Doing this chapter made me realize that I am gonna have to do a lot when it comes to Hermione and this whole turning into a cat girl...

It also got me thinking of when she and her parents are gonna start having a divide. I feel like it's gonna start to manifest in Book 3, and really start kicking off in Book 4.

ADHD brain at work lol

Anyways, on with the fic!

Chapter 34: The Plan

It was, without a doubt, the gloomiest and most miserable bathroom you could ever set foot in. The air felt heavy and damp, and the dim, flickering light of a few sad candles cast long, distorted shadows across the cracked walls. Under a large, tarnished mirror, a row of chipped sinks lined the wall, their once-white porcelain now dulled and stained. The floor was perpetually wet, puddles reflecting the weak glow of the candles. The wooden doors to the stalls were scratched and battered, and one hung precariously off its hinges, creaking faintly as we walked in. The place practically oozed despair, and I couldn't imagine anyone willingly spending time here.

I put a finger to my lips, signaling Harry and Ron to stay quiet, and headed toward the last stall. "Hello, Myrtle, how are you?" I asked, peeking cautiously into the stall.

And there she was, Miss Doom and Gloom herself. Moaning Myrtle hovered above the toilet tank, inspecting what appeared to be a spot on her chin. Her ghostly form shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and her face was locked in its usual expression of melodramatic misery.

"This is a girls' bathroom," she said sharply, her eyes narrowing as she noticed Harry and Ron trailing behind me. Her tone was filled with disdain. "They're not girls."

"No," I agreed quickly, trying to keep the situation calm. "I just wanted to show them how, er—nice it is in here."

That was laying it on far too thick, and even I cringed inwardly at how false it sounded. Nice? There wasn't a single thing remotely nice about this bathroom. Even the puddles of water looked forlorn and hopeless.

Harry leaned closer and whispered, "Ask her if she saw anything."

But Myrtle caught him. Her piercing eyes focused on Harry suspiciously. "What are you whispering about?" she demanded.

"Nothing," said Harry, clearly startled by her sudden attention. "We wanted to ask—"

"I wish people would stop talking behind my back!" Myrtle wailed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead!"

Here we go, I thought, already steeling myself for the inevitable dramatics. Myrtle was always like this (overly sensitive and prone to theatrics) but it didn't make it any less exhausting to deal with.

"Myrtle, no one wants to upset you," I said, trying to sound soothing. I even took a small step closer, hoping to calm her down. "Harry only—"

"No one wants to upset me! That's a good one!" Myrtle howled, her translucent face crumpling into an expression of deep despair. "My life was nothing but misery at this place, and now people come along ruining my death!"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "We wanted to ask you if you've seen anything funny lately," I said quickly, hoping to steer the conversation back on track. "Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween."

"Did you see anyone near here that night?" Harry added, his tone earnest.

"I wasn't paying attention," Myrtle replied dramatically, her voice quivering as she worked herself up. "Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm… that I'm—"

"Already dead?" Ron blurted out, clearly trying to be helpful but utterly missing the mark.

Myrtle froze, her eyes widening with fresh indignation. Then, with a heart-wrenching sob, she flung herself upward, twisted in the air, and dove headfirst into the toilet. There was a loud splash, and water sprayed everywhere, soaking the three of us. She vanished from sight with a final, pitiful wail.

I wiped a few droplets off my face, feeling annoyed but not surprised. Harry and Ron stood there in stunned silence, their mouths slightly open as they stared at the toilet Myrtle had disappeared into.

I gave a small shrug, trying to brush it off. "Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle. Come on, let's go," I said, turning on my heel and leading the way out of the bathroom.

As the door creaked shut behind us, I couldn't help but feel relieved to leave the damp, depressing space behind. Still, a small part of me felt a twinge of sympathy for Myrtle. It must have been awful to be trapped in that bathroom for eternity, no matter how dramatic she could be.

We walked out of the bathroom slowly, trying to keep as quiet as possible. The air in the corridor felt heavy, as if it carried all the tension from earlier. I wasn't sure what I'd expected to find in there, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed that Myrtle hadn't been more helpful. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, a sudden bellow from behind made us all jump.

"RON!"

That voice was unmistakable. We turned to see Percy marching toward us, his face a mix of fury and shock. His prefect badge gleamed obnoxiously in the light streaming from a nearby window, as if it were mocking us. Ron groaned audibly. I couldn't blame him.

"That's a girls' bathroom!" Percy exclaimed, clearly scandalized. "What were you—?"

