"I promise you won't hurt yourself—this is just the entrance to the platform." Hermione gently explained to a positively hesitant Maddy.
"I-I have to walk through it? Just walk?" Maddy asked.
"It's best if you do it with a run—since it's your first time." Mrs Weasley added from behind them. "Here let Ron and Harry go first—boys."
Harry and Ron readied their luggage trolleys, piled high with their belongings. Ron went first, Pig perched among his things. Maddy watched as he stepped back, measuring the distance for a proper run-up. With a steady breath, he broke into a light jog, picking up speed as he neared the solid brick wall. Maddy gasped in horror—only to trail off into a surprised, "Oh," as Ron vanished seamlessly through the barrier. Then it was Harry's turn, Hedwig and Lux nestled among his luggage. This time, Maddy did not gasp.
"See—it's as easy as Nox." Hermione said with a smile. "You go first—I'll be right behind you."
Maddy's luggage trolley wobbled from side to side as she nervously stepped backward, mirroring Ron's approach. Cokelat, sitting in the upper basket, eyed her curiously, sensing her unease. Maddy turned to Hermione for reassurance. Hermione met her gaze with a firm, confident nod. Maddy returned the gesture—though hers lacked the same certainty. Hermione watched as her sister muttered something under her breath, then took off. What began as an awkward jog quickly turned into a full sprint. At the last moment, just before she reached the wall, Maddy squeezed her eyes shut.
"Keep going dear!" Yelled Mrs Weasley.
And so, Maddy did. She was there one moment, then she was not. Hermione breathed a subtle sigh of relief and turned to her best friend's mother.
"Would you like to go first, Mrs—Molly?" She corrected herself.
Mrs Weasley smiled up at her, the crow's feet beside her warm brown eyes crinkling with affection.
"You go first dear, you promised your sister so." She said.
"Alright," Hermione said returning the smile.
Hermione followed the others through the arch of red bricks onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The glorious Hogwarts Express sat proudly on the tracks, its classic, lustrous red paint gleaming under the station lights. Steam billowed from its chimney, curling into the air like a welcoming signal. Maddy stood gazing up at the train in awe, her eyes wide with wonder. Beside her, Ron gestured toward the numerous carriages, likely explaining that they would need to load their luggage before finding a compartment of their own.
Ginny and her group—Luna, Dean, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, and Colin Creevey—had already boarded. Mrs Weasley was the last to step through the platform's secret barrier, and soon, they were all gathered around, exchanging farewells.
"Thank you for having us this summer, Molly—and for helping Maddy with Herbology. I hope we weren't a nuisance," Hermione said, standing stiffly to the side, unsure if Mrs Weasley would pull her into an embrace or not.
Mrs Weasley simply patted her arm with a warm smile. "Pish posh, it was a delight having you both—who knows what next year will bring? Ron and Harry needed this. You've been the best of friends since first year; it was only right." Her eyes twinkled with fondness. "Now, you take care of yourself, alright?"
Hermione nodded with a polite, small smile, "Alright."
Maddy stepped up beside Hermione and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, wrapped Mrs Weasley up in a tight hug, thanking her profusely for everything. Mrs Weasley let out a hearty chortle, embracing Hermione's sister just as tightly in return. Hermione watched in quiet amazement, caught off guard by the touching moment and its effortlessness. Before she could dwell on it, however, she shook herself from her thoughts, deciding she did not want to linger for the spectacle.
"I'll go," she began, turning to her best mates and casting one last glance at the hugging pair. "I'll go and find us a compartment."
"Her—"
Hermione ignored them and boarded the train without a glance back. She no longer had to struggle with her Hogwarts portmanteau as she had in the past. This year, having imbued it with the Extension Charm, it no longer weighed as it should. It felt as light as an empty trunk, gently swinging by her side, her only companion as she made her way through the train, searching for an empty compartment.
