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Chapter Text

'What in the seven hells happened to self-preservation?' Salazar Slytherin asked himself, though his hands continued to move deftly over the well-used cauldron without a pause.

'Evaporate the excess fluid. Watch for the change in optical property that indicates saturation. Remove from heat.'

This was the product of fifteen long years of research – conceived in ideas so genius that even Rowena may be jealous, and gestated in experimental trials so patient that even Helga may find difficult. And now, he was about to pull off a feat so reckless that even Godric would hesitate.

'Cast the final spell. Seal the magic. Transfer into a clean flask and check consistency…'

Admittedly, he had but a vague guess at what would happen, and there would be no way to control it once it started. If his theories and conjectures had been correct, his being would dissipate into the ether until it would pull itself back together and begin anew. There was no telling how long this would be, or who he would become.

Not a comforting thought, as control had always been very important to him.

And yet, he absolutely must know...

Was it not true that someone had to try something drastic, once in a while, to further their civilization's understanding of magic? With no family, no ties, no greater goal in mind than this... it wasn't as if he had much to lose. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.

'Bottoms up,' he grinned, and swallowed the potion in one long draught.

And he was gone.

Nearly a millennium later, a baby girl was born to a pair of proud new parents. Being both avid admirers of Shakespeare's plays, the list of girls' names they'd prepared was long indeed: Juliet, the loved; Ophelia, the pure; Emilia, the strong; Titania, the fairy queen; etc, etc.

But the moment their daughter opened her eyes, they knew exactly who to name her after.

Charming. Eloquent. Quick witted, and incredibly clever. Mind, perhaps a little too brilliant for her own good, said Dr. Olivia Granger to her husband. The poor queen from The Winter's Tale did have to suffer terrible accusations of crimes that she did not commit, and the people all thought she died in disgrace.

But, Dr. Jean Granger pointed out, it turned out that she either came back to life or never really died...

His wife agreed, and so the name of their daughter was decided.

Hermione.

The girl was to be named Hermione.

Dear Hermione Jean Granger,

'What the - ? What happened? And how is it that I suddenly remember two lifetimes?'

Congratulations. We are writing to you to offer you a place in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

'Letter of acceptance. The Hogwarts seal. So that's what set it off…'

"Hermione, dear, what's that strange letter you've got? It doesn't look like junk, does it?"

'Show mother the letter. Use the opportunity to recollect memories and thoughts. Hermione Granger, eleven years old. Daughter of dentists Jean and Olivia Granger. Muggleborn witch. Live in London, 1991… But formerly Lord Salazar Slytherin. Professor, inventor, potioneer, duellist. Founder of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Reincarnation potion successful. Theory of souls confirmed.' "Mum? I… I know you won't believe this, but… it says I'm a witch!"

Father choked on his coffee. "What?"

"It's probably a joke," said Hermione, despite knowing perfectly well that it was not. There was no way she could explain this without the help of a current professor.

"A very elaborate one at that," said mother with raised eyebrows, as she and father got ready to leave for the clinic. There were patients to see, and they'd better hurry if they wanted to be on time for the first appointment.

Soon, Hermione was left alone to stare at the brown textured parchment of the letter and nurse her buzzing head. It felt a little as if her brain was filled with static, really, or as if she was in a trance. And she was fairly certain that she might've screamed had she not grounded herself with the realization that all this was certainly, definitely real.

The world had changed, that much was certain. 'And what a world it is…'

Chapter Text

-~sSs~-

Year 1: Debutant(e) once more

-~sSs~-

By the time her parents returned home, her headache had resolved itself into the form of questions – lots and lots of them.

On the one hand, what had become of the wizards and witches? How many of them were living? There shouldn't have been any more conflicts with the muggles, or she would've heard about it. How had the fledgling magical "society" grown since Salazar had left it? Dare she hope that it had evolved as tremendously as the muggle one, having carefully concealed itself to maintain its peace as Salazar had urged them to do? Surely they hadn't once again dissolved, leaving most magical families isolated from each other as they had been before Hogwarts fixed that somewhat?

And how was Hogwarts? She was glad they hadn't felt the need to rename it something more "respectable". (Never mind that the founders only named the school this way to spite some irritating nobles.) Did they still teach the same classes? In Latin, the language of magic in Salazar's time? Or English, the common tongue? How many students did they have now?

On the other hand, how would her parents – Jean and Olivia Granger – feel about the existence of magic? The muggles that Salazar used to contend with blamed magic for everything beyond their tiny circle of understanding, and would burn their own children in a heartbeat. Hermione did not believe her parents would hurt her, however. Besides, with the renewed interest in the scientific principles since the Renaissance era, muggles had actually managed to become miraculously enlightened, and societies had become far more civilized that Salazar had thought possible… But it was much more difficult to tell whether people had become more tolerant. Or, more importantly, whether her muggle parents would still treat her the same way.

Fortunately, a large part of her questions were answered by the arrival of the very patient Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, from their fire place.

Hermione thought her very patient, because it probably hadn't been easy to alternatingly convince the Dr. Grangers that magic wasn't a hoax, as well as answer her own multitude of questions on various aspects of the magical world.

The professor's method of arrival was apparently called the Floo network, which utilized fire and fireplaces to transport witches and wizards between establishments. However, the most common mean of transportation was still apparition. Hogwarts had a headmaster and a deputy headmistress now, as well as a head of house for each of the houses Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. The headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was a powerful and world renowned wizard. (Hermione had gathered as much from his various titles.) The largest magical market in Britain was the Diagon Alley, which was a small hidden network of streets and stores and no longer the haphazard collection of stalls and peddlers that used to gather outside Gringotts.

"We must go there the first thing on Sunday!" mother clasped her hands excitedly. Evidently, she was as eager to see the magical community as Hermione herself. Hermione found this very comforting. Her parents' various possible responses to magic was another worry that she could let go of for the time being.

But it was clear that she must pay a visit to Diagon Alley first, alone.

She needed to regain her bearings. Salazar's strong need for control - which she'd actually managed to forget in her second childhood - was beginning to resurface again, causing her to become increasingly aware that she was currently rather short on both magic and information. Grilling Professor McGonagal about magic, as patient as the older witch was, would be far from enough. She needed to be able to explore the nooks and crannys of the magical community unrestrained, and as soon as possible, so that she could get a comprehensive picture of its situation and what threats remained before she accidentally makes a mistake.

And she needed her wand. That was a priority.

The next day, after her parents had left for the clinic, Hermione hopped onto the Underground and headed for central London. The small pub named the Leaky Cauldron was easy enough to find, and she'd easily followed a tall man into the Alley. Magic had changed very little. Certainly there were some small inventions here and there, and definite improvements to the broom, which Godric had been so keen on perfecting. Nevertheless, there were no great mind-bending changes that matched the ones in the muggle world. 'Have we grown stagnant, as a people?'

But regardless, the sight of witches and wizards bustling to and fro in the cobblestone street put her in high spirits, as it would not have been possible a millennium ago. True, the more powerful magical families were able to learn of one another and interact, but most people would live their entire lives without ever meeting another witch or wizard.

Hermione smiled. From this perspective, they'd come quite far after all.

The Gringott goblins were as annoying as she remembered them. They didn't spare her a single glance when she approached the tellers, and made a point to ignore her when she tried to get their attention. They visibly started when she announced what she'd wanted though.

A goblin peered down condescendingly at her from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Hermione was slightly impressed, since he'd managed to pull it off in the process of falling off his stool. "The box that Salazar Slytherin entrusted to us?"

"You heard right, Griphook. Oh look, I've learned your name. I've really been standing around for a rather long time, haven't I? "

Griphook's face reappeared behind the counter with an incredulous sneer. "You are asking for a legendary item that has been with the goblins of Gringott for centuries, girl! What gives you the right?"

Of course, all this had been planned for. "I have the passcode," she told him simply.

Griphook looked like he'd rather believe that it was going to rain gold today, though he brought out the object in question nevertheless. Propping her chin up against the high counter, Hermione inspected the small silver box that had been rudely pushed at her. She could see that it was still intact - well polished, in fact, despite signs of forced entry attempts. Most of them initiated by the tellers themselves, probably. Hermione caught Griphook's gaze and smirked.

Like hell would Salazar allow him to open the box "entrusted to him". It was protected by some of the most powerful locking charms in existence.

She ran a slender finger over the engraved snake on the lid, whispering to it in nearly silent parseltongue. "Remember me?"

The lid slid open, glowing green.

And Hermione made sure to hold the box so that its content was fully visible to the teller, savouring the look of disappointment on his face. Though priceless to her, she knew it contained nothing of value to the goblins - only Salazar's wand, and the key to the vault. But the goblins must've spent a millennium trying to break it open, guarding it jealously and passing the puzzle of the box onto their children like some mysterious treasure. Now that was funny. Nearly as funny as the rate at which blood drained from Griphook's bony face when the significance of the action registered.

Yes, treasure-hoarding goblins certainly did make the best guards.

"You, you..." The goblin pointed a shaky finger at her and blurted. "You're... How...?"

Hermione smiled back, neither confirming nor disputing what must be going through the clever little goblin's head. She took the wand, one of her earliest and proudest creations, and let the warmth spread from her fingers to the rest of her body as it welcomed her magic back.

Griphook blinked, slowly got up and showed her to the cart that looked just as likely to collapse as it did before without another word.

Salazar had made sure to open a personal vault, separate from the family vault that any relatives or descendants of relatives could potentially enter should they somehow be made his heir. Hermione made a mental note to find out who that was, but it would be wisest not to touch that vault just yet. Besides, if cousin Marvolo's spending habits were anything to go on, she doubted there would be anything left in the family vault after a millennium.

The goblins had been more than happy to open this vault, of course. Salazar's own additions to the vault's protection prevented them and just about anyone else from accessing its contents, but they seemed to be under the very logical impression that if they waited long enough and tried hard enough after his death, they could eventually claim its riches for themselves.

Inside, she found Salazar's favourite bottomless bag, into which she scooped a careless handful of gold. She also took with her a small library of various kinds of books, many of them nearly impossible to find elsewhere and a dozen authored by Salazar himself. Then there was the small silver and emerald ring that Salazar always wore, though she wouldn't put it on just yet.

She glanced down at the bag. It looked rather conspicuous, out of place. A flick of her wand transformed its exterior into a small beaded purse. This would suit her better now.

Griphook bowed her out of Gringotts. Hermione took the rest of the day to carefully comb through any bookstore she'd spotted, picking up a number of history books and making sure to get at least three accounts of each major event for at least some semblance of objectivity... Not that it was possible, as everything she'd read about Salazar so far had been terribly misguided. True, he despised muggles and wizards who wouldn't accept magic and he'd been very vocal and politically active about maintaining distance between magical and muggle populations, but he'd never had an issue with accepting muggleborn students. He'd left the school he'd helped built only because his research had grown too dangerous to be conducted near students, and the disagreement with Godric had been about letting muggle parents visit their children, should they choose to attend at Hogwarts. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out just how this happened. What exactly had she done to earn this hate?

But it had become quite clear by now that if she were to announce what had really happened to the evil bigoted probably baby-eating Dark Lord Salazar Slytherin right here and now, the mob waiting to take her to that prison they call Azkaban would be sizable indeed. Not that she was planning to do so immediately anyways. They probably wouldn't believe her.

She'd taken care to alter her appearance so that she could wander through the shops freely. She'd also found an adjacent street, Knocturn Alley, which turned out to be quite interesting. It was dirty and dingy and filled with all sorts of unmannerly people, rather like a slum compared to the High Road that was Diagon Alley. The expression on some of the men's shabby faces, upon seeing a seemingly defenceless young girl, was revolting. A cross between a toad and a jackal, or something of the sort.

Being the patient teacher that she was, that Salazar had always been, she'd painstaking hexed every single one of them until they learned better (which was quickly enough).

And Hermione arrived home at 4, just before her parents returned from the clinic. Her day's work had given her plenty more to think about.

Well, then. A summary of her current situation? 'Salazar Slytherin is remembered as dangerous, conniving, despicable. As is everything connected to him... me. Hermione Granger is a completely unknown entity, so the first introduction will almost determine what people expect of her... me. The magical society at large has just came out of a war, apparently, but looks to be in pretty good shape now.' In addition, she had access to her wand, her books, and enough gold for now. She was suffering no memory loss as far as she could tell - this Salazar had somewhat expected. But her magic had definitely regressed a bit. Children just didn't have the same control as adults.

Her plans for the near future?

Godric, in her situation, would probably jump right into the thick of things. But she would rather play it safe. There would be time for action later.

'Don't attract the attention of society's major players. Maneuver into position while keeping my head down.' It was still far too risky to do much, so she would play along and observe. And stay out of trouble. Should be simple, right?

More or less set and ready, Hermione awaited her official first step into the modern magical society.

Chapter Text

Hermione found it funny that her official first trip (and unofficial second trip) to Diagon Alley was much slower, due to her parents' frequent bickering over the map. She had to keep reminding her mother that, no, they could not just ask the hotdog vendor where the Leaky Cauldron was.

Personally, Hermione thought they looked a little like a family of lunatics, and wondered briefly if there would be any patients for her parents to return to at the Clinic if they'd been grinning like this for all of yesterday.

Once there, they followed Professor McGonagall's instructions to a tee. First stop was Gringotts, where her mother and father exchanged some muggle money for Galleons. The goblins looked as if they'd swallowed lemons when they saw her, but they didn't say a word. Instead they averted eye contact and tried to pretend she was nonexistent.

"Aren't they such polite little people?" Father walked away with this impression, "A bit shy, though."

Hermione shrugged.

The next stop was Ollivander's, to purchase her official wand.

She'd known something of the Ollivander family. Like how the Slytherin family specialized in potions and the arts of the mind, the Ollivander family had been widely known as masters of wandlore since the sixth century. The current owner of the business fixed her with an intense stare as she entered his store.

"Good morning. I am Garrick Ollivander. Would this be your first wand, young miss?"

"Oh yes. You see we just found out our Hermione is a witch just yesterday – funny, isn't it? I mean we're all so excited and magic is so amazing and –"

"Calm down, mum. Breathe," Hermione interrupted gently.

Mr. Ollivander nodded. "Curious… But never mind. Which is your wand arm, miss?"

Hermione held out her right. To her surprise, the old wandmaker plucked a long box off the shelf behind him and put an admittedly handsomely carved wand in her palm without any preamble. Immediately, she felt the wood warm to her. Its reaction wasn't as strong as the wand she'd preserved with the goblins, most likely because it was not created by her own magic, but she knew that it was compatible. "Yes, I thought so," muttered Ollivander to no one in particular.

"It's done? That was... rather much faster than I expected," Hermione told him.

"This one has been asking for you the minute you walked through the door... You see, Miss Hermione, vine wands are generally the quickest to find their match," explained Ollivander without breaking his gaze from hers, "because they instantly detect personalities with hidden depth. They are attracted to witches and wizards who seek a greater purpose, who have visions beyond the ordinary and who will astound those who think they know them best. And here it is paired with dragon heartstring, for power… I hope you will find it adequate."

Hermione was a little unnerved by the degree of detail in that assessment. It seemed that the Ollivanders had honed their craft very well through the centuries... She opted to extract herself from Ollivander's shop after that, leaving plenty of time for the odd family of three to slowly make their way to the rest of their destinations. Shopping with her parents turned out to be quite a challenge. She had to drag them past the crowd of children gaping at the new Nimbus 2000, and it took just about all the cunning she possessed to keep them from getting lost in the bookshop. And it had been so difficult to convince them that it was a bad idea to buy a moving portrait for their living room wall, especially as they went as far as attempting to bribe her with a pet snake.

They left without the portrait. And little Sylvia would be better off living with another happy family anyways.

"Wand, check. Books, check. Cauldron, check... That just leaves your uniform at Madame Malkins, Hermione dear."

The kindly lady, Madame Malkins, was busy with a boy her age when she stepped into the shop. Hermione politely stood on the stool beside him and waited.

"Hullo," the boy seemed friendly enough, "I'm Neville Longbottom."

"Hermione Granger," she replied, "it's very nice to meet you."

"Good to meet you too, Hermi...er, sorry, could you repeat that?"

"Hermione."

"Harminini?"

'Why does it always have to be this difficult?' "Hermione, as in The Winter's Tale?"

