised their warming charms, small puffs of heat blooming from the tips of their wands.
"Miss Prewett, would you like to demonstrate?" Professor Flitwick's cheerful voice rang out.
Hermione stepped forward, wand steady, and flawlessly executed the charm, sending a warm glow radiating from her wand. Flitwick beamed, offering a tiny clap of approval, and Hermione returned to her seat with a small, proud smile.
Unbeknownst to the class, Sirius and Remus had been whispering furiously in the back, their heads bent together in suspiciously conspiratorial fashion. The enchanted bag of marshmallows was nestled inconspicuously among the other supplies on the demonstration table, primed and ready.
When the next student approached, Sirius casually flicked his wand under the desk, sending a nearly imperceptible warming charm toward the bag.
It started with a faint rustling sound, like the crinkle of paper. Then, with a sudden pop, the bag burst open, and dozens of tiny, hopping marshmallow creatures spilled out, bouncing across desks and scattering in all directions.
"Merlin's beard!" Flitwick exclaimed, his wand already in motion as he tried to corral the chaos.
The marshmallows weren't just hopping—they were squeaking. Each high-pitched sound was followed by an enthusiastic leap, sending them onto students' laps, into inkpots, and even onto the ceiling, where they stuck for a moment before bouncing off again.
"Sirius Black!" Flitwick's voice, usually cheerful, took on an exasperated edge. "What have you done this time?"
Sirius, sitting smugly with his arms crossed, gave the professor an innocent smile. "They're harmless, Professor. Just… enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic?" Lily repeated, watching as one particularly determined marshmallow hopped into her open bag and disappeared. "You are an actual menace."
"Come on, Lilyflower," Sirius said with a wink, waving a hand at the chaos. "Admit it, this is brilliant."
"It's ridiculous," she muttered, batting away a marshmallow that had landed on her quill. "Do you even think before you pull these stunts?"
"Not really," Sirius said with a carefree shrug. "That's why they're fun."
Meanwhile, Remus was half-heartedly attempting to help Flitwick wrangle the marshmallows, though he seemed more amused than concerned. "They're edible," he pointed out helpfully, catching one mid-hop and taking a bite. "Not bad, either."
"Sirius, I'm docking you five points for this nonsense!" Lily announced, turning her attention back to the jumping sweets. "Honestly, how do you even come up with these ideas?"
"Ten points for creativity?" Sirius offered, his grin widening as another marshmallow leapt onto Lily's shoulder.
"No."
James, who had been doubled over with laughter since the bag burst, finally managed to straighten up. "Come on, Evans. It's harmless fun! Besides, it's Charms—Flitwick loves creative uses of magic."
Flitwick, who had just managed to corral a dozen marshmallows into a floating bubble with a flick of his wand, gave James a weary look. "I admire creativity, yes, but perhaps next time we could channel it into less… disruptive forms?"
Hermione, meanwhile, was diligently collecting marshmallows and stuffing them back into the remnants of the enchanted bag, shooting Sirius a reproachful look as she worked. "Sirius, you're lucky Flitwick is so patient. If McGonagall caught wind of this…"
"McGonagall loves me," Sirius said airily, though he exchanged a knowing look with James that suggested he wasn't entirely sure of that.
By the time the last marshmallow had been captured and the classroom restored to order, Flitwick gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, that was certainly… unique. Let's return to our charms practice, shall we?"
As the lesson resumed, Sirius leaned toward Remus with a triumphant grin. "Totally worth it."
Remus rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're incorrigible."
"Incorrigibly brilliant," Sirius replied, flicking a stray marshmallow crumb off his sleeve.
The fourth prank of the day unfolded during dinner, when the Marauders enchanted the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall itself. At first, it seemed like a simple charm—stars twinkling and planets shifting slightly out of their usual positions. But as students and staff began to notice, a symphony of celestial music began to play softly from the air above.
"Oh, this is lovely," Lily said, leaning back in her seat and gazing up at the sky. "Not much of a prank though, is it?"
"Wait for it," Remus murmured, hiding a small smile behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.
As if on cue, the music shifted into a lively, mischievous tune, and one by one, students around the room began to find themselves magically compelled to hum along. Some started tapping their forks against plates, others drumming their hands on the table. Before long, the entire hall was a cacophony of humming and rhythmic clattering, with Sirius grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"James!" Hermione hissed, glaring at him from her seat. "What did you do?"