Along the way, she was inevitably met by her Slytherin peers, the very ones she had successfully avoided all summer. Hermione let out a mental sigh as she peered into a compartment full of Slytherins from her year, all glaring back at her with disdain. She had briefly hoped the compartment might be free, but it most certainly was not. Her face did not break into the awkward smile she would have worn in first year, nor did it contort into the apologetic cringe she might have shown in fourth year. Instead, her expression remained stone-cold, completely unfazed. She gave them a quick once-over and then moved along, seemingly unbothered and indifferent.
She passed by more Slytherins, their sneers and jeers cutting through the chattering crowds of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors all along the train's corridor. Hermione ignored them all, her focus fixed ahead. That is, until she could not. Until one of them stepped directly into her path, blocking her way. When Hermione looked up to meet the girl's eyes, she almost did not recognise her. The Slytherin was wearing a truly ugly smile—ugly because it was devoid of any warmth or sincerity. Beyond that, though, the witch was...well, rather pretty. Pretty in a way that felt artificial, like a porcelain doll crafted by a wand.
"Mudblood, shame you've returned," The witch said with a snobbish sniff. "We were all rather hoping you'd drop out for your last year—seems our wishes were ignored. How rude."
Hermione looked at Pansy Parkinson, who, since fourth year, had been altering her bulldog-like features. It had started with a simple charm to thicken her thin lips, but it seemed to have ended with one charm too many, for now she no longer resembled Churchill. Instead, she looked like an aquatic vertebrate from the Black Lake. A fish. Some might have argued that she was a pretty fish. Hermione, on the other hand, would have argued that the only pretty fishy thing about the witch was her personality. And it was as pungent and as gag-worthy as rotten fish.
"Wish harder next time," was all Hermione said, her tone the one she usually reserved for Slytherins—dead and empty, void of any emotion.
Parkinson took a step toward her, her posture challenging, as her friends gathered closer, sniggering with anticipation. Hermione resisted the urge to give a bored, exasperated sigh. She was not in the mood for this. Parkinson's pale, lizard-green eyes locked onto Hermione's almost-black ones. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her cold gaze flicked to someone behind Hermione. The witch smiled—a smile that made it abundantly clear exactly who she was looking at. The tension heightened when students from other houses around them suddenly seemed to deem it prudent to quickly take their seats in their compartments, shutting the doors firmly behind them. Instantly, Hermione's palms began to sweat, and her fist tightened around the handle of her Hogwarts trunk.
You're a handle. An inanimate object. She told herself. You can't feel anything because you're made of leather and wood.
As she coaxed herself to pay attention to the trunk handle in her tight fist, behind her someone gave a low, haughty chuckle. Two others joined in—though their snorts were reminiscent of farm animals.
You're a handle—nothing can hurt you, because you can't feel anything. You're inanimate.
"Mudblood," sneered Zabini. "Unfortunate you returned. We thought that after running around like a naked beast in the girl's showers, covered in your own filthy blood last year, you might have thought better than to return to school—Pansy, I think we need to try harder this year."
Hermione did not turn around to look at Zabini. Instead, she focused all her attention on the handle in her hand, her fingers tightening further. Parkinson's smile widened into something reminiscent of Cheshire Cat's grin. It was vicious—unholy, almost. Leather. Wood. Inanimate.
"Oh, we have a few things in mind," sang Parkinson, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Don't we, girls?"
A chorus of high-pitched giggles and low, pig-like chortles echoed around Hermione, like a horde of carolling demons closing in on her.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Zabini said lowly. Dangerously.
Hermione felt him approach from behind. She heard the rustle of his clothes, then his hand appeared before her. Her breath turned sharp, slicing through her lungs as she began to breathe shallowly. She recognised the feeling—fear—but she dared not flinch, not at the sight of his hand, nor at how close he was. It did not matter if he was about to touch her. It did not matter if he was about to hurt her. She could not show him just how much he affected her.
You're an inanimate object. You can't feel anything. Nothing can hurt you.
He slipped something cool and flat between her left breast and bra behind her easily accessible emerald V-neck jumper.
