The next few weeks were among the worst of Hermione's life thus far.
As Harry and Ron had predicted, it took no time at all for the rest of the school to figure out that she was the student that had been called out during the luncheon, and therefore deemed responsible for the chaos that had erupted the night of the demonstration. If her sudden lack of wand hadn't been telling enough, her new, practically full-time position as Filch's understudy confirmed it.
At first, the stares and whispers whenever she entered a room had been overwhelming. Even worse were the incessant questions: How had she done it? Why had she done it? Surely she had inside help? Who else was involved? Was she still working with their old headmaster?
It didn't seem to matter that she hadn't divulged this information to Umbridge in the first place.
She ignored them all as best she could, but was glad more than ever that Harry and Ron were present to buffer most of the attention away. She certainly had a newfound respect for Harry's persistent weathering of each and every scandal he'd been subjected to over the years.
Shortly after her confrontation with Umbridge, Hermione found that all of her personal belongings had been subject to a thorough search. Nothing had been torn up or left too far out of place, but she knew for a fact that her dragonhide gloves had been on top of her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi before the holidays. She still wasn't sure exactly when it had happened; having been rather distraught after losing her wand and then running atrociously late for the luncheon the next day, she hadn't noticed anything amiss until after returning from her very first detention. Parvati and Lavender apologetically told her that they hadn't seen anything, nor had their own things been disturbed, and Hermione quickly surmised that Umbridge had ordered the search in hopes of gleaning more information.
Fortunately, whoever performed it had deemed most of her things innocent and unworthy of further scrutiny. Hermione was exceptionally relieved that she'd had the foresight to stash the list of P.A. members within the Room of Requirement itself. The only other potentially incriminating item was her fake Galleon, and thankfully it, too, had been passed over. Strangely, the one item she hadn't found still among her things was the golden rose that Viktor had gifted her last year.
She found it soon enough; Umbridge had called Hermione into her office to give details on her remaining detentions before term resumed, and to express disappointment that Hermione's parents hadn't yet seen fit to respond to her letter (Hermione fervently hoped Umbridge wouldn't look into that further). The rose was there, in plain view on Umbridge's desk beside the large wooden block proclaiming the title "Headmistress". Umbridge never mentioned it outright, but her bulging eyes kept darting to it while she spoke as if daring Hermione to comment.
Having absolutely no idea what Umbridge could possibly want from her in regards to the flower, she didn't. Hermione did, however, make sure to inform Harry and Ron that there was a very real possibility their belongings would be searched next.
"And tell the rest of the P.A., too," she added on second thought. Umbridge had already proven herself capable of crossing lines when it came to the boundaries and autonomy of her students — there was no telling what she might do in hopes of unravelling the mystery behind her failed demonstration. Best to protect anyone even remotely connected to the situation.
So far, Umbridge had been true to her word, and Hermione spent her detentions cleaning every speck of the castle that had been affected. She had to hand it to Fred and George — they hadn't held back. It was frankly astonishing the amount of mayhem they'd been able to unleash on such little notice.
Unexpectedly, the Weasley twins had been even more upset with Hermione's decision to take the blame than Harry and Ron were. Not for stealing the credit, as she might have initially assumed, but for taking the punishment in their place. Apparently, they'd been fully prepared to be expelled should they be caught — fully sacrificing seven years of hard work and any chance of earning N.E.W.T.s — with no qualms about it. Hermione couldn't even begin to fathom the idea.
Not long after Harry and Ron had informed the rest of the P.A. about what was happening, Fred approached her while she was making her third attempt at finding something — anything — that would contain the acid-green swamp in the Charms corridor. Everything she tried had been consumed immediately, and her fingertips had the blisters to prove it.
"You know it can only be removed by magic, right?"
She looked over to where Fred now leaned against the wall, hands in his trouser pockets. His characteristic grin was gone, replaced by something much more troubled. He looked as serious as she'd ever seen him.
Hermione cast her eyes back to the bubbling swamp.
"I figured as much," she replied tiredly, dragging the back of her hand across her forehead.
"I can do it in about three seconds."
She glanced back at him. "Absolutely not."
"Filch won't know it wasn't you."
"It's too suspicious."
"Trust me — nothing else will work."
"It doesn't matter. Eventually, Umbridge will have no choice but to take care of it herself."
He raised an eyebrow. "And set you additional work in the process? Punishment, even?"
She arched one in return. "Maybe."
He was already shaking his head. "I've heard rumours that she'll... sorry, no. I can't accept that." Hermione's other brow went up and Fred hurried to continue.
"We want to help, Hermione. We all do. And I really don't care that you've supposedly 'forbidden us from interfering', and that Ron — the absolute Flobberworm that he is — is simply going along with this—"
"I'm not changing my mind!" she interrupted rather loudly, immediately looking around to see if she'd drawn any unwanted attention. The corridor remained empty apart from herself and Fred. And of course the swamp.
"It's not up for discussion," she responded more quietly, "but thank you."
Fred frowned at her. He didn't reply, instead flicking his wand towards her with a wordless spell. Before she could ask what he thought he was doing, she felt the cool tingle of a Healing Charm upon her fingertips. She looked down, inspecting the newly restored skin, and back up at Fred, who smiled humourlessly.
"See you tomorrow," he said, twirling his wand once before pocketing it. Then he walked away without looking back. Only after he'd gone did she notice that the swamp had reduced by a quarter of its original size.