James held up his hands in mock innocence, though his smirk betrayed him. "Me? I'm just a simple observer of this masterpiece."
"It was his idea," Sirius stage-whispered to Hermione, earning a laugh from Peter.
The music grew even livelier, and now people were getting to their feet, unable to resist the urge to dance. Even Professor McGonagall, despite her best efforts to stay seated, found herself tapping her foot in time to the music.
Lily shot Hermione a look, raising her eyebrows. "Let me guess. Your boyfriend and his merry band of mischief-makers?"
Hermione sighed, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "What gave it away?"
"Oh, I don't know," Lily replied dryly. "Maybe the fact that this has 'Marauder chaos' written all over it."
"Don't blame me," Hermione said. "I didn't even know about this one."
Eventually, the music reached a crescendo, and just as the Hall broke into laughter and applause, the Marauders cast their final flourish: tiny sparkling fireworks in the shape of musical notes rained down harmlessly, ending the prank with a dazzling display.
McGonagall, regaining her composure, stood and gave the boys a stern look. "I trust this is the last of your theatrics for the day?"
Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity, stood and gave her an exaggerated bow. "Of course, Professor. We wouldn't dream of disrupting the sanctity of dinner again."
James leaned over to Hermione, his voice low but amused. "I give us ten minutes before she realises we also swapped her tea with pumpkin fizz."
Hermione groaned, shaking her head. "You lot are impossible."
"And you love us for it," James said with a wink.
As the group finally collapsed in the Gryffindor common room that night, Lily looked around at the grinning Marauders and Hermione, shaking her head.
"You lot are incorrigible," she said, though her tone was more amused than anything. "And I hate to admit it, but… it was kind of impressive."
"Kind of?" Sirius repeated, clutching his chest dramatically. "Evans, you wound me."
Hermione snorted, elbowing him lightly. "Don't let it go to your head."
James leaned back, his arm draped casually over Hermione's shoulders. "Admit it, Lily. You had fun."
Lily sighed, but her smile betrayed her. "Alright, fine. But if McGonagall comes after me, I'm naming all of you as accomplices."
The room erupted into laughter, Sirius raising his butterbeer in a mock toast. "To the Marauders—and honorary mischief-makers. May Hogwarts never recover!"
The full moon hung heavy in the sky, bathing the Forbidden Forest in an eerie silver glow. The Marauders, along with Hermione in her Animagus form, moved cautiously but confidently. Moony prowled at the head of their small pack, his movements restless and predatory. The wolf seemed to revel in the openness, his frustration from past confinements left behind in the dense woods.
They had wandered further than usual, perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by how well their outings had gone the past few months. The forest grew denser, the trees closing in to block out much of the moonlight. Prongs's antlers brushed low-hanging branches as he moved protectively near Moony. Padfoot stayed close to the wolf's side, occasionally nudging him back on course when his pacing grew erratic. Kitten, small and nimble as an ermine, darted ahead and climbed branches to scout, her sharp senses attuned to any hint of danger. Wormtail trailed nervously, his small rat form pausing every few steps as if doubting their path.
The trouble began when they stumbled into a clearing that felt unnaturally silent. Moony's ears flattened, a low growl rumbling in his throat as his fur bristled. Padfoot immediately positioned himself beside the wolf, his body tense, while Prongs raised his head, scanning the shadows with an alert stillness.
It didn't take long for the source of the unease to make itself known. Dozens of gleaming, multi-faceted eyes caught the faint moonlight, revealing the hulking forms of Acromantulas emerging from the shadows. Their long, spindly legs moved with an eerie grace, pincers clicking ominously as they encircled the group.
Kitten darted up a nearby tree, her small white form blending with the snow-dappled branches. Below her, Prongs stamped his hooves, his antlers lowered in a clear warning. Moony snarled, the wolf's instincts sharpening as his muscles coiled, ready to spring. Padfoot barked sharply, his voice carrying both a warning and a plea for Moony to hold back.
The Acromantulas clicked and hissed, their movements deliberate as they tightened their circle. One particularly large spider skittered closer, its pincers clacking with menace. Moony lunged, a feral snarl escaping him, but Prongs intercepted, stepping between the wolf and the spider. Wormtail squeaked, his tiny body trembling as he scrambled up onto Prongs's back for safety.
Padfoot barked again, louder this time, before turning sharply and nipping at Moony's flank to redirect him. The wolf growled but followed, his aggression momentarily subdued. Kitten leapt down from her perch, darting ahead to find a clear path of escape.
