Chapter Text
The morning of their return to Hogwarts was no less chaotic than usual.
Which was, in its own way, nice—a semblance of normalcy.
Mostly, it was a frustrating push and pull of too many people trying to run on the same schedule.
As it was every year.
Mrs Black’s screams of ‘Mudbloods’ and ‘Scum’ were the backdrop to Hermione’s morning. Mrs Weasley’s anxious energy was catching, and Hermione felt as wound up as Molly looked. It was two mothers fighting to be heard.
The morning was a train wreck with legs. And they were running awfully late.
The twins had knocked Ginny down two flights of stairs, and Harry and Ron were still not ready to leave.
Hermione rushed into their room, intent on returning Hedwig and on hurrying them along.
“Are you ready yet?” She asked as Hedwig left her arm, flying to her cage.
“Nearly,” Harry responded. “Ginny alright?”
“Mrs Weasley patched her up,” Hermione responded. “But now MadEye’s complaining that we can’t leave unless Sturgis Podmore’s here, otherwise the guard will be one short.”
“Guard?” said Harry. “We have to go to King’s Cross with a guard?”
“You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” She corrected him.
She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Harry immediately became crabby, and Hermione sighed internally, wishing she hadn’t said anything.
“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!” Mrs Weasley bellowed, and Hermione jumped before hurrying out of the room and down the stairs.
***
They all made it to the platform, somehow on time.
Platform 9¾ was a wall of sound. Steam hissing from the Hogwarts Express, the screeching of owl calls, families shouting last-minute reminders. Hermione stood beside her trunk, Crookshanks yowling indignantly in his carrier at her feet, and tried to focus on the familiar chaos instead of the knot of anxiety in her stomach.
This was it. Back to Hogwarts.
Back to normal.
She could breathe finally. Loosen the knot.
Except the air didn’t come. This didn’t really feel normal. Not like before.
Not with Mad-Eye standing guard, not with the literal guard that had accompanied them here.
“Right then,” Moody said as he stomped over to where she stood with Ron and Harry, “Keep your head down and your eyes peeled, and don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”
Everyone nodded robotically; this advice was now common practice. Hermione wasn’t sure when it had become so, just that it was.
A warning whistle sounded.
“Quick, Quick,” Said Mrs Weasley, hugging them all distractedly as they stumbled towards the train.
They leaned out the open window, waving goodbye as Sirius, in dog form, chased the train down the platform until they turned a corner.
“He shouldn’t have come,” Hermione said, and she felt the anxious knot in her stomach grow tighter, just slightly.
“Oh lighten up,” said Ron, “he hasn’t seen daylight for months, poor bloke.”
Hermione bit her lip. She wanted to argue. Wanted to point out all the reasons it was reckless—but the truth was, she understood. If she'd been trapped in Grimmauld Place as long as Sirius had, she might have done the same thing.
“Well,” said Fred, clapping his hands together, “can’t stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to discuss with Lee. See you later,” he threw a wink at Hermione as he and George disappeared down the corridor to the right.
She smiled, despite herself.
“Shall we go and find a compartment, then?” Harry asked.
Hermione and Ron looked at each other.
“Er,” said Ron.
“We’re — well — Ron and I are supposed to go to the prefect carriage,” Hermione said awkwardly.
This was the part she’d been most nervous about. Having to leave Harry and go off with Ron. She didn’t like it; it felt like she was risking making him feel more alienated than she already feared he felt.
She hoped he’d moved past his hurt at being passed over for prefect. Or, if he hadn’t yet, hoped he would soon. She couldn’t put up with the awkward tension the entire year. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, pretend she wasn’t happy about something she’d been working for for years.
She didn’t want Ron to either.
Ron wasn’t looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand, which annoyed her. Why was it she who had to endure the awkwardness? He was a prefect just as much as she; he had to leave Harry just as much.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Right. Fine.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to stay there the whole journey,” said Hermione quickly. “Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.”
“Fine,” said Harry again. “Well, I-I might see you later, then.”
“Yeah, definitely,” said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. “It’s a pain having to go down there, I’d rather — but we have to — I mean, I’m not enjoying it, I’m not Percy,” he finished defiantly.
“I know you’re not,” said Harry, and he grinned.
Hermione could tell Harry felt slightly upset about them leaving, and her stomach twinged as they walked towards the prefect carriage.
“He’ll be okay,” Hermione said, more to herself than Ron.
“Yeah… ‘course.”