Blank stares.

"Shakespeare?" She tried again.

More blank stares.

"He's a famous muggle playwright. You must be pureblood, then, if you've never heard of Shakespeare... Look, if my name is too hard for you, then call me Sally. Or Sal. My old friends called my that." 'Specifically, when Godric decided that something as simple as Salazar was too much for his poor brain to handle. Oh, how Godric would laugh if he heard this...'

"Are you a muggleborn, Sally?" Neville asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Some wizards don't like muggleborns, but my Gran says it's nonsense."

So blood status was still as touchy an issue as ever, she gathered. Oh, and that Neville Longbottom was a very tactful diplomat.

"Are you going to Hogwarts too, Neville?"

The boy's eyes practically sparkled at that. "Oh yes! I can't wait till the sorting!"

"Any idea which house you want to be in? Not Slytherin, surely?" She had a feeling that Neville's tongue would cause him quite a bit of grief there.

"Of course not! Gran says it's for evil wizards! I... I want to go to Gryffindor. I hope I'm brave enough..."

Neville looked so nervous that Hermione completely ignored the unintentional personal insult, though it once again reminded her that something must be done about House Slytherin's reputation. "I'm sure you can go to any house you want, Neville. They really care about your opinion, or at least, they should. Besides, the other houses are just as good. You'll do very well in Hufflepuff, for example. And really, Slytherin's not that bad. Or at least, it's not supposed to be..."

Neville nodded, brightening again. "Thanks, Sally... Wait! You're a muggleborn, right? How come you know more about Hogwarts than I do?"

"I did just spend a whole day in the bookstore," Hermione pointed out. "Flourish and Blotts, I think it's called. They have an interesting book called Hogwarts: a History."

"Oh."

She suddenly remembered. "I've been meaning to ask someone about this - I'm a muggleborn, so I really don't know... Have you heard anything about a boy named Harry Potter? They say he killed a certain evil wizard as a baby? A certain Lord Voldemort-"

"We don't say that name!" Neville whispered, suddenly fearful.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," Hermione promised.

"On October 31, ten years ago, He-who-must-not-be-named attacked the Potters' family. He'd killed Harry's mum and dad, but he couldn't kill the baby."

"So what happened to You-know-who?" Hermione prompted.

"Gone," Neville swallowed, "vanished."

'Vanished' didn't have the same finality as 'dead', Hermione noted grimly, though it was good that this Voldemort hadn't been making trouble for the past ten years. Although, the idea of a feared dark wizard vanishing upon attempting to kill an infant sounded rather fantastical. She would read more about it later. "And Harry would be around our age, right? This means there's a good chance we'll get to meet him at Hogwarts."

"You're right!" Neville realized, "Merlin, I haven't thought of that!"

"You're done, dear," Madame Malkins called, and Neville hopped off the stool clumsily with his new robes.

"I can't believe I made a friend already!" he beamed, "I was afraid for a while that no one would talk to me because I'm almost a squib...See you on the train, Sally!"

Hermione smiled back warmly. "See you on the train, Neville." The boy's "Gran" was putting him under too much pressure, she swear. 'Almost a squib my foot.' Hogwarts wouldn't take squibs or anyone who didn't have enough magic to benefit from the education. They'd made sure of that.

As it was, she could only wish Neville the best of luck.

After enjoying ice cream at the cozy little ice cream parlour next door and disguising her new cauldron as well as she could without using magic, Hermione and parents went home without much fanfare. The rest of the summer passed relatively normally, and she took this as a sign that her parents were adjusting to the existence of magic reasonably well. Soon enough, it was time to board the steam-and-magic-powered locomotive, the Hogwarts Express. The space between platform 9 and 10 appeared to be a solid wall, but clearly it was just an illusion. Turning back, she hugged her parents goodbye.

Her father signed fondly. "All those boarding schools that offered you scholarships must be so disappointed... Remember to write to us, Hermione dearest."

"Of course," she smiled. The calm, sure way she'd passed through the barrier betrayed none of her excitement. She looked around her. The younger children on the platform were bouncing with anticipation of adventure, of going somewhere new. The older children were grinning at the thought of returning to the place where they lived and grew for so many years. For her, it was both.

Hermione slid into an empty compartment and felt its aged leather seats. 'Well, then. Let the journey begin.'

Chapter Text

About five minutes into the trip, the compartment door slid open again to reveal a snobby looking blond boy, flanked by two large boys who she secretly thought looked like they'd walked straight out of the gorilla house at the zoo.

Hermione put down Hogwarts: a History, the book she was reading (and editing), and gave them a friendly smile. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger."

The blond boy had been considering whether to come in, but upon hearing her last name he gave a disdainful sniff and walked on. The two gorillas trailed after him obediently.

Hermione could understand his reaction. Clearly "Granger" was not a pureblood name, and the boy had been taught not to associate with anyone outside his family circle. Salazar had always found this kind of attitude slightly worrying, though he never gave the subject much thought. Wouldn't they end up with a dangerously inbred bloodline if everyone only talked to their cousins? And how would they know where a cousin's allegiance lies, should a conflict break out between two "purebloods"?

Or perhaps Salazar was alone in his concerns. Marvolo and his sisters hadn't been the most pleasant company.

Hermione returned her attention to her book, but was interrupted when her compartment door opened again. This time, she was joined by two friendly, though excessively giggly, girls her year. They introduced themselves as Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. They were exploring the train, they said, because Parvati's sister Padma had became engaged in a very long discussion about - yawn - textbooks, leaving them rather bored.

"Hermione Granger. Pleased to meet you," she told them, before noticing the small frown on their foreheads. "Er, call me Sally. I find it far more preferable to 'her-my-knee' or 'her-mi-own', or some other variations thereupon."

The girls nodded, relieved.

"Did you know each other from before?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Nope," Lavender giggled, "we met on the platform."

"And speaking of meeting people," Parvati leaned in as if to share some great secret, "Do you know who's on this train with us?"

"Surely, not Harry Potter?" Hermione deliberately made her eyes go wide, knowing exactly what they were going to say. "I heard rumours, but..."

"But YES!" Lavender and Parvati squealed, "We saw him several compartments left of yours. He has messy black curls, green eyes -"

"Stunning green eyes," Lavender added.

"Oh yes," Parvati agreed, "He's much cuter than the redhead sitting beside him -"

"Hey! The redhead's not that bad..."

'Ah. So they're that kind of girls... '"Did you go and say hello?" Hermione asked, amused, while mentally marking these two down as guaranteed gossip hubs.

"Of course not!" Lavender blushed, "We're too shy..."

'Ha! As if!' "Aww, that's a pity!"

The girls sulked, nodding melodramatically.

"Are you excited to go to Hogwarts? I've read," Hermione patted her book, "so much about it!"

"Oh of course! I can't wait to do magic!" Lavender took out her wand and twirled it proudly, inadvertently causing sparks to fly out and scorch the upholstery. "Oops,"

"But aren't you nervous?" Parvati demanded, "They say we're going to be sorted! How do you reckon they're going to do that?"

"You put on an ugly old hat that looks into your head and asks you what you want," Hermione decided to take pity on her, "What? Did you think we'd need to wrestle a troll or something?" Funny enough, Godric had actually proposed the exact task as his house's "entrance exam". The other founders had firmly put their foot down, citing various reasons such as noise, smell, damage to the local ecology, and general damage to the school's reputation.

"Oh good, because a third year five compartments down is telling these horrible stories -"

"Sally!" Neville burst through the door, looking very much relieved to see her. There were tears in his eyes, Hermione noticed. "Have you seen my toad? I can't find him anywhere!"

Lavender, on the other hand, looked very much annoyed to be interrupted. "No," she answered shortly.

"I'll help you look, Neville. See you at the sorting, Lavender, Parvati," Hermione stood and slipped out of the compartment. "What's the toad's name? And what does he look like?"

"Trevor."

Hermione discreetly turned her back to him. A simple summoning spell should do it. Though on second thought, this would be a good opportunity to meet everyone on the train. "C'mon, let's go. Has anyone seen a toad around here? Neville's lost one..."

Hermione noticed that apart from the first years, students tend to sit with their housemates. Two compartments, both unfortunately were distinctively Slytherin, shut the door in their faces. Everyone else, Slytherins included, politely said that they hadn't seen anything. Eventually, they arrived at the compartment containing a black haired boy and a taller redhead boy, as well as the blond and the gorillas from before. They seemed to be in some sort of argument that escalated and ultimately resulted in the blond angrily stalking away, nursing his fingers.

"Have you been fighting?" Hermione asked.

"Scabber's been fighting, not me," the redhead pointed out defensively. There was a smudge of dirt on his nose.

Hermione eyed his balled fists dubiously. 'I think what you meant is that Scabber bit him before you could take a whack at him,' She shook her head with disapproval. "Have you seen a toad anywhere? Neville's lost one."

"No, sorry," the boy replied, though his look suggested that if he had a toad, he wouldn't hesitate to lose it at first chance.

"Perhaps he'll turn up," his black- haired friend said comfortingly.

"Thanks anyways. I'm Hermione Granger by the way. But I also go by Sally. It's easier."

"Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter."

The- boy-who-lived. He acted quite modestly for a celebrity, Hermione thought. "I've read about you, Harry. You're in the Book of Modern Magical History and the Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts."

"Oh."

"You should look yourself up. I know I would." 'And I did. To find out just what kind of bullcrap the world's been saying about me.'

She glanced out the window. Already, she could see the familiar rolling hills, the edge of the black lake. They were almost there.

Leaving the boys' compartment to let them change into their uniforms (she had already put on her own before the train had left the station), she idly wondered what house the boys would be sorted into. Ron looked like someone who might go to Gryffindor. Harry, she wasn't sure. But since he'd had an unpleasant experience with the blond, who unfortunately would most likely end up in Slytherin, Harry would most likely go to Gryffindor as well.

They'd never asked her which house she thought she belonged in. Had they asked, her answer would've been "I'm not sure." On the one hand, House Slytherin really needed to shape up. It was disappointing to see Salazar's legacy crumble into a house of crooks and villains. The best way to reform it was from within the house itself.

On the other hand, was that really the best choice? Given what she knew of the current political climate, it would close off so many opportunities, so many chances.

But then again, was she truly resurrected if her name and what she stood for had rotted away?

"First years o'er here!" A booming voice shouted. Hermione followed Harry, Neville and the other first years off the train, where they eventually boarded a fleet of little boats. Someone finally saw Neville's toad, and before long they were all happily sailing toward the majestic castle that was Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall greeted them outside the great hall.

"The sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will become something like family to you."

Hermione felt the magic of the castle, the layers of wards protecting those within. Most of the spells had been invented by Rowena, arranged by Salazar, checked by Helga and constructed by all four friends together. 'Oh how I've missed you...'

"The four houses are called Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards."

Any moment now. Like the other first years, Hermione's breath caught in her throat as four ghosts floated into the hall. A fat friar, a clownish knight, one of Salazar's former students who she remembered well, and... Rowena's daughter?

'Godric, Helga, Rowena...They're all gone now,' For one, brief second, she wondered whether Salazar should've given the reincarnation potion to his friends as well. But she quickly realized that it was a ridiculous idea. They had all been living long fruitful lives, with their families and friends. They were content. Why take them away from all that they'd worked hard to earn, and drop them into the unknown again? It would be a curse, not a blessing for them. Only Salazar would call it an opportunity.

"Abbot, Hannah!"

She watched with pride as her fellow students gaped at the high ceiling. To see it as it always had been, after a thousand years... "It's enchanted to look like the night sky," she told them, barely able to keep the smugness out of her voice. "I read it in Hogwarts: a History, of course."

"Granger, Hermione!"

Step forward with composure. Put on the hat. Hide what must be hidden, and prepare to think.

'What have we here? A smart young lady. I see your thirst for knowledge. Definite Ravenclaw material, then?'

'Very diligent too. You'll find others like you in Hufflepuff, of course.'

'Yes, highly intelligent. But I wonder if you're more than that? What are you willing to do to achieve your goals, hmm?'

The hat sounded exactly like Salazar when it said that last bit.

She made up her mind. 'Place me in Gryffindor.'

'Gryffindor? What a very Slytherin thing to do, from your perspective. Pity. I thought Slytherin would finally get someone worthy.'

'Perhaps it might help if you explain what being Slytherin really means at next year's sorting.' Hermione suggested, 'I know you know, and I know you can. Think about it for a while.'

'I've tried before, and I will try again, though it will not be enough. Much needs to be changed outside the castle walls as well. This time it'll count for something, you say? You're an interesting one, Hermione - or do you prefer Sally? Promise you won't let them burn me for blasphemy?

'Very well. I wish you all the luck. Welcome to GRYFFINDOR!'

Chapter Text

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Hermione placed the Sorting Hat on the stool and strolled toward the red and gold table, smiling gratefully for her new housemate's applause. She took a seat beside a older, officious-looking boy who bore some resemblance to Ron from the train. He wore a very well-polished silver prefect badge.

"Hermione Granger," she offered him her hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

The boy shook it, pleased by the respectful tone of her greeting. "It's very good to meet you too, Hermione. My name is Percy Weasley. You're welcome to come to me if you ever need help here at Hogwarts."

"Thank you for the offer, Percy. Being prefect must be tiring, with all that responsibility."

This got Percy talking. "It certainly is," he puffed out his chest and straightened his prefect badge, causing two redhead twins further down the table to snigger. "Already I've had to deal with three cases of trouble-making. It's a big job, but someone has to do it. This year, I intend to put a stop to all pranks, bullying and breaking of school rules."

"That's a very ambitious goal," Hermione complimented, noticing how the twins and their friend looked as if Percy had announced that he would like to repeal the laws of magic. "Are there one or two primary perpetrators, or is it more of a general problem?"

"There are," Percy glared down the table, "one or two," The redhead twins, who she could now safely assume to be Weasleys as well, only laughed harder. Percy huffed, but encouraged by the way Hermione seemed to be drinking in his every word, continued on. "Much of the trouble result from the animosity between Gryffindor and Slytherin, however. Many of us feel strongly about dark wizards, and House Slytherin has produced more dark wizards than any others."

Hermione repressed a frown. Dark magic wasn't necessarily evil. It was simply more dangerous than others, and should therefore be used and taught with caution. "Have you found the Slytherin students to be especially violent?"

Percy considered this. "Not exactly. I'm afraid the majority of serious confrontations have been initiated by our own house. But my point is, it's the general attitude that's the problem. And some of the prominent Slytherin families have taken to taunting muggleborn students."

"I understand. I'm muggleborn myself."

Percy nodded toward the other side of the Great Hall, at the Slytherin table, to where the blond boy she'd met on the train was sitting. "You'll want to watch out for that boy, then, sitting beside the Bloody Baron. His name is Draco Malfoy, and his family is well-known for blood purism. His father's been a known Death Eater - er, supporter of You-know-who, but somehow he still managed to maintain powerful political connections. He claimed to be under the imperious curse, the spell that controls minds, after You-know-who's fall."

"What does he do now?" Hermione asked.

"He's a senator, as well as a member of Hogwarts' governing council."

Neville Longbottom was sorted into Gryffindor, as he had wanted. He'd been so proud and excited that he'd ran off with the hat still on his head, before doubling back amid bursts of applause and laughter. Hermoine flashed him a warm smile when he joined their table.

"Sally! We're in the same house!" He grinned from ear to ear, "I'm so glad I made it!"

Percy was confused. "Sally?"

"You're the first person to pronounce my name, beside my parents and some of the teachers. Everyone else call me Sally instead, ever since preschool."

Percy looked sympathetic. "Though I must admit, your name is rather unusual. Shakespeare, right?"

"The Winter's Tale. Do you enjoy reading, Percy?"

"Certainly," Percy smiled proudly, "though I'm afraid I don't know too many of Shakespeare's stories."

"Ah, but I'm surprised you know of him at all! Your brother Ron said your family is purely magical."

Percy laughed. "True, but my father is fascinated by muggles. He's the head of the Department of Muggle Artifacts."

"A ministry official!" Hermione gasped admiringly, egging him on. She wondered what the magical government was like. They didn't have one in Salazar's days. "You must be really familiar with the Ministry of Magic, then. What's it like?"