The pack moved as one, weaving through the forest in a desperate bid to outrun their pursuers. The Acromantulas followed, their massive legs creaking as they crashed through the underbrush. Prongs led the way, his antlers battering aside low branches, while Padfoot kept close to Moony, guiding him toward safety. Kitten darted through narrow gaps, her small size allowing her to scout ahead without slowing them down.
The distant silhouette of the Shrieking Shack came into view just as the first streaks of dawn began to lighten the sky. The Acromantulas hesitated, their pursuit faltering as the territory became less familiar. Taking advantage of the momentary reprieve, the group sprinted the last stretch toward the tunnel entrance.
They reached the safety of the Shack just in time. Moony, his snarls subsiding as exhaustion took hold, paced the room in restless circles before collapsing into a corner. The others, still in their Animagus forms, exchanged brief glances of relief before settling in to wait for dawn.
Though the night had been far more dangerous than they'd anticipated, they had survived. But as the first rays of sunlight streamed through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, one thought lingered in everyone's mind except Hermione's: that had actually been kind of fun.
The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows of Dumbledore's office, casting colourful patterns across the polished wood floor and the assortment of curious objects that whirred and clicked on their shelves. The room smelled faintly of lemon drops and parchment, a comforting but slightly surreal combination given the weight of the discussion at hand. Hermione stood stiffly before the large oak desk, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides as her gaze flickered over the intricate carvings on the chair backs and the phoenix dozing on its perch in the corner.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his hands steepled thoughtfully under his chin. His piercing blue eyes, both gentle and probing, settled on her with an intensity that made her feel both comforted and exposed. "Miss Prewett," he began, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of the moment, "I think it is high time we pooled our resources together. Recent events lead me to believe that you seem to know some very important information—information that could help us all."
Hermione felt her heart skip, her breath hitching slightly. Her carefully constructed defences felt suddenly fragile. "What do you mean, sir?" she asked, her tone guarded.
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver. "I've just had a rather enlightening conversation with Professor Slughorn," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. The soft creak of the wood was the only sound in the otherwise still room. "Or at least tried to. Imagine my surprise when he expressed his exasperation with the topic I endeavoured to bring up with him. Apparently, you've been asking him a great many questions about a former student of his—Tom Riddle."
Hermione swallowed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "For the record," she said with a touch of indignation, "it was Professor Slughorn who first compared me to him. Can't really fault me for following up after that. Though, on second thought, I find that more of an insult than a compliment—academic achievements or not."
Dumbledore chuckled softly, the sound warm but laced with a deeper understanding. "Fair enough. But that is not all, is it? Clearly, you know something about Riddle—something from the future—that makes his name relevant."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line as she weighed her options. Finally, she spoke. "Well… yes," she admitted. "In my second year, there was a diary. It was capable of possessing someone and… well, it reopened the Chamber of Secrets."
The faintest flicker of surprise crossed Dumbledore's face, though he remained silent, letting her continue.
Hermione's voice was steady now, a firm resolve underpinning her words as she continued, "Long story short, the shade of teenage Riddle inside the diary loved to regale its audience about his own cleverness. Bit of a childish anagram, if you ask me. That's how I know that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are one and the same."
Dumbledore's fingers drummed softly against the edge of his desk, his gaze sharp and probing. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, Miss Prewett?"
Hermione hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against the arm of the chair. "Like to? Not really," she admitted honestly. "Will I? Yes. Because yes, I think you are right, sir. We will have to pool our resources if we are going to solve this before it's too late."
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his expression softening. "I sense you carry a great deal of resentment toward me, though I am not entirely certain what I have done to earn it."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her gaze unwavering. "May I be frank, Professor?"
"Of course," he said, his tone encouraging but cautious.
"You repeatedly trying to invade my mind for information, instead of just asking outright, did not exactly inspire trust from the moment I arrived," she said bluntly. "But even if that weren't true, your future actions—or what I know of them—leave me with more questions about your motivations than confidence."
Dumbledore regarded her carefully, his face calm but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease. "I cannot speak for whatever actions an older version of myself might have taken," he replied evenly. "But I assure you, Miss Prewett, my only aim is to do what is best for everyone."
Hermione let out a small, humourless laugh, shaking her head. "I don't doubt that you're working toward what you believe to be the greater good. But your methods sometimes make it seem like you don't truly care about the consequences on an individual level. Just the big picture."