Hermione held her breath as Zabini's warm breath ghosted the shell of her ear and he murmured, "There's more of where that came from, Mudblood." He gave a low chuckle. "You shouldn't have returned."
Hermione's eyes glazed over as she stared blankly ahead, above Parkinson's head, down the corridor, at nothing and no one.
Nothing can hurt you. You can't feel anything.
She could neither see nor hear anymore. Her peers laughed and smiled around her, but Hermione was numb to it all. Someone brushed past her, shoving her shoulder as they went. Another person did the same on her other side. Then, silence. She was alone, standing in the middle of the corridor, watching Zabini and his posse walk away, leaving her behind stunned and momentarily deaf to everything around her. Hermione's hand trembled like that of an old crone as she reached for her chest. Her fingers brushed against something thin, hard, yet pliable. She did not want to look down. Everything inside of her screamed against it, warning her that it was a bad idea, that she should not.
She looked down.
And her mouth gaped open in horror. It was a Snap It shot. A moving photo. Of herself. Naked. Wet. With blood smeared on the insides of her thighs as she ran from the girl's showers back to her dorm. Her hands were doing a poor job of covering her breasts and lower parts as she ran past laughing and pointing Slytherin students—of all years. Witches and wizards stood around her. Hermione remembered the incident like a forgotten nightmare. She had forgotten that someone had encouraged a whole lot of boys from the boys' dormitory to come and witness the spectacle. Her. Naked. On her period. And scared like trapped beast at a circus.
Hermione's hand continued trembling. The ever-moving terror played over and over again in the palm of her hand as she stared down at it.
There's more of where that came from, Mudblood.
Silent tears trickled down her cheek without her realisation.
There's more? She thought with nauseous revulsion. How many more?
Hermione's head was beginning to spin. She should not have returned to Hogwarts. They were right—she should have stayed away. She did not need to complete her education. She was more than capable of managing on her own with books. She could have taught herself this year's curriculum. There was no reason to come back.
Suddenly, tendrils of smoke curled into her nostrils as the corners of the Snap It shot began to burn, the edges crumbling away. Hermione watched, wide-eyed, as her terrified, distorted face in the photo slowly disappeared, consumed by the flames and reduced to swift ash.
"Hey!" Someone called out from behind her. "You're not supposed to be smoking in here."
Hermione ignored them as she watched the ashes fall from her blackened fingertips to the polished floors of the train.
"Hey—are you deaf or dumb or both?" They called out again.
Hermione whipped her head around. It was a Gryffindor from the year below—confident, proud, and arrogant. Hermione allowed the Slytherin inside of her free reign as she curled her lip at the young wizard.
"Fuck off." She murmured in a low husky warning.
Maybe it was recognition of who she was, or perhaps the intensity of Hermione's wet, dark eyes, but the boy finally seemed to regain his senses—and his fear—and backed off a little.
"Y-yeah, alright," he muttered, turning and scurrying off in the direction he had come from. "Fucking hell."
Catching herself, Hermione quickly wiped her face dry and set off to find an empty compartment. Once she found one, she hurriedly unlocked her trunk and summoned a bottle of potion. She took a sip of the minty, floral Calming Draught, pausing to breathe properly again. As the potion worked its magic, Hermione filled her lungs with air and let out a deep, steady breath. When she opened her eyes, she saw the dirt on her fingers and, without a wand, banished the soot.
Once she had repacked her potion and stowed her portmanteau in the overhead luggage rack, Hermione took a seat and tried to act normal. She practised a smile, feeling it soften her face. She did it a few times until she had convinced herself that everything was alright again. Normal. As if nothing untoward had happened between the time she had left her sister and her best friends on the platform up until now. That way, when Ron, Maddy, and Harry—along with Cokelat, Pig, Hedwig and Lux—entered the carriage barely five minutes later, no one was any the wiser.
The journey to Hogwarts was a long one, but the Calming Draught helped—for a time. However, the potion could do nothing to erase the image of the photo from her memory. She made a mental note to discard all low-cut tops—along with her dresses and skirts—so that, on her next trip to Hogsmeade, she would visit Gladrags Wizardwear to replenish her wardrobe accordingly.
As Ron and Maddy were deep in conversation, with Harry joining in from time to time, Hermione mostly kept a polite, pleasant expression on her face as she stared out of the window. The English landscape rushed past them, but Hermione's gaze remained unfocused, as with the help of the Calming Draught her mind drifted aimlessly. She let herself get lost in the motion of the world outside, her thoughts untethered to anything in particular.
"Hermy?" Said Harry.
"Hey, Herpes? You with us?" Asked Ron.
Hermione snapped back into reality.
"Yes? What is it?" She met Ron's frown.
"Everything ok? You've been a bit out of it." He remarked.
Hermione smiled and shook her head. "I'm fine—though, I think I'll go and change into my uniform before we arrive."
She then wandlessly and nonverbally summoned her uniform from her trunk, which magically opened on its own at her command. The boys and her sister stared after her.
"But—we're not even in the midla—"
Ron's voice was sharply cut off as Hermione shut the compartment door behind her. Then she almost bumped into Ginny and Luna.
"Oh—sorry," Hermione mumbled.
"No worries." Said Ginny. "Everything alright?"
Hermione met Ginny's frown which mirrored that of her brother's.
"Yeah," she said a tad too sharply. "Just dandy."
Luna's wide, blue eyes followed her as Hermione tried to walk around them toward the toilets.
"You're different," Luna remarked airily, randomly. "I'd meant to tell you at Harry's party. You've changed."
Hermione paused. "What does that mean?" She asked, taken aback a little.
Luna looked around, her gaze drifting up to the ceiling of the train. When she closed her eyes, Hermione glanced over at Ginny. Ginny simply looked back at her, her expression just as clueless as Hermione's.
"Oh," Luna breathed faintly. "I see."
Hermione frowned. "I don't—now, if you'll excuse me," she said, forcing her way past the blonde-haired, witch-sized fairy.
At the same time, Ginny berated her for her rudeness while Luna murmured something else with her usual soft, misty tone. Hermione ignored the both of them and walked away, her pace quickening. She did not stop until she reached the girls' bathroom, where she locked herself in and magically silenced the world around her. Only then did she allow herself to break down, her sobs muffled by the walls. Safe to say, the Calming Draught had worn off.
Hermione remained locked in the cubicle until late, long after the Hogwarts Express had come to a halt at Hogsmeade Station and everyone else had disembarked. It was only then that she allowed herself to lift the protective charms she had placed around the toilet and unlocked the door. The lock clicked to Vacant, and she stepped out into the empty corridor. Wiping at her face once more, she slowly made her way back to the compartment, hoping the others had not been waiting for her. Unfortunately for Hermione, one person had remained behind.
"What are you still doing here?" Hermione asked in a husky, hoarse voice as she slid the compartment door open, revealing Harry in his Gryffindor uniform.
He did not stand. He just observed her, watching as she walked into the compartment and summoned her trunk from the overhead rack.
"Harry," she bit out unkindly when he said nothing.
Harry simply looked up at her angry frown, calmly, and moved to the side, as if to silently say sit. Hermione looked at the space beside him.
"We're already late, Potter—we should go," Hermione said, her voice flat, tired.
He shook his head, and Hermione momentarily closed her eyes, about to accept defeat as she exhaled shakily.
"Harry—please—" She broke off when she felt his hand reach for hers.
Her eyes snapped open wide, and she flinched. He immediately let go of her.
"Hermione," Harry said gently, his face soft. "Please sit beside me."
Hermione paused, her gaze locking onto his. And for a moment, she just stared into his green eyes. Harry's eyes were nothing like the reptilian green of Parkinson's. His eyes were warm and vibrant. They were green like the earth, like nature's blessings—like the fruit borne from mud, water, and sunlight. Hermione sat down.
Without a word, Harry held his hand out upon his thigh, his palm open and inviting, but not demanding. Hermione looked down at it, and in her moment of weakness, she could not help herself as her hand sought his. The moment their fingers touched, Harry's hand instantly intertwined with hers. It made a warm tear slip from the corner of Hermione's eye. She quickly banished it before he could see.
