A.N: Hey everyone! Thank you so much for returning to my story!
I know it's been a little while since my last update—had to focus on studying for my upcoming Semester Test!
By the way, this story is really inspired by the actual movie, so if you haven't already, I highly recommend revisiting The Chamber of Secrets. You'll definitely see it in a whole new light after reading this Dramione! A huge thank you to J.K. Rowling for her incredible work that continues to inspire us all!
PART10
"Professor, I was wondering if you could tell us about the Chamber of Secrets."
Granger's voice wavered with suspicion. It had been a while since I last heard it—about a week, to be exact. A week of pretending not to see each other. A week of looking away at the exact same moment. A week of ridiculous, silent avoidance.
I glanced up. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on McGonagall, wide with curiosity. This wasn't good. I needed to tell my father about this. Or... should I? If I did, I might be punished. But for what exactly? For simply existing while someone scrawled bloody, deranged words on the castle walls? That hardly seemed fair.
McGonagall had already begun speaking, so I pushed the thought aside and listened. She was talking about Salazar Slytherin.
"—in other words, pure-bloods."
I rolled my eyes—just quickly enough that no one would catch it. Blood. It was always about blood. Blood status, blood purity, blood on the walls. How tedious.
Without thinking, I turned to look at Granger. I wanted to see her reaction. That was a mistake.
She caught me.
Granger met my gaze with a sharp, steady look—one that used to be full of fire but now held something worse. Something brittle. She wasn't furious. She wasn't hurt. She was… done.
I swallowed hard and looked away first.
"—those who, in Slytherin's view, were unworthy to study magic."
"Muggle-borns," she said, her voice breaking through McGonagall's like a blade. Not angry. Not defiant. Just tired.
McGonagall nodded slowly, adjusting her glasses.
"—no such chamber has been found."
Are you sure, Professor?
Guilt curled in my stomach, dark and twisting. The secret burned inside me, just like the wound at my side—a lesson, he called it. I clenched my jaw to keep my face unreadable. No one could know. No one could ever know.
Weasley turned around then, shooting me a look so full of suspicion it was almost funny. His face had gone pale, and he looked as if he expected me to sprout fangs and attack at any second.
So, I smirked. Slow. Cold. Arrogant.
Because that's what he expected, wasn't it? That's what she expected, too.
Her eyes flickered toward me one last time, and for a second—just a second—I thought she might say something.
She didn't.
And neither did I.
She was looking up at the ceiling.
Darkness stretched across the dormitory, and the steady rhythm of breathing filled the room. Everyone else had already drifted into their dreams. She lay there, motionless, staring—eyes wide open, refusing to shut, as if she had forgotten how to blink.
She had to know more about the Chamber of Secrets. Way more.
But then, she remembered the disaster of the afternoon.
After lunch in the Great Hall, she had marched to the library, determined. Predictably, the books about the Chamber of Secrets were nowhere to be found—she had searched everywhere. Every shelf, every row, even under a pile of dusty tomes.
But, of course, there was only one place left.
It didn't take long for her to realize where they must be—right at the very back, in the Restricted Section. The one she wasn't allowed to enter. Obviously.
The moment she'd tiptoed toward the shelf, Madam Proffamy's icy glare had locked onto her. And before she could even pretend innocence, the woman had descended upon her like an over-caffeinated banshee, launching into a lecture that felt longer than Hogwarts: A History.
So, if she couldn't get the books legally...
How about—?
Now?
A very awful thought struck her, as it always did at moments like this. It twisted in her chest like a snake, curling around her nerves. Was she really going to do this? Alone?
Come on, Hermione, think.
She tried—tried—to weigh the risks and benefits. Of course, it was too risky. But then again, she was already too overwhelmed by her thoughts to process logic properly.
She could evade Filch. She had done it before. And she had a wand, and quick reflexes, and—okay, admittedly, a very bad sense of confidence in situations like these.
But this time, there was no companion, no broom cupboard to save her. Which, honestly, was probably for the best. No reckless adventures. No infuriating enemies. Just her.
Right. Let's go.
Shivering from the cold and the weight of impending doom, she slid out of bed and padded toward the door.
Oh. Fat Lady.
She groaned. How had she forgotten? The Fat Lady was a menace at times like this.
With excruciating slowness, she opened the door, barely making a sound. She looked up—
Sleeping.
Holy cricket.
For once in her life, luck was on her side.
She slipped out, closed the door behind her, and hurried toward the library.
Maybe she should have borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak. A smart person would have thought of that before sneaking out. But it was too late now—she was already standing in front of the library doors.
Deep breath.
She pushed them open.