***
The prefect carriage was exactly what Hermione expected—polished wood panelling, plush seats arranged in a formal semicircle, and an air of self-importance that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. She smoothed her robes as she and Ron entered, taking in the other prefects already assembled.
Ernie Macmillan was holding court in the centre, his chest puffed out as he gestured grandly.
"—Of course, as a prefect, one must set an example in all things. Academic excellence, moral fortitude, unwavering dedication to the rules—"
"Merlin's beard," Ron muttered under his breath. "Does he ever shut up?"
Hermione bit back a smile and gave him a warning look, though privately she agreed.
Still, she had something to uphold.
She settled into an empty seat with what she hoped was eager attentiveness, pulling out a fresh roll of parchment and her favourite quill.
This was good. This was normal.
Prefect duties, responsibility, structure—all things she could control, could, no, would excel at.
Hannah Abbott waved shyly at her from across the circle. Padma Patil offered a small smile. Anthony Goldstein was already taking notes, his quill moving rapidly across his parchment, though the head boy and girl weren’t yet here, so she wasn’t too sure what he was writing, but Hermione already felt she was falling behind.
And then there were the Slytherins.
Draco Malfoy sprawled in his seat like he owned the carriage, that familiar sneer already plastered across his pointed face. Pansy Parkinson sat beside him, examining her nails with exaggerated disinterest.
"Granger," Draco drawled, his eyes glittering with malice. "Surprised they let a Mudblo—"
"That's quite enough, Malfoy." The voice came from a tall, dignified witch with a Head Girl badge pinned to her robes. She swept into the carriage with the Head Boy—a Ravenclaw Hermione vaguely recognised—close behind.
"We'll have none of that language in this carriage. Consider this your only warning."
Draco's sneer deepened, but he said nothing more. Hermione felt a small rush of gratitude toward the Head Girl, though her hands had clenched automatically around her quill.
Don't let him get to you. You've dealt with worse.
You've been dealing with worse all summer.
The Head Girl began outlining their responsibilities—patrol schedules, point deductions, and how to handle various infractions.
Hermione wrote down everything, asking clarifying questions when the Head Girl paused, requesting additional details about specific scenarios.
Ron, beside her, was clearly struggling to stay awake. He kept shifting in his seat, his eyes glazing over whenever Ernie started pontificating again about "the sacred duty of prefectship."
Hermione, despite herself, wished Harry were in his place. She knew he would have taken the role more seriously. She began to feel annoyance bubbling under her skin at Ron’s laissez-faire attitude. Hadn’t he been so excited about this?
"...and of course," Ernie was saying, "we must be vigilant for any signs of Dark activity. With You-Know-Who ‘supposedly back’…" He mimed air quotes, but still shot a look toward the door, as if Harry might materialise and catch him doubting him. "...we must be prepared to identify potential threats.”
Hermione's quill stopped mid-word.
"You don't actually believe Potter, do you?" Scoffed a Ravenclaw boy Hermione didn't know well. A sixth year. He looked uncomfortable but determined.
"I mean, it's a bit mad, isn't it? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named coming back from the dead?"
"Harry wouldn't lie about something like that," Hermione said sharply.
"Maybe he's not lying," Padma said carefully. "Maybe he just... thinks he saw something? After what happened with Cedric—"
"He's not making things up," Ron snapped, finally paying attention. "He saw him.”
Several prefects flinched, though Ron hadn’t said his name.
"We all know what happened. If you lot want to stick your heads in the sand, that's your problem."
The atmosphere in the carriage grew tense. The Head Girl cleared her throat. "That's... not a discussion for prefect duties. Let's move on to—"
But Hermione barely heard the rest. She was thinking about that sceptical look on Ernie's face, the doubt in Padma's voice. If even the prefects—students who were supposed to be the responsible ones, the leaders, those with the knowledge—didn't believe Harry, what did that mean for everyone else?
What did that mean for the school?
Her quill resumed moving, but the neat, organised notes now felt hollow.
What was she doing?
She was writing down patrol schedules and point-deduction protocols while the Ministry was lying to the public, while the Daily Prophet spouted propaganda, and (probably) half the school thought Harry was delusional.
This is fine, she told herself firmly.
You'll do your prefect duties, keep everything organised, help Harry and Ron, and everything will be fine.
But the anxious knot in her stomach had tightened again.
When they were finally dismissed, Ron practically bolted for the door. "Thank Merlin, that's over. If I had to listen to Ernie for one more minute—"
"He was just being thorough," Hermione said, though without much conviction.
"He was being an insufferable git." Ron paused, glancing at her. "You alright? You went a bit…” he paused, searching for the right word, “tense there when that Ravenclaw bloke questioned Harry."
"I'm fine," Hermione said automatically. Then, more honestly, "I just... I can't believe they don't believe him. After everything that's happened, all the evidence—"
"Most people are idiots," Ron said with a shrug. "Come on, let's find Harry. He's probably thinking we've abandoned him."
As they made their way back through the train, Hermione tried to shake off the unease from the prefect meeting.
This was supposed to be a return to normalcy.
School.
Routine.
Safety.
But she could feel it.
Normalcy was already slipping through her fingers.
***
They found Harry in a compartment with Ginny, Neville, and a blonde girl Hermione didn't immediately recognise.
The girl was reading a magazine called The Quibbler upside down, which was... interesting.
"There you are!" Harry said, looking relieved. "Thought you might've gotten lost in all that prefect business."
"I’m starving," Ron announced, stowing Pidwidgeon next to Hedwig before flopping into a seat, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, as if he’d had a very exhausting meeting and hadn’t dozed off for most of it.
Hermione pursed her lips, but said nothing.
“Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each House,” Hermione said, taking her seat beside Ginny. “Boy and girl from each.”
“And guess who’s a Slytherin prefect?” said Ron, still with his eyes closed.
“Malfoy,” replied Harry at once,
“ ’Course,” said Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the Frog into his mouth and taking another.
“And that complete cow, Pansy Parkinson,” Hermione said, viciously. “How she got to be a prefect when she’s thicker than a concussed troll . . .”
“Who’s Hufflepuff?” Harry asked.
“Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron thickly.
"Macmillan spent twenty minutes explaining the 'sacred responsibility' of taking points. Git."
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smile. "He wasn't that bad."
“And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.
“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” said a vague voice. Everyone turned to look at the blonde girl, who was gazing unblinkingly at Ron over the top of The Quibbler.
He swallowed his mouthful of Frog.
“Yeah, I know I did,” he said, looking mildly surprised.
“She didn’t enjoy it very much,” she said.
“She doesn’t think you treated her very well, because you wouldn’t dance with her. I don’t think I’d have minded,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t like dancing very much.”
She retreated behind The Quibbler again.
Ron stared at the cover with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind of explanation, but Ginny had stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself giggling.
Ron shook his head, bemused, then checked his watch.
“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so often,” he told Harry and Neville, “and we can give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something. . . .”
“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!” Hermione said sharply.
“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all,” said Ron sarcastically.
“So you’re going to descend to his level?”
“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ron —”
“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” said Ron happily.
He lowered his voice to Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I . . . must . . . not . . . look . . . like . . . a . . . baboon’s . . . backside. . . .”
Everyone laughed, but no one laughed harder than the blonde girl.
Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it all, really. Something twisted inside of her at the girl's mirth.
Ginny, still laughing, introduced her, "Luna, this is my friend, Hermione Granger, and you’ve heard all about my Idiot brother, Ron. Ron, Hermione, this is Luna Lovegood."
"Hello," Luna said dreamily, not blinking as she stared at Ron, still laughing. "You have a Wrackspurt floating around your head, did you know?"
Hermione blinked. "A... what?"
"They're invisible creatures that float into your ears and make your brain go fuzzy," Luna explained matter-of-factly. She still hadn’t looked at Hermione. "That's why you can't think straight sometimes."
Ron made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a snort.
Hermione wasn't sure how to respond, so she settled for a polite smile and pulled out her copy of Hogwarts: A History instead.
The conversation turned to OWLs, then to Hagrid and everyone’s excitement to see him again, then to Quidditch. Or…something like that.
Hermione only half-listened, letting the familiar rhythm of her friends' voices wash over her. This was better.
Every so often, she caught Harry staring out the window with that distant, troubled expression he'd worn all summer. She wanted to say something comforting, but what was there to say?
Everything will be fine? They both knew that was a lie.
The train continued to chug along, pulling them closer to Hogwarts.
“Oh . . . hello, Harry,” said a nervous voice. “Um . . . bad time?”
Hermione looked up at Cho Chang standing in the doorway.
Hermione watched with amusement as Harry's face turned approximately the colour of Ron's hair. Cho's eyes swept the compartment—taking in Neville frantically apologising, Luna serenely reading, the lingering smell of Stinksap—and her expression became carefully neutral.
“Oh . . . hi,” said Harry blankly.
“Um . . .” said Cho. “Well . . . just thought I’d say hello . . . ’ bye then.”
An awkward silence stretched between them.
Harry slumped in his seat, looking miserable. Ron clapped him on the shoulder.
“Could've been worse, mate."
"How?" Harry asked flatly.
"You could've still been covered in Stinksap."
Despite everything, Hermione felt a laugh bubble up. Ron grinned at her, and even Harry's mouth twitched.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
The train continued its journey north, the Scottish countryside rolling past the windows. Hermione returned to her book, but found herself reading the same paragraph over and over without absorbing any of it. Her mind kept drifting—to the prefect meeting, to the uncertainty ahead, to the fact that they were going back to school in the middle of a war that most people refused to acknowledge.
To a certain red-headed twin, who wouldn’t get out of her head.
“We’d better change,” Hermione said at last, “we have to go help supervise.”
She and Ron slipped away, entrusting the other with transporting Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks.
The train slowed, and Hermione felt something in her chest ease as the platform came into view. They'd made it. They were here.
“First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!”
A lantern came swinging towards them, and by its light, they saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the previous year.
After supervising the disembarkation of the first year, Hermione and Ron rushed over to find Harry. They climbed into one of the horseless carriages, ready to begin their journey, but Harry suddenly stopped.
"What are those?”
Hermione looked around, confused. “What is what, Harry?”
“The horse… things, pulling the carriages," Harry said.
"What horses?" Hermione looked again at the clearly empty space before the carriage, feeling distinctly unsettled. "Harry, there's nothing there—"
“It’s all right,” said a dreamy voice from beside them, as Ron vanished into the coach’s dark interior. “You’re not going mad or anything. I can see them too.”
“Can you?” said Harry desperately, turning to Luna.
“Oh yes,” said Luna, “I’ve been able to see them ever since my first day here. They’ve always pulled the carriages. Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am.”
Harry didn't look particularly comforted by this assessment.
Hermione wasn’t sure what to say, so she settled on nothing, following Ron into the carriage.
As it jostled into movement, Hermione sat back and closed her eyes, taking her first deep breath since Grimmauld.
***
The Great Hall glittered with thousands of floating candles, the enchanted ceiling displaying a perfect night sky. The house tables were laden with empty golden plates, waiting for the feast to begin. Students were filing in, chattering excitedly, finding their usual spots.
Hermione slid onto the bench at the Gryffindor table beside Harry and Ron, nodding to Pavarti and Lavander across from them. The familiar warmth of the Great Hall wrapped around her like a blanket—the smell of stone and magic and home.
“He’s not there,” Harry said.
Hermione and Ron turned to the staff table, scanning for Hagrid.
“He can’t have left,” said Ron, sounding slightly anxious.
“Of course he hasn’t,” said Harry firmly.
“You don’t think he’s . . . hurt, or anything, do you?” said Hermione uneasily.
No,” said Harry at once.
“But where is he, then?”
There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender could not hear, “Maybe he’s not back yet. You know — from his mission — the thing he was doing over the summer for Dumbledore.”
Hermione returned her gaze to the table, biting her lip. Dumbledore looked older somehow, his expression grave behind his half-moon spectacles. And there, in Lupin's old seat—
"Who's that?" She said sharply.
A toad-like woman in a pink cardigan sat primly at the staff table, her wide, slack mouth stretched into a simpering smile. Something about her made Hermione's skin crawl—the sugar-sweet expression that didn't reach her eyes, the way she surveyed the students like she was cataloguing them.
“It’s that Umbridge woman!” Harry said.
“Who?” said Hermione.
“She was at my hearing; she works for Fudge!”
“Nice cardigan,” said Ron, smirking.
“She works for Fudge?” Hermione repeated, frowning. “What on earth’s she doing here, then?”
“Dunno . . .”
Hermione scanned the staff table, her eyes narrowed. “No,” she muttered, “no, surely not . . .”
A cold feeling was spreading through her chest, dousing the warmth she'd felt moments before.
This is bad. This is very bad.
But then the first years were filing in, and Professor McGonagall was bringing out the Sorting Hat, and Hermione forced herself to focus on the ceremony. This was tradition. This was normal. This was—
The Sorting Hat began to sing.
"In times of old, when I was new, And Hogwarts barely started..."
The song told of the founders, of their friendship, of how unity created something greater than any of them could have achieved alone. And then it warned—warned of division, of the danger of putting house rivalry above unity when darkness threatened.
“And we must unite inside her
Or we’ll crumble from within.
I have told you, I have warned you. . . .
Let the Sorting now begin.”
Hermione felt the words sink into her bones.
“I wonder if it's ever given warnings before?” She asked
“Yes, indeed,” said Nearly Headless Nick, “The hat feels itself honour-bound to give the school due warning whenever it feels —” but he was cut off by McGonagall’s stern look.
The Sorting proceeded, each first year stumbling forward to try on the hat. Hermione barely registered their names or houses. Her mind was still circling the Hat's warning.
External, deadly foes. Unite inside her or crumble from within.
The Hat knew. It understood what was coming, even if no one else did.
Finally, the last first year was sorted into Ravenclaw, and Professor McGonagall removed the stool and the Hat. Dumbledore rose to his feet, his arms spread wide in welcome.
"To our newcomers," he said warmly, "welcome! To our old hands—welcome back! There is a time for speech-making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"
Food appeared on the golden plates—roast beef, chicken, potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, peas, carrots. The Great Hall erupted in noise as everyone began helping themselves.
When all the students had finished eating, and the noise level in the hall was starting to creep upward again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the headmaster.
Dumbledore gave his usual speech: welcoming the first years, warning about staying out of the Forbidden Forest, andreminding them that there was no magic in the corridors between classes. He then moved on to introducing the new members of staff.
“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”
There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause during which Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore had not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching. She bit her lip anxiously.
Dumbledore continued, “Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —” He broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge said, “Hem, hem,” and it became clear that she had gotten to her feet and intended to give a speech.
“Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!” Umbridge said in a breathy, little-girl voice that made Hermione want to grind her teeth.
She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. “And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!”
Students exchanged confused glances. Dumbledore had already given his welcome speech. Why was she—?
Umbridge continued, her smile widening. "I am very much looking forward to getting to know each and every one of you, and I'm sure we'll all be very good friends."
Hermione's blood ran cold at the syrupy tone, at the way Umbridge's eyes swept the hall with that same cataloguing expression.
Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again, with that grating “Hem, hem”. But when she continued, some of the breathiness had vanished from her voice. She sounded much more businesslike, and now her words had a dull, learned-by-heart sound to them.
“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”
Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed back. Hermione watched as Sprout and McGonagall exchanged pointed looks.
Here it comes, Hermione thought. Her hands clenched in her lap.
Another “Hem, Hem,” and she continued her speech.
As Umbridge spoke, Hermione glanced at Dumbledore. His expression was pleasant and attentive, but something in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what was happening here.
"Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school," Umbridge said, "and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay."
A few students nodded along, already bored. But Hermione was listening to every word, her mind working rapidly.
"Progress for progress's sake must be discouraged," Umbridge continued, her tone sharpening, "for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation..."
She kept talking—something about building on firm foundations, about respecting authority, about the importance of following established guidelines—but Hermione had stopped listening to the actual words.
She was listening to what they meant.
This wasn't a welcome speech. This was a manifesto. A declaration of intent.
The Ministry is taking over.
Hermione recognised the rhetoric.
She'd read enough history to know what happened when governments started talking about "tradition", and "respecting authority", and "discouraging progress for progress's sake."
They meant: Stop questioning. Stop thinking. Stop resisting.
They meant: Comply.
Her mind was already racing through the implications. If Umbridge was here as a Ministry plant, what did that mean for the school? For the curriculum? For Dumbledore's authority?
For the Order?
For Harry?
“... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”
Hermione felt her heart sink even lower at her closing remarks.
This was not good.
Umbrudge sat down. Dumbledore started clapping politely, and after a moment, the rest of the staff followed. The students joined in with scattered, confused applause.
“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now — as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held . . .”
“Yes, it certainly was illuminating,” said Hermione, in what she hoped was a low voice.
“You’re not telling me you enjoyed it?” Ron said quietly, turning a glazed face upon Hermione. “That was about the dullest speech I’ve ever heard, and I grew up with Percy.”
“I said illuminating, not enjoyable,” said Hermione. “It explained a lot.”
“Did it?” said Harry in surprise. “Sounded like a load of waffle to me.”
“There was some important stuff hidden in the waffle,” said Hermione grimly.
“Was there?” said Ron blankly.
“How about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged’? How about ‘pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited’?”
“Well, what does that mean?” said Ron impatiently.
“I’ll tell you what it means,” said Hermione, as she felt the anxiety morphing into anger. “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts.”
***
When Dumbledore finally dismissed them, Hermione started to stand. She was ready to retreat to the library, or her dormitory, anywhere she could think through everything that had just happened.
But before she could take two steps, someone appeared at her elbow.
"Come on then, Hermione," Fred Weasley said cheerfully, hooking his arm in hers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She blinked at him. "Pardon?"
"We're all heading back together," George added, hooking his arm through her other. "Figured we'd help you out, prefect duties and all that. Make sure the first years don't get lost."
"I—yes, but—" Hermione looked around, confused.
When had Fred and George appeared? And why were they—?
"Oi, Lee!" Fred called out. "Tell Katie to hold off telling her good stories until we all get there!"
Hermione found herself in a Fred and George Weasley sandwich, swept along by a wave of sixth and seventh years—Lee Jordan, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, all chattering and laughing as they moved toward the Entrance Hall.
She looked back at Harry and Ron, shrugging helplessly.
"—and then he tried to tell me the Tornados were winning fair and square," Angelina was saying, rolling her eyes. "Like I was born yesterday."
"You'd think people would learn not to argue Quidditch with you," Alicia said, grinning. "Remember when you made that Ravenclaw boy cry?"
"He deserved it. He said Hooch was biased."
"She is biased," Lee interjected. "Just in favour of good Quidditch, which the Ravenclaws definitely don't play—"
"Hermione," Katie said suddenly, falling into step beside her. "You're coming to tryouts, right? For keeper?"
Hermione nearly tripped at the attention, but Fred and George kept her upright. Hooked together as they were, like a paper chain.
"What? No, I don't—I don't play Quidditch."
"Not to play," Katie clarified, laughing. "To help us judge. We need someone with a brain to help weed out the disasters, and Fred said you're brilliant at strategy."
"Fred said—?" Hermione's brain was struggling to keep up. When had Fred said anything about her to the Quidditch team? His friends?
And why was Katie Bell—Katie Bell, who Hermione had maybe spoken to a dozen times in four years—talking to her like they were friends?
"Plus, we'll need an outsider to give an unbiased opinion," Angelina added, overhearing.
Hermione's internal monologue was spinning. Why are they talking to me? We've never— since when am I part of—what is happening?!
They climbed the staircases together, the group naturally flowing around slower-moving students. Fred was telling an outrageous story about a prank gone wrong. George kept adding embellishments that made everyone laugh harder. Someone asked Hermione her opinion on whether Stunning Spells or Disarming Charms were more practical for duelling, and she found herself drawn into a spirited debate with Lee about effective spell use.
It was... nice.
Overwhelming, but nice.
When they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, George finally noticed her confusion and grinned at her.
"Hermione! Don’t look so shocked. You're in this now. Get used to it."
"But I'm not—" Hermione floundered. "I mean, we're not—"
"We're friends," Fred said simply, as if it were obvious. "Have been for a while now, haven't we? Unless…?”
He looked at her, grinning, but Hermione could tell that this was him giving her an out. If she didn’t want this, if it was too much, well. She could say they weren’t friends, and that would be it.
No harm, no foul.
She couldn’t bring herself to do it. They were friends after all, weren’t they? Wasnt that what this summer had amounted to?
Isn’t this exactly what she had worried would never happen?
Fred and George Wealsey. Acknowledging her as their friend within the walls of Hogwarts.
The thought made her smile, and she nodded, still grinning.
Fred grinned, properly now. “Exactly,” he said, “you're not getting rid of us that easily."
The Fat Lady swung open, and they all climbed through into the Gryffindor common room. The fire was crackling. The familiar crimson and gold surrounded them. Students were sprawling on couches, unpacking, and greeting friends they hadn't seen all summer.
Fred flopped into an armchair. George conjured a deck of Exploding Snap cards.
She sat on the edge of the couch, watching this group of sixth and seventh years who had apparently decided she belonged with them, and felt something warm and confusing bloom in her chest.
Harry and Ron appeared a moment later, shooting her looks of confusion before moving upstairs to their dormitory.
She ignored them, turning back to the group.
“What was that Umbridge woman’s speech about? It was so weird,” Alicia Spinnet said.
Hermione made an annoyed sound, and the group turned to look at her.
She blushed slightly under their gaze, but told them what she thought, what Umbridge’s speech had really meant.
They, unlike Harry and Ron, seemed to understand what she was saying. They nodded in agreement as she spoke, and she felt a warmth blooming in her chest at their attentive looks.
"Anyway. All that’s to say, I doubt she'll teach us anything worthwhile," Hermione finished quietly. The mood had quickly turned sombre, and Hermione regretted ruining the nice moment they had going on.
Everyone was silent, lost in their own thoughts, until George burst out:
“What a ray of sunshine and positivity you are, Granger!”
Everyone laughed, and the tension was broken.
The conversation continued, but Hermione was more intent on observing and listening than contributing.
Really, she was trying to process this new dynamic.
When did this happen? When did I become part of this group?
She glanced at Fred and caught him watching her with an unreadable expression. When their eyes met, he smiled, not his usual mischievous grin, but something softer, more genuine.
"You alright, Hermione?" he asked quietly, while the others were debating something or the other.
"Just tired," she said, which wasn't entirely untrue.
"It's been a long day," Fred acknowledged. Then, after a pause: "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. With us, I mean.”
He looked away as soon as he said it, as if the admission was hard for him to get out. But something in his tone made Hermione's heart skip. She looked at him more closely, really looked, and saw soft concern in his eyes, warmth, something she couldn't quite name.
"I'm glad to be here too," she said softly, and meant it.
***
An hour later, Hermione excused herself. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up with her—the anxiety of the morning, the tension of the prefect meeting, the dread of Umbridge's speech, the confusion of being suddenly absorbed into a friend group she hadn't realised she was part of.
"Need anything?" Angelina asked as Hermione stood.
"Just sleep," Hermione said with a tired smile. "I'll see you all tomorrow."
"Night, Hermione," several voices called out.
As she headed toward the stairs to the girls' dormitories, she heard Fred say something to George in a low voice. She couldn't make out the words, but George's laugh followed her up the stairs.
The dormitory was exactly as she'd left it—four-poster beds with crimson hangings, her trunk already waiting at the foot of hers, Crookshanks curled up on her pillow like he'd never left.
Lavender and Parvati were already there, chattering about a boy in Hufflepuff. They waved at Hermione but didn't try to engage her in conversation, which was a relief.
Hermione changed into her pyjamas, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed.
Crookshanks purred and relocated to the curve of her knees. She stared up at the canopy, her mind refusing to quiet.
Two competing thoughts circled each other like sparring partners:
Umbridge is dangerous.
And,
Why did Fred look at me like that?
She tried to focus on the first one. That was the real problem, the one that mattered. Umbridge was the Ministry playing interference.
Hermione knew that she was here to control the school. She wasn’t sure how, yet, but she knew that was the point.
But her mind kept drifting back to that moment in the common room. To Fred's expression when he'd said I'm glad you're here. To the way he'd noticed she was quieter than usual, had asked if she was alright.
To the realisation that, at some point over the summer, Fred and George had decided she belonged with them. That they’d told their friends, and they all agreed too. There was no discussion, no formal invitation, just a general air of, ‘Well, why wouldn’t you?’
When did that happen? She wondered, and how did I not notice?
She thought about the summer at Grimmauld Place. About the twins, including her when Ron didn’t, asking her opinion on prototypes (‘completely hypothetical of course but…’), and sitting with her while she pored over books. They kept themselves busy, and at the time she thought nothing of it, but now? She wasn’t so sure it was inconsequential. About how Fred had started calling her by her first name instead of "Granger," had started treating her like—
Like what? A friend? Something more?
Don't be ridiculous, she told herself firmly. You're reading too much into things. He's just being Fred. Fred Weasley. Who is your friend. Who probably sees you as a younger sister. Who is quite kind, despite how he annoys you.
But that look in his eyes had been...
Hermione rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. This was not the time to be thinking about boys. There was a war starting. Voldemort was back. Umbridge was going to make their lives hell. Harry needed her support.
She didn't have time for whatever confusing feelings were tangling themselves up in her chest.
And yet, as she finally drifted toward sleep, it wasn't Umbridge's syrupy words or the Sorting Hat's warning that filled her thoughts.
It was Fred's voice saying You're not getting rid of us that easily and the warmth in his eyes when he'd smiled at her.
Hermione fell asleep with that image in her mind, and for just a moment, despite everything, she felt safe.