The weight of her words seemed to hang in the air, the soft ticking of an enchanted clock the only sound in the room. Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him, his voice quiet but sincere. "I am truly sorry if I made you feel that way. Whatever I have done against you…"
"It wasn't me personally," Hermione interjected, her tone softening slightly. "But that's beside the point. Let's focus on how we can make sure none of it happens in this reality." She sat up straighter, meeting his gaze head-on. "I assume you've deduced that Riddle turned Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem into a Horcrux."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "You know about Horcruxes?"
Hermione nodded, her expression grim. "I only recently pieced it together. The diadem was the last clue. James has been helping me—giving me access to his family's grimoires. The diary, in my opinion, is another."
The headmaster's shoulders sagged slightly, the faintest sigh escaping him. His expression was tinged with regret. "My dear, I truly wish you had come to me sooner with this information."
Hermione bristled, leaning forward slightly as her voice grew defensive. "And say what, exactly? I didn't know the significance of what I knew until it all clicked into place. We've been… chasing our own curiosity in hopes of—"
"In hopes of what?" Dumbledore interrupted gently, his voice inviting rather than accusatory.
Hermione drew a deep breath, her gaze flickering briefly to the softly glowing Fawkes perched in the corner before returning to Dumbledore. "Changing the future."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his expression contemplative. "I take it Mr Potter is aware of your origins, then?"
"Yes," she replied simply.
"And what, exactly, are you hoping to change?" he asked, his tone probing but not unkind.
Hermione's voice steadied, though there was a vulnerability beneath her words. "Defeating Voldemort much sooner, for one. Saving a lot of lives in the process, hopefully."
Dumbledore's blue eyes seemed to deepen, reflecting both understanding and a weight of responsibility. "I take it Voldemort was still active in your time?"
"No," she said, her voice soft but firm. "He was defeated. But he wasn't completely gone, either." She paused, her expression darkening. "Now I know why—because of the Horcruxes."
The tapping of Dumbledore's fingers ceased. His hands stilled, and he leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharper now, his tone more deliberate. "Alright. We know of two, then. Three soul pieces would make sense…"
"Or seven," Hermione interjected, her voice steady but grave. "That would be the other magically significant number. Stable, powerful."
Dumbledore's sharp blue eyes softened slightly, his lips curling into a faint, approving smile. "You know your Arithmancy, Miss Prewett."
"Thank you," Hermione replied, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "But we still don't know for certain."
"No, we do not." Dumbledore's expression grew thoughtful. "This is where Professor Slughorn comes into the picture. It is my belief that young Riddle might have sought his Head of House's opinion on the matter. Professor Slughorn's penchant for intimate little gatherings could provide ample opportunity for such an unsavoury inquiry."
Hermione's eyes lit with a mixture of vindication and determination. "I knew it! All that shame he carries—there had to be more to it than simply knowing what Riddle became."
Dumbledore's expression darkened, his usual twinkle extinguished as his voice lowered. "Quite."
Hermione frowned, her mind racing as doubt crept into her voice. "How are we supposed to get him to talk? He clams up at any mention of Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful but resolute. "Well," he said, rising with a deliberate slowness and gesturing toward the Pensieve shimmering on the side table, "Professor Slughorn did provide me with a memory. Perhaps you'd like to see it with me?"
"Really?" Hermione asked, stepping forward with intrigue, though her brow furrowed slightly. "He gave you a memory? That's… surprising."
"Surprising indeed," Dumbledore murmured, gesturing for her to put her face in the liquid. Moments later, the world shifted around them, and they found themselves standing in Slughorn's office. It was dimly lit, the warm flicker of a few scattered candles casting long shadows on the walls.
Slughorn appeared pale and uncomfortable, his jovial manner subdued. Across from him stood a young Tom Riddle, charming yet unnervingly intense as he leaned forward, his question cutting through the tense air: "Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?"
A dense fog enveloped the room and Hermione could only see Professor Dumbledore beside her.
When it lifted, Slughorn's expression twisted, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. "I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!"
The scene dissolved into silver mist, and Hermione found herself stepping back from the Pensieve, her thoughts swirling as chaotically as the memory itself. "That was… weird," she said finally, her frustration seeping into her tone.
"Quite," Dumbledore agreed, his voice tinged with gravity. "You noticed it, of course—it was altered."
"Altered?" Hermione repeated, alarm flashing across her features. "You mean… he tampered with his own memory?"