The library was pitch dark. Silent. The kind of silence that makes your own heartbeat sound criminally loud. Her footsteps echoed as she crept toward the back, where the Restricted Section loomed like an icy fortress.
There were more rows than she had expected. This would take time.
With a whispered Lumos, she let the faint glow of her wand illuminate the spines of the books.
The Power of Dark Arts.
The Secrets of the Dark Arts.
The Darkness of Borgin and Burkes.
What the hell? So much Dark stuff.
The Source of Immortality.
The Secrets of the Philosopher's— Oh. That would've been helpful last year.
The Wound of Demons.
She stopped.
No. Keep going, she accused herself.
Her fingers brushed over another title.
Surveillance Magic: The Sign of Scar.
She stopped again.
Why are you stopping, Hermione?
She clenched her jaw. It's none of your business. Remember?
She had forgotten.
Hadn't she already cut ties with that memory? Hadn't he—?
She swallowed, willing the thoughts away. She had to remind herself. Who she was. What she was.
And she was not here to get distracted.
But she was.
She took the book from the shelf without thinking, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the ancient leather binding. Carefully, she placed her wand at the tip of the shelf, casting a faint glow over the yellowed pages. Then, she looked.
Vincetura
(vin-SEH-too-rah)
Type: Binding Curse
Effect: A dark and powerful spell, Vincetura etches a cursed wound onto the victim's body, ensuring unwavering obedience. When the afflicted individual violates the terms set by the caster—be it disobedience, betrayal, or defiance—the mark ignites with searing pain. Repeated infractions cause the agony to intensify, making it a favored enchantment among those who demand absolute control.
Incantation Gesture: A sharp, deliberate slash of the wand, as if carving the mark into the air. The caster must focus on the rule to be enforced as they speak the incantation.
Mark Appearance: The wound manifests as a dark sigil, varying in shape and size depending on the intent. When activated, it pulses with an eerie glow—crimson, obsidian, or silver—accompanied by a sensation described as white-hot knives twisting beneath the skin.
Notable Uses: employed in ancient wizarding duels to enforce surrender agreements.
to have been a secret punishment within certain wizarding circles, ensuring loyalty through pain.
Countercurse: Vincetura (Requires significant magical skill or the caster's willingness to release the spell.)
texts suggest that phoenix tears may weaken the mark's effects, though such claims remain unverified.
Warning: Dark magic practitioners caution that prolonged use of Vincetura may cause the wound to become permanent—a scar that never fades, and a pain that never truly sleeps.
She gasped.
This was it. This was what Malfoy had been hiding from her.
Everything suddenly felt transparent. The pieces snapped together in her mind like an unbreakable spell. The way he kept his hand pressed against his side—that was where the curse lay.
He couldn't tell her.
He wasn't allowed to tell her.
If he so much as tried, the curse would strike him with agony.
What an evil magic…
Her stomach twisted. Had she made it worse by touching him? Had her mere presence—her blood—aggravated the wound? It would be the perfect cruelty. The spell must react to impurity, to anything the caster deems unworthy.
She already had an idea who the bloody caster was.
Lucius Malfoy.
A sharp, eerie hiss slashed through her ears.
Hermione froze. She couldn't make out words—just the unsettling sound. It was brief, just like a whisper, and then it vanished, punctuated by the sharp snap of a book closing. She looked down at the tome in her hands, but it remained silent. The noise had come from somewhere else—not close, but not far either.
She spun around, heart hammering.
Then, to her astonishment, she saw it—a flickering light. Lumos? A lantern? She couldn't tell. Panic shot through her veins. Whether it was a student or Filch, either way, she was in trouble. Dousing her wand's light, she crept between the towering shelves, pressing herself into the shadows. But the darkness was suffocating, and she could barely see the entrance.
Ow—!
She hit a shelf. Before she could regain her bearings, another light appeared. Two now—one following the other. Then, suddenly—puff. One light vanished, and the remaining one grew larger. A deep voice murmured something—a man's voice. Probably Filch. His lantern glow drifted toward the library's entrance before disappearing into the corridor.
She let out a shaky breath. Safe.
But what the hell was that about?
Shoving aside her unease, she reignited Lumos and began searching for the shelf she'd taken the book from. She needed to put it back. It wasn't worth the trouble. But the deeper she walked, the more lost she felt.
Then—
Her foot struck something hard. She lowered her wand. A book.
Secrets of the Deep Chamber.
She gasped.
Someone else had been researching the Chamber of Secrets.
Ignoring every warning bell in her head, she picked up the book, her fingers brushing against the worn leather cover. The second she cracked it open—
That hiss again. Louder. More insistent.
She slammed it shut, breath ragged.