Fred returned the next day as promised, ignoring with practised ease both her explicit orders not to interfere and the subsequent heated glare she directed his way when he did anyway. Hermione didn't know what she'd expected; this was the man who, along with his twin, had practically made an art of infuriating Molly Weasley. Fred returned again the day after, not even bothering to make small talk before twirling his wand and sending Hermione that same, tight smile.
At least, in the end, Filch never questioned Hermione's ability to succeed in removing the swamp where he had not.
After that, mysterious interventions occasionally cropped up wherever she happened to be working for the night. Whenever Filch, Umbridge, or sometimes Percy had taken their leave of her for a while, a different member of the P.A. would show up with a different excuse for being nearby. It always resulted in varying amounts of work vanishing into thin air. Harry and Ron refused to admit anything when Hermione later questioned them about it.
Though she was outwardly prickly about the unwanted interference, she was inwardly relieved. Her initial fears that isolation would be yet another long-lasting consequence to endure from the entire debacle were soothed by these gestures of solidarity. In fact, she now felt surrounded by more friends than she ever had before in her life. If she hadn't lost her wand, the whole thing might have been rather bearable.
On the other hand, a few notable Inquisitorial Squad members were worse than ever. In lieu of repeatedly coming by herself, Umbridge often instructed one or two of them to check in periodically on Hermione's progress (Malfoy was never one of these — she supposed his connections were too important for him to be used as a simple errand boy). Depending on who showed up, she sometimes found herself with more work than she'd started with. As it all evened out in the end, she decided it wasn't worth mentioning.
To Hermione's immense surprise, her friends weren't the only ones who found small ways of lending their support. Mere days after the incident, Professor McGonagall had called Hermione into her office.
"—and I must say, I unequivocally disagree with the headmaster's decision with regards to your treatment."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "You mean... the headmistress, Professor?"
McGonagall peered at her for a long moment overtop her square spectacles. "Precisely."
Studying her professor's severe expression, Hermione quickly pieced together the subtler meaning.
"I agreed to it, Professor," she said quietly, looking down and smoothing a wrinkle from her skirt.
"It was not your agreement to make, Miss Granger," came the unexpectedly harsh reply.
Hermione jolted up to see McGonagall's nostrils flared and her mouth set in a tight line before she continued.
"While you remain at this school — soon to be of age or not — you are my responsibility. And as such, it is for me to ensure that you receive a thorough education, as well as fair and just treatment from myself and the rest of the staff alike. In this instance, I have failed to ensure both of of those things. I cannot, as of now, make it right," —her lips briefly pressed impossibly thinner— "but I would be remiss not to offer my deepest, sincerest apologies for the way recent matters have been handled."
Completely taken aback, Hermione was left momentarily speechless. She dropped her eyes to her lap, unable to look upon McGonagall's devasted expression any longer.
"It's quite alright, Professor," she said quietly when she'd found her voice, "but I appreciate hearing it all the same." She cleared her throat, still unable to meet the other woman's eyes. "But I do intend to follow it through. Even if I am forbidden my wand for the rest of the year."
McGonagall remained silent for so long that Hermione chanced a glance up. Her professor now wore an odd expression. Then Professor McGonagall stood, straightening her tartan robes and stepping out from behind the desk.
"Well," she began, gesturing for Hermione to also rise, "that remains to be seen. But I expect that you will report to me no less than once per week to discuss your... activities, and your treatment therein. And do not hesitate to call upon me for your slightest need. These are trying times for best of us," she added with a significant look.
"Of course, Professor," Hermione agreed with a small smile. "I appreciate the offer, and will be sure to let you know if I need anything."
Professor McGonagall returned the smile very briefly.
"See that you do."
Out of the entire castle staff, McGonagall was one of only two teachers that Hermione could say for certain knew the truth of the matter about her current circumstances — the other being Professor Snape. And the only time he'd acknowledged her new predicament had been on their first day back in the dungeons after the winter term resumed.
Hermione had just sat down in Potions when Snape's voice called her attention.
"Miss Granger — a word."
She made her way to Snape's desk at the front of the room, very conscious of a classful of eyes on her back.
"Professor?" she asked quietly, hoping he would follow her lead.
Snape's response at usual volume had her cringing.
"As you find yourself without a wand for the foreseeable future," he said slowly, "the arduous task of determining how you will continue to complete your coursework falls upon me." He paused, studying her through narrowed eyes before continuing.
"While I could assign additional essays in place of practical work, I do not see the value in wasting my own limited time to read your unnecessarily long ramblings on each and every subject. Therefore, you will continue to participate in practical lessons as usual, the only change being that you will require the help of another student to perform any incantations or wandwork necessary. You are, I am told, expressly forbidden from using a wand yourself."
Hermione nodded her understanding, keeping her eyes on her feet. She'd just moved to return to her seat when Snape spoke again.
"Under the circumstances, it is now necessary for me to make new table arrangements for you... yet again. The seat right there beside Mister Nott should do."
Hermione couldn't help the gasp that escaped her as her head snapped up. She knew Snape could read the panic clearly written across her features, but he simply stared back with a cool, disinterested expression. One glance at Theo and her stomach dropped unpleasantly; his face was stark white and he looked even more horrified than she'd expected. He met her eyes briefly and she felt sick enough to beg.
"But Professor, surely Harry or Ron could—"
Snape stood suddenly, effectively cutting off her rebuttal.
"I expect you to continue to perform to the usual standards, Miss Granger," he said, lip beginning to curl. "Potter and Weasley are, regrettably, not up to that task. Now find your seat. We are on a limited schedule and cannot afford any further... disruptions." His eyes glittered maliciously over the last word.