"Just having a look around. Clues, you know," Ron said, shrugging like it was no big deal, though I could see the way his ears were turning red.

Percy's expression turned even huffier, his mouth tightening in that way that reminded me of Grandmama before she launched into one of her lectures about proper behavior. I braced myself.

"Get—away—from—there—" Percy said through gritted teeth, yanking Ron's arm as though he were trying to drag him away from something highly illegal. He herded all three of us down the corridor with little shoves, his face twisted with frustration. "Don't you care what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone's at dinner!"

"Why shouldn't we be here?" Ron snapped, pulling his arm free and glaring at Percy. I could feel the tension between them rising like steam from a kettle. "Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!"

"That's what I told Ginny," Percy said, his tone sharp and reprimanding, "but she still seems to think you're going to be expelled! I've never seen her so upset—crying her eyes out—you might think of her! All the first years are thoroughly over excited by this business—"

I frowned at that, a pang of guilt twisting in my stomach. Poor Ginny. I'd seen her in the common room earlier, looking pale and withdrawn, but I hadn't realized just how worried she was.

"You don't care about Ginny!" Ron yelled, his voice echoing down the corridor. His face had gone redder than I'd ever seen it, his hands clenched into fists. "You're just worried I'm going to mess up your chances of being Head Boy!"

Percy's expression hardened, and he jabbed a finger at his prefect badge as though it were some sort of shield. "Five points from Gryffindor!" he barked. "And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or I'll write to Mum!"

With that, Percy turned on his heel and stormed off, his robes swishing dramatically behind him. He walked like he thought the entire school was watching, though the corridor was empty except for us.

We didn't speak as we made our way back to the common room. The silence was thick, and I could tell Ron was seething. His jaw was clenched, and his fists were still balled at his sides. I decided it was best to give him a moment to cool off before saying anything.

I was still trying to make sense of the Weasley siblings. Bill sounded brilliant from the little I'd heard about him, and Charlie seemed down-to-earth, though I'd only met him briefly. But Percy... Percy was a different story. In some ways, he reminded me of myself—serious, studious, and eager to prove himself. But unlike me, Percy didn't seem to know how to balance being responsible with being approachable. He wore that prefect badge like it was glued to his chest, and I could see how much it grated on Ron.

Ron, on the other hand, looked as though he were ready to explode. I couldn't help but hope that he and Percy might find some common ground eventually. After all, they were brothers. Surely that had to count for something.

For now, though, I kept my thoughts to myself. The last thing Ron needed was more to stew over.

We made our way to the common room after dinner, deliberately choosing seats as far from Percy as we could. His badge practically gleamed in the firelight as he sat, looking self-important and scolding some nervous first-years about "proper conduct." I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Percy always seemed to take such joy in making people miserable. Ron, still stewing after their earlier argument, slammed his bag onto the table, his foul mood hanging over us like a thundercloud.

It didn't take long for his frustration to boil over. We were trying to work on our Charms homework, but Ron was so distracted that he smudged his essay. In a fit of frustration, he grabbed his broken wand and tried to fix it. That, of course, went about as well as you'd expect—his parchment caught fire almost immediately.

"Stupid, bloody thing!" he growled, tossing the wand down as if it had personally offended him. He slapped his Charms textbook shut with such force that a few nearby second-years glanced over nervously. His ears were red, and he looked ready to explode.

I sighed. I could see why he was frustrated—it had been a miserable day for him—but I had my own worries to think about. The events of the last few days kept spinning in my head like a never-ending loop, and no matter how hard I tried to focus on my homework, I couldn't concentrate. Finally, I put down my quill and voiced the question that had been gnawing at me.

"Who can it be, though?" I said, my voice quieter than usual. "Who'd want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?"

Ron looked up from the singed remains of his essay. "Let's think," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?"

He gave me a pointed look, and it didn't take long for me to realize who he was talking about.

"If you're talking about Malfoy—" I began.

"Of course I am!" Ron hissed, leaning forward as if someone might overhear us. "You heard him—'You'll be next, Mudbloods!' Come on, Hermione, you've only got to look at his foul rat face to know it's him!"

I frowned, not entirely convinced. "Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?" I asked doubtfully.

"Look at his family," Harry said, chiming in. "The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin. He's always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin's descendants. His father's definitely evil enough."

"They could've had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!" Ron added, his voice gaining momentum. "Handing it down, father to son."

"Well," I said cautiously, trying to weigh their arguments against what little we actually knew. "I suppose it's possible…"

"But how do we prove it?" Harry asked, sounding frustrated.

I thought for a moment, my mind racing through potential ideas. Spying on Malfoy with Harry's Invisibility Cloak came to mind, but that wouldn't guarantee we'd catch him saying anything incriminating. No, we needed to talk to him directly, to get him to admit something. The problem was, he'd never tell us anything willingly. He couldn't know it was us.

And then it hit me.

"There might be a way," I said slowly, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear us. "Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous—very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect—"

"If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won't you?" Ron interrupted, his voice tinged with irritation and just a hint of playfulness.

"All right," I said sharply, giving him a glare. I was being serious, and he was already mocking me. "What we'd need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it's us."

Ron laughed outright, and I felt my irritation spike. "But that's impossible," Harry said, though he didn't sound entirely sure.

"No, it's not," I said, shaking my head. "All we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, clearly baffled, before turning back to me. "What's that?" they asked in unison.

I groaned. Honestly, did they ever pay attention in class? "Snape mentioned it in Potions a few weeks ago…"

"D'you think we've got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?" Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"Well you should," I shot back, my voice sharp. "As it is indeed one of our classes and we do have exams for it!" "

"You were saying, Hermione?" Harry cut in quickly, clearly hoping to avoid an argument.

"It transforms you into somebody else," I explained, trying to keep my voice calm. "Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us anything. He's probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear him."

"This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me," Ron said, frowning. "What if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever? I don't want to look like Zabini or fucking Nott for the rest of my life."

I rolled my eyes. "It wears off after a while," I said impatiently. "But getting hold of the recipe will be difficult. Snape said it's in a book called Moste Potente Potions, and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library." I paused, glancing at them meaningfully. "There's only one way to get it out: we'd need a signed note of permission from a teacher."

"Hard to see why we'd want the book, really, if we weren't going to try and make one of the potions," Harry said with a small grin.

"I think that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance…" I began.

"Oh, come on," Ron scoffed. "No teacher's going to fall for that. They'd have to be really thick."

"No…" Harry said slowly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "They'd just have to be Lockhart."

For a moment, we just looked at each other, and then identical grins broke out across our faces. Of course—Lockhart. He was perfect.

Since the pixie incident, Professor Lockhart had stopped bringing live creatures to class. Instead, he had taken to reading excerpts from his books and regaling us with stories of his "heroic" adventures. He even acted them out, often enlisting Harry to play the role of various helpless creatures or victims. Poor Harry had been forced to play a Transylvanian villager cursed with endless babbling, a yeti with a head cold, and even a vampire who could only stomach lettuce after Lockhart's intervention. Today, Harry was a werewolf.

Lockhart was in fine form, prancing about the classroom with exaggerated gestures as he narrated his latest feat.

"Nice loud howl, Harry – exactly! And then, if you'll believe it, I pounced like this—" He pounced dramatically at Harry, who barely avoided flinching. "Slammed him to the floor, thus! With one hand, I managed to hold him down – with my other, I put my wand to his throat! I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm—" He let out a pitiful moan, turning to Harry. "Go on, Harry, higher than that... Good! The fur vanished, the fangs shrank, and he turned back into a man. Simple yet effective – and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks."

I couldn't help but hang onto every word, utterly captivated. Lockhart's stories were fascinating, even inspiring. I didn't understand why Harry and Ron found him so intolerable. Sure, he could be a bit pompous, but with achievements like his, hadn't he earned the right?

The bell rang, signaling the end of class.

"Homework!" said Lockhart, springing up from his chair. "Compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!"

As the rest of the class filed out, I gathered my things and waited for Harry and Ron to join me at the back of the room.

"Ready?" Harry muttered.

"Wait till everyone's gone," I said, glancing around to make sure the room had emptied. Once we were alone, I straightened up and approached Lockhart's desk, clutching the forged permission note in my slightly trembling hand. This part of the plan had me nervous—I wasn't a very good liar, and I knew I had to keep my composure.

"Er... Professor Lockhart?" I said, trying to sound casual. "I wanted to... to get this book out of the library. Just for background reading. But the thing is, it's in the Restricted Section, so I need a teacher to sign for it."

I held out the note, praying he wouldn't notice anything suspicious.

"I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms," I added, hoping to appeal to his ego.

"Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!" Lockhart exclaimed, beaming as he took the note. "Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?"

"Oh, yes!" I said enthusiastically, my nerves easing slightly. "So clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer!"

"Well, I'm sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help," he said with a dazzling smile, pulling out a ridiculously large peacock quill.

My heart swelled with pride. The best student of the year? That was high praise, and coming from Lockhart, it felt even more significant.

"Yes, nice, isn't it?" he said, noticing my admiration. He assumed it was for his quill. "I usually save it for book-signings."

Behind me, Ron rolled his eyes dramatically, while Harry looked as if he might burst out laughing. I ignored them and watched as Lockhart scrawled his enormous, looping signature across the note.

"So, Harry," Lockhart said, handing the note back to me. "Tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you're a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players."

Harry and Ron both looked unimpressed. If anything, they seemed more irritated than before.

We left quickly before Lockhart could launch into another story. I would have gladly stayed to listen, but the boys were in no mood, and we had more important things to do.

"I don't believe it," Harry said, holding up the note. "He didn't even look at the book we wanted."

"That's because he's a brainless git," Ron said, snorting. "But who cares? We've got what we needed."

"He is not a brainless git," I said, shooting him a glare.

"Just because he said you were the best student of the year doesn't mean he's got a brain," Ron retorted. "Everyone knows you're brilliant. Doesn't take a genius to see that."

I wasn't sure whether to be irritated or flattered. In the end, I settled on a bit of both.

We made our way to the library and approached Madam Pince's desk.

"Moste Potente Potions?" she repeated, her sharp eyes narrowing as she examined the note. I held onto it for a moment, reluctant to let go.

"I was wondering if I could keep it," I said hesitantly, trying to sound casual.

"Oh, come on," Ron said impatiently, snatching the note from me and handing it over. "We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign anything if it stands still long enough."

I scowled at him, but he just shrugged.

Madam Pince scrutinized the note, holding it up to the light as if searching for forgeries. After a moment, she deemed it genuine and disappeared into the Restricted Section. A few minutes later, she returned with a battered, moldy book that reeked faintly of damp parchment.

She handed it to me with a sharp glare, and I carefully tucked it into my bag. We had what we needed, and I couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement.

After leaving the library, I led Harry and Ron toward the one place I knew we wouldn't be disturbed—Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. It wasn't my first choice, of course, but when considering a location where absolutely no one would dare to enter, Myrtle's loo was the obvious answer.

As we made our way down the corridors, Ron was dragging his feet. He was clearly less than thrilled, his expression one of exaggerated dread.

"Of all the places," Ron muttered, staring at the floor as we walked. "Why there? Why Myrtle's? Couldn't we just… I don't know, use the common room? Or literally anywhere else?"

"No, Ronald," I said, clutching my bag tightly and resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "This has to be somewhere completely private, where no one would interrupt us. And you know as well as I do that no one willingly goes into Myrtle's bathroom."

"That's because it's miserable in there!" Ron said, throwing his hands in the air. "It's damp, it's cold, and Myrtle's always moaning—like a kettle with legs!"

"It's not that bad," I said defensively, though I had to admit it was one of the most unpleasant places in the castle. "And besides, it's not like we'll be living there. We just need somewhere to plan without being overheard."

"You mean without being haunted," Ron said, shuddering dramatically. "If she starts wailing again, I might actually go mad."

Harry, who had been walking quietly between us, finally cut in. "Can we just get there already? If we're going to argue the whole way, at least let's do it faster."

I ignored his irritation and forged ahead, determined to stay on task.

"It's the best option," I continued, looking over my shoulder at Ron. "Honestly, sometimes I think you're allergic to practical ideas."

"And sometimes I think you've lost the plot!" Ron retorted, though there was a playful edge to his voice. "If Myrtle doesn't drive us mad, the smell will."

"Oh, please, you've survived worse smells," I shot back. "Remember the troll? Or your dormitory after you eat too much at dinner?"

Harry snorted quietly, but quickly turned it into a cough when Ron glared at him.

"Right," Ron said, pointing at Harry. "He's on my side. Aren't you, Harry?"

"I'm on the side of getting this over with," Harry said flatly, clearly tired of the bickering. "If Myrtle's bathroom is the only place we can use, let's just go before Filch catches us in the corridors."

"Exactly," I said primly, though I felt a small flicker of triumph. "Now, stop complaining, Ron, and hurry up."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Bossy nightmare," but I chose to ignore it. Soon, we reached the door to Myrtle's bathroom, the cracked sign reading Out of Order swinging slightly on its hinges.