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Indeed. I suspect Professor Slughorn carries shame far greater than the mere knowledge of Riddle's interest in Horcruxes. He's hiding something more, something pivotal."
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temple, her mind racing. "And you think I can get him to give you the real memory?" she asked, her tone disbelieving but curious. "How am I supposed to do that when he's been so guarded? And exasperated with me apparently."
Dumbledore regarded her silently for a moment, his gaze contemplative, before he leaned back in his chair. The soft light from the enchanted lamps cast long shadows across the desk, lending an air of sombre intensity to his words. "I believe you underestimate your own influence, Miss Prewett. Professor Slughorn may be evasive, but his vanity and love of legacy run deep. You may need to leverage that—or something even more compelling."
Hermione tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "You mean… use my knowledge of the future?"
"Precisely," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but edged with gravity. "It may be necessary to paint a very grim picture of what Voldemort's rise truly leads to. The diary alone serves as a harrowing warning, and the diadem amplifies that. Convince him that what he knows could change everything."
Hermione hesitated, the weight of his words pressing on her. "Do you think that's wise? Playing the 'time traveller' card so openly?"
Dumbledore studied her intently. "Do you have another idea?"
Hermione bit her lip, her mind spinning. After a long pause, she nodded slowly. "I could spin the diadem incident. Claim I had some sort of vision because of it—something cryptic but urgent. Frame it as something only he can help unravel. If he's as prideful as you say, that might work."
Dumbledore's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "Has the Sorting Hat ever offered Slytherin as an option for you, Miss Prewett? That is quite devious."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, her tone even but pointed. "Professor, I think it's rather reductive to assume that Slytherin has the monopoly on clever plots. Surely you've noticed the crowd I've been keeping company with these past few years?"
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth twitched, and a soft chuckle escaped him, the twinkle in his eyes brightening. "An excellent point, Miss Prewett. An excellent point indeed. I do find Mr Potter's particular brand of mischief… quite memorable."
Hermione allowed a small smile of her own, tilting her head. "Memorable enough to drive most of the staff to despair, I imagine."
"Oh, undoubtedly," Dumbledore replied with an air of amused solemnity. "But one must admit, there's a certain charm to their ingenuity. Though I suspect your influence has brought a touch of strategy to their usual chaos."
Hermione shrugged lightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. "Someone has to keep them from blowing up half the castle."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his expression warm. "Though I suspect even without your guidance, they would find a way to leave their mark. Still, I find your contributions to their… initiatives quite fascinating. It seems you are a Gryffindor through and through, Miss Prewett—determined, resourceful, and bold enough to challenge even the assumptions of your headmaster."
"I like to think of it as being practical," Hermione replied with a faint smile, though her gaze didn't waver.
Dumbledore inclined his head, his tone thoughtful. "Practicality, mischief, and determination—a potent combination. I'm beginning to see why your peers hold you in such high regard."
When Hermione entered the common room, James was already there, lounging in one of the armchairs near the fire, but his posture gave away his unease. The moment he saw her, he straightened up, his hazel eyes searching hers.
"What did Dumbledore want?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but there was a hint of worry beneath the words.
Hermione didn't answer right away. Instead, she grabbed his hand, the suddenness of the gesture startling him, and tugged him toward the portrait hole.
"Hermione?" he said, standing but not resisting her pull. "Where are we going?"
She didn't respond, her grip firm as she led him through the corridors, her pace purposeful. James followed, growing more curious and apprehensive with each step. When they stopped in front of the blank stretch of wall that housed the Room of Requirement, his stomach twisted.
"Hermione…" he began, his voice cautious. Memories of the last time he had been here surfaced unbidden—the chaotic clutter of the room of lost things, the darkness of what they had discovered, and the consequences of it, the image of her lying prone against white sheets for days. "What are we doing here?"
Hermione finally turned to face him, her expression unreadable but resolute. "Just trust me," she said softly.
He swallowed hard but nodded.
She began pacing in front of the wall, her movements deliberate. James's apprehension grew as the door appeared, but when she pushed it open and gestured for him to enter, what he saw inside stopped him short.
The room was nothing like the tangled maze of the Room of Lost Things. Instead, it was cosy, vibrant, and utterly unfamiliar. The walls were painted in soft, pastel tones—mint green and lavender—trimmed with clean white accents. A small desk sat by the window, cluttered with what he assumed were Muggle trinkets: a strange rectangular device with buttons, stacks of books, and jars of pens and pencils. A twin bed was neatly made with a patterned quilt in warm hues, and there were posters on the walls of people he didn't recognize, all smiling or frozen in motion, as Muggle images didn't move.