Having no other option, Hermione scurried to comply while Snape turned to begin writing today's ingredient list on the blackboard. Back at her former table, Harry and Ron looked outraged on her behalf, but miraculously, a single warning look was all it took for them to keep their thoughts to themselves (even if their scowls remained).
Upon claiming her new seat, she tried to shoot Theo an apologetic look, but he was already back to ignoring her — though looking a little more green in the face than usual about it now. She, in turn, studiously ignored the feel of Malfoy's eyes on her back. They hadn't yet had a chance to speak after their argument in Umbridge's office — not that Hermione was going particularly out of her way to find opportunities. She was too terrified of what she might discover.
As Hermione bent to retrieve her cauldron and began unloading her supplies, the feel of another pair of eyes on her gave her pause. She looked up to see Blaise Zabini across the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
Instead of looking away, Zabini continued to study her, his eyes taking in everything from her untamed curls to her red, raw knuckles. His eyes then darted once behind her before he finally turned to watch Snape's tidy scrawl materialise across the blackboard.
Hermione spent the entire class watching Theo discreetly out of the corner of her eye; it had been ages since she'd seen him up close. He was still pale and drawn-looking, and the stiff set of his shoulders suggested that he was acutely aware of her presence, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it. When it finally came time for her to ask for his help, he actually flinched as she spoke.
"Theo — would you mind terribly? My Befuddlement Draught is ready for the Strengthening Spell."
Without meeting her eye, Theo reached over and waved his wand above her potion. It immediately turned the perfect shade of burnt orange.
"Thank you," she said politely, choosing to outwardly ignore his inexplicable aversion to her. If he wanted to be mad at someone for this situation, he could feel free to be angry with Snape.
As if reading her thoughts, Theo glanced up towards Snape's desk with a frown.
Even with Snape's reorganization, Hermione's first day back hadn't been as disastrous as initially expected. Between History of Magic earlier that morning and Theo's unwilling help in Potions, her lack of wand hadn't presented more than a minor issue.
Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures ended up being much the same, as did Arithmancy and Astronomy. Even Runcorn's class hadn't required the use of a wand again. And kind as ever, Daphne was more than willing to help Hermione out with the few simple translation spells needed for Ancient Runes on occasion.
The real challenge came during the next week; double Charms was succeeded by a double Transfiguration period, both of which consisted exclusively of spellwork.
Professor McGonagall was prepared as always, quietly setting Hermione additional essays on ever more complex spell models and theories, and even having her practice her Switching Spells with nothing more than a finger.
"I am confident that — for you — simply knowing the incantation and movements by heart will be enough to manage a more than passable performance when your wand is finally returned," Professor McGonagall had told her matter-of-factly after her first class back.
Meanwhile, Professor Flitwick was utterly at a loss as for what to do with her. He settled for having her fill the role of a sort of in-class assistant, both distributing and collecting materials and helping him to observe the class. Eventually, she was even given leave to move about correcting the wand movements or incantations of struggling students. Flitwick, too, seemed confident that Hermione would fare well enough just by practising the movements and incantations for now. While she couldn't say she completely agreed, she felt a tiny bit better about being held in high regard by two such distinguished professors.
Once getting over the embarrassment of her entire year finding out about her lack of wand, the whole affair wasn't quite as unbearable as it might have been. Her anxiety at being left behind was somewhat mollified by largely being able to participate in most of her classes. Still, being left out of such an integral part of her studies during both Charms and Transfiguration made for a rather lacklustre experience, largely unhelped by the fact that Hermione was nearly crawling out of her skin at the amount of magic in the air that she was unable to access.
With Umbridge's demonstration over and done with, combined Conduct classes on Saturday mornings had pivoted into much milder territory. On their first Saturday into the new term, the fifth through seventh years walked into a Great Hall filled with several long rows of chairs that faced a huge blackboard stretching across the dais. Frau Tanzen had been replaced by an excitable little man who only introduced himself as "Baz", and who talked so fast that even Hermione had trouble following at first. He was reportedly there to fill in the gaps of their knowledge on both the subjects of geography and the histories, traditions, and cultures of other wizards and witches and magical schools around the world.
Initially frantic about how she was supposed to take sufficient notes without a desk, Hermione immediately took a liking to their new guest professor when he began the class by distributing to each person a complete set of notes for the entire duration of his tenure at Hogwarts, instructing them as students only to listen and enjoy. Harry and Ron were visibly amused when she sighed in contentment, and even further amused when she still insisted upon scribbling in the margins on her lap.
"What if he offers bonus points on the exam?" she whispered out of the side of her mouth to Ron, who promptly rolled his eyes. Hermione didn't let it bother her — she could use all of the extra academic cushioning she could get right now.
To Hermione's dismay, the girls' Conduct classes on Monday evenings were still instructed by Umbridge herself. They had moved on to the ever-so scintillating topics of event organisation and hostessing, but Hermione couldn't find it within herself to mind; it was far better than being required to scrub items by hand in front of the entire class, as had been her primary fear after having left off working on cleaning charms modified for assorted materials before the holidays.