Books from the Restricted Section were—wild.
She hurriedly shoved it back into the empty space on the shelf. Had it come from here?
Her brows shot up as a harsh voice rang out.
"Students found in the Restricted Section!"
Before she could react, an iron grip seized her arm. Her wand was yanked away.
Filch's gruff, triumphant voice filled the library. "You're in for it now, girl."
Hermione's stomach dropped. "No, sir, let me go—"
"Stupid girl," he sneered. "I'm taking you straight to McGonagall."
She clenched her jaw. Detention. Again. When was the last time? Oh—right. When she and Ron had wandered into the Forbidden Forest. McGonagall had been furious that time too.
Frustration boiled over. "Mind your own business, you Squib."
Filch's face twisted in fury, but he said nothing, dragging her through the halls. There was no point in arguing now.
When they reached McGonagall's office, Filch knocked—more like pounded. The professor opened the door with an exasperated sigh. "You really must learn how to knock properly, Mr. Filch."
Then, her sharp gaze landed on Hermione.
"Well, Miss Granger," she said coolly, "was the library not enough for you?"
Hermione swallowed. "Yes—I mean—"
"You do understand why it's called the Restricted Section?"
"Yes—but—"
"No excuses." McGonagall's voice was smooth but firm. "Get inside."
Filch, looking pleased with himself, opened his mouth, but McGonagall cut him off. "Go and check if any more students are wandering the halls."
With a grumble, Filch stalked away.
As Hermione stepped inside, McGonagall muttered, "Two students caught in the Restricted Section in one night. How horrifying."
Hermione blinked. "Two?"
"Oh yes." McGonagall's lips curled into a thin, ironic smile. "And don't worry, it's not Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley, as you might have hoped."
Hermione stiffened.
When she turned toward the chairs, her breath hitched.
Draco Malfoy sat there, arms crossed, looking utterly unimpressed.
She glared. "What are you doing here?"
Malfoy smirked. "What do you think?"
Something clicked in her mind. "Oh—you! You were the one who opened the book, weren't you? That's why it—"
"Please," he drawled. "Nothing makes sense except that you're clearly an idiot."
Hermione bristled. "Oh, really? Who's the idiot—me, who hid at the back of the section, or you, who opened a book that hisses?"
McGonagall, arms folded, muttered, "Hissing?" under her breath.
Malfoy sneered. "You got caught, anyway."
"Because of you, prat. It's always because of you."
He smirked. "Where's your little hero? Scarhead? Or is it the Weasel you're obsessed with—"
McGonagall's expression turned vaguely concerned at the nickname but didn't intervene.
"Shut up! And where's your exclusive maid? What was her name—Pansy?"
"How kind of you. Ten points from Gryffindor." He mimicked Snape's silky voice.
Hermione huffed. "You'll lose twenty because you opened the book!"
"Oh? Then you'll lose thirty for sneaking around—"
"The answer is fifty," McGonagall interrupted, her voice laced with dry amusement. "Fifty points each."
Both of them froze. Right. Their professor had been listening to their bickering like a spectator at a Quidditch match.
McGonagall sighed. "Now, I don't know what you two were doing together—"
"Never together," Hermione snapped. "Total coincidence."
"Of course it is." McGonagall raised a brow. "Otherwise, I might be concerned."
Malfoy scoffed. "Right. Can we just get our punishment?"
"Oh, certainly." McGonagall's lips twitched. "Detention. Together."
Malfoy's expression soured. "Together, Professor?"
"Oh yes." She smiled. "I know you two are such good friends—this should be delightful."
Hermione and Malfoy exchanged glares, disgusted at the mere thought.
McGonagall continued, "I'll leave it to Professor Snape to decide what your detention entails."
Hermione groaned. Malfoy's smirk widened.
"Now," McGonagall said, almost amused, "you two will sit here. Without speaking."
The moment she shut the door—
They both started talking at once.
"What the bloody hell were you doing in the Restricted Section?"
"Oh, it's none of your business."
"I was scared you might also be looking for the Chamber of Secrets—"
"I was going to, but— I was, well, distracted." Her voice faltered as she glanced at him. By the book about your wound, you know. But she couldn't say that. Instead, she crossed her arms. "If you must know, you've got to tell me why you were looking for a book about the Chamber of Secrets."
"To know about it. Satisfied?" He leaned in, silver eyes gleaming with challenge. "Now, what distracted you?"
"Nothing." She turned away too quickly.
But his gaze lingered.
A slow smirk curled on his lips. "That's not an answer."
Her hands clenched. "Of course it's not."
A.N: Please, please be sure to read the next chapter—it's going to be the best one yet!