"Tell me what happened," he murmured.
Hermione opened her mouth.
"And don't lie to me," he added gently. "I know when you lie. Just like I know when something bad's happened to you."
Hermione's eyes, crowned by her damp lashes, looked to him.
"I—" she whispered with a crack.
Harry did not know what had been done to her. Neither did Ron—let alone Maddy. No one knew but the Slytherins who had been privy to Zabini's and Parkinson's sick orchestration.
"I don't want you to know." She whispered.
Pause. The corner of Harry's lips twitched.
"Have you done something?" He asked.
Suddenly, Hermione's mind force fed her brutal visions from her haunting nightmares. Ron. Luna. Snape. Hagrid. Remus. Tonks.
She swallowed and with a strangled voice said, "No."
"Then why are you afraid to tell me?" He asked gently.
Hermione looked away from him and mumbled, "Because it's…horrible."
Harry did not say anything. Instead he remained quiet and gently squeezed her hand.
"Why are you doing this?" Hermione asked abruptly. "I thought you were avoiding me."
His lip twitched again.
"You're changing the subject, Granger." He murmured.
Hermione sighed, and they both fell silent. Outside, the crowds had nearly all dispersed, heading towards the school.
Maddy. Hermione thought.
But before she could so much as stand up or remove her hand from Harry's, he clasped his fingers around hers tighter. Not so it hurt—just enough to caution her not to leave. Not until she told him the truth. Hermione took a sharp breath in.
"Fine." She exclaimed unpleasantly. "If you really must know—Zabini and Parkinson played a prank on me at the end of last term. You don't know about it because I didn't want you to know—or Ron—especially Ron." She then muttered. "He might kill Zabini himself if he were to ever find out about it."
Harry remained patient and quiet as he listened.
"I was showering in the girls' showers. Then I finished. Only, when I turned around to reach for my towel—it was gone. So were all my things. My clothes. My underwear. My—" She momentarily broke off. "My pads." She whispered.
She closed her eyes at the unkind memory. She wanted to rip her hand out of Harry's in disgust. Not at him, but at herself.
"I'd no choice but to leave the cubicle. I was bleeding and I didn't have my wand and I didn't know how to do magic without it—it's probably why I learned to do magic wandlessly and nonverbally, now that I think about it…" She opened her eyes again and chose to stare at the seat opposite her as she recounted the tale. "Of course, however, the humiliation of bleeding out on myself and running around like a scared alley rat was not enough for them—they had to invite others to watch.
As soon as I made it out of the shower room, thinking I'd made it without anyone seeing me, I opened the door to find a crowd of boys and girls—of the same year, older and younger—all standing around waiting for me to exit."
Hermione briefly paused. Harry's grip on her hand had tightened.
"I ran back to my dorm room, wet and bloody, to find my things on my bed. And well, after that, I used some of Fred and George's special edibles that I'd nicked to make myself sick—sick enough to have to remain in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the week. Remember when I said I'd caught th—yeah, well, that's really why I was "sick". I only found out today, though, that pictures had been taken of me. Zabini was generous enough to share one with me. There are more—somewhere."
Silence fell again as Hermione finished. She slowly turned to Harry and smiled at the look of stark rage upon his face. Ron was typically the hot-headed one—easily angered and flustered. Harry, however, was always the one to become The angriest whenever injustice was involved. He beat Ron on his worst day.
"That's why I didn't want to tell you." She whispered.
Then she laughed. It was both soft and sad.
"It's ok—really." She insisted. Dropping her eyes down to their hands. "I'm sure one day I'll grow a backbone sturdy enough to retaliate. I'll make sure Zabini goes back home crying to his mummy."
She met Harry's gaze once more, and as she did, his hand slipped from hers on his thigh. Both his hands rose to gently cradle her face. Hermione let out a soft gasp. Then, before she could ask him—anything—he kissed her.