Rather, Umbridge now began each class with a short introduction of the day's topic before waving her wand so that an enormous pile of textbooks delivered themselves to each student. Then she planted herself at the front of the classroom with a pile of paperwork, and — so long as no one talked aloud — seemed content to ignore them for the rest of the period. Each time, the instructions were to read only a single chapter and no more, rereading the material over and over again if necessary. It was dull work, but it was still better than listening to Umbridge's girlish voice for the duration instead. Between Hermione's detentions and Umbridge's propensity to begin every dinner she could with news of her latest "successes" as headmistress, Hermione already had enough of that to be going on with.
It took Umbridge several weeks to address the prefect shortage for Gryffindor House. She seemed content to let things lie, relying instead upon her Inquisitorial Squad to keep the order. But whether it took pushing from McGonagall to restore the balance, or perhaps an increasing pressure to maintain appearances, Umbridge finally acted.
Ron, who had been tied up doing Merlin-knows-what for Pansy, walked into the common room that night uncharacteristically slowly. Hermione had just returned from scrubbing herself clean for the night and was trying to lose herself in Travels With Trolls ("The story's still true for someone," she'd insisted rather defensively to an incredulous Harry when he'd spotted it in her hands), and she only noticed Ron because Harry's quill paused its scratching for Professor Binn's latest essay.
"Ron?" Harry called uncertainly, already looking around. "Everything alright?"
Ron looked up from his feet suddenly as if just noticing Harry's presence. His face was pale and his eyes wide. He garnered more than a few curious glances as he traversed the common room towards them, but his attention was only on Harry. Then he looked past Harry at Hermione and his mouth turned down at the corners and his fist clenched at his side.
"Er... yeah, I guess," he said shakily, coming to stand beside Harry. The common room around them remained at a muted murmur, onlookers turning back to their own conversations. Hermione closed her book.
"What's happened?" she asked. "Did Pansy actually give you detention this time?" Another thought had her stomach dropping. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Oh, Merlin — did Umbridge somehow find out—"
"No, no, nothing like that," Ron interrupted, still wearing that shell-shocked expression. "Actually... well... here." He held an upside down fist out for their inspection. Slowly, his eyes never leaving Hermione's face, he opened his fingers to reveal an achingly-familiar red and gold object.
"Prefect," Hermione breathed, staring back at him with wide eyes. "She made you prefect?"
I didn't want it," he said quickly, his brows pulling down and his eyes pleading. He even dropped the badge on the table as if to prove his point. "I don't. It belongs to you and we both know it. I only accepted it because... well, I thought I might actually be useful if I had it."
When she continued to stare, he started rambling, eyes darting once to a gobsmacked Harry.
"I mean, Harry is running the P.A., and you're doing all... this" —he gestured vaguely to her person— "and keeping the rest of us out of serious trouble. Even if prefects come second to the Inquisitorial Squad now, there must be something I can do to help keep you guys safe from them. You know, from Umbridge and her cronies? With Neville's help, of course. Fred and George'll have a right laugh when they hear — though I suppose mum will be rather pleased at the news, but I promise that's not why I oomf—"
He cut off as Hermione launched herself straight into his chest, her arms coming round his neck to pull him into a bruising hug. He froze, then began patting her back awkwardly.
"Are you upset?" his voice rumbled against her ear. "I can hand it back in—"
"No," she interjected quickly, her voice muffled against his robes before she pulled back and released him. She wiped at suddenly wet eyes, avoiding the feel of other eyes on them again at her abrupt show of intimacy. "No, it's perfect. And don't be silly — just because I had it before doesn't mean you don't deserve it."
Ron broke out in a relieved smile. "Yeah, okay. I just wasn't sure... I mean you've really been going through it, right? I didn't want to make it worse."
She let out a watery chuckle as Harry came up to clap Ron on the back. "She's right — this is brilliant. Well done, mate. Though I'll admit, I'm surprised Umbridge chose you knowing that we're friends. Er... no offence."
"Oh, I know for a fact this is Percy's doing," Ron said, rolling his eyes as some of the colour returned to his face. "Last time he cornered me in the corridor, he kept nattering on about how some additional responsibility would do me some good. Umbridge's probably offering it just to appease him — you know what he's like."
Harry nodded vigorously at his shoulder.
"Also" —Ron's nose wrinkled— "when she called me into her office tonight, Umbridge let slip that she's noticed how helpful I've been to Parkinson lately. I think Umbridge fancies her as some sort of protégée..."
Hermione laughed outright at that. "If Umbridge thinks Pansy will stoop to wearing pink fluff and bowties, then she's got another thing coming."
Ron shrugged as if to say that was beyond him.
In a show of good faith, Hermione reached for the badge lying on the table and swiftly pinned it to Ron's lapel.
"There," she said, patting it once after she'd finished. "I'm happy for you, Ron — truly."
He smiled down at her, something wistful behind his blue eyes. "Thanks."
And they sat back round the fire, speaking no more of it.
Truth be told, Hermione was rather relieved that Ron had been chosen. She'd been dreading the day that Parvati or Lavender showed up in the girls' dormitory with that badge pinned on — it would have felt too much like being replaced.
Not to mention that Lavender was still mooning after Malfoy since being partnered with him in Conduct class, and it would have given her an excellent excuse to pursue that interest.
With Ron, it was different. He was Hermione's best friend, and he'd always have her back. If it could no longer be her, better to be him, right? That's what Hermione told herself, anyway, when it hurt too much to keep thinking about how the culmination of all of her hard work these past several years at Hogwarts had crumbled into a thousand pieces over a single, horrible night. Despite her failures the year before and the lingering misery over her estranged parents, she'd never been more excited for the start of a school year than this one. And now...
Nevertheless, she wouldn't hold it against him.