"Well, there's the Minister, Cornelius Fudge. We've had him over for dinner once or twice. And then there are the department heads..." Hermione made her interest known as Percy gave a very nice overview of the power structure of the Ministry. She could tell that Percy was dying to work there, and likely even fantasized about becoming minister himself.

Had it not been the unfavourable perception of House Slytherin, Hermione thought, Percy would've very likely gone there. But then again, Salazar's house had been intended to provide resources for people who could and wanted to get things done, not necessarily for those who desired power. 'Perhaps that's where the meaning of ambition got lost?'

They stopped their conversation to watch the sorting of Harry Potter, who joined Gryffindor as she expected. He sat down beside a sandy-haired boy named Dean Thomas, and was soon joined by Ron Weasley. Percy cheered for his younger brother with pride.

Over the cheers and applause, Hermione could hear Lavender Brown shouting across the table at a recently sorted Parvati Patil in an animated discussion on why they were sorted into Gryffindor. Lavender proudly announced that the Sorting Hat thought she had courage, while Parvati apparently "found joy in adventures". Both girls were apparently also very glad to be in the same house as Harry Potter. Fortunately, the topic of their discussion also happened to be deep in conversation and did not hear them.

"What about you, Sally? What did the Sorting Hat say for you?" Asked Lavender with a giggle.

"Why Gryffindor?" Hermione smiled, giggling back.

Because she'd rather not cut off opportunities, and as much as she hated to say it, it was obvious that simply being associated with Slytherin House - as it is - would close many doors. True, some of its alumni such as Lucius Malfoy still held influential positions, but they were only able to manage it through subterfuge and sheer financial power rather than respect. And even if she were to turn Salazar's house back into what it was, it would not automatically change the opinions of people like Neville Longbottom, or Percy Weasley, or the larger part of society.

"The hat thought about many things, but I thought Gryffindor would help me most and it agreed." Of the other three Houses, Gryffindor seemed to have grown to become the most vocal of House Slytherin's enemies. They would also be the ones who'd need the most convincing. Suppose there was any value left in the house she'd founded, she'd still be able to help the students this way.

Of course, the setback for not joining Slytherin once more was that she'd now have to find much more complicated ways to influence her old house. She would get started on that soon.

Hermione turned her attention to the rest of her house. Neville was telling the boy beside him how he'd been dropped out of a window and performed his first accidental magic at the age of six. Ron and Harry were talking animatedly with one of the Weasley twins - Fred? Or George? Beside her, the comical ghost was trying to introduce himself as the noble Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Propington -

"My brother told me! You're Nearly Headless Nick!" A first year shouted.

Sir Nick looked affronted. "I would prefer to be known as Sir Nicholas -"

"Nearly headless?" Hermione joined in. The knight looked too funny when he got annoyed. "How can you be nearly headless?"

"Like this," Nick sighed, and tugged his partially severed head off his neck by a ear. After a few seconds, he straightened up and coughed. "Now, any other questions?"

As customary, the professors were seated at the head table, which had been expanded over time to seat ten instead of four. Professor McGonagall sat near the middle beside a man with a long silver beard, who Hermoine assumed was the headmaster. His eyes had an intriguing, knowing sort of twinkle. The loafing giant who'd guided them off the train - correction: half giant - sat at the end of the table. On the other side of the headmaster, there was a black-haired professor with a very sour expression, as if he was chronically displeased. Beside him, there was a jittery-looking professor who was always adjusting his purple turban. An interesting bunch, they were.

Finally, the last of the first years had been sorted. After the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, stood and said a few words ("Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"), the tables were covered with plates of food. Hermione reached happily for the familiar steak-and-kidney pie, a longtime favourite, while trying to ignore the snorting sound emitted by a certain redhead during his attempt to shovel as much food into his mouth as possible. She noticed Sir Nick looking on enviously, so she deliberately savoured every single bite to his chagrin.

Dinner was followed by the singing of the school song (written by Godric in a fit of firewhiskey-induced inspiration) and Professor Dumbledore's actual welcome speech. This consisted mainly of a list of school rules and the announcement that a certain third floor hallway was now off-limits. There was also the curfew, which had really been designed to be broken. It practically ensured students time and privacy to work on side projects, should they be determined to do so.

Percy, as prefect, led the first years to their dormitories. Hermione took a bed near Lavender and Parvati, drew her curtains and waited. After some time, the hand of her watch struck 12. Hermione opened her curtains slightly. Coast clear.

Picking up her bottomless bag, she cast a disillusionment spell over herself and spelt her curtains shut. She then proceeded to stroll silently out of the Gryffindor portrait hole, and made for the second floor.

There was someone she had to see.

She was more than a bit annoyed when she realized that Salazar's favourite laboratory had been converted into a freaking bathroom. 'Just because I'd built a plumbing system here doesn't mean they should be lazy and reappropriate it...' But she thanked her fortune when it turned out to be a girl's bathroom. This would half the likelihood of her getting caught.

"Open," she hissed softly, and the petal-like array of washbasins shuffled apart to reveal the hidden tunnel. She floated down it with easy grace, landing near a large pile of shed snakeskin. 'Esmeralda must've grown really big by now,' She thought, walking on.

At last she reached the foyer, where the imposing stony figure of Uncle Malory glared down with a stern expression. Salazar had put him there so that a particular childhood memory, the one that inspired the passcode, would be forever immortalized.

'Marvolo is a strumpet,' she told the tall stone face in all seriousness.

The statue seethed angrily and stomped, revealing a narrow door. Hermione smirked. That one never got old. "Thank you, uncle dear!"

"Salazar? Is that you?"

"Yes, Esmeralda. I'm back."

Her old friend nodded with some melancholy. "You smell a bit different, but you feel the same."

"True," Hermione agreed, "that tends to happen to you when you're reborn. How have the last millennium been for you, Esmeralda?"

"One thousand years... No wonder it felt so long. The smaller snakes come, but they are afraid of me."

Hermione felt a twang of pity for her friend. She must've been lonely.

"Then one day I heard someone speak outside. 'Talk to me, greatest of the Hogwarts four', he said. I knew it wasn't you, but it's been so long since I heard someone speak in our tongue that I had to go out and see him."

'My supposed heir?' "Did he give the passcode?"

"No," Esmeralda was amused, "he seemed to think that statue outside is you, actually."

Hermione facepalmed. "To be mistaken for that old monkey... But why would I make a door out of my own mouth? Did he think I have no self respect?"

Esmeralda flicked her tail noncommittally, then grew sad. "He tricked me, Sal. He told me the castle has been infiltrated, and no one was doing anything about it."

"Infiltrated by whom?"

"I didn't think to ask. I had been too angry... I followed him to the surface at once, my eyes wide open, and then..."

"And then?" Hermione asked gently, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach.

"A student saw me, Sal. And she died. There were no infiltrators, I later realized."

'Stay calm. Take three breaths. Don't blow anything up. Don't blow anything up...' "The boy... Did he give you his name?"

Esmeralda shook her head. "No, and I never saw him again after that."

'Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths...' "And how long ago was this?"

"Not too long."

Not too long for Esmeralda would be around fifty years, then. Hermione would look for him in the school's records. "He can look forward to hell." 'No one gets away with turning the school's sentinel, MY friend, against the students. And no one's allowed to murder under my name. Only I get to do that.' "What's done is done, Esmeralda. You've blamed yourself enough."

She nodded.

"But in the future, let's stay calm, and let's not trust anyone until they've insulted Marv some way or another."

Esmeralda opened her jaws in something akin to a laugh. "Of course. And welcome back to Hogwarts, Sal."

Chapter Text

"Good morrow, Salazar!" The group of muggle boys called. They were Salazar's age, more or less. Because of this, they seemed to think they were his friends.

"Good morning, Nathan, Michael, Samuel," Salazar replied, book in hand. He didn't like them one bit, with their crudeness and uncivil behaviour. Still, as they were his family's tenants, he forced himself to be welcoming and gracious and agreeable. He listened with feigned interest as they described how they'd successfully evaded punishment when they were caught urinating at a farmer's dog.

"Wasn't that some adventure we had!" Samuel, the largest of the boys, finished gleefully.

"Congratulation on your escape," Salazar said, eyebrow raised with an otherwise blank expression, "but I trust you do not need me to tell you that such a habit would be unhealthy. If you value your manhood at all, that is."

"Pish posh!" Nathan waved, "we're much too fast for that stupid dog."

Salazar saw no reason why Nathan should call a dog stupid. After all, the boy himself was not much better.

"Did you know?" Michael leaned in conspiracally, "They're raising the stake down at the village again!"

"Oh? Who are they burning this time?"

"Some woman," Michael shrugged, "I saw her locked in a cage when I was down there. She didn't look scared, though. Witches are strange."

Salazar nodded. It sounded like the woman could take care of herself, then.

"Oh her!" Nathan joined in, "They caught her last night. My brother's friend went to help."

Salazar hid his disgust at the pride in Nathan's voice. He reminded himself that they were only muggles, that they didn't and couldn't know better. "Did he now?"

"Oh yes! He said he helped them pin her arms down while they were pushing her into the cage!"

"That sounds so exciting!" Samuel said enviously, "I'm so gonna join a witch hunt, one day. And believe me, I've tried, but they won't let me. They say I'm not old enough."

"They speak sense," Salazar pointed out reasonably, "You are only eleven. You would be no match." Too true. Salazar could kill him with a wave of his wand if he wanted to, and Samuel wouldn't even know what hit him. And Salazar was only ten.

Samuel spat. "As if! They just want to have all the fun themselves... Say, if they don't let us join them, why don't we start our own?"

"How did I not think of that?" Nathan grinned excitedly, rubbing his palms, "So, where do we start? Who looks like they might be a witch?"

"Not anyone that I know of," Salazar lied in the same perfectly unconcerned voice as before.

"We'll start down at the village, then. We'll march around the village, in the name of Lord Salazar -"

"Don't kill people in my name, Samuel," Salazar cut him off, for the first time serious, "Only I get to do that."

"Er...As you wish, your eminence."

...

"Ah, Salazar! How good it is to see you!" Marvolo spread his arms wide, rattling the cumbersome gold chains that he saw fit to wrap around his person. Beside him, Merope and Melinda gave a high-pitched giggle. They were covering their mouths with silk fans in a horrible attempt to appear feminine.

"I am delighted to see you too, dear cousins," Salazar smiled politely, book in hand. He offered his other arm to Merope, as per customs, which she accepted gladly. Marvolo followed with Melinda. "You look dazzling today, my lady. Your dress - it must've cost..."

"Fifty Galleons," she told him proudly, "I'm glad you like it, Sal. Isn't the gold lace simply gorgeous?"

"Of course, such richness is only befitting of a lady of your status, and your-" Salazar coughed discreetly into his other hand. In fanning herself, Merope was causing her heavy perfume and powder to waft toward him in the most unpleasant way. "- beauty. Excuse me, my lady."

"You're forgiven, Sal," Merope fawned, "Now show us around your father's beautiful rose garden like you promised!"

"Of course, dear cousins." Salazar replied smoothly, setting his book down on a table. It looked like there was no getting away from these idiots today.

...

"Sal! Have you got your nose stuck in a book again?" Godric waved, coaxing his spirited horse into the stable with his other hand. His boots were dripping with mud from the fields. Salazar had met him by chance while riding out to inspect the family estate some time ago. Godric had been travelling through and, upon realizing each other's magic, they'd quickly became friends and exchanged promises of future visits.

"For a knight, Sir Godric," Salazar sighed, "you should really have more respect for literature. This book contains the work of -"

"Bor-ing!" Godric yawned dramatically, "I read, but there's a distinction between reading for necessity and reading for enjoyment. I don't know how you do it."

"Books are useful. If I hadn't learned about the possibility of an obliviation charm and taught it to my village - in disguise of course - the muggles would still be marching around on witchhunts every month."

"I still say exercise and training is more useful, though," said Godric.

"I agree, and I do exercise my magic very frequently I'll have you know. I merely don't throw myself into fights as eagerly as you do - although they occasionally find me on their own."

"I challenge you. My combat experience against your books."

Salazar's eyes lit up at the prospect of a non-lethal duel. "You're on, Godric! But if you lose, I'm calling you a muggle for a week!"

"And if you lose," Godric smirked wickedly, "I'm calling you Sally for a week!"

They bowed. At age sixteen and seventeen, both boys were quite advanced in their spellwork. Multicoloured light flashed around them as they skillfully dodged each other's attacks while sending back a continuous stream of hexes in return. "Expelliamus!" Salazar smirked victoriously as Godric's wand flew off to the side. However, he'd forgotten about an invisible tripping charm Godric had cast earlier. His own wand rolled away from him as he tried to keep his face out of the mud. He quickly cast a wandless summoning spell, but Godric was already advancing on him with his sword.

"I win - " Godric grinned, but dropped the sword before he could point it at Salazar's neck. "- OUCH!" A small snake had sunk its teeth into his calf, and was now slithering away into the grass.

"Thank you friend!" Salazar called in parseltongue. "Relax, Godric, he's not poisonous."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, Sally!" Godric complained, hopping on one leg while clutching the other.

"You didn't win," Salazar pointed out, "you dropped the sword, remember?"

"But you cheated! The snake disarmed me, not you!"

"Ah! Ah! But I didn't lose either," Salazar wagged a finger, "so our agreement is null. Therefore you will still address me as Salazar."

"Why you tricky little -" Godric searched for the best word.

"Slytherin?" Salazar supplied helpfully.

"Yes!"

"Why thank you for the compliment!" Salazar grinned, handing Godric back his wand. "We'd better clean up before we go inside. My mother would be horrified..."

...

"I'm leaving, Godric, Rowena, Helga," Salazar told his only true friends, "I've already organized all the course notes for Potions, as well as Understanding the Dark Arts. You'll have no trouble at all next year."

"But Sal!" Helga cried, "Whatever for?"

"Is it about the muggleborn policy?" Godric asked, "Because you know that's still negotiable -"

"Godric I'm insulted! Do you really think I would abandon the school over a detail like that? We've all made good points, and everything's adequate as it is. The students live yearlong at the castle, and go home during the summer so that they can still bond with their parents. As long as we're encouraging them to immerse themselves in our society, everything will be fine... But that's beside the point."

"Then why, Sal?"

"Look, I'm not upset or anything. I'm really not," Salazar sighed, "It's where my research is taking me. Did you know my laboratory nearly exploded the other day?"

"I thought it was an earthquake..." Rowena muttered.

"Exactly! This can't keep happening, or soon the integrity of the castle will be at risk! And the spells I'm working on are getting more dangerous by the day. It's not good for the wards."

"Oh dear!" Helga looked at him with worry, "I hope you didn't get hurt!"

"No, I could protect myself... But my point is, I've got to move out. I can't risk an accident around the students."

"But why insist on studying the dark arts?" Rowena asked, "Honestly, you're more stubborn than Godric sometimes."

Salazar shrugged. "Uncharted territories, Rowena. I think you can understand that better than anyone. We've got to keep learning, or society stales."

"And you, who has made your name perhaps more synonymous with the Dark Arts than even Morgana, must continue to lead the way..." Rowena realized.

"When we founded this school," Salazar continued, "My goal has been to fill a need, to fix something that needed to be changed the world. We've achieved that goal. The most difficult stages have passed, and Hogwarts has been running smoothly for twenty years. Not much can go wrong anymore, not with the three of you here. I ought to spend my time on other things that need attending to."

No one spoke for a moment.

"Have you told the students yet?" Rowena asked.

"Not yet. I'll inform them tomorrow. As my friends, you ought to know first."

They nodded solemnly.

"We'll miss you, Sal," Godric said.

"I'll miss you too," Salazar smiled, sincerely. But he had grown up alone. He could stand to be alone for a little longer, right?

...

Hermione woke to the sound of her housemates bustling about their morning routines. Blinking away the last of her long dream, she quickly got dressed and joined them on their walk to the Great Hall for breakfast, book in hand.

Chapter Text

"Already studying, Sally?" Lavender leaned over to peek, "If you're so hardworking, you should be in Hufflepuff."

"The hat did consider that," Hermione told her, before rising to make for her next class, Transfiguration. She was familiar with all the trick steps and moving staircases, so she could afford to walk at a relatively leisurely pace unlike her fellow first years. In an empty second floor corridor, though -

"Ohh, a ickle firstie! What fun!"

'Peeves. Still alive and kicking, I see.'

Hogwarts's resident poltergeist had been busy levitating a suit of armour. Upon seeing her, he'd pulled off the helmet in preparation to chuck it at her, cackling madly. His laughter turned to muffled screams, however, when the armour and helmet locked around him, trapping the ghost inside. It fell back into place, immobilized.

"Can't resist!" Hermione called over her shoulder, smirking, "The irony's too great." The spell wouldn't bind Peeves forever, she knew, but she suspected it would take him at least two weeks to free himself.

The arrival of the poltergeist was rather funny, actually. When Peeves first turned up in the Great Hall, Godric had invited him to stay despite his more sensible friends' protests, saying, "The students need some excitement in their lives, Sally!" He'd quickly realized his mistake when Peeves proceeded to empty a jug of pumpkin juice over his head and shoved him face-first into the pudding.

"I told you so," Salazar had hissed through gritted teeth over Peeves' maniacal screeching, "and for the last time, my name is Salazar!"

But of course, once a poltergeist had been invited into an establishment, it would not leave. Only Salazar could do anything to him by virtue of his fairly extensive study in soulcraft. This, unfortunately, turned out to be quite annoying as well. Everyday, it was, "Sal! Peeves is destroying the charms classroom!" "Sal, could you get Peeves to stop banging on the armours?" "Sally! Help! Peeves is butchering my brooms!" Peeves had learned to fear Salazar, who had a large selection of painful curses ready for him whenever he'd fled a little too slowly. But days later, Peeves would be wrecking havoc again, and Salazar would be bombarded with a slew of Peeves-related complaints.

Eventually, Salazar and Peeves had reached an unofficial agreement. Salazar would tolerate the name calling, the taunts, the disruption of classes, the defacing of property... As long as Peeves steered clear of Salazar's personal quarters and laboratories and observed certain boundaries, Peeves was safe.

"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous magic you'll learn at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall warned. She had them start off small, by practicing turning a match into a needle. This was quite literally child play for Hermione, but having watched first year students struggle with the task for many years, she gauged her performance so that it just exceeded the expectation.

Understanding the Dark Arts, now called Defence against the Dark Arts, was disappointing. Professor Quirrell's class consisted entirely of reading from the textbook and listening to numerous personal anecdotes that no one believed. She supposed there would still be time to learn spells and counterhexes starting second year, but she was still tempted to shove Salazar's course notes under Quirrell's nose and order him to teach from that instead.

"T...this turban was g...given to me by an African p...prince for warding off a troublesome Z-zombie..."

'Honestly, he's not even trying,' Hermione thought, suppressing a frown. Something wasn't right here. From what Quirrell's told them about himself, he should've been a reasonably bright pupil. If not, he would've made an effort to at least appear less incompetent. Instead, he unabashedly displayed horror at his own adventures and made mistakes when reading from the textbook.

It seemed to Hermione as if he was trying to build a false image, but over exaggerated his acting.

Hermione knew herself to suspect people too easily. There could be a number of other explanations for Quirrell's behaviour, after all. However, if her guess was correct, then her defence professor would be a relatively experienced practitioner of the dark arts, and would also possibly have some ulterior motives in mind...

She'd decided to stay out of trouble, but she may need to keep an eye on him.

The history professor was a ghost. Hermione watched the class slowly drift off to sleep as Professor Binn droned on about a wizard named Ulric the Oddball. Hermione wasn't particularly interested in Ulric's various habits and choice of attire, and would've fallen asleep as well had she any less self-discipline.

After History, Hermione took a short detour to the dungeon antechamber.

There on the stone wall, the portrait of a certain former potion master was holding a book with one hand and rearranging various vials and flasks on the bench in front of him with the other. A small emerald and silver ring adorned his left index finger.

"Hello, Salazar,"

Portrait Salazar regarded her with interest. "Ah! A parselmouth, who's somehow tricked the Sorting hat into placing her in Gryffindor! What is your name, child?"

"My name is Hermione now, but I also go by Sally or Sal," Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear, making sure that portrait Sal got a good look at the emerald ring on her own finger. She could see her past self thinking fast. "Remember that ridiculous conjecture you had, just before you left Hogwarts?"

Grey eyes widened. "It ...worked?!"

"Apparently so. But let's talk somewhere else. Mortal dread," Hermione smiled, stepping into the secret passage that led to the entrance of the Great Hall. She then climbed a flight of stairs and made her way to the "Chamber of Secrets", as the rest of the school had taken to calling it, to find portrait Salazar, portrait Godric, portrait Rowena and portrait Helga in the midst of a loud argument.

"Sal, are you feeling ill?" portrait Helga tugged at portrait Salazar's sleeve, "You're acting so strangely today..."

"Yeah Sally," said portrait Godric, "First you run into our portraits, screaming, "I'm back! I'm back!", and then you drag us off without any explanation! What was that all about?"

"Where are we, Sal?" Asked portrait Rowena.

"My room," said portrait Salazar, "listen -"

"Ohh so this is Salazar's secret chamber that we could never find! I knew he didn't sleep in his office!"

"Really? Then why did he have that lounge chair thing -"

"Now is not the time to discuss my office!" Portrait Salazar yelled over them, "I brought you here because -"

"Merlin's beard! Is that a basilisk?!"

"Yes," Hermione said helpfully.

"And you berated me for wanting a dragon?" Godric sulked.

"You can't be sure the dragon won't burn you to crisps," portrait Salazar pointed out, "Esmeralda is my friend. She's intelligent."

"But if I had more time, I could've trained it to behave!"

Hermione arched her brows with amusement. "What, by tickling it? Perhaps someone might eventually be able to train a dragon, Godric, but certainly not you. It requires much more common sense than you possess."

Portrait Godric, Helga and Rowena finally noticed her. They gaped.

"Salazar Slytherin! Why in Merlin's name is there a girl in your bedroom?!"

Hermione felt like hitting her head against the wall. Esmeralda raised her head with interest, not really understanding.

Portrait Godric continued to cluck his tongue, oblivious to the intensifying strangulation hazard standing beside him, "Really, Sal! What have you been doing? And it's one of my students, too..."

Portrait Salazar exploded. "I'm a freaking PAINTING! What did you think I could be doing?! Use your bloody HEAD! ... And Sal! Stop laughing and help me control this dunderhead!"

Hermione conceded as well as she could while struggling to keep herself from doubling over. Wandlessly, she fired several blasting spells until they quieted down. "My name is Hermione Granger, previously Salazar Slytherin. As much as I appreciate your highly entertaining welcome, Godric, please stop harassing my portrait. I do have a reputation to maintain."

Rowena blinked. "Sal? Is that really you?"

"I did tell you I'm back," portrait Salazar deadpanned.

Hermione chuckled. "I've charted the uncharted territory, Rowena, or some of it at least. While I was investingating what avada kedavra does to souls, I had a crazy thought that maybe a dissipated soul can reform itself, or something of the sort. This would mean that under the right conditions, a person can temporarily die and return to the world some time later..."

Rowena listened carefully. "I suppose it would be plausible, if your theory on the properties and behaviour of souls is correct," she whispered after thinking for some time, "but the idea of it just sounds so strange!"

"What's even more surprising is that I would actually continue to investigate and try something so ridiculous," portrait Salazar remarked.

Hermione shrugged. "The evidence kept stacking up, and eventually I couldn't resist. But tell me, have you any idea what went wrong with my House?"

They frowned.

"You know better than anyone that ambition is a powerful drive, " Helga looked at her sadly, "And without careful guidance, it could easily become wasted or misdirected on the wrong things. And professors - no, mentors as good as you are very difficult to come by... I'm so sorry, Sal."

"I see," Hermione murmured, "It seems I've taken a bite too big when I designed my sorting criteria..."

"We've tried," portrait Rowena shook her head, "but no one listens to paintings. They don't even stop when they pass by us."

"People don't even know who I am anymore," portrait Salazar laughed drily, "Not that I'm inclined to remind them. I suspect the Gryffindors might try to burn me down if they find out."

"Only the headmaster actually talks to us," said portrait Godric, "the current one, Albus Dumbledore, is the best we've seen in a long time. Rowena, he's from your house, right?"

"Oh yes, he's very knowledgeable, and his intelligence is extraordinary."

"He's rather experienced with manipulating people too," portrait Salazar commented, "commendable, really. He organized one of the chief resistance forces to combat Lord Voldemort. I've been paying attention to their meetings. Dumbledore doesn't trust me, though. Sometimes I pretend to be asleep."

"About this Lord Voldemort," Hermione remembered, "From what I gathered, he seemed to be fighting for pureblood supremacy - but more importantly, world domination. He seemed to be quite successful as well, before he'd decided to kill a baby. Any idea why he would do that?"

"I've heard Dumbledore and Snape discuss a prophecy involving the self-made Dark Lord and an infant born at the end of July," said portrait Salazar. "Worthless gibberish, as you know."

Hermione nodded. "Unless the subjects believe it, in which case it becomes self-fulfilling. I see a possible motive now, but I'm still in the dark as to what actually happened to him when he tried to curse Harry Potter."

"Dumbledore asked us for our opinion on this as well," portrait Rowena said. "We think that most likely he had weakened himself in someway that he was forced to go into hiding. It was hard to say, as no one witnessed the scene, and half the house was in ashes by the time people got to it."

Hermione thought for a while. "Does Dumbledore believe the prophesy?"

"He says he is keeping an open mind," said portrait Salazar, "but deep down, I think he does."

"Which means -"

"-Yes. Young Harry has an eventful seven years ahead of him."

"You said Dumbledore and Snape, the current potion master. What's his significance?"

Portrait Salazar's eyes gleamed. "From what I gathered, Albus guilt-tripped Severus into spying on the Death Eaters for him."

Hermione found herself looking forward to Friday's potion lesson. Professor Snape should prove to be a very interesting and nuanced character. After some time, she stood. "I'll try to salvage as much from my House's situation as I can, I suppose. And if Voldemort is still alive, then I've returned at a very interesting time. Talk to you again soon?"

The four founders in the painting nodded.

"I still can't believe our Sally blossomed into a beautiful young lady!" Portrait Godric suddenly guffawed, eyes shining, "To think I've teased you with that nickname for so many years, and then -"

"Beautiful, Godric? I didn't know you thought so highly of me! Are you possibly confessing to something?"

"Hell no!" Portrait Godric choked. It seemed he hadn't been expecting return fire at all. Well, they did say the best defence is a good offence.

Hermione smirked, and stepped out of the Chamber to the cackling of her own portrait self.

Chapter Text

Friday. Double Potion with the Slytherins.

Hermione had arrived early to take a seat at the front of the class. The Slytherin students strolled lazily in after her as if they owned the place. Her fellow Gryffindors, having heard various unpleasant rumours about the Potion professor, hung back with drooping heads and were the last to come in. Draco Malfoy gave her a small shove as he passed. "So, Granger, words' getting around that you're a mudblood. And to think I almost sat beside you on the train," he sneered.

'Already?' Hermione thought. This was promising. It seemed that some Gryffindors and Slytherins still maintained contact, after all. But back to the subject of Malfoy. He appeared displeased that he didn't obtain a reaction from her. "Filthy mudblood," he muttered, taking a seat in the row behind her.

The pattern in which the room filled up was rather interesting. No Slytherin dared sit beside a "mudblood", and no Gryffindor (except her) dared sit near Snape. As a result, Hermione ended up with a whole table to herself.

Professor Snape spelled the door shut, took one look at the class, and sneered. He then proceeded to take the roll call, pausing at Harry's name.

"Ah yes, Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."

Malfoy and bodyguards (Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle) sniggered.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

He sounded bitter, Hermione thought. Perhaps he disliked his job? Unlikely. He understood potions and revered it. Perhaps there was another job that he'd wanted as well, then? Or maybe he just didn't like children? She sat closer to the edge of her seat, partly to get a better look at Snape and partly because Malfoy might start doing something to her hair. She didn't fight with children and she was sure that the boy couldn't really hurt her, but it was better not to tempt him.

"Potter!" said Professor Snape suddenly, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to a infusion of wormwood?"

This was advanced first-year material. She wouldn't blame Harry if he had no idea. Hermione raised her hand, intending to rescue Harry, but Snape ignored her. Interesting. Had he some sort of grudge against Harry? Or perhaps Harry's family?

"I don't know, sir," said Harry.

"Tut, tut- fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione was ignored again.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

She internally winced on Harry's behalf. Even Salazar would not ask students to use this poisonous plant, also apparently called aconium or aconite or something like that, until third year. What was the point of learning it now?

"I don't know," said Harry quietly, "I think Sally does, though. Why don't you try her -"

"For your information, Potter," Snape spoke over him, not even bothering to turn around and see who this Sally was, "asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying this down?"

Like everyone else, Hermione scribbled the points down on her parchment so that she would not attract Professor Snape's wrath. "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter," she heard Snape say over the noise.

Their harsh potion master then divided everyone into pairs, except for Hermione who had no partner due to the seating arrangements. Hermione watched Snape from the corner of her eye as she prepared the ingredients for the simple potion. He seemed to be criticizing everyone except for Malfoy, who he seemed to like. It made sense - somewhat. No doubt Snape saw certain advantages in maintaining good standing with Draco's father, who from what she’d heard did seem the sort to have a word with his son’s teachers.

The back of the room, occupied primarily by Gryffindors, received most of Snape’s attention and therefore his ire. Hermione herself was ignored for the entirety of the lesson.

Her potion was near completion when clouds of acid green smoke erupted from the back of the class, followed by a whimper from Neville. "Idiot boy!" Snape snarled, "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him to the hospital wing. And Potter! Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Hermione looked sympathetically at the angry red boils all over Neville's arms. 'He should sit with me next time. Especially since my table is the last place Professor Snape would look,"

Madame Pomfrey, the Mediwitch, patched Neville up in minutes. Unfortunately, the boy's fear of potion-making and Snape would most likely linger for a while longer.

Upon returning to the common room, Hermione heard a collective groan from her housemates. Apparently a notice had been posted, announcing that the much anticipated Thursday flying lessons would be shared with the Slytherin's as well.

"I don't see why you're all so worried," she told them, "Traditionally, at Hogwarts, Quidditch is a Gryffindor sport." Of the four founders, Godric did spend the most time flying around on a broom.

This seemed to comfort some people. "Which book is our little Ravenclaw quoting now?" Lavender teased.

"Quidditch Throughout the Ages, probably," Hermione shrugged. She had indeed been flipping through such a title. "Here, you can read through it if you like, but I have to return it to the library tomorrow."

Lavender politely declined.

It seemed that the notice did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of either house, however. The children from magical families told many fanciful stories about flying, while the muggleborns listened desperately for anything that might help them stay airborne later on. Malfoy boasted loudly about flying around the countryside and nearly escaping muggles in helicopters. Even Ron told anyone who would listen about the time he'd nearly collided with a hang glider.

Hermione ate in silence, having little interest in a discussion involving the intricacies of Quidditch. It seemed that Ron didn't approve of her "prim and proper attitude", she thought with mild amusement, noting his little eye-roll at the way she cut her sausages into small pieces before eating them one at a time with a fork. 'Well forgive me for having manners,' she repressed a chuckle.

On Thursday morning, all the Gryffindor and Slytherin students lined up in a row.

In front of each person was a broomstick. The coach, Madam Hooch, blew a whistle. "Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say 'Up!'"

"Up!" Everyone shouted. Hermione's broom rose into her hand obediently. It was old and worn, but much more shapely and fine-tuned than the ones they'd used when Hogwarts was new. Looking left and right, she saw that only a handful of students were holding their brooms. Harry was among them.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the row correcting their grips. "You don't need to grip the handle quite so hard," she said when she got to Hermione, "But otherwise your posture is excellent. Have you flown before?"

'It has to be, or else those demented contraptions Godric insisted that we rode would've killed me a dozen times over,' Hermione cringed undetectably at the memory."No, but I'm good at following directions,"

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle - three - two -"

Neville, afraid to be left on the ground kicked off before the whistle even touched her lips. He shot straight up like a cork, despite Madam Hooch's shouts of "Come back, boy!"

Hermione trained her wand, concealed in her robe, on Neville's broom, slowly changing its trajectory until it was no longer ascending. She heard Madam Hooch breath a sigh of relief, evidently thinking that Neville's got the broom under control. 'Now to bring you back down,' Hermione thought, gently tilting the broom forward.

Unfortunately, this movement startled the boy. He gasped, slipped sideways and landed in a heap. Madam Hooch ran to him, face as white as his. "Broken wrist," Hermione heard he mutter. "Come on, boy - it's all right, up you get... None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'. Come on dear."

The moment she was out of earshot, Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

Around eight other Slytherins joined in.

"You, know, there's a saying that the weak delights in the misery of others," Hermione stated as if pointing out something commonplace, "now how does that reflect on you?" Her voice, though calm, had its effect. They paused.

"Shut up, mudblood," said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. She sneered at her, though she lost the mood to laugh.

Then Malfoy darted forward and snatched something out of the grass. "Look! It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

A Remembrall, Hermione thought. She'd seen one in Diagon Alley during the summer.

"Give that here, Malfoy," Harry said. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find - how about... Up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had already taken off. He hovered above an oak tree, waved the Remembrall and called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

'We're really getting a little too cocky here, aren't we?' Hermione thought, discreetly training her wand on Malfoy.

To her horror, Harry leapt onto his own broom as well. "No! You'll get into trouble!" She shouted. She could handle this, and everyone would be safely back on the ground in no time!

But oh no, that reckless Gryffindor had to ignore her in favour of launching himself at Malfoy as a human javelin. "Give it here, or I'll knock you off that broom!"

Hermione sighed. 'Let's get this over with as soon as possible,' she thought, gradually tilting Malfoy's broom forward until the boy began to doubt his control.

"No Crabbe or Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy!" Harry called.

"Catch it if you can, then!" Malfoy decided that perhaps he was safer on the ground after all. He threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the group of gathered students.

Very good, Hermione thought. 'Accio -' she prepared to cast, then noticed that Harry was actually angling himself to chase after the ball! 'Stupid Gryffindor! What's worth more, eh? This glass orb, or your neck?'

Shaking her head slightly, she slowed the Remembrall just a little, so that Harry could catch it and have enough time to make a gentle landing. To be fair, Harry turned out to be an astonishingly good flier. Maybe he even had a chance at catching the Remembrall on his own without dying... but it didn't mean he should try to find out!

"HARRY POTTER!"

Professor McGonagall was running toward them. Hermione saw Harry gulp nervously. 'Serves him right,' she watched as the stern professor drag Harry off, presumably to detention, 'perhaps Professor McGonagall could teach him some common sense.'

Chapter Text

At dinner, Hermione had to keep her mouth from dropping open when she overheard that instead of a detention, Harry got a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Only in Gryffindor would students be rewarded for such reckless behaviour.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle strolled over to the Gryffindor table smugly. They were under the very logical expectation that Harry would be expelled. Naturally, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were not pleased to see them. Naturally, to defend their honour, they had to arrange a duel.

"Excuse me," Hermione walked over to remind them of something they seemed to have forgotten.

"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" Ron grumbled.

'Well that's nice of you!' Hermione ignored him. "I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying -"

"Bet you could,"

"- and you're really pushing your luck here. See, Crabbe is bigger than the two of you put together - "

"And it's really none of your business. Good bye,"

'Fine! Get your nose broken. See if I care,' Hermione thought with exasperation. She'd babysitted the Gryffindors for long enough, and in all likelihood Malfoy wouldn't even show up. In all likelihood, Malfoy would go straight to Filch then laugh at their plight from the safety of the Slytherin common room.

Besides, she really did have her own business to do tonight.

She'd wondered about the forbidden third floor corridor since the Welcoming Feast. It was apparently dangerous, yet Dumbledore's warning implied that students could gain entry after all. She'd like to go and find out what was there. She strongly doubted she would be the first student to try, and besides, she didn't intend to get caught.

Disillusioning herself as usual, she waited till midnight and silently slipped out of the portrait hole after the sneaking forms of Harry and Ron. They didn't get far, however, before they heard a sort of snuffling. The boys in front of her stopped. "Mrs. Norris?" breathed Ron, voice trembling.

It turned out to be Neville, who was sleeping on the floor for some reason. He jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer. "Thanks goodness you found me!" He exclaimed loudly, "I've been out here for hours, I couldn't remember the new password to get in to bed."

"Keep your voice down, Neville," Harry quickly shushed him, "The password's 'Pig snout' but it won't help you now. The Fat Lady's gone off somewhere. How's your arm?"

"Fine," said Neville.

"Good - well, look, Neville, we've got to be somewhere. We'll see you later -"

"Don't leave me!" said Neville, scrambling to his feet, "I don't want to stay here alone. The Bloody Baron's been past twice already."

Hermione wanted to tell Neville that he would be safer here, actually, but then she would have to explain why she was invisible. 'Have fun, boys,' she thought, leaving them to make for the Charms corridor. The forbidden door was easy enough to find, and easy enough to open. Any first year could've done it by the end of the year.

Beyond it, though, the three-headed dog was a different matter. It couldn't see her, but it was starting to sniff around. Quickly casting an enhanced bubblehead charm to cut off her scent, she had to wonder what Professor Dumbledore was hoping to accomplish. Was he deliberately enticing first years to come and meet the dog? Some sort of trial for Harry? She'd seen Godric subject students to worse, but only under supervision.

She silently moved around the dog, being careful not to disturb the room in anyway. Apart from the dog, she found nothing extraordinary. 'This room is the one with the hidden trapdoor, if I remember correctly?'

She peered under the dog's paws. There was indeed a trapdoor, but it was no longer hidden. It seemed that Dumbledore had intended for whoever enters the room to find it. Was this a deathtrap to lure intruders, or would it lead to another trial? And what was supposed to entice someone to open it at the risk of decapitation by dog bite?

Suddenly, the door was flung open, and three panting Gryffindors burst inside. 'Blast!' Hermione cursed. She'd left the doors unlocked to provide herself a quick escape should it become necessary, but who would've thought those three would come in here? They were supposed to be in the trophy room!

"I think Filch's gone," Ron said with relief (?!), leaning against the door to rest. He did not notice the salivating dog, who had definitely noticed them and who was definitely becoming angry. Neville eventually noticed this, but he was scared so stiff that he could do little more than tug weakly on Harry's sleeve. The dog crept closer. There was no choice. Hermione circled behind them and revealed herself. "Get away from that dog, you lot!" she hissed.

"How did you -" Ron jumped. Hermione grabbed him and wheeled him around to face the bared yellow teeth of the dog, holding a hand over his mouth to muffle the anticipated scream. The four of them fell backward through the door, slammed it shut, and fled back to the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

"Where on earth have you all been?" She asked, looking them over.

"Never mind that - pig snout, pig snout," panted Harry. They scrambled into the common room and promptly collapsed into the armchairs. "Sally, where did you come from?"

"I was following you. Someone has to make sure you don't lose any house points,"

"But how come we didn't see you?"

"That's your problem. Honestly, if Filch had been sneaking up behind you, you would've been caught for sure!"

"Well you weren't much help either!" Ron yelled back.

Certain that they'd bought her story, Hermione stood, glaring. "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could've all been killed - or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed." This seemed to have sealed the effect nicely, as Ron could be heard mumbling, "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"

She expected they would be avoiding her like the three-headed dog starting tomorrow, but whatever. She had much more important things to think about, such as...

... What exactly was Dumbledore keeping under the trapdoor?

The next morning, a disgruntled Hermione looked on as Harry was awarded a broom for yesterday's recklessness.

'Honestly, what kind of message is this supposed to send? At least have the broom loaned to Harry rather than gifted to him in the middle of breakfast! Priorities, McGonagall, priorities...' It seemed that though she had more sense than most, Professor McGonagall was still a Gryffindor at heart.

Over the next two months, Hermione made it a habit to visit her secret chamber once a week, though not on any specific days. There, she was safe to talk to Esmeralda, review her research notes and practice spells that would make the professors cringe. The portraits of her friends sometimes came to join her. They listened curiously to her description of the muggle world - Portrait Salazar had some idea of its development, but he still couldn't believe his ears - and told her about the things they'd seen happen at Hogwarts over the millennium.

She'd found a small snake scratched into the side of a tap one day, which she'd promptly removed. Her "heir's" work, no doubt. She'd also discovered that the ghost of the student that Esmeralda had accidentally killed still resided in the bathroom. Myrtle seemed to take a liking to Hermione (the ghost felt especially flattered to be asked about her death), and swore not to reveal the entrance of the chamber to anyone though it still saddened Hermione to look at her.

Finally, Hermione did indeed find a "Tom Marvolo Riddle" by asking to see a record of student names in the Room of Requirements. Head boy and Prefect, huh? And an award for blowing the whistle on one Rubeus Hagrid for accidentally causing the death of a student fifty years ago? What a likely coincidence. The next step was to find out what became of him.

And Hagrid would be receiving a notice that his criminal record had been cleared in a quiet ruling, either this year or the next at the very least.

She'd continued to sit in the first row in Potions. The Slytherins continued to avoid the seat beside her as if it was contaminated, though they fought for the tables in her vicinity, realizing that they could triple their success rates by copying her. Malfoy continued to attempt to sabotage either her hair or her cauldron, though never succeeding. And Professor Snape continued to ignore her presence.

On Halloween, Professor Flitwick deemed the class ready for the levitation charm. Hermione ended up partnered with Ron, who seemed to be incredibly annoyed with this arrangement even when she sat back and let him have the feather all to himself. The class wasn't making too much progress, she'd noticed. All the feathers lay stubbornly on the table, and Harry and Seamus's feather was on fire.

"Wingardium Levios-a!" Ron shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

"It'll be easier if you change your pronunciation," Hermione told him, "Try Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. Make the 'gar' nice and long."

He snarled at her. "You do it then, if you're so clever!"

Sometimes she forgets she was no longer a professor, Hermione thought as she demonstrated the correct way of levitating a feather. It had become something of a force of habit to correct students but she'd have to work to change that. Ron for one clearly didn't appreciate her instructing, and was now in a very bad mood. Predictably, the remainder of the lesson wasn't much more pleasant. Ron continued to glare and sigh exaggeratedly and wave his baboon-like arms, somehow managing to hit Hermione in the eye. Of course, Hermione knew better than to expect an apology.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," she heard Ron say to Harry as they pushed their way into the corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly."

Hermione found it difficult to think how anyone could stand him, but that wasn't her concern. Still rubbing her eye and wondering how she failed to see that one coming, she pushed past them, eager to head to her Chamber for some peace and quiet among her research papers.

"I think she heard you," she heard Harry mutter from behind her.

Ron's reply was, "So? She must've realized she has no friends." The insolent child.

However, by around seven o'clock, Hermione realized that she couldn't put off rejoining her fellow children any longer. Such a pity - she'd gotten more done in the last two hours than perhaps her entire morning.

A putrid odour assaulted her nostrils as she emerged from the secret tunnel. It was coming from outside.

"Myrtle, has anything happened while I was gone?" Hermione frowned.

The ghost shook her head. "No one came in. They all hate me too much."

"Please don't say such depressing things about yourself, Myrtle. You're a wonderful girl," Hermione told her. All the while, she was listening carefully. Was that... footsteps?

"Thanks, Sally," Myrtle sniffed, "you're the only friend I have -"

The door crashed in before she could finish. Myrtle gasped. A mountain troll lumbered in, crunching pieces of the door under its feet. It was evidently confused.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Imperio," she cast, and the troll's eyes promptly clouded over.

'Walk out of here. Walk down the stairs until there is no where else to go. Turn left and walk out of the castle. Go back home.'

The troll slowly turned around and waddled toward the hallway. Trolls were simple creatures, she knew. They were very suggestible, though difficult to control as they were easily distracted. Nevertheless, if she did this right, they would be rid of the troll without any injuries, property damage or messes to clean up. With luck, no one would even know it's been here. 'Avoid people on your way out. Don't make trouble. That's it. There's a good boy -'

"Sally! There's a troll in the school!" Harry and Ron suddenly charged in, causing the troll to turn around and blink curiously at them.

They actually came up here to rescue her? "Stay away! He'll leave on his own!" Hermione called while trying not to startle the troll, but the two heroes didn't listen.

"Don't worry, Sally! We'll distract him!" Harry shouted as Ron chucked a piece of wood at its head.

"No!" Hermione yelled, but it was too late. The troll shook its lumpy head in anger, voiding all her carefully cajoling along with any future chances of keeping it under control. It stormed toward the boys, who backed up nervously. 'Damned Gryffindors and their bravery!' Hermione cursed, exasperated. She would need to knock it out, then.

"Run! Get out of here!" She deliberately yelled loudly to shift the troll's attention away from them. 'Now what's a nice simple first year spell that can do the job?'

"We're not leaving without you, Sally!" Instead of running for the door, Harry ran at the troll and launched himself onto its neck. 'For the love of Merlin!' She thought as he stuck his wand (Wand! Not even a sword or a dagger!) up its nose. Below, Ron was darting left and right to avoid the troll's stamping feet while screaming his head off, but still refused to leave. Godric would be so proud.

She trained her wand on the troll's heavy club. "Wingardium leviosa," she intoned clearly. Three pairs of eyes stared in fascination at the hovering club. Harry had enough sense at least to get off the troll to allow the club to drop over its head. The troll spun drunkenly then crashed to the floor, taking down several U-bends with it. Myrtle screamed, diving into her own U-bend in terror.

"What on Earth are you thinking?! You could've been killed!" Professor McGonagall rushed in, followed by Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. Beside Hermione, the boys looked at each other, white-faced, no doubt wondering how to salvage their chances of keeping some house points.

Hermione shook her head. What was she going to do with them? "Please, professor," she sobbed reasonably realistically, "They came to look for me. I went looking for the troll because I thought - I thought I could deal with it on my own -"

'And bloody well would've if they hadn't been so BRAVE-'

"- because I've read so much about them. If not for them, I would've died! Harry pushed his wand up its nostril-"

'- like that's going to do any good -'

"- and Ron used the levitation charm to knock it out! They didn't have time to call anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived..."

The boys looked shocked at her lie, but tried to look as if the story wasn't new to them.

Professor McGonagall scolded her thoroughly and took off five points as punishment. However, Hermione was certain that their head of house would award twice that amount to Ron and Harry, the moment she leaves. Hanging her head, Hermione gently pushed past the stunned boys.

"Please have a little more regard for your own lives," she whispered in their ears, "but thank you for caring."

Ah, Gryffindors. But sometimes, you just had to put up with them.

Chapter Text

Ever since the troll incident, Harry and Ron had been much more friendly to Hermione, having finally accepted the "stuck-up know-it-all" as one of them. Hermione had taken the opportunity to pressure Ron into learning the levitation charm since, as she told him, "What would Professor Flitwick say if you can't levitate a feather when you've supposedly levitated a club?"

Hermione learned a number of things from talking to them, including the existence of a small inconspicuously wrapped package that someone attempted to steal from Gringotts, but didn't succeed as it had been removed by Hagrid and Harry that same day. This was the bait for Dumbledore's trap, she supposed. For whom, she wasn't sure. From the Gringotts break-in, it seemed that the object was sought after by a relatively skilled wizard. But not too strong, she'd expect, if Harry was supposed to compete with him. This was only the practice run. Surely Professor Dumbledore wouldn't expose the prophesy child to something or someone he had little chance of surviving against.

It seemed that Harry and Ron had taken the bait as well. They told her that they'd noticed the trapdoor, and had arrived at the conclusion that the dog was guarding something. They did not seem inclined to go back and find out what it was, at least not yet.

But that quickly changed when one day when Snape had made the mistake of changing his bandage in the staff room, thus permitting Harry to see the reason for his limp since Halloween.

Harry, understandably, ran back telling them that Snape was evil and trying to steal whatever the three-headed dog was guarding.

Hermione had persuaded them to at least not appear to be suspicious, lest they get themselves into trouble. Besides, she reminded them, what protection could they offer the mysterious object that the dog could not?

Meanwhile, her own suspicion for Quirrell grew. Like Snape, Quirrell had been left alone when all the teachers went down to the dungeon to look for the troll. Supposing the troll really did make it from the dungeon to the second floor in the short time it took for Quirrell to faint and for the rest of the staff to run downstairs, what were the chances that they'd so completely missed each other that no one heard or smelled anything?

Moreover, her portrait self said he'd seen no troll at any point that day, nor did he see Quirrell.

It now seemed likely that Quirrell let the troll into the castle as a distraction. To buy himself time to investigate the third floor corridor? Or something else?

This raised another point. Why bother with a troll at all? Whatever Quirrell needed to do on Halloween was no more risky to do at night. Was he somehow incapacitated then?

Hermione was one to take her own advice. As far as Quirrell was concerned, she was just an obedient student who listened politely in class, handed in detailed essays and never made any trouble. She would be the last person he needed to watch out for. Though, Hermione wondered if Dumbledore knew, and if this was why he hired Quirrell in the first place. Was Quirrell meant to be Harry's "test"? Or perhaps he'd thought Quirrell needed watching? Quirrell took a year-long sabbatical and came back drastically different. Perhaps Dumbledore was interested in something he'd done or encountered during his travels?

Portrait Salazar hadn't thought much of Quirrell until now, meaning that if there had been anything worth noting in Quirrell's past, Dumbledore didn't let him hear it. Portrait Godric, Rowena and Helga didn't know much about the once bright, if a little bookish, student either. They were still very much in the dark.

On the subject of Dumbledore, Hermione observed him peering at Harry from the high table on more than one occasion. His gaze was, as her portrait self described, sharp and penetrating. She couldn't say whether he was employing legilimency (and she'd set up a partial occulumency shield just in case), though the headmaster could probably do a fine job without it as well. He must've heard all the reports about Harry's adventures. What did he think of the boy's progress?

But on the surface at least, Hermione thought, life at Hogwarts was as usual. The bulk of the Gryffindor population was excitedly discussing their upcoming Quidditch game with the Slytherins, as well as their new Seeker. Lavender and Parvarti told her dreamily about a Hufflepuff third-year, Cedric Diggory, who they found rather handsome. Ron was teaching Harry to play chess and ignoring his Potion essay, now that he knew Hermione would be there to help him finish it anyways. This she greatly disapproved of, though there was only so much she could do. They didn't all have to become potion experts, after all.

By now, it was generally accepted that Hermione always knew something about everything, because she would've read about it somewhere. The very useful impression was fuelled by her frequent visits to the library and the stack of advanced titles she carried in her arms. "Sally's a Gryffindor, but she really belongs in Ravenclaw," she'd heard them say when they introduce her sometimes.

Hermione just smiled, accepting the compliment.

Blaise Zabini was not doing well on his Potion essay, not well at all.

His mother had been owling him to tell him that she expected him to get high scores in Potion, as it was her best subject at Beauxbaton. She had no idea, he thought gloomily, what kind of mental grilling Professor Snape was subjecting them to.

She'd scoffed when he told her this. "Nonsense! They all say Professor Snape favours you Slytherins! You're just not trying hard enough."

Well yeah, but it didn't mean they all automatically got high marks! That kind of treatment was bestowed upon Malfoy and Malfoy only. The rest of them may be exempt from detentions, but only just. In everything else, Slytherins had to struggle as much as the rest of the school.

In class, he had a lifeline, and he'd congratulated himself on being among the first to spot it. He'd noticed that the potion of the mudblood girl in the first row, Granger, was always turning out perfectly. It changed colour and bubbled exactly as the book said it would. It didn't take a genius to see that her brewing was far better than the rest of the class, including Malfoy's. Heck, even Snape couldn't find a fault in it!

So he'd carefully watched her cut up her ingredients and imitated, dropping things into his cauldron exactly when she did it. This paid off, as the mark on his potion samples rose from an "Unsatisfactory" to "Exceed Expectations".

On the homework assignments, though, he was on his own. His housemates were not very keen on helping each other, nor very keen on doing honest work. They sometime forget, Blaise thought as he skimmed through rows of books in the library for anything that would help him fill five pages of parchment, that ultimately they needed to actually learn the material to amount to anything. They couldn't cling to the coattails of their ancestors forever! Well, perhaps Malfoy could. The rest of them were wealthy, but they weren't exactly rolling in gold.

There was someone further down the row. Granger. Perhaps she would be willing to help him? He hadn't called her a mudblood yet, had he? And he hadn't laughed too loudly when Malfoy stole Longbottom's Rememberall, had he? There was no reason why she should be mad at him.

'What am I thinking? Granger's a mudblood and a Gryffindor!' He couldn't just ask her to help him with Potions! He would be betraying his house! But on the other hand, he really was desperate...

No, Blaise told himself, this was resourcefulness. Wasn't it Slytherin to make use of anything they could get their hands on? Wouldn't it be Slytherin to take advantage of Granger's intelligence?

He nervously glanced left and right. There was not a soul in sight. So far, so good.

Gulping, he discreetly shuffled closer toward her. She didn't notice him yet, or she would've ran away. He was in control of the situation. So far, so good.

"Erm, Granger?" Blaise blurted out. No, that didn't sound right. He had to seem nice. What was her first name again? "Her... Hermy-inini?"

Oh no, that wasn't how Snape pronounced it. He'd gotten it wrong, didn't he?

Granger turned. "Call me Sally," she smiled (?) "All my friends do. It's much easier."

Sally? That would be much safer than Granger, should they be overheard. He would start calling her Sally. Or better yet, "Can I call you Sal?"

A certain un-Gryffindorish gleam flashed in her eyes, but he must've imagined it. "Certainly. How may I help you, Blaise?"

"Actually, I was hoping you could explain to me how the Draught of Living Death works..." Blaise tried not to look too eager. He couldn't believe how well this was going!

"Of course," She smiled brightly, "The Draught of Living Death is a potent sleep potion that works by inhibiting a particular part of your mind..."

He was saved! Blaise though as he sat down next to Sal and picked up his quill to write. Perhaps having a muggleborn friend wouldn't be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

The next morning was the big game between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Hermione had been dragged by Ron out to the Quidditch field early after breakfast. "This game can move Gryffindor into second place!" He emphasized, "You need to come and show support for your house!"

Taking a seat on the cold benches, Hermione discreetly cast a warming charm over herself. She didn't give a fig about Quidditch. If it hadn't been Harry's first game, and if Harry hadn't been (supposedly) the youngest Seeker in ages, she would've refused.

it appeared, though, that many of the professors shared Ron's sentiment. Professor McGonagall was standing watchfully beside the commentator, which was wise since Lee Jordan happened to be good friends with the "one or two" troublemakers mentioned by Percy. Hagrid had excited taken a seat beside Ron, grinning like a child. Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell were there as well, though they didn't look like the sort to enjoy such a pointless game. Indeed, Snape seemed about as riveted as Hermione felt. Or perhaps that was his default expression?

The two teams, Gryffindors in scarlet and Slytherins in emerald, met on the center of the field. On Madam Hooch's whistle, the snitch was released and the game begun. Hermione leaned back, applauded politely whenever Gryffindor scored, and tried to react appropriately when Ron yelled in shocked outrage at the Slytherin captain's antics. She didn't see how people could be expected to play by the rules when clearly the penalty for a foul is preferable to allowing the opponent to catch the snitch. But then again, the whole premis of the game must not be contemplated too closely with reason.

Lee's commentary was much more entertaining. "So - after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating -"

"Jordan!" Growled Professor McGonagall, ever so impartial.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul -"

"Jordan, I'm warning you -"

"All right, all right. Flint nearly killed the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure..."

'Actually, I won't doubt it if that's exactly what those Bludgers are designed for... Wait. What's happening?' Above them, Harry's broom was jerking and climbing in a strange, and worrying, manner. Hermione narrowed her eyes. Collisions and Bludgers were one thing, but losing control was a whole new level of risk. Had someone hijacked Harry's broom?

"Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus whispered.

"Can't have," Hagrid said, voice shaking, "Can't nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful dark magic - No kid could do that to a Nimbus 2000!"

True, for the most part. The magic she'd used to control Neville and Malfoy's brooms during their first flying lesson was far too complicated for students, and would be quite challenging for most wizards presumably. It took more than a memorized incantation - the jinxer would need to think on the fly and adjust second by second. Hermione borrowed Hagrid's binoculars and zoomed in on Quirrell. As she suspected, he had his eyes fixed on Harry and was wearing an expression of intense concentration. His lips never stopped moving for a second.

A row behind him, Snape was doing the same thing. It was unlikely that he and Quirrell were working together. If they knew how to jinx a broom, they would know that it was a one person job. Too many casters would only weaken the effect. Most likely, Snape was casting a counterjinx.

With her other hand, Hermione slid her wand out of her pocket and trained it on a Bludger, causing it to zoom a little bit too close to the audience stand for comfort. A good many front row students fell backwards out of their seats, jostling the row behind them. In the commotion, Quirrell was forced to break eye contact.

'Well that took care of that,' Hermione thought as Harry righted himself on his broom again and quickly pulled into a smooth landing. Bludgers were unreliable by nature. Neither Quirrell nor Snape should suspect a third party involvement, especially when it didn't seem to be targeting anyone specifically. And Bludgers were far easier to jinx than brooms. She wondered why Quirrell didn't think of this in the first place.

Her thoughts were disrupted by a loud cheer that erupted among the Gryffindors, followed by an angry hiss among the Slytherins. "We won!" Ron shook her shoulders excitedly, "Harry caught the snitch!"

"Swallowed!" Down at the field, the Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint, was arguing with Madam Hooch, "He didn't catch it, he swallowed it!" But he was fighting a losing battle, because there were no rules that demands Seekers to catch the snitch with their hands. But then again, it never really said the Seeker cannot loop it with a butterfly net either...

Perhaps it was a blessing for the world that Salazar, or Hermione, hadn't been a fan of Quidditch.

The Gryffindors chanted victoriously as they accompanied their team back to the castle. Harry and Ron tried to discuss what happened to Harry's broom, with little success. Then Fred and George had managed to obtain some cake from the Hogwarts kitchen, and that was sufficient to distract Ron for the time being. Snickering lightly at this, Hermione withdrew to a relatively quiet corner to continue her reflection.

Until today, she had been sure that Quirrell was a part of Professor Dumbledore's "training" for Harry. Quirrell was supposed to race against Harry to whatever lay at the end of the third-floor corridor. He may be highly skilled, he may be a criminal, but he would be a planned adversary.

But then he tried to kill a harmless eleven-year-old. Why? It had no bearing whatsoever on what should be his objective. From his perspective, a first-year student was as big a threat as a fly. Why bother with Harry at all?

More importantly, why would Dumbledore intentionally pit Harry against someone with such a moral compass? Did he realize that Harry may very well die for real this year? Why would he risk it?

Had she been wrong about both of them?

Harry was the Chosen One.

If she considered the prophesy, then it all made sense. If Quirrell was working for Voldemort, then he would not only interested in the mysterious object but also Harry himself. He might decide that Harry must be killed in order to prepare for his master's return. And Dumbledore might feel that he had no choice, that Harry wouldn't stand a chance in the future if he hadn't been exposed to these comparably smaller - though still life-threatening - risks first.

Could she get rid of Quirrell first? Certainly. But it would be unwise.

Quirrell was a complication that she had not expected. She didn't think Voldemort would need to factor into her consideration so soon. But still, if Voldemort - or Dumbledore, for that matter - found out about her he would very likely wish to remove her from the equation, and she would really rather not end up duelling him with her undeveloped, child-like magic. She would stick to her original plan of staying out of trouble... as much as her conscience allowed. She could not just stand by and let Harry and Ron get themselves killed either.

But just because she didn't want to fight Quirrell herself didn't mean she couldn't amuse herself by making his tenure as professor quite frustrating. This may have been the reason why Quirrell's chair so unluckily tipped over when he tried to get up at dinner, or why Quirrell had the misfortune of slipping and skidding down the front steps the next morning. Oddly enough, Hermione thought he'd almost looked thankful when he landed on his bottom that time. She wondered why that was.

Quirrell was tugging nervously on his turban again as witnesses burst into laughter at his predicament. The back of his head really seemed to be a sensitive spot, didn't it? Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly. She'd wondered if he was hiding something beneath the turban before, but now it was actually starting to seem probable. Most likely a hard object, either very precious to him or designed to give him some sort of power, or a physical defect?

'It would be useful to find out, but only if there was a risk-free way of doing so. Play along and stay out of trouble - that was the plan, right? '

But still, she allowed her fingers to twitch once, just slightly. Quirrell tripped over his robe and fell again, flat on his face this time.

Allowing herself a small smirk amidst the roaring laughter of her fellow students, she slipped away from the scene to the library.

After checking that the coast was clear, Blaise quietly hurried to the inconspicuous corner of the library where he knew Sal was waiting. They studied together regularly now. Funny enough, Blaise found working with her more relaxing than hanging around Malfoy, even if it meant checking over his shoulder every so often.

As always, she was hard at work. Her table was burdened with several large stacks of books. "Injuries from dark curses?" he glanced at the cover of the topmost volume, "Quirrell didn't assign these as homework, did he?"

"Not exactly, but it does have some relation to the Curse of the Bogeys he was talking about the other day."

Blaise shook his head. He didn't know how someone could be so keen. But then again, he supposed there was a reason Sal was getting better grades than everyone else.

Curious, he peered over her shoulder at the book she was currently glued to, raising an eyebrow at the heading. "The Dangers of Practicing the Dark Arts: Physical Side Effects?"

"Personal interest," Sal shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be reading a book about the Dark Arts for no apparent reason.

Blaise couldn't help it when his eyebrow shot up even higher. What could she possibly use this for? Sure, it said "Dangers", which was probably the only reason it wasn't gathering dust in the restricted section. But wouldn't it be irrelevant if you weren't planning to the dark arts in the first place?

Blaise glanced at his friend again. No, Sal wouldn't approve of the dark arts. Many of the old Slytherin families wore it like a badge of honour, but the rest of the school treated dark arts and its practitioners like a plague. Especially the Gryffindors.

The first lesson Blaise had learned in Slytherin was, "Don't get yourself into a tricky situation if you can help it." So he wisely dropped the topic of dark arts and started talking about Professor Binn's dreadful history essay instead.

Still, he had to wonder. Sal had surprised him several times already, hadn't she? He'd thought muggleborns weren't supposed to be good at magic or have any respect for wizarding traditions, but she'd proven him wrong. He'd thought Gryffindors were supposed to avoid Slytherins like sworn enemies, but she'd proven him wrong again. All those rules the upper years had taught him, all those social norms he thought they had to follow, how was he to know which ones were right?

Lesson number two he'd learned in Slytherin, Blaise remembered. There's no such thing as cold hard rules, only expectations and guidelines.

Chapter Text

The staff room, with its warm mahogany finish and its royal blue upholstery, was one of Minerva McGonagall's favourite retreats.

Most of the other professors seemed to agree, she noticed. Apart from Albus, who was probably busy in his office, all of her colleagues were currently reclined in the plush armchairs around the room, as relaxed as they would ever be. Sinistra was talking cheerily to Pomona about a radio show. Severus was lurking in his usual corner with a thick potion book. Sybil was mumuring to herself, crystal ball in hand. Even Rubeus Hagrid came in today with a teapot and a basket of food.

"So, anything new?" Minerva asked the room while politely declining one of Rubeus's rock cakes, "The students haven't been giving you any trouble, I hope."

"N...Not at all," Quinius squeaked, "no trouble..." There were nods of agreement.

"Of course, I'm still stuck with more or less the same bunch of idiots," Severus complained sourly. Minerva was used to his trademark pessimism. More or less? At least it was an improvement from what he'd said last year.

"Something interesting happened in my class," said Professor Binns.

Minerva McGonagall nearly choked on her tea at this. "Did you say something, Cuthbert?" Perhaps she'd heard wrong. She didn't mean to be disrespectful, but it had been common knowledge, even when she was a student, that the phrases "Professor Binns' class" and "interesting" were never to be used in the same sentence. Even now, she still felt like calling him Professor Binns. In all these years, he hadn't changed a bit.

To her surprise, Professor Binns - Cuthbert - nodded. "I've been having the first year students read their essays in class - because I cannot turn over parchments, as you know. They were assigned to write about medieval witch burnings and common evasion practices - "

That was one of the more interesting lessons, yes, Minerva thought.

"- and then a student made a very interesting analogy. She said that muggles persecuted magic because it was powerful and poorly understood, and that was why they feared it. And then," he paused (a rare practice, Minerva thought,) "she said this was rather like how we persecute the dark arts today."

And Cuthbert paused again, because he'd rarely been subjected to the undivided attention of so many people.

Minerva pursed her lips. She wondered if the student knew what she was implying. Then she wondered if the rest of the class caught it at all. "There was an uproar after that, I'd expect?"

"Fortunately not, or I shan't know what to do... But they did look more alert by the end of the class, I think, which was a good thing."

"Was this a Slytherin student?" Pomona asked. Severus smirked from his corner

"No, a Gryffindor. Her name... no, I can't remember, sorry. I've had too many students to remember all of them."

Strange, Minerva thought. Though when she thought about it, she could see that the student had a point. "Well I suppose she could draw some parallels... We hunt down dark wizards like our lives depend on it, but we really don't know anything about it."

"And then most of the times we toss them into Azkaban, whereas the muggles simply toss people into the fire," Sinistra added thoughtfully, "but at least we give them a trial, most of the time."

True. The comparison grew more apt the longer she looked at it. What was it about the dark arts that made them so bad?

She had no idea. She'd never cared to learn about them. In Defence Against the Dark Arts they might have a chance to see incantations and their effects, but she'd never read about their theories and principles. Did the school have any books like that?

"But dark wizards are evil!" Rubeus exclaimed, "Ye can't compare them to the innocent witches an' wizards who got murdered by the muggles!"

"That's what the muggles said too," Charity, who taught muggle studies, mumbled. It was what Minerva would've confidently said yesterday as well, but now she couldn't help but wonder. What did the dark arts even constitute, exactly? Did they even agree on a definition?

"But... just look at You-know-who! And them Slytherins -"

"Excuse me?" Severus interrupted icily. Hagrid's cheeks reddened, and he quickly apologized to the Slytherin Head of House. Minerva now wondered whether safety was the reason why the Slytherins always banded together. It was common knowledge that many of their families dabbled with dark magic, but they had arranged themselves in a strong enough position so that one could only suspect, but dared not lay accusations unless they openly admitted it.

Throughout the conversation, Quinius fidgeted in his seat. It was rather silly, Minerva realized, that a roomful of professors would be debating over one small comment in a first year student's essay. The girl probably meant nothing by it in the first place.

Pomona checked the clock. "Oh dear, I really ought to be going to my next class,"

And they each left for their respective classrooms. Minerva brisk-walked toward the transfiguration corridor, fully intent on arriving before any of the students accidentally set fire to the furniture like the first year boy (his name was Seamus Finnigan, she believed) had done yesterday. As she re-immersed herself in the hassle of the day, she allowed the matter of the history essay to settle to the back of her head.

Food for thought.

"It sure is getting cold," Neville wrapped his new red-and-gold scarf tighter around his neck, shivering. "Look, all the flowers wilted. I think that's the last one, too."

Hermione glanced at the single yellowing rose adorning the drying branches. "The Apothecary's Rose," she told him. Hogwarts' roses were of the same variety as the ones that once blossomed in the garden of the Slytherin castle, which was most likely in ruins by now. "An exceptionally hardy flower, but even it can only last so long."

Neville nodded. Hermione could see that he was making a mental note of the information. If there was anything the boy was exceptionally interested in, it was herbology. His essay on medicinal plants had been detailed enough to rival her own.

Even the fact that they were braving the biting wind and making the trek across the muddy field to greenhouse five spoke volumes to Neville's keenness. Ron had decided to skip Herbology today, opting instead for the warmth of the common room. Harry had been debating before Hermione pulled him along. From his expression, he looked as if he regretted not being more decisive.

"I bet we're going to be the only ones to show up today," he grumbled, "Professor Sprouts won't be able to teach a class with only three students."

"That's not true," Hermione told him, "Look, other people went to class as usual." A small group of first year students were heading toward them on their way back to the castle. Neville visibly blanched when he saw their green-and-silver scarves. He'd suffered a number of times at the hands of Malfoy and his cronies, who loved to ridicule him whenever they chanced to meet.

But his fears had been undeserved this time, as Malfoy was not in this group. One of the Slytherin girls, Daphne Greengrass, gave her a very slight smile as they passed. Hermione recognized her from Potions, where she'd sat next to Blaise.

Neville breathed a sigh of relief when they were out of earshot.

"See? Not everyone in Slytherin is a Draco Malfoy," Hermione whispered. They were making progress, she noted.

She'd deliberately made herself and her capabilities highly visible in Potions, knowing that anyone who would truly do well in Slytherin would see past something as petty as blood status if the benefits were great enough. Blaise Zabini was the first, and she could see that a number of the more neutral students were swaying if only due to reciprocity. Once they get used to her, she would be able to reconsolidate some of House Slytherin's teachings that had been distorted beyond recognition over time.

And meanwhile, that "dreaded" witch-burning essay for history that Blaise had been complaining about had turned into another opportunity for her. She wondered she'd made too much waves too early by demonstrating some of her views on the dark arts to the teachers. But this would be another case where she was willing to risk it. What could she say? As someone who'd still like to consider herself a dark lord it was rather difficult to convince her sense of responsibility to sit by and not do anything.

The water-bogged earth squished as they stepped through it. "Sally?" Harry asked with some hesitation.

"Yes?"

"What you said yesterday in History, about how we treat the dark arts like muggles treat magic, what exactly did you mean?"

On her left, Neville stiffened. They'd both picked up on her point and spent time considering it, Hermione noted. "I meant exactly what you think, Harry. I've been reading some historical accounts, and I noticed that we use the same words to describe dark arts as muggles had used to describe magic. We call them evil, yet we know nothing about them at all. How do we know our hatred for them is justified?"

"But the dark spells Professor Quirrell talked about were really dangerous," Harry pointed out.

"Dangerous, yes, but so are all powerful things. Any tool can be used to do good or evil, and from what I've read magic and the dark arts just seemed to be heavier machinery."

Harry looked thoughtful. She knew he was trying to reconcile this with the impression he must've gotten from Hagrid and the others, as well as the name of the course, "Defence Against the Dark Arts".

"But they can't really be the same," Neville blurted, "Magic and the dark arts?"

"Why do you say that, Neville?"

Neville shivered. "You-know-who tortured my parents with dark arts."

Ah. It would be much more difficult to change opinions on the Gryffindor front, as it would involve reasoning with very emotionally charged people. "I'm so sorry, Neville..."

She could see that Neville didn't want to discuss the topic, but that wasn't an option. The issue must be resolved some time eventually. "You-know-who committed his crimes with magic, Neville," she told him gently, "which he used shamefully. But just as not every Slytherin is like Malfoy, not every dark art user is like you-know-who. Will you be strong and brave, like a true Gryffindor, and see the true culprit?"

An uncomfortable silence settled over them for the rest of their walk. Both boys were so deep in thought that they hadn't thought to question why she was so sure. No one said a word until they stepped through the door of Greenhouse five, appreciating the sheltered space. "I will, Sally," Neville said, quietly but determinedly.

"Thank you, Neville. I knew you would," said Hermione, glad that she had perhaps convinced one person at least. Possibly two.

But she really must put a check on the number of waves she'd make this year. Else, she had a feeling she'd probably get dragged into trouble for some reason or another rather quickly, and the whole "laying low" plan would go to hell in a hand-basket.

Funny enough, that simple plan was turning out to be somewhat more difficult than expected.

Chapter Text

Hermione found the Friday Potion classes to be quite relaxing. She felt like she could sit here all day, surrounded by the calming fumes rising from her cauldron of maturing healing draught and undisturbed by professors or students. It was an added bonus that she'd brewed this potion so many times that she could afford to let her mind wander a little.

The rest of the class was having varying success, as usual. Blaise and Daphne's potion seemed to be reasonably successful - safe to drink at least. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Malfoy and Crabbe's, which seemed to be smoking. In the back of the room, Professor Snape could be heard harassing Ron and Harry about how their potion was "only good for washing cauldrons". The two poor Gryffindor boys found this incredibly unfair, and complained angrily the moment they left Snape's territory.

"At least it was liquid!" Ron grumbled between breaths as they climbed the winding stairs.

"And that's saying something," Harry added, "Half the class ended up with pots of goo. Goyle couldn't even pull his ladle out of his cauldron, and Snape didn't say a thing!"

They must've left the slug in for too long, Hermione thought. In theory, though, this shouldn't cause the potion to become any less effective. Perhaps Goyle's product could be used as a poultice? If the consistency was the only mistake, that is.

"Snape is evil, I swear. I hope he expose himself soon so that we can be rid of him once and for all. It would do everyone a favour -" Ron's rant was cut off when he nearly walked into Hagrid and his rather large basket of raw meat. "Oh. Hi Hagrid,"

"Hullo Ron, Harry, Sally," beamed the kind and friendly, if a bit naive, half-giant.

Harry eyed the basket oddly. "Are you going to feed the three-headed dog?"

Hagrid nearly dropped his load in surprise, but he fortunately caught it in time. Hermione was glad he did - it would've made quite a mess. "How did you know about Fluffy?" He asked with a frown.

'The whole school's going to know about "Fluffy" if you keep carrying that much meat around,' Hermione repressed a snort. "We... er... accidentally found him when we were running from Filch."

"We saw him standing on a trapdoor. We think he's guarding that thing you took out of Gringotts when you took me shopping," Harry told him, "Do you know what it is? You must have some idea."

"Now you stay away from Fluffy and whatever he's guarding!" Hagrid told them seriously, cradling his basket in one hand and waving the other.

"But Snape's trying to steal it," Harry told him earnestly, "He got bitten by Fluffy when he tried to sneak past him on Halloween!"

"Nonsense," Hagrid shook his head, "Snape's a teacher. He's helping to protect the... thing. Listen here, the package is none o' your business. It's between the headmaster and Nicolas Flamel -"

"Ah!" Ron smiled, "so there's someone named Nicolas Flamel involved, isn't there?"

One look at Hagrid's mortified expression cleared any lingering doubts. Hermione sighed. Just when she thought the boys had stopped thinking about the package...

They had originally intended to go back to the common room, but now the boys were suddenly keen on taking a detour to the library. Harry swore he saw the name somewhere, but they had no idea what Nicolas Flamel was famous for. Hermione absentmindedly leafed through books that seemed promising, making sure to look busy. On the one hand, she wasn't stupid enough to actually help the boys find potentially life-threatening situations to jump into (and then possibly require her to rescue them). On the other hand, she was rather curious about what Nicolas Flamel had entrusted Professor Dumbledore with. The world can benefit from a magical search engine, Hermione decided after they'd looked fruitlessly for three hours. She was sure the knowledge required to create the mechanism already exists - fundamentally, all it needed to do was recognize writing and process the information like the translation charm. The main difference was the output format.

They were eventually chased out of the library by Madame Pince, who'd apparently decided that Harry and Hermione had wandered a little too close to the Restricted Section. They weren't all that bothered, as it was near dinnertime in any case. Besides, search engine or not, Hermione was sure she would come across the name sooner or later. She'd been wasting no time in educating herself on the progress made in the magical world over the millennium, especially in Salazar's fields of expertise. The Book of Potions, by Zygmunt Budge, had been particularly useful and entertaining to read. She was impressed with the author's genius, even if she was slightly less impressed with the arrogance of the self-declared "greatest potion-maker ever born". She'd also learned of the invention of the "love potion", which from what she'd gathered seemed to have caused more trouble than it was worth. She wondered if they'd even bothered to investigate its side effects before it somehow became mainstream.

At dinner, Harry and Ron continued to discuss where they might've seen Nicolas Flamel's name until Fred and George's raucous guffaws drowned out the conversation. Apparently, poor Professor Quirrell had just spluttered out a spider after taking a drink from his pumpkin juice.

"Poor man," Fred shook his head completely unapologetically, "misfortune does seem to follow him everywhere, doesn't it?"

"Bless his soul," George said in a saintly voice, "May he find solace in his eternally cursed life."

Ron examined his own goblet with suspicion. "Do you reckon this is an accident, or do you think one of the house-elves played a prank?"

"I've read that house-elves cannot simply decide to play pranks, Ron. It probably just climbed in there on its own." Hermione recited, conveniently hiding a smirk behind her own goblet. The spider had indeed crawled into Quirrell's cup by itself. With a bit of magical prompting, of course.

"Good," Ron muttered, "I hate spiders." His older brothers burst into laughter again at this. Ron glared. "Shut up! It's your fault in the first place!"

"We know, brother dear," said Fred.

"But since our backsides have already endured the whacking of a dozen frying pans for the deed, we thought we'd make the most out of it."

"Speaking of family," Dean Thomas asked, "are any of you staying at school for Christmas?"

"Are you kidding? I would have Potions every single day if it means not having to see my uncle and my cousin," Harry asserted.

"You must really hate them with a passion then," Hermione raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps you can ask to stay at school over the summers as well?"

"It would be brilliant if I can. But then again," Harry grinned, "I think I might actually enjoy this summer. They don't know I'm not supposed to do magic outside school, so I can always threaten to turn Dudley into a pig. I think he'd been a bit afraid to come near me ever since I accidentally set a boa constrictor on him."

"No way!" Hermione allowed herself to look genuinely surprised. This sounded incredibly like her own favourite trick. Could it be that she was currently speaking to a cousin some hundred-times-removed? She glanced around. Her housemates had been engaged for some time in an exciting conversation about Ron's cousin Charlie and dragons. "How'd you do that?"

"I don't know, really... The boa constrictor at the reptile house was telling me how he really wanted to see Brazil, I guess. So when Dudley pushed me over, the glass just vanished."

Casting a discreet sound-blocking spell around them just in case, Hermione moved closer. "You were talking with him?" She clarified.

"Yeah," Harry was confused, "At first I thought it was weird, but that was before I found out about magic. I guess loads of wizards could do it."

'Make a mental note to trace the Potter line, and make a mental note to find him books about parseltongue.' "No, I've read that it's not a common gift, Harry. You might want to keep this to yourself."

"If you say so, Sally..." Harry started to say, but was tapped on the shoulder by Ron. Hermione quickly removed the sound-blocking charm just before he turned to reply, and went back to sipping her pumpkin juice.

As she'd promised herself, Hermione sprinted upstairs to take out the books from the library at first chance. After ensuring that Harry wouldn't read them in public, and that he would indeed read them, she slipped out of the common room and made for the Room of Requirements. Like last time, the room had arranged itself into a near perfect replica of Salazar's office when she entered. It even had the steady green fire, and the thin glass vase of rose cuttings on the table. Hermione felt herself smile. This room had been Helga's idea. It took them a herculean amount of magic and brainpower to make it work, but it was absolutely worth the effort. She sat down on the familiar chaise.

'I need to see Harry Potter's family tree.' Shimmering letters appeared on the wall opposite to her at this thought. It was not a complete family tree, she knew, since the room only had access to the school records and books that had passed through the school. Still, it was a very good place to start.

Technically, she thought, the Room of Requirements was a magical search engine and more. It shouldn't take long to produce a simpler one for mass production.

Back to the matter at hand. She did not find anyone familiar in the mass of names. Of course, that was to be expected.

'I need to talk to the founders' portraits.' A large frame appeared, followed by the four portraits she'd requested. Each was wearing a curious expression.

"...never seen this place before. Wonder where it leads to," portrait Godric was muttering, "Oh, hello Sally. Should've known you were behind this."

"Room of Requirements? I rather like the décor," smiled portrait Salazar. "Why are we looking at Mr. Potter's lineage?"

"Harry Potter is a parselmouth."

"Ahh!" portrait Godric beamed, "See Sally, not every living member of your family is an evil git."

"Godric!" Portrait Helga scolded sharply.

Portrait Salazar pointedly ignored him in favour of studying the chart. "I don't see how we could be related, just going by what's listed here. Incidentally, the Potter family had been living for centuries in the village that Godric moved to after his old one got burnt by invaders. It's more likely that he's Godric's family than ours."

"That's the same village that Ignotus Peverell lived in, wasn't it?," Hermione noticed, "Maybe we're in-laws." At age sixteen, Salazar had realized that the danger of being betrothed to Merope was becoming very real. To save himself, he'd introduced her to the rich heir of Cadmus Peverell, one of his former mentors. It had been a perfect match, in Sal's opinion, since both of them had a strong taste for the showiest thing they could get their hands on. In retrospect, though, perhaps this had been a mistake. Too much vanity and too little sense was a dangerous combination.

Her portrait self seemed to be considering the same thing. "Perhaps it would've been better if we'd just married our fair cousin," he mused, "we knew that not many other people could handle her."

"Ah, we would've saved both the Slytherin and the Peverell names from falling into the mud, but we would've damned ourselves," Hermione reminded, "and personally, I found sanity a very useful thing to have during Hogwarts' construction."

"Too true."

"Look! The names are flickering," portrait Rowena pointed, "Is someone accessing the records?"

"You noticed?" Hermione was unsurprised that she did. "This happened the last time I was here as well. It looks as if someone's finally making use of the castle's tracking charms."

"Very useful, for troublemakers," portrait Godric grinned. "I'm glad someone finally thought to do this." This particular part of the records had been warded against tampering, but not against access, for the same reason that the curfew existed. Students could use the information as they please if they realize that it exists.

"The charm was cast by four irritating Gryffindors around fifteen years back - one of the was James Potter, incidentally," said portrait Salazar. "They made a map of the school that shows the name and location of everyone in the castle, as well as the entrances to just over half of the secret passages. Currently this parchment is in the possession of Fred and George Weasley. And yes, I've checked that your name reads 'Hermione Granger', even though you know it can't be anything else."

Portrait Godric clapped him on the shoulder hard. "Ha! Paranoid as ever, Sally! How many wards do you cast around yourself anyways?"

"You should know, Godric, since you've tested most of them. Even my fire shield! And you wonder why I'm paranoid?"

"Well you were confident that it would work..." Godric bantered. Rowena and Helga giggled.

"And it did, as I knew it would. But that didn't give you permission to incinerate me! You know I hate fire!"

"So," Hermione gestured at the Potter family tree, "none of us know anything about any of these people? That's that, I suppose..."

'I need to learn about Nicolas Flamel.'

A heavy book appeared on the table. Alchemy?

Well. It appeared that this whole Quirrell business was more serious than she'd expected.

Curtains safely drawn, Harry sat on his bed. The two books Sally had given him were laid out in front of him. The first one was heavy, worn, and appeared to be an encyclopaedia, or a basic textbook. The section "parseltongue" had already been bookmarked, no doubt by his understanding friend. Pointing his wandlight at it, he began to read.

'Parseltongue is the ability to talk to serpents. It is a very rare trait, passed down through the bloodline. Wizards who are able to speak in such a language are called parselmouths. Over the centuries, parseltongue has become viewed as a hallmark of evil.'

Harry blinked at the page, stunned. He most certainly was not!

He could see now why Sally advised him not to let people know. He hadn't wanted to do anything that would make him stand out more than he already did, in any case, but he would be even more careful now.

'The first known parselmouth was Herpo the Foul, who purportedly commandeered battalions of snakes to assassinate his victims. For more on Herpo the Foul see page 56. Nevertheless, parseltongue is more widely associated with the Slytherin family, a line of nobles that once held substantial power and wealth. The family's most notorious member, Salazar Slytherin, had chosen the snake as the emblem of his House at the school he had co-founded. For more on Salazar Slytherin see page 144.

'The last known parselmouths were the Gaunt family, who descended from the Slytherins. Accounts of their lives have been lost, as the family gradually fell from grace. There are sources that suggest that the feared Dark Lord who plagued Britain until recently had also been a parselmouth. The verity of these sources is dubious.'

Harry shut the book, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't very comforting to think that he had something in common with any of these people.

He wasn't sorted into Slytherin though, he reminded himself. But then again, the hat did want to put him there... He wondered what Sally thought of him now. She didn't look upset or distant when she gave him the books. They were still friends, right?

His watch read 11:00. Sally had probably gone up to the girls' dormitories already. He would have to wait until the morning to find out.

Sighing, he turned his attention to the second book, On the Intellectual Capacity of Serpents. This one seemed like a more technical book and was significantly smaller. He could tell that this book was much, much older than the first, as it appeared to be hand bound. Yet surprisingly, it was in better condition. Perhaps because no one cared to read it?

He turned over the leather cover, skimming the brief foreword. It didn't feel as fragile as he'd expected. Maybe it was preserved by magic.

'Wild snakes, like lions and dragons, exhibit a primitive instinct-driven thought process. Nevertheless, they are perhaps differentiated from most animals in that their intellect can accommodate dramatic development, if given the opportunity. Rather like young children learning from adults, serpents learn quickly from contact with more intelligent beings, namely wizards and witches. Chapter one, two and three detail the general learning curve of a typical serpent, as well as the limit to its intellectual capacity. Chapter four and five describes notable exceptions. Chapter six and seven focus on the basilisk, a being aptly named the King of Serpents both for its power and intellect.

'My colleagues have advised me that the compilation of this book may not be worth the trouble. Parseltongue is, as far as we can tell, not an ability possessed by the masses. Nevertheless, I write in hopes that this knowledge can assist readers in making informed and considered decisions. It is my belief that even Herpo of Greece may hesitate to initiate the Thousand Vipers Massacre, if he had been able to appreciate its full horror. I also have faith that this book will one day find its way into the hands of one who may have use for it. If the world has seen fit to coin the term "Parselmouth", then I cannot be the only one.

'A translation charm as well as a preservation charm have been cast over these pages. I have created twenty-five copies of this book in total. This copy will reside at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If you are a student, then I wish you the best of luck on your endeavours. The world looks forward to your contributions and your brilliance.

'Salazar Slytherin.'

Harry dropped the book out of reflex. He was reading Slytherin's book? But he supposed he shouldn't be surprised, since the author had already stated that he was a parselmouth. And as a founder and professor, naturally Slytherin would've written many books for the school's library.

Nevertheless, if not for the signature, Harry would've never guessed it. This was not how he'd expected Slytherin to sound like. It was too... nice.

But what had he been expecting? Gruesome plans for world conquest? Snarky, Snape-ish critiques of the reader's worthiness? Or snobby, Malfoy-ish remarks of how noble his blood was?

Not every Slytherin was like Malfoy, Harry reminded himself. This was probably true for the original Slytherin as well.

Redirecting his wandlight at the book, he turned the pages curiously. Slytherin was a good writer, he found. Pieces of information were mixed with colourful anecdotes, and even occasionally humour. By the time he finished the last chapter, it was long past midnight.

Harry leaned back on his pillow. He didn't feel like sleeping yet. Instead, he picked up the first book again and turned it to page 144.

'Salazar Slytherin was one of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was considered one of the most powerful wizards of his time, and a significant figure in the whole of magical history. Slytherin had been close friends with Godric Gryffindor, a reknowned knight and duellist as well as a founder of Hogwarts. Unfortunately, Slytherin eventually left the school he'd founded to study the dark arts, which presumably lead to his downfall and death.'

That was more or less what he'd heard elsewhere, Harry thought. This time, though, a small voice piped up in the back of his head. Did studying the dark arts necessarily make someone bad?

'Throughout his adult life, Slytherin had been very politically active. It is believed that he played a major role in the establishment of the Statute of Secrecy, after which the wizard society officially hid itself from the muggles. Slytherin's attitude toward muggles had been strongly negative, and had authored numerous literatures about his views. It was said that Slytherin frequently argued with the other founders over Hogwarts' muggleborn policies. This may have been a source of friction between them, and may have contributed to his decision to leave Hogwarts.'

The word "literatures" had been underlined by someone. Harry was pretty sure they were not allowed to do that, but when a book had passed through so many hands it couldn't be expected to stay pristine. There were writing squibbled between the lines too. It was rather small, but still readable. Harry brought the book close to his face and squinted at it.

It said, 'The Muggle-Magic Relationship: Current Status and How to Proceed. Aisle 450.'

A book title? He would take a look in aisle 450. He was going to go to the library tomorrow in any case, to look for Nicolas Flamel.

Extinguishing the Lumos spell, Harry tucked the books safely under his pillow and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

"Morning, Harry," Hermione waved from the Gryffindor table.

"Morning Sally," Harry sat down beside her, a little bit stiffly. He looked a little nervous, Hermione noticed. It didn't take legilimency to see that he'd read the books.

Hermione smiled warmly, causing Harry to relax a little. "Pumpkin juice? Spiders not included, of course."

Several students near them sniggered, remembering what happened at yesterday's dinner. The situation with Quirrell really was a pain. Hermione had not studied alchemy extensively in her previous life, but she knew a thing or two. If the object guarded by the three-headed dog was what she believed it was, a philosopher's stone, then it was very likely that Voldemort was attempting to use its healing properties to restore himself to full power. This meant that Quirrell would go to much greater length to obtain it. It also meant that the consequences of allowing him to succeed would be much more undesirable.

It still wasn't a reason to reveal her power before she was ready. Nevertheless, Hermione really hoped that Professor Dumbledore knew what he was doing. From what her portrait self had told her, he should've been sensible enough to place some real protection around the stone, in addition to the phony ones meant to be broken.

But for additional security, she would continue to keep an eye on Dumbledore.

She'd also have to keep Harry and Ron away from Quirrell and the stone. Should they succeed in removing it from its hiding place, then the stone would be momentarily protected by nothing but two eleven-year-olds. Up to now, she'd tried not to give the potion master trouble, knowing that he had a lot on his plate already, but she would direct their attention to Snape if she needed to. Besides, considering the way he'd been acting toward his students, he couldn't complain that he didn't deserve their hostility.

She had been planning to go home for Yule, which had been combined with Christmas some centuries ago, but now she realized that it might be a better idea to stay at school. She'd written to her parents last night, saying that she needed to catch up on her schoolwork over the Christmas break. They would understand. They did take her education very seriously.

From what she'd heard, Hogwarts would become mostly empty in two weeks. Harry and the Weasley brothers were the only ones who would be staying for the feast. Blaise was going to attend the annual Yule dinner at Malfoy Manor, along with a large part of Slytherin House. Hermione could appreciate its importance, knowing that the true purpose of such parties was for the host family to affirm allegiance and perhaps exert their influence on their network if necessary. Young Salazar had attended numerous of these gatherings throughout the year, ever since father could trust him not to say the wrong things. It was helpful to act humble and respectful, Salazar had found, especially when his family was host. Power and family status would speak for itself. Meanwhile, humility calmed people's egos and had allowed him to extract certain favours that would've otherwise not been possible, such as a promise of mentorship from the Peverell brothers.

"...Oh it'll be the grandest thing you've ever seen, Nott. The banquet table will be four times longer than the one at your house last summer. Everyone will be talking about it for the whole of January. And Avery, wear a different dress gown this time. Surely your family can afford more than just that one?" At the moment, Draco Malfoy was boasting about his father's party, and loudly so that his voice carried to the tables of the other houses. Hermione didn't missed the slight dip of Gaius Avery's head, or the way Theodore Nott stabbed at his toast a little more harshly than necessary. Malfoy would learn, in time, or it would cost him.

On the other side of the hall, Blaise flinched slightly at Malfoy's words, but thankfully recovered before anyone spotted it.

Theodore had his full sympathy. True, the Malfoys were indisputably the most influential and wealthiest family today, but the Notts were an ancient and politically significant family as well. They had their pride. Malfoy's assertion that his family's parties would be much better than Theodore's could be considered a direct insult to strength of the Nott family's network.

And he was sure that most first year students, excepting the Slytherins of course, didn't even have a dress gown. The Averys were simply being sensible.

But Malfoy's arrogance was detriment to no one but himself. Blaise, like a good Slytherin, saw an opportunity. Thus, after breakfast, he'd made sure to corner Daphne and Theodore before they could make their way to Pansy Parkinson and the library, respectively. "So, you know how you've been pestering me about the supposed secrets to my potion grades?"

Lesson number three in Slytherin: Rules are only guidelines, but if you intend to continue doing something truly shocking, make sure to implicate as many people as possible before you inevitably get caught. They would likely become your primary supporters.

"Yeah Blaise, what is it?" Daphne asked, "I mean, we hand in the same potion, but your final mark is a level higher than mine."

"What books have you been reading that I haven't found yet?" asked Theodore curiously.

"Not a book, Theodore, I have a tutor, sort of. But she's almost like a walking encyclopaedia... rather like you, actually."

Sal had told him that she'd love to make some new friends. After considering which of his housemates were "safe", so to say, Blaise settled on two.

Daphne, because Blaise knew her well from Potions. Blaise also knew that she was still close with Parvati Patil in Gryffindor, Padma Patil in Ravenclaw, and Hannah Abbott in Hufflepuff.

Theodore, because he buried himself in books as much as Sal did. They would get along swimmingly. Besides, at least Blaise could now be reasonably sure that he wouldn't tell Malfoy about this.

Moreover, introducing them to Sal would also bring Daphne and Theodore closer to himself, strengthening his own group of allies. Again, the Notts and the Greengrass were not Malfoys, but neither were they to be taken lightly. Blaise got a sense of satisfaction from this thought. Malfoy and Parkinson had their connections handed to them by their parents, but Blaise would win his allies by his own strength and intelligence.

'If this all works out, that is.'

"A tutor! Who is she?"

"Remember the girl in the first row from Potions? I call her Sal, but you might know her better as Granger."

Daphne's eyes went wide. "You're friends?"

"Zabini, you were there in the common room," frowned Theodore, "when Malfoy was complaining loudly about - excuse my language - 'the mudblood Granger', right?"

Hmm, this didn't sound good.

"I was," Blaise replied, "and so were you, but you still found her quite intelligent, no? Weren't you following her in the library, trying to see which books she was learning from?" Sal had noticed this the other day, and had asked him whether the boy in the row of bookshelves adjacent to theirs was Theodore Nott. He was.

Theodore looked thoughtful. "Personally I don't really see the point of the whole muggleborn business, not when Granger acts more refined than some of the purebloods," He admitted. Here he cast fleeting glances at Ron Weasley, then Malfoy. "If she's got brains, then she's worth talking to I suppose."

Watching his housemate closely, Blaise realized that Theodore had came to this conclusion long ago. So that remark about Malfoy... was it to gauge his own likelihood of having a change of heart?

"Ooh, Parvati did say that Sally Granger is really meant for Ravenclaw," Daphne remarked, "She must be one of the best students in our year. The other being you, Theodore, of course."

Blaise had to agree. Ravenclaw did sound like a much more suitable place for someone who loved books as much as she did. And whatever Sal was, he was sure that she was not a Gryffindor.

"I'm guessing you didn't bring this up without a reason, Blaise," Theodore noted, "are we going to get an introduction?"

"Yes,"

Theodore glanced at Malfoy again. The blond was strutting down the corridor as if he owned the place, with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him. He picked up his book bag.

"Tell me when, won't you?"

"Of course, Theodore."

After both Theodore and Daphne had left, Blaise breathed a sigh of relief and strolled out of the Great Hall. This could've easily blew up in his face disastrously, like poorly cooked potion, but he'd succeeded. And it was actually worth something, too. Not some childish victory like leg-locking weaker students, or causing Gryffindor to lose a couple of points.

The seal of Hogwarts was embossed in the wall outside, surrounded by words in Latin. Blaise looked up at the coiled snake in the upper right quadrant.

'You'd be proud of me, wouldn't you?'

Chapter Text

Hermione sat comfortably at the usual table deep within the library, where no one cared to go. Blaise, she noticed, was shifting in his seat slightly, though he was already relatively good at concealing his nervousness.

She'd been subtly making Blaise aware of a number of potential allies for the past few months in their conversations. Theodore Nott was rather like young Salazar, up to a point. He socialized with the children of his father's allies, as required of someone of his lineage, but only perfunctorily. He perceived most of his peers to be shallow and didn't fancy their company, instead opting to spend his time among books. Thus, Hermione knew that he craved an intellectual equal, more than he cared about blood status.

Malfoy's petty behaviour at breakfast, coupled with the slight to his family's social standing, pushed him over the edge. Blaise had caught on to this, partially at least, and decided to approach him before Theodore could change his mind. The approval of a Nott would also reassure Daphne Greengrass enough to risk her position in Pansy Parkinson's circle. It was quite clever of him.

'Well played, young snake,' Hermione continued to turn the pages of her book, eyes betraying none of these thoughts.

Eventually, two figures slