So a lot of this chapter when it comes to the Potions class, I feel Hermione didn't hear. She was sitting with Neville, not with Harry and Ron. So unless they were really loud, she missed it. So sorry you don't get a lot of Draco antics.

Chapter 54: Don't Be Suspicious

By the time Malfoy finally decided to grace us with his presence on Thursday morning, we were already halfway through double Potions. The dungeon was thick with the usual murky scent of stewed ingredients, damp stone, and the occasional burning mishap from one of the less skilled students—probably Neville.

Malfoy swaggered in as though he had just staggered off a battlefield, his right arm wrapped dramatically in bandages and bound up in a sling. It was an utterly ridiculous display, considering Madam Pomfrey could mend bones in an instant. If his arm was still in a sling, it was only because he wanted it that way.

"How is it, Draco?" Pansy gushed, her voice thick with concern as she practically leaned across the table to get closer to him. "Does it hurt much?"

"Yeah," Malfoy said, grimacing theatrically as though he were bearing unimaginable pain—but I caught the smug little wink he shot at Crabbe and Goyle the second Pansy turned away. Pathetic.

"Settle down, settle down," Snape said idly, barely glancing up from where he was lazily flicking his wand at a stack of parchment.

I stiffened, my fingers tightening around my stirrer. If it had been Harry, Ron, or me waltzing in late, Snape would have deducted points before we even sat down. But because it was Malfoy, he was practically being welcomed with open arms.

Harry, Ron, and I exchanged deep scowls, the injustice simmering between us like an over-boiled potion. Snape had always favored his Slytherins, but watching him turn a blind eye to Malfoy's absurd performance was almost insulting.

Today's lesson was a Shrinking Solution, and from the moment Malfoy plopped himself down next to Harry and Ron—purely to irritate them, I was sure—he continued his performance.

"Sir," Malfoy called, "I'll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm."

"Weasley, cut Malfoy's roots for him," Snape ordered smoothly, without even pretending to consider if Malfoy was capable.

Ron froze mid-slice, his jaw dropping in outrage. He sighed, taking Malfoy's roots and chopping swiftly.

I went back to preparing my ingredients as accurately as the book told me. I tried to keep my disdain for the situation inside me, as I felt my annoyance rise.

"Professor." whined Malfoy a few minutes later "Weasley's mutilating my roots, sir."

Snape approached their table, stared down his hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black hair.

"Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley."

"What?! But sir!"Ron exclaimed.

"Now," said Snape in a dangerous growl.

"And, sir, I'll need this shrivelfig skinned," said Malfoy, his voice full of arrogant and malicious laughter.

"Potter, you can skin Malfoy's shrivelfig," said Snape, giving Harry a hated look.

It was revolting to watch Malfoy milk his so-called injury, and even worse to see Snape indulge it.

The torture of Potions dragged on. I had finished my potion, the color and consistency exactly as it should be. I looked over to see Neville was struggling. His potion, which should have been a calming shade of deep lilac, was instead a murky brown, bubbling sluggishly like thick sludge. I had been watching him carefully from the corner of my eye, desperate to intervene, but the moment I had leaned in even slightly, Snape's cold, drawling voice cut through the air.

"Miss Granger, if I see you so much as breathe on Longbottom's cauldron, you will lose Gryffindor points."

I had clamped my mouth shut, frustrated but helpless. I couldn't stand watching Neville's hands tremble as he measured out his last few ingredients, his face pale with worry. And when Snape so very casually announced that he intended to test the potion on Trevor, Neville's large, bug-eyed pet toad, my frustration quickly turned to horror.

Neville gasped audibly, clutching his wooden spoon so tightly I feared it might snap in half. Trevor was doomed.

I couldn't let that happen.

Snape turned his back, sweeping toward his desk with that deliberate, predatory grace of his, and Neville turned to me frantically. His wide, fearful eyes were almost pleading.

"Please, Hermione," he whispered, hands shaking so much that he nearly knocked over his vial of Flobberworm Mucus. "I—I don't know what I did wrong!"

That was all it took. I couldn't just sit there and watch him fail.

"Two clockwise stirs, then add a single drop of moondew—only one! And gently, Neville!" I hissed, keeping my gaze trained on Snape's back as I pretended to be focused on my own cauldron. "Then stir counterclockwise until it turns the right shade!"

Neville, sweating profusely, did as I instructed, his hands twitching with nerves as he carefully adjusted his brew. The once murky brown sludge lightened ever so slightly to something closer to the correct color. Not perfect—but not disastrous.

"You should have finished adding your ingredients by now," Snape's cool voice sliced through the tension, making both of us jump. "This potion needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away while it simmers and then we'll test Longbottom's…"

Neville froze, his stirring becoming frantic.

"Keep going, just like that—don't stop!" I whispered swiftly, my heart pounding. I knew we only had seconds before Snape turned around.

Harry and Ron, oblivious to my whispered coaching, had already begun packing away their unused ingredients. I reached for my own supplies, trying to appear nonchalant, though my insides were twisting into knots.

I had no idea if I had just saved Trevor, or if I had just sealed Neville's fate.

Revised Scene – Hermione's POV (1st Person Narrative, Age 14)

The lesson was nearly over, but Neville looked like he was about to be sick. His hands were shaking so violently that I half expected him to drop his stirring rod into the cauldron. I sat stiffly beside him, feeling my own pulse quicken as Snape strode over, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud ready to burst.

"Everyone gather 'round," Snape ordered, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. There was a particular gleam in Snape's eyes—the kind that meant he was about to humiliate someone. He was enjoying this.

"If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don't doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned."

Neville gave a tiny whimper, his face ashen, and I had to clench my fists in my lap to keep from speaking up. My chest burned with frustration. How was this allowed? How was Snape allowed to treat students like this? To threaten their pets just for his own amusement?

Across the room, the Slytherins looked delighted, their eyes glinting with anticipation. Pansy Parkinson let out a mock gasp, covering her mouth dramatically as though this were the most fascinating thing she'd ever witnessed.

I threw her a dirty look before turning back to Neville, muttering under my breath.

"It's going to be fine," I whispered quickly, hoping Snape wouldn't hear. "Your potion is green—it's supposed to be green. That's a good sign, Neville!"

But Neville wasn't listening—he was too busy watching in horror as Snape picked up Trevor, his large, warty body trembling in the professor's pale fingers.

I held my breath.

Snape dipped a small silver spoon into Neville's potion. The liquid clung to the edges, thick but the exact right shade of green.

Please work, please work, please work...

He trickled a few drops into Trevor's mouth.

The toad gulped.

There was a moment of excruciating silence.

Then—

Pop!

I gasped as Trevor vanished, replaced by a tiny, wriggling tadpole, no larger than the tip of Snape's finger.

A wave of relief crashed over me.

For a moment, it was as though time had frozen. And then—

"Yes!" Seamus whooped.

Gryffindor erupted in cheers, our laughter filling the dungeon in a way that it rarely ever did during Potions.

"Brilliant, Neville!" I beamed, thrilled beyond words.

Even Ron, who had spent most of the lesson looking like he wanted to hurl his cauldron at Malfoy, was grinning, clapping Neville on the back. For once, something had gone right.

But just as I thought we had won, Snape's face curdled like spoiled milk.

With a jerky flick of his wand, he produced a tiny glass vial from his robes and poured a few drops over the tadpole.

Trevor reappeared instantly, blinking up at us with wide, startled eyes.

And then—

"Five points from Gryffindor."

The room fell silent.

The excitement drained from the air, vanishing like smoke.

"I told you not to help him, Miss Granger."

I felt my stomach plummet. Snape's gaze was cold and knowing, as if he had suspected all along what I had done.

I bit my tongue hard, forcing down the surge of frustration bubbling inside me. Of course he would find a way to punish us for success. Of course he would strip us of any joy we had managed to salvage from the lesson.

My hands curled into tight fists at my sides, my fingernails digging into my palms.

"Class dismissed."

As we walked out the classroom, I made a quick detour to an empty classroom. I had to turn back time and go to Ancient Runes.

I had slowly been getting the hang of this time traveling thing. No mishaps, no missed classes. So far, so good.

Hermione, Harry, and I climbed the steps to the entrance hall. I was seething about what Snape had done, that fucking git.

"Five points from Gryffindor because the potion was all right! Why didn't you lie, Hermione? You should've said Neville did it all by himself!"

But Hermione didn't answer. She had just been beside me.

After leaving Potions, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. Ron and Harry were already halfway up the corridor, muttering about Snape's unfairness, as usual. I, however, had a different problem to deal with.

I veered into an empty classroom, checking twice to make sure no one had followed me. The room was dim, its only light coming from a few flickering torches along the stone walls. Dust floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by my hurried steps.

I reached into my robes, grasping the cool, delicate chain of the Time-Turner.

I swallowed hard, gripping the tiny hourglass between my fingers. No mishaps, no mistakes—I had done this before. I could do it again.

One full turn, then a half-turn.

The world blurred and twisted around me, colors running together like a wet painting. The torches flickered backwards, the dust in the air stilled, and then—

Everything stopped.

I took a deep breath and checked my watch—8:50 AM.

Perfect.

Ancient Runes was about to begin.

I slipped into my seat just as Professor Babbling, a small, sharp-eyed woman with graying hair pinned neatly atop her head, finished writing on the blackboard. The room was cozy but lined with heavy, leather-bound tomes, the scent of parchment thick in the air.

"Excellent, Miss Granger, just in time," Professor Babbling said, peering at me over her spectacles. "I trust everyone has completed the translation exercise I assigned?"

A chorus of rustling parchment followed as students retrieved their work.

I had spent ages on mine, meticulously ensuring every rune was translated perfectly. Ancient Runes was precise, structured, logical—everything Divination wasn't. And I loved it.

"Let's begin with a review," Professor Babbling said, scanning the room. "Miss Granger, would you kindly read your translation of the first passage?"

I straightened in my chair and cleared my throat.

"The inscription reads," I began, my fingers brushing over the careful lines of my parchment, "'Wisdom is the foundation upon which magic is built. Without knowledge, power is wasted; without understanding, strength is reckless.'"

Professor Babbling gave a small, approving smile.

"Perfect," she said. "Not a single mistake. Ten points to Gryffindor."

A warm flush of pride filled my chest.

I smiled to myself as the lesson continued, feeling a bit lighter after the disaster in Potions. Ancient Runes was one of the few classes where I could just enjoy learning—no Malfoy, no Snape, no unfair punishments.

We spent the remainder of the lesson discussing the significance of different runic scripts, particularly how some ancient runes had shifted meanings over centuries. I took copious notes, eager to reread them later.

Finally, as the class drew to an end, Professor Babbling gave us next week's assignment—a new translation exercise, much harder than the last, but I was already looking forward to it.

"Remember," she said as we packed up our things, "Ancient Runes is a puzzle. Approach it with patience, and the answers will reveal themselves."

I nodded, tucking my parchment neatly into my bag before hurrying out the door.

I did the process one more time to attend my Muggle Studies class. I felt a bit woozy this go round for some reason. But I made it.

I arrived at Muggle Studies feeling as focused as ever. While this class was one of my lighter subjects in terms of difficulty, I refused to treat it as anything less than serious.

Professor Burbage was already at the front of the classroom, arranging a neat stack of envelopes, stamps, and postcards on her desk. Beside her stood a large red post box, the kind I had seen thousands of times growing up. I had to resist the urge to smile.

The other students, however, were not as familiar.

Tracey Davis was eyeing the post box with her usual air of mild disinterest, while Terry Boot had his quill poised as though expecting to take notes on some ancient, lost magic. A handful of other students leaned forward curiously, whispering among themselves.

"Good morning, class!" Professor Burbage greeted, clasping her hands together. "Today, we'll be learning about an essential part of Muggle life: the postal system."

There was a beat of silence.

"The what?" Tracey asked blankly, tilting her head.

Professor Burbage smiled, clearly expecting the reaction.

"The postal system," she repeated. "Muggles do not have owls to send letters, so they had to develop an entirely different way to communicate across long distances."

At that, several students sat up straighter.

"Wait, wait, wait," Terry Boot cut in. "If they don't use owls, then how—?"

"Ah!" Burbage held up a stamped envelope. "Excellent question! Muggles write letters, seal them inside envelopes like this, and send them through their postal service. Instead of an owl delivering them, postmen—Muggle workers—transport the letters to their destination."

A murmur rippled through the class.

"How?" Tracey asked, frowning.

"Through a very organized system!" Burbage said brightly. "Letters are placed into post boxes, like the one here. Then, postal workers collect them, take them to post offices—where they are sorted—and finally, they are sent to their destinations by van, train, or even airplane."

A genuine gasp came from the back of the room.

"Airplane?" Terry echoed, stunned. "They fling their letters into the air?"

I barely contained a snort.

"No," I said, straightening in my seat. "An airplane is a massive Muggle invention that allows people to fly. It can carry hundreds of passengers and thousands of letters at a time."

The room fell silent.

"They fly?" Tracey whispered, wide-eyed. "Like… on broomsticks?"

"Well, no," I began, but Professor Burbage clapped her hands together.

"Excellent discussion, everyone! Now, let's talk about how letters are paid for."

She held up a small blue and red stamp.

"This is a postage stamp. Muggles attach these to letters to prove they have paid for their delivery."

"Paid?" Terry asked incredulously. "You mean, they can't just send a letter for free?"

"They have to pay for their mail to be delivered?" Tracey scoffed, shaking her head. "That's ridiculous."

"It's a well-structured system," I argued, feeling defensive. "It makes sure letters are sent properly and don't get lost. And for important messages, they use a tracking system, so they know where their letter is at all times."

Tracey looked unimpressed, but Terry was scribbling furiously in his notes.

"Right then!" Professor Burbage clapped her hands. "For today's activity, you will each write a letter, address it properly, and 'post' it into this box. Think carefully about your recipient, and remember—no Howlers!"

There were a few chuckles. I pulled out my parchment, quill scratching quickly as I wrote:

"Dear Professor McGonagall, I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to formally suggest that Muggle Studies be made mandatory for all Hogwarts students…"

By the time class ended, I felt particularly pleased. Professor Burbage awarded me ten points for my 'exceptional detail and clarity,' and even said she found my letter 'quite persuasive.'

But there was no time to dwell on that—I had to turn back time.

I ducked into a quiet corridor, my heart pounding as I carefully turned the Time-Turner once, twice…

The air blurred and twisted around me, the world shifting like ink reversing on parchment. When everything settled, I was exactly where I had been just before leaving Potions.

As I stepped into the corridor, I felt it instantly—the prickle of unease along my spine.

Then, I saw her.

Me.

Just a few steps ahead, my other self was leaving the Potions classroom, walking behind Ron and Harry.

My breath hitched.

I froze, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure someone would hear it. I wasn't supposed to see myself. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

McGonagall's warning echoed in my head: "You must be very careful, Miss Granger. Seeing yourself could have disastrous consequences."

I ran farther down the corridor. I hopped into a bathroom, holding my breath, praying that my other self hadn't seen me.

I needed to wait. I needed to let her—me—get just a little farther ahead.

A few agonizing seconds passed and I was sure my other self had gone into the other classroom and disappeared.

I exhaled sharply, blood pounding in my ears.

That could have been a disaster.

Forcing myself to move quickly, I darted up the stairs, my robes swishing against the stone, tucking the Time-Turner securely under my shirt with one hand while struggling to keep hold of my heavy bag with the other.

My heart was still hammering from nearly running into myself, but I couldn't let that show. I needed to act normal—completely, utterly normal.

Ron and Harry were only a few steps ahead. As I slipped into step beside them, I barely had time to compose myself as Ron looked at me, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"How did you do that?" he asked, staring at me like I'd just performed an illegal hex.

I stiffened. Oh no.

"What?" I said, trying to keep my voice even.

"One minute you were right behind us, the next moment, you were back at the bottom of the stairs again."

I blinked at him, forcing a frown onto my face as if I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What?" I repeated, tilting my head. Then, as though a realization had struck, I gasped, "Oh! I had to go back for something—oh no…!"

My stomach sank as I felt a sudden shift in my bag, and before I could react, my textbooks tumbled out, crashing onto the stone floor with a loud, echoing thud.

I squeezed my eyes shut briefly. Brilliant, just brilliant.

Ron let out a low whistle. "Merlin's beard, Hermione, why are you carrying all these around with you?"

I hurriedly bent down, scooping up my books with frantic hands. "You know how many subjects I'm taking," I said breathlessly. "Couldn't hold these for me, could you?"

Without waiting for an answer, I thrust my Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and Ancient Runes textbooks along with the others into Ron's arms, while I inspected the damage to my bag.

The seam had completely split open under the strain of my ridiculous course load. I grabbed my wand and performed a quick stitching charm, watching as the fabric mended itself neatly, good as new.

Ron shifted the books in his arms, staring at them with a perplexed expression.

"But… you haven't got any of these subjects today," he said, frowning at the covers. "It's only Defense Against the Dark Arts this afternoon."

I froze for half a second before snatching the books back and shoving them into my bag with unnecessary force.

"Oh, yes," I said quickly, trying to sound casual. "I just—like to be prepared!"

Ron looked even more suspicious. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. When he noticed something off, he wouldn't let it go.

I needed to get out of this conversation fast.

"I hope there's something good for lunch," I added hastily. "I'm starving."

And before he could ask anything else, I turned on my heel and marched off toward the Great Hall, my head held high, as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

I didn't dare glance back, but I could just imagine the baffled look on Ron's face.

As soon as I was far enough ahead, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

That was close. Too close.

Harry might have been oblivious, but Ron had always been more observant than people gave him credit for. And I had no doubt that sooner or later, he was going to corner me for answers.

I hated lying to them. Every fiber of my being itched to just tell them everything—about the Time-Turner, the extra classes, how exhausting it all was. But I couldn't. I wouldn't.

If McGonagall had trusted me with this, I couldn't risk breaking that trust.

I just needed to be more careful.