"Hermione," —Ron's voice interrupted her brooding— "you aren't actually reading that rubbish, are you?" She looked up to see him eyeing Lockhart's winking portrait with disgust. "Have you gone mental?"
She scowled at him, though her heart wasn't in it. Harry shot her a look that clearly said "I told you so". Ron laughed and the last of the tension drained from his shoulders.
Truly, she'd never been more thankful than now to have found such good friends in Harry and Ron. Over the weeks since the Christmas holidays, they'd stuck by her side without hesitation. Even with Harry's mounting frustration at Dumbledore's delay in explaining everything that had happened at the Ministry, he managed to save most of his tirades on the subject for Ron. She still felt the keen sting of guilt at having lost the prophecy before Harry had a chance to learn more, and though she knew he would insist it hadn't been her fault, she didn't want to hear it.
No matter how many times Harry and Ron offered, though, she still refused to borrow or even touch a wand. It was far too great a risk — even in the privacy of her own dormitory, there was no telling who might be watching — ghost, portrait, or otherwise. The only place she truly considered safe at the moment was the Room of Requirement, but getting there undetected was another story entirely. As was having the time in the first place.
Harry and Ron had also immediately made good on their promise to begin gathering ingredients for the Veritaserum antidote. The only ones they had yet to acquire were those that were only to be found in Snape's personal stores. And after Crouch's break-in last year (and possibly a string of break-ins over the years that they may or may not have had a hand in), Snape had increased security.
"Can't you ask Malfoy to get them?" Harry whispered to her one day as she approached his work station after yet another Potions lesson had gone by without any opportunity to slip inside the closet and nick the remaining ingredients.
Her eyes had immediately darted to Malfoy, who was intent on packing up his scales at his workbench.
"Not right now," she'd whispered back after a moment, feeling her stomach turn. Then Malfoy had looked up — only for a moment — and met her eyes. As it had been each time they'd made eye contact, his mien reflected the same hurt and anger that it'd held the night she returned from the Ministry.
"Want to talk about it?" Harry suddenly asked quietly, drawing her attention back as he placed a hand lightly over hers on the worktop. He subtly tipped his head in Malfoy's direction, clearly having pieced together enough about her sudden reluctance to talk to Malfoy, even if she'd never mentioned it.
Hermione bit her lip, meeting Harry's tired eyes. She shook her head.
"Not yet."
Harry was quiet for a moment. Whether or not it was a trick of the dungeon light, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to have etched deeper, giving him an air of world-weariness.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, looking genuinely remorseful at whatever he saw on her face.
She flipped her thumb over Harry's and squeezed gently. "It'll be okay," she said, more to herself than anything. Harry patted her hand once and bent to retrieve his satchel. Over Harry's back, Malfoy's jaw was clenched tight as he shouldered his own bag and stalked out of the room behind Goyle without looking back.
Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to make of the fact that between herself and Malfoy, neither of them had yet made an effort to genuinely approach the other after their argument in Umbridge's office.
On the one hand, she supposed that it meant something that Malfoy wasn't immediately jumping to obey his father's instructions to get close to her, however unnecessary they were. If he was supposed to be gathering information on Harry, he was failing miserably in that regard.
On the other, she'd come to count on Malfoy as a steady, albeit secret presence in her life, and his sudden absence in all the ways that counted cut deeper than she cared to admit.
Hermione told herself it was best to give him time to cool off — let things slowly return to normal — but deep down, she knew she was afraid. Afraid of what he might say if she did approach him. Her entire life at Hogwarts had gone to shambles in one night, and she couldn't bear to lose the hope she held for their friendship. Would he eventually reject her, as Theo already had?
Malfoy, at least, still voluntarily acknowledged her existence. They continued to sit side-by-side in Arithmancy, exchanging the barest of pleasantries. In Potions, he'd wordlessly help her to retrieve a clean set of vials, or fresh ingredients, or whatever else she needed from the top shelf of the storeroom if they happened to be in at the same time — and whether by her design or his, they often did. Once, in Charms, he'd even allowed her to nitpickingly adjust his wand movement on the Obliteration Charm with only a hint of a sneer. But it seemed that anything weightier was, as of yet, off limits, and Hermione was content to leave it that way.
The uncertainty was safer. It would hurt far more to know definitively that he was well and truly finished with her.
But somewhere beneath that trepidation, tempered by weeks of gruelling labour, mounting frustration, and a stifling lack of magic in place otherwise filled to the brim, another part of her simmered in quiet indignation. What right did Malfoy have to be so angry with her? Yes, she'd been short-sighted to think only of how her actions would help Harry and not of how they might affect Malfoy, and yes, she'd rather horribly implied that Malfoy didn't care about anyone but himself, but couldn't he at least try to understand why she'd made the decisions she had?
She'd learnt so much about him, but apparently not enough, for she did not understand his wilful insistence on trying to toe the line between ideas that were — to her, at least — distinctively right versus wrong. Though they may come from different "sides", it was more than a simple difference of opinion for her. It had to be, when one ideology seemed to think her very existence was something to be eradicated. With how far he'd come from the ignorant bully who'd been spoon fed such radical ideas since the moment of his sacred, pureblood birth, couldn't he now see the injustice of it all?
And so there they stayed — locked in a sort of stalemate where, for whatever reason, neither was yet ready to approach the other.
It meant he never asked for the sapphire pendant back either, and she was glad for it. Hermione had come to depend on it in a way; whenever she was exhausted or overwhelmed, her fingers would brush the gem beneath her shirt and remind her of how far she'd already come, and that this, too, would be worth it.
There was a scheduled Hogsmeade visit on the fourteenth of February. As usual, Hermione was already slated to spend her Saturday morning, afternoon, and part of her evening cleaning whatever and wherever Umbridge next sent her. Detention or not, Hermione was no longer permitted to leave the grounds anyway. She was disappointed to miss out on exploring the village, but still insisted Harry and Ron go on without her.
"Are you sure?" Ron asked for the twentieth time, frowning behind the bright orange scarf already pulled up to his nose.
"Yes," she repeated, more than a touch exasperated. "There's no sense in all of us being stuck here. Now you two go, get some fresh air, and bring me back some sugar quills."
She'd taken a liking to those after finishing off Neville's last pack.
"Sure thing," Harry said, stuffing a hat down over his untidy black hair. "We'll snag a couple of butterbeers, too. But really, we don't mind staying—"
"Go!" she interrupted, pushing the both of them bodily towards the portrait hole. "I'll see you after. Ron — say hello to Rosmerta for me, will you?"
Ron pulled a face. Hermione smiled and waved them off, then made her way unwillingly down to Umbridge's office.
It was an hour past lunchtime when Hermione finally sat back on her heels and let herself have a moment to breathe from the task that had been set for her today. She wiped the sweat from her brow, sucking in deep, heaving breaths that misted heavily in front of her face and set her lungs afire, and leaned on the shovel she'd borrowed from Hagrid's garden for support.
Her stamina was truly atrocious. Really — after weeks of manual labour, digging a simple hole in the ground should be a doddle.
Pulling herself together, she heaved over a giant wooden crate that currently housed upwards of two hundred sparklers, each still magically intent on writing out naughty words in the air. Nothing Hermione nor Filch could do stopped the little contraptions, though Umbridge didn't believe Hermione when she said that she had no clue how to be rid of them (she refused to ask Fred and George about this one). Umbridge had eventually tried Vanishing them herself, only to have them turn on her with a variety of obscene — and now deeply personal — insults. When the profanities persisted, Umbridge had ordered them locked up in a closet until Filch could decide what was to be done with them.
Which led to now, as Hermione hauled over the container, tightly-nailed shut, and tipped it over the edge. It hit the dirt with a muffled thud, the buzzing of the sparklers now muted.
Perhaps if she were feeling generous, she'd eventually let Fred and George know where they could recover some of their product.
She'd just sat near the edge to catch her breath again when she caught sight of a figure approaching from the castle. Scrambling upright, she snatched at the shovel and began filling the hole.
"Slacking off then are you, Mudblood?"
Her heart sank as Crabbe's voice floated over the grounds. Pretending she hadn't heard him, she thrust the spade back into the dirt pile.
He drew level with her not half a minute later. She continued to ignore him, forcing her protesting muscles to keep working. A sharp pull to her elbow had her suddenly falling sideways.
"Know you heard me," Crabbe sneered, backing away hastily as she fell into him. She stumbled another step before catching herself and glaring at him. He eyed her back with disgust.
"Headmistress is wondering what's taking so long," he continued nastily. "Wants to see you in 'er office after."
Hermione held back a groan. She'd been hoping that Umbridge would let her off for the rest of the afternoon — or at least have a break for lunch — but there must be some miniscule speck of the castle Hermione hadn't yet tidied.
"Alright. I'll be up as soon as I finish here," she responded curtly, turning back to her work.
"Hurry it up then. Freezing my bollocks off out here, and ain't nothin' better happen to them or you'll be sorry."
Aghast, Hermione looked up again at Crabbe, who still wore a sneer and surveyed her with his arms crossed over his chest.
"You're staying?" she blurted out, more panic leeching into her voice than intended. She took a fortifying breath, attempting to recover herself. "You can tell Umbridge I'll be along. I'm just about finished."
"And miss the famous Mudblood learning her place as a Muggle? Nah, I'd rather watch this," he said with a cruel laugh. Then his mouth slowly curved up at the corners. "But the Headmistress didn't say I had to."
Hermione felt the familiar flash of anger raze through her.
"Why aren't you in Hogsmeade, anyway?" she spat, stabbing so hard with the spade that her chest throbbed with the force of it.
"What's it to you?" Crabbe immediately snarled in response. "Maybe I didn't feel like walking around that useless, backwater village today."
"Grades it is, then," Hermione declared with a harsh laugh of her own, keeping her eyes on her task. "You know, I'm sure Professor Snape would be happy to help — maybe offer to let you do over a year or two. Though if I'm being honest, perhaps three would be better—"
Suddenly Crabbe had out his wand, and Hermione realised how very reckless she'd just been. Beneath a beet-red face, the hand holding his wand shook with rage. She backed away slowly, eyes never leaving Crabbe's hulking form.
"Watch it, Mudblood," he snarled. "You think you're so smart? Don't see what good that does you out here all alone."
She didn't reply, continuing to put distance between them. Adrenaline pumped steadily through her body as a sense of urgency washed over her. Her eyes flicked once towards the castle, mind whirring to calculate which entrance she could reach the fastest at a run.
Crabbe noticed where her attention had gone and smiled viciously.
"Scared? You should be." He took a step closer. "I'm the one with a wand. I could do anything I wanted out here. Anything," —his smile transformed into a leer— "and nobody would miss you anyway."
Breathing heavily through her nose, Hermione hefted the spade in her hands. Her sweaty fingers tightened around the rough wooden handle.
"You'll be expelled," she said finally, making him pause before he could take another step forward. "Maybe even disowned."
Crabbe narrowed his eyes, but stayed put.
"You're one of the only students above second year not in Hogsmeade," she continued, pressing her advantage. "And Umbridge knows you're out here. She may hate me, but do you know what she hates more?"
Hermione paused, but Crabbe only continued to stare with those small, angry eyes.
"Anything that makes her look bad," she finished, feeling her heart pounding painfully beneath her ribs as she watched him trying to process.
When her words finally sunk in, his face contorted in fury. Hermione felt a flash of fear that she'd gravely miscalculated when his wand waved—
"Evanesco!" he grunted, just missing her trainer with his haphazard spell. Hermione flinched and dropped the shovel in surprise. When she looked down, the spade head and part of the handle that had been connected to it were missing.
"You're lucky this time, Mudblood," Crabbe sneered. He turned to leave before calling over his shoulder, "I'll be sure to tell the Headmistress I saw you skiving off the job."
As she watched Crabbe stomp back towards the castle, Hermione released a shaky breath. Her head suddenly felt too light, and she swayed on her feet. Only when he was gone did she sit on the ground hard, drawing in deep lungfuls of frozen air that made her chest burn.
She would have to be more careful. Confined mostly to the castle apart from a few classes, she'd nearly always been in the company of Harry, or Ron, or the general student body since losing her wand to Umbridge. She hadn't yet counted the potential ramifications of being wandless in a place without the safety net of her friends or the school. She'd thought that it wasn't something to worry about until the summer holiday — during which time she could ask the Order for a temporary wand if necessary — and therefore wasn't a priority.
She would have to rectify that.
Brushing the excess dirt off of her trousers, she set to work filling the remainder of the hole — by hand now that she hadn't a spade to use. The handle piece that remained would be of little use to her now. Of course Crabbe hadn't been able to manage a proper Vanishing Spell, yet still somehow managed to make her life more difficult.
An hour later, her hands still shook slightly as she finished pushing the last of the loose dirt back into the ground. The buzzing from the sparklers beneath had completely cut off.
Stomach rumbling loudly, Hermione dusted as much dirt off of her hands as she could and made straight for Umbridge's office. As expected, Umbridge was in a foul temper over Hermione's tardiness.
"—should have been finished hours ago. In addition, I have received several first-hand reports from my most trusted sources that you have not always been giving your very best efforts to the tasks assigned. We can't have that, can we?" Umbridge said in a sugary voice before allowing an expectant pause.
"No, Headmistress," Hermione answered by rote.
Umbridge gave a little nod.
"I can see that I have been too lenient with you," she continued. "Fortunately, those horrible contraptions were the last of the mess left by yours and Dumbledore's little party trick." She looked Hermione up and down, disgust clearly written on her toady features. "Now. Is there anything more you wish to tell me about Dumbledore?" —Hermione shook her head— "Perhaps about your conspirators? No?" For Hermione had shook her head again. Umbridge had asked her these questions every single day they'd met in the time since the holiday break.
"Very well then," Umbridge said. "I have important business to attend to this afternoon, but I think we could do with a little more discipline today, just to ensure that we understand one another. You are to clean yourself up — quickly, mind — and report back to my classroom no later than half two. I shall know if you're late."
Hermione did as she was told, quickly showering and wolfing down a leftover packet of crisps to appease her gnawing middle and returning to the old Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom with several minutes to spare. Percy Weasley waited inside, barely looking up from the old teacher's desk — now covered in parchment — situated at the front. With the hand that wasn't currently writing, he waved once towards the blackboard.
"Instructions over there," he said in a disinterested voice.
The desk facing Percy's was outfitted with its own scroll of parchment and a long, thin black quill. Without replying, Hermione took the seat that was clearly set for her and turned to read the board.
Miss Granger— was written in Umbridge's dainty, flowery script—
You will be doing some lines for me today.
I want you to write the following:
'I must tell the truth'
If you fill the parchment front and back, please alert Deputy Weasley who will supply additional materials. I shall return later this afternoon to ensure the message has sunk in.
Hermione glanced at the considerable roll of parchment on the desk and sighed inwardly; if Umbridge expected she might need more materials, then Umbridge certainly wasn't planning to be back any time soon. Hermione lamented an afternoon lost to tedious, monotonous drivel. At least the work she'd been doing before had been meaningful. Writing lines was an utter waste of time. Umbridge had likely set it for that very reason; she had to know that for Hermione, efforts of futility would be absolutely maddening.
With another sigh, Hermione picked up the quill and set it to parchment. She'd gone to dip the nib when she realised the inkpot was missing.
"Ah— Percy? Er... Deputy Weasley?"
Percy looked up from behind the desk with an annoyed expression. "Yes?"
"I haven't any ink."
Percy exhaled loudly through his nose, looking back down to sign something with a flourish before replying distractedly, "Self-inking, I expect. Madam Umbridge assured me she'd given you everything you'd need."
Shrugging, Hermione set the point of the quill back to her paper and wrote: I must tell the truth.
She gasped sharply as a sudden heat bloomed on the back of her right hand. She looked down in horror to find the words she'd just written on the parchment carving themselves into her skin. They shined bright red for a moment before the skin healed over, leaving the place where they'd been tinged pink but otherwise smooth.
A memory surged forward — one of herself and Malfoy arguing outside of this very classroom at the beginning of the year. He'd told her that Umbridge had been coming up with all sorts of ideas to punish rule-breakers, and then he'd mentioned there being a cursed quill that used blood instead of ink...
She glanced again at the sharp black quill in her hand before looking up to see Percy Weasley staring at her. His eyes were on her hand, his face white as a sheet.
They stayed like that — frozen in time — until he seemed to give himself a shake.
"I—" He cleared his throat. "I expect Madam Umbridge would be most displeased if she returned to find your work unfinished."
Hermione wet her lips, eyeing the quill warily. "I expect so."
Percy seemed to dither about saying something else, but must have ultimately decided against it. He cleared his throat again before turning back to his work, his eyes resolutely on the parchment in front of him now. By all appearances he had forgotten her, but the scratching of his quill didn't seem quite as steady as before.
With some trepidation, she placed the black quill back to parchment and repeated the line.
I must tell the truth.
Expecting the pain this time, she watched with a sort of macabre fascination as the words once again etched into the skin of her hand. Again they healed over, leaving the skin slightly pinker than before.
This — this — was what she had initially expected from Umbridge. Not cleaning the castle, not losing Hogsmeade privileges, and especially not losing her wand. Umbridge was right in a way — Hermione had grown complacent with the punishments, expecting that the worst had already happened and falling, more or less, into a not-so-comfortable routine.
Setting her jaw, Hermione dredged up her Occlumency measures, allowing them to somewhat dull the sensation of stinging on her quill hand as she set to filling her parchment. During what seemed countless hours of this new torment, she thought she'd felt Percy watching her once or twice, but she never caught him at it.
When Umbridge finally returned, darkness had fallen.
"Ah, wonderful," Umbridge said in her simpering voice, coming around with short, brisk steps to inspect Hermione's progress. "Been working hard, I hope? Let's see."
Umbridge held out her hand with an expectant smile. Reluctantly, Hermione placed her right hand into Umbridge's stubby fingers.
Umbridge hummed, turning Hermione's hand this way and that to better see the raw, red skin now left behind.
"A good start, I think, yes? Let's see if we can make some more progress tomorrow afternoon. I shall see you here at one o'clock."
Without a word, Hermione pushed back from the desk and stood. She glanced once more at Percy, who now looked like he was trying very hard to appear that he wasn't listening, and left without giving Umbridge the satisfaction of a response.
As soon as the door shut behind her, Hermione let herself lean back against the wall and breathe, a surge of emotions bubbling up from within. But everything else seemed to pale in comparison to the sharp, itchy stinging now scorching the back of her hand.
A glance at her watch showed that there were just five minutes left for dinner. Without letting herself think, she shoved off the wall and raced to the Great Hall.
The Great Hall was nearly empty so late in the hour. Hermione hastily filled a plate with the remaining scraps of several varieties of vittles before the serving dishes disappeared back to the kitchens below. She ate steadily, trying not to allow her thoughts to linger on what had been arguably her worst day at Hogwarts since losing her wand.
She hadn't yet decided what to tell Harry and Ron when she met up with them in the common room later. For now, they were unlikely to notice anything amiss.
Too-full and exhausted, Hermione rose to begin to trek to Gryffindor Tower. She'd just come into the Entrance Hall amidst a few other milling students when the front door cracked open. Pausing to watch, she saw the moment that Harry and then Ron slipped inside, both looking around furtively. They still wore their winter things, and the tip of Ron's nose was so red that it nearly matched his hair. When they spotted Hermione, they waved her over frantically, huge smiles now lighting up their faces.
"Hermione!" Harry whisper-shouted. "Over here!"
Glancing around once, she walked to where Harry and Ron had stepped off to the side of the Hall, removing their gloves and hats.
"What is it?" she asked as she neared them, still feeling slightly alarmed despite the smiles they wore. "What's going on? Have you two just now gotten back from Hogsmeade—"
"Yeah," Ron interrupted, still looking giddy, "and you'll never guess who we ran into."
"Who?" Hermione asked, feeling even more confused as she watched Harry and Ron share a look of excitement.
Harry grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close to whisper in her ear.
"Hagrid!"
"Hag—" Harry clapped a hand over her mouth as she accidentally started to reply at full volume. "Hagrid's really back?" she whispered instead when he'd let go, feeling herself beginning to smile as well.
"Sort of," Ron said excitedly, tilting his head pointedly towards the marble staircase. "We'll tell you about it upstairs."
Ron led the way while Harry fell into step beside her, the boys dripping little puddles of water from their shoes as they went. Feeling giddy herself with some good news for a change, Hermione nearly missed the figure beneath the archway to the dungeons.
Malfoy was stood at the top of the stairs, half-concealed in the shadows. In the flickering torchlight from the Hall, she could just make out his eyes where they fixed on Harry with familiar loathing. She slowed, the beginning of a faint smile falling from her lips when he suddenly turned the expression on her. Only taking the time to sneer, he then immediately turned and disappeared from view back into the dungeons.
"Alright there, Hermione?" Harry said, noticing her change of pace.
Unease settled low in her belly, but it was easier than expected to pull the smile back to her face.
"Everything's fine," she said, catching back up with Harry. "Just thought I saw something."
"Come on," Ron urged from ahead. "We've got so much to tell you."
"More?" Hermione asked, slightly breathless from running up the stairs. Harry and Ron shared another look.
"Loads," Ron said slyly, looking back over his shoulder. "Let's just say that there may have been more than one giant surprise today."
Hermione picked up the pace.