I pushed open the door, bracing myself for the damp chill that always greeted anyone foolish enough to enter. Sure enough, a wave of musty air hit us, and water glistened on the floor in uneven puddles. The dim candles cast flickering shadows on the grimy walls, making the whole place feel eerily alive.

"Brilliant," Ron muttered as he stepped carefully to avoid the puddles. "It's like a holiday in a swamp."

"Oh, stop exaggerating," I said, setting my bag down on the driest patch of floor I could find. "Now, come on. We've got work to do."

Harry leaned against the nearest sink, looking mildly exasperated but resigned. Ron, meanwhile, eyed the stalls with suspicion, as though Myrtle might jump out at any moment.

"If she starts crying, I'm out of here," Ron warned. "You know she gets really upset if you say the wrong thing."

"I'll handle Myrtle if she shows up," I said firmly. "Now, can we focus?"

"Lead the way, Your Highness," Ron said with a mock bow that caused me to grin.

I opened Moste Potente Potions as carefully as I could, mindful of how ancient and fragile the pages felt beneath my fingertips. The thick parchment was damp-spotted and had a faint, musty smell that made me wrinkle my nose. Harry, Ron, and I bent over the book together, the dim light in Myrtle's bathroom casting flickering shadows on the gruesome illustrations.

It quickly became obvious why this book was locked away in the Restricted Section. I could feel Ron tense next to me as we turned a page showing a witch with extra pairs of arms sprouting grotesquely from her head, her face twisted in agony. Harry flinched at a sketch of a man who had been turned inside out, his organs gruesomely detailed.

"Here it is!" I said, my voice breaking through the heavy silence. I pointed excitedly to a page headed The Polyjuice Potion, its title elegantly scrawled in curling script. My eyes scanned the drawings decorating the margins—half-transformed figures who looked far from comfortable. One had a face that was still mid-morph, a mix of two different people, and it sent a shiver up my spine.

"This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen," I admitted, my excitement mingling with unease as I studied the detailed instructions. "Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass… Well, those are easy enough. They're in the student store cupboard; we can help ourselves. Oooh, look—powdered horn of a bicorn. I don't know where we're going to get that. Shredded skin of a boomslang—that'll be tricky, too. And of course, a bit of whoever we want to change into."

I paused for emphasis, but I didn't expect the reaction I got.

"Excuse me?" Ron said, raising his hand as though he were in class, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "What do you mean, a bit of whoever we're changing into? I'm not drinking anything with Crabbe's toenails in it!"

I shot him a withering look, refusing to indulge his immaturity. "We don't have to worry about that yet because we add those bits last," I said briskly, trying to keep the conversation on track.

Harry, however, wasn't making it any easier. "Do you realize how much we're going to have to steal, Hermione?" he exclaimed, frowning. "Shredded skin of a boomslang—that's definitely not in the student cupboard. What're we going to do, break into Snape's private stores? I don't know if this is a good idea."

I felt my patience fray as Harry's doubt mingled with Ron's ridiculousness. Honestly, they were acting as though I hadn't thought this through. I glared at them both, my frustration simmering just below the surface.

"Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine," I snapped, crossing my arms. "I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggleborns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in."

Harry and Ron exchanged uneasy glances, clearly weighing their options. I felt a spark of triumph when Ron's face broke into a grin, his amusement at my rare outburst evident.

"I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be persuading us to break rules," he said, smirking as he leaned back against the sink. "All right, we'll do it. But no toenails, okay?"

I couldn't help but smile back, though I quickly masked it with a look of determination.

"How long will it take to make, anyway?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued now that they'd both agreed.

"Well," I began, flipping through the instructions again, "since the fluxweed has to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have to be stewed for twenty-one days… I'd say it'd be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients." My voice dipped slightly as I finished, knowing they wouldn't be thrilled with the timeline.

"A month?" Ron groaned, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. "Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggleborns in the school by then!"

I shot him a warning look, my patience hanging by a thread.

"But it's the best plan we've got," he quickly amended, raising his hands defensively. "So, full steam ahead, I say." His sheepish grin softened the frustration bubbling inside me.

Satisfied, I walked over to the door and cautiously cracked it open to check the hallway. "The coast is clear," I whispered.

As we gathered our things, I overheard Ron whisper to Harry, "What say you just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow?"

Harry chuckled. "That'd be a sight, to see him land flat on his uppity arse because of me."

I rolled my eyes but bit back a smile as I held the door open for them. My boys could be so childish sometimes, but at least we had a plan.