Something crashed and echoed through the darkness, as though a crater had been dropped into a chasm. Along with it came a chorus of beastly screeches and unnervingly childlike screams. The air was thick with layers of pungent, morbid scents—morbid because they reeked of death, if death smelled of smoke, blood, and dark magic.
War. That was what this was. Wartime.
Hermione looked around, but her mind could make sense of only so much. Everything was magnified and blurred, as though she were submerged, peering through water. One thing, however, was perfectly clear: her housemate Goyle. Yet he was not the same. He looked different—both unreal and undeniably real at once. It was Goyle, Hermione decided. Especially when he began flapping his arms wildly, like an uncharacteristically hideous Fwooper. Just as he had that time in Defence Against the Dark Arts, when he failed to pry the impersonating-Professor-Moody's Whip Spider from Zabini's face in fourth year. And this particular Fwooper sang its insanity-inducing song at full volume. From Goyle's throat, however, it emerged as a choked, terror-stricken sound—like a petrified chihuahua trapped in the gullet of a bullfrog.
One moment, the wizard who looked like Goyle was there. The next, he was not.
Hermione's mouth fell open.
Thankfully, nothing flew into it. Unlike with the others. And that was when the retching began. The acrid fumes of vomit mingled with the scent of tangy blood and—
Hermione lurched upright, flinging herself out of bed. She stumbled straight into her bed curtains and had to shove them aside. Unable to Apparate within the school grounds, her bare feet slapped against the floor as she rushed through her dormitory, down the dark corridor, and into the girls' lavatories.
She never made it in time.
Phlegm, bile, and rum wrenched from her throat. Clutching her lower stomach, she retched up what little dinner she had eaten—thin and watery. When it was over, she banished the mess with a flick of her hand and staggered to the sink, rinsing her mouth as she shook her head violently, muttering to herself like a mad witch.
"I didn't do it."
"It wasn't me."
"I didn't murder Goyle."
"I could never."
"It wasn't me."
"I can't kill people."
"I hate him—but not that much."
"I didn't do it."
"Why the fuck—what's wrong with me?"
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the mirror. The glass was cool to the touch. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, focusing on the sound of running water, on the sharp scent of chlorine in the hard water. She had to concentrate—otherwise, she would see him. Goyle. Appearing before her. Then vanishing. In tiny little pieces.
Smithereens.
"I'm going mad," she whispered.
It was the only reasonable explanation. Perhaps she had, after all, encountered a Fwooper and been driven to the brink of insanity by its song. How else could her mind summon such wicked, wicked dreams? Was it possible for the brain to fabricate nightmares built upon thoughts she had never once entertained? She had despised Professor Snape, certainly, but she had never fantasised about killing him. She would not have mourned if Goyle had slipped and fallen from the Astronomy Tower, but she would never have pushed him—let alone wished for something bloodier.
And the other dreams? The ones where it was not just those she hated? Ron. Luna. Why was she dreaming of so much death? Hermione's eyes snapped open.
Is this some sort of omen?
Does it mean I'm in peril?
Will someone attempt to kill me?
Malfoy?
She shook her head.
"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered. "I am not important enough to be hunted down and killed by Death Eaters. I am not the one they want."
With a sharp twist, she turned off the tap. It squeaked as it shut, and she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, her brown irises so dark they seemed black. Her skin was pale, leeched of all warmth. Tugging her frizzy curls from her face, she shoved them back into her messy bun.
"I need to see those memories," she whispered.
Her stomach growled in response—perhaps in agreement, perhaps in protest. Her sallow face did not laugh, but the voice in the back of her mind did. She took another deep breath.
The kitchens it was, then.
With her slippers on, the cold stone floors of Hogwarts could not touch her feet. That did not stop the chill from creeping under her dressing gown, seeping through her clothes. Hermione shivered slightly as she descended the stairs in near silence, the charm on her slippers muffling her steps. One staircase after another, she made her way down, wondering if Maddy was all right. Had she, too, awoken from a night terror? Hermione had no way of knowing. She did not even know where the Hufflepuff common room was—she, Harry, and Ron had never had much to do with the house. She knew where Ravenclaw's was, but only because Ginny's best friend, Luna, had once shared its location.