"Hermione," James said, his voice a mixture of confusion and wonder. "What is this?"
She stepped in behind him, shutting the door softly. "It's… my bedroom. From the future."
James blinked, glancing around again, taking in every detail. He realised the things he didn't recognise—the odd box with buttons, the posters, even the style of the furniture—were all relics of a world he'd never known.
"It's so different," James murmured, his fingers brushing over the edge of a framed photo resting on the desk. The picture captured a much younger Hermione, her smile wide and carefree as she stood between two adults he could only assume were her parents. The backdrop was unfamiliar—decidedly Muggle, with clean lines and a certain simplicity that felt worlds apart from Hogwarts.
"Apparently," Hermione said softly, breaking his thoughts, "my mind still conjures this when I think about a safe space." She sank onto the bed, its floral quilt rumpled under her weight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. There was a wistful edge to her voice, a vulnerability that James wasn't used to seeing in her.
James set the photo back carefully, turning to face her. "It's... nice," he said, though the word felt inadequate. "It's you, Hermione. I mean, this is where you grew up, right? Your world before all of this?"
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Yes, though it's not entirely accurate. The Room must be piecing things together from my memories. It's odd, really, seeing it like this."
He grinned back, his usual mischief creeping into his expression. "So… what does that thing with all the buttons do?"
Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "That's a calculator, James."
"A calcu—what?" James asked, his grin widening as he nudged her playfully. "Alright, Kitten, you're going to have to explain some of this Muggle magic to me."
Hermione gave him a half-amused, half-exasperated look, leaning back against the bedpost. "A calculator. It helps with maths—you put in the equation, and it spits out the answer without you having to work it out manually on paper."
James raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "So, basically, it's a cheat code for maths? Sounds like my kind of magic."
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile. "Not everything has to be about cheating, James. It's a useful tool."
"Sure, sure," he teased, crossing his arms and leaning forward as if studying her intently. "But let's be real—this sounds absolutely useless for you since you can do most of that in your head, can't you?"
"You're incorrigible," Hermione muttered, though her tone carried more affection than annoyance.
"Guilty as charged," James said with a cheeky grin, standing and crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. His playful demeanour softened slightly, curiosity flickering in his hazel eyes. "So," he began, his tone shifting to something lighter but probing, "what did Dumbledore want?"
Hermione exhaled, her fingers twitching slightly as if debating how much to say. "He knows about the Horcruxes now. Wants my help."
James tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of cautious optimism. "That's a good thing, isn't it? I mean, he's undoubtedly one of the most powerful wizards of this time."
She gave a small, humourless laugh. "Powerful, yes. But that doesn't mean I trust him."
James frowned, clearly caught off guard. "Why? Where is this coming from?"
"James," she said, turning to face him fully, her voice steady but tinged with frustration, "you were the one who pointed out how abysmally the adults handled things in my time. Dumbledore was a huge part of that."
His brow furrowed further. "What are you talking about?"
"Placing Harry with the Dursleys," she began, her words picking up momentum as if releasing a dam of bottled-up concerns. "Then probably never checking on him. That whole baiting Voldemort with the Philosopher's Stone. And don't get me started on him not stepping in while a Basilisk was literally running around attacking students for months—"
James held up a hand, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. "I doubt the Basilisk was running, Hermione, but do go on."
She shot him a pointed look but continued, unrelenting. "All I'm saying is, Dumbledore has a track record of not necessarily making the best decisions when it comes to the bigger picture. He's brilliant, yes, but sometimes his 'for the greater good' mentality comes at too high a cost. I'm cautious about what I want to tell him about the future, James. Very cautious."
He watched her carefully, his expression softening. "Alright, I get it. So what now? He wants your help—what does that look like?"
Hermione sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned back against the bedpost. "In this case, we need each other. He thinks I can help him with the Horcruxes, and he's probably right. And ultimately, I know we'll need his help too. It's not about trust—it's about necessity."
"What exactly does he want your help with?" James asked, his voice quieter now, serious.
"I was right about Slughorn," Hermione said, a small spark of vindication lighting her eyes. "He does know something. Something big. Potentially the number of Horcruxes Voldemort has created."
James sat up straighter, his face lighting with surprise. "That's huge! How are you supposed to get it out of him?"
"Appeal to his self-importance, of course," Hermione replied, a sly smirk creeping across her face.
James raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but also wary. "You're scaring me a little, you know that?"
She laughed, the sound lighter this time, and reached out to pat his hand. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."
"Careful, sure," James muttered, though his grin betrayed his amusement. "But I have a feeling Slughorn won't know what hit him."
"Exactly the point," Hermione said, her eyes gleaming with determination.
The next day, Hermione approached Slughorn's office, her heart pounding as she stood before the polished wooden door. She straightened her robes, squared her shoulders, and knocked firmly.
"Come in!" Slughorn's jovial voice called out.
Hermione pushed the door open, stepping into the office that was cluttered with shelves of exotic potions ingredients and charmed trinkets. The faint scent of candied pineapple hung in the air.
"Miss Prewett!" Slughorn greeted, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "What brings you here this evening? Come for a chat? Perhaps some advice for your studies?"
Hermione hesitated for the briefest moment before she spoke. "Actually, sir, I came to ask you about Horcruxes."
The smile on Slughorn's face vanished as if it had been slapped off. He straightened in his chair, his jovial demeanour replaced by something colder, more guarded.
"I don't know anything about Horcruxes," he said sharply, his tone scandalised. "How dare you ask such a thing! Did Dumbledore put you up to this?"
Hermione didn't flinch under his gaze, meeting his eyes with steady resolve. "He did, sir. But you do realise that if you don't tell us what you know, the wizarding world will fall into chaos. Voldemort will destroy everything we hold dear."
Slughorn scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Don't be melodramatic, dear. Tyrants come and go. The wizarding world has survived worse than this."
"How are we supposed to survive," Hermione countered, her voice growing firm, "if no one can stop him because of his Horcruxes?"
"You don't know that for sure," Slughorn said, leaning back in his chair, though his unease was beginning to show in the tightness around his mouth.
"Yes, I do," Hermione replied coolly. "You must have heard about my brief stay in the Hospital Wing before Christmas."
Slughorn's expression softened momentarily. "Yes, I did. I do hope you're feeling better now, dear."
"It was because of one of Tom Riddle's Horcruxes," she said bluntly, watching his reaction closely. "Hidden within this very school."
Slughorn's face paled.
"Yes," Hermione continued. "I know Tom Riddle is Voldemort. He turned Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem into one, and when I accidentally put it on my head, it showed me… things. Things that made it clear he didn't make just one."
"I don't know anything about that," Slughorn said stiffly, though the way he averted his eyes betrayed him.
"But I think you do, sir," Hermione pressed. "Let's be frank, shall we? I know it's not how Slytherins usually operate, but I feel like you need to hear this straight. If Voldemort takes control of the wizarding world and no one can stop him, people like Lily Evans, your favourite student—"
"I don't play favourites, dear," Slughorn interrupted, though his eyes flicked involuntarily to the goldfish swimming lazily in its charmed bowl on his desk.
"Fine," Hermione said, her voice tightening. "But if someone like her were to die because of this madman, would you still be so unfazed?"
Slughorn's lips pressed into a thin line, his unease growing palpable. Hermione could see the conflict warring within him.
"I'm not interested in pointing fingers, Professor," she said, her tone softening slightly but still resolute. "I'm not here to dredge up who said or did what thirty-odd years ago that enabled Voldemort to do what he did. I'm only looking for solutions. And you, sir—if you know how many Horcruxes he was intending to make, or anything else relevant—are the only person who can provide those answers. Otherwise, we're fumbling around in the dark."
Slughorn stared at her for a long moment, his hand trembling slightly as it hovered over his wand. Finally, with a weary sigh, he pointed it at his temple and pulled a silvery strand of memory into a small phial. He handed it to her, his hand brushing against hers briefly.
"Please don't judge me too harshly when you watch this," he said, his voice tinged with regret.
Hermione took the phial carefully, her expression calm but unreadable. "Like I said, sir, I'm not here to judge the past. Only to shape the future. Thank you for your cooperation."
Slughorn let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I might have a new favourite student after all. Never met a witch more sensible."
Hermione gave him a small, tight smile. "Unfortunately for the wizarding world, I don't find that hard to believe at all."
She turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "Goodnight, Professor."
"Goodnight, Miss Prewett," Slughorn replied, sinking back into his chair with a tired sigh as she disappeared down the corridor.