After Professor Dumbledore's speech at dinner last night, Hermione had fled the Great Hall, neglecting to meet up with her sisters or her best friends to wish them goodnight. She had had neither the heart nor the nerve. She had been—and still was—too resentful, too angry, too humiliated.
Her best friends were in Gryffindor.
Her sister was in Hufflepuff.
And she was stuck in Slytherin.
"There's not a witch or wizard that went bad that wasn't in Slytherin." Ron had said that once.
Not to her, of course—not to her face, anyway. But Harry had told her about it after they had become friends. And though she had never heard the words directly, they echoed in her head in Ron's voice, haunting her since first year. Haunting her now, as she began to see why the Sorting Hat had placed her—a Muggle-born—in the last house a Muggle-born should be in.
Perhaps she deserved it. Perhaps it was punishment for crimes she had yet to commit. Atrocities she had yet to carry out. Who knew? Maybe Azkaban would be her next home. It could hardly be worse than the torment Zabini and Parkinson had subjected her to over the years. Perhaps they even deserved thanks—after all, if she did end up in prison, at least she would already be accustomed to suffering. The ordeal would, quite frankly, be a piece of cake.
Speaking of cake—food—Hermione finally reached her destination. She had made it all the way to the painting of the great bowl of fruit beneath the Great Hall without so much as attracting a ghost's attention—let alone Mrs Norris's. The silencing charm on her feet had served its purpose well. She reached up and tickled the pear in the painting. It let out a giggle, shrill and mischievous, like those horrid flowers from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Then it fell silent, twisting into a door handle. Hermione turned the knob and slipped inside.
Silence greeted her. Not a single elf in sight. The blackened logs in the great open fireplace sat half-disintegrated, sending thin wisps of smoke curling into the air. Everything else was spotless. No crumbs on the floor. No stray smears of flour on the worktables. Hermione pulled her wand from her dressing gown pocket, too drained to attempt another non-verbal, wandless spell.
"Accio food," she whispered.
Perhaps it was exhaustion muddling her concentration, or perhaps it was simply a lapse in judgement, but Hermione quickly realised that summoning food in a kitchen where house-elves worked their little fingers to the very bone was a decidedly poor decision.
"Oh, sugar," she muttered, ducking just in time to avoid a speeding platter of roast beef. A jug of pumpkin juice followed, then a bowl of mashed potatoes, a glass dish of trifle, and countless other plates of food—some she recognised, others hurtling toward her too fast to identify. "Wingardium Leviosa!" she cast hastily.
With this rather abrupt awakening, her usual sensibility reasserted itself. She carefully guided the airborne dishes onto the nearest table and summoned cutlery for one. Then, without a second thought, she served herself a portion large enough for two. The food was cold, but she made no effort to warm it. Instead, she dug in, devouring mouthfuls with the same enthusiasm Ron would have.
Midway through her meal, a faint scuffle sounded from somewhere nearby. She paused, glancing around. Nothing seemed out of place. Shrugging off the unease, she returned to her plate, continuing to eat with an abandon she seldom allowed herself. By the time she was as full as her father on Christmas Day, the rush of blood to her stomach left her light-headed, her eyelids heavy. As though intoxicated all over again, she swayed to her feet, the room tilting slightly as she made her way towards the hearth.
The fireplace. Warmth. Comfort.
Hermione curled up on the stone floor, much like Winky had done all those years ago. With a full stomach and the scent of smouldering logs curling in the air, her eyes fluttered shut. Within moments, she drifted into a surprisingly blissful sleep.
"Her-mi-onee Granger?"
A low groan escaped Hermione's lips.
"Harry's Hermy?"
She groaned again, this time in vague acknowledgment.
"It is morning, it is time for breakfast, it is. Winky told Dobby you have been here all night, but Dobby did not see Harry's friend before—"
"Dobby?" Hermione croaked, forcing her eyes open. "Oh, Dobby! It is wonderful to see you again."
She sat up and, without hesitation, pulled the little elf into a hug.
"Oh," he giggled. "Good morning, Harry's Hermy! It is a very good morning indeed—Dobby is most happy to see Harry Potter's friend."
"It is good to see you too, Dobby. How have you been? Oh, I love your socks," she gushed, choosing to ignore the very real possibility that she looked as though she had been dragged through a hedge backwards.
"Dobby thanks you! They are new," he said, grinning from ear to ear. Then, quite suddenly, his expression grew serious. "But what was Harry's Hermy doing sleeping in here?"
"Oh, um," Hermione faltered. "I had a nightmare, you see, and then I was rather hungry, as I did not eat anything at dinner. So I came down here hoping to see you and Winky."
Dobby's large ears twitched as he nodded, his enormous, tennis-ball eyes blinking up at her. "Dobby sees. Dobby understands. Would you like anything else to eat? Although, we must prepare breakfast now."
Only then did Hermione notice that they were no longer alone. A small army of house-elves bustled about, gathering ingredients and setting about their morning duties.
"Oh—no, thank you, Dobby. I should probably get back to my dorm," she said, stretching slightly and rubbing at her aching thighs. "But I will come and visit you and Winky again. Perhaps next time we could have tea?"
"Of course, mistress! Dobby would love, love, love that! Do you think Harry Potter will come to see Dobby too? And Harry's Wheezy?"
Hermione laughed lightly. "Of course. We will all come together—and maybe you can meet my sister too."
"Harry's Hermy has a sister?" Dobby's eyes widened even further—if that was at all possible.
Hermione nodded, stifling a yawn. "Mhm. I will tell you all about it next time—but I really must go now." She glanced around at the bustling elves, suddenly more aware of how busy they were about to get and not wanting to be in the way.
"Alright, see you very soon then!" Dobby beamed, waving enthusiastically.
Hermione nodded and gave him a thumbs-up as she carefully stepped backwards, making sure not to collide with anyone.
"Bye, Winky! See you soon! Have a lovely day, everyone—and good morning!"
A small squeak came from Winky, who shrank further into the corner where she had been peeking from. However, the rest of the elves suddenly turned, beaming as they waved and chorused well-wishes in return.
Indeed, it was a good morning. One where, at long last, the elves no longer harboured resentment towards her over the unfortunate failure of her S.P.E.W. campaign.
"Oh, good day, Hermione."
Hermione did not turn around as she strode down the corridor toward the Great Hall.
"Morning, Luna," she replied—probably not as kindly as she should have, but it seemed all her warmth for the day had already been spent on Dobby.
After returning to her dormitory and enduring the presence of Parkinson and the rest of the Slytherin girls, the numbness had crept back in. Sleep had helped, but not enough to ease her mood. Not after last night's dream.
"Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
Hermione halted mid-step.
"How the fuck do you know that?" She demanded, whipping around to face the Ravenclaw. Luna smiled, serene as ever.
"You have a right to fear them—the dreams. You also have a right not to fear them."
Hermione frowned. "Looney, that's not funny."
Luna's smile faded. "Oh, no. I wasn't teasing—I was being genuine. Your fear is—"
"Lovegood," Hermione interrupted with an exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm not in the mood, and it's far too early in the morning to be mind-fucked."
She turned away, intent on continuing toward the Great Hall, but Luna's voice rang out behind her.
"You have to go to the Triwizard Tournament!" Hermione stopped in her tracks.
Several other students on their way to breakfast paused as well, throwing Luna dubious glances. Slowly, Hermione pivoted and marched back toward the girl, her expression sharp enough to cut. Luna took a small step back.
"Why would you say that?" Hermione demanded in a low whisper, ensuring no one else could hear. Luna's dreamy smile returned.
"Because you must. I don't know why—I only know the feeling. And the feeling is telling me you must."
Hermione stared into Luna's wide, unblinking blue eyes, searching for any hint of jest. She found none. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode into the Great Hall. This time, she transfigured the shot of water in her goblet into Firewhiskey. It was barely the second day of term, and this year at Hogwarts was already shaping up to be the most eventful one yet.
"That's what she said?" Ron whispered.
"Yes—you've already asked me three times, Weasel," Hermione snapped.
"She said—and I quote—you must go to the—"
"Ask me one more time—I dare you." Hermione's voice was a low, dangerous warning.
"Alright, I think that's enough interrogating for one day," Harry murmured, watching Hermione from the corner of his eye.
The soft glow of Hermione's Bluebell Flame hovered in the air, casting flickering shadows in the narrow broom cupboard.
"Merlin, Herpes—who pissed in your morning pumpkin juice?" Ron muttered.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, biting back the urge to say something very sharp, green and mean.
Instead, she exhaled sharply and said, "I don't want to talk about it." Her gaze drifted over to an old, unloved broomstick in the corner.
"Well," Ron said, crossing his arms, "as cuckoo as Looney is—I'd do as she says."
"She's off her head—what does she know?" Hermione scoffed. "She believes in Nargles, Wrackspurts, and blithering, blubbering Humdingers!"
"She's also never been wrong," Ron pointed out. "About her premonitions, I mean. Not the other stuff."
Hermione's expression remained unimpressed. "If you ask me, the bulb in her head is about as bright as the one in Trelawney's."
"Alright, how about this," Harry cut in, using that deliberately calm voice Hermione knew was meant to pacify her. "We stick to the plan—you go wherever Dumbledore goes. If you're right, Ron, then he's likely to be escorting for Beauxbatons. It makes sense—it's the first tournament in centuries."
Silence.
"Alright," Hermione murmured. Then, glancing at Ron, she sighed. "Sorry, Weasel. Didn't mean to be such a bitch."
Ron grinned. "Oh, shut up, Herpes. Now's hardly the time to start apologising for being you. If I took half the verbal diarrhoea that came out of your mouth personally, I'd need to be admitted to St Mungo's." Then, holding out his arms dramatically, he added, "Here—d'you need a hug? You look like you need a hug. I give you permission to hug me."
Hermione scoffed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Mugglefucking red idiot," but she took the rare opportunity anyway. Hugging Ron was like hugging a lamppost—awkward but oddly comforting.
When she pulled away, she asked, "Have you seen Maddy yet?"
"Uhh… Yeah—sure. Why?" Ron's ears turned beetroot red.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. Then, as Harry smothered his laugh into his sleeve, she held up a hand. "You know what? I don't want to know. Forget I asked. I'm going to pretend I never asked. I don't want to know."
"Great," Ron said, his grin tight with embarrassment. "Now can we get out of this broom cupboard? We're going to be late for DADA—and fuck if I want to piss Snape off on the first day."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. You go first, then Harry, then me. We'll stagger it—otherwise, it'll look like we just had a threesome, and I don't fancy hearing jokes about the Mudblood, Potter, Weasley, and a couple of broomsti—"
"Alright, alright—I'm going! Fuck Merlin sideways," Ron yelped, looking half-mortified.
Hermione laughed. "Exactly what I hope they don't say I said."
Ron left, still looking amusingly appalled. It was always fun to rattle him. But when her gaze flickered to Harry, her smile faded.
"I'm fine," she said before he could speak, closing her eyes as she leaned against the wall and folded her arms. "I'll be fine."
She heard Harry shift, probably stepping closer. She did not open her eyes. Then she heard him move again, back to where he had been standing.
"I'm sorry about Maddy," he said suddenly. Hermione tempered her reaction.
"It's fine," she said, shrugging, eyes still closed. "Makes sense—she could never survive Slytherin."
"Still," Harry murmured.
Silence stretched between them. Hermione opened her eyes. They locked gazes for a long moment, neither speaking.
Then she said softly, "You should go now."
Harry hesitated, nodded, then turned toward the door. Hermione held her breath. But he did not look back. When the door closed, leaving her alone in the dark cupboard, she turned to her Bluebell Flame. She reached out, letting her fingers hover in the cool glow. The soft blue light gleamed in her black eyes.
"I'm fine," Hermione murmured. "I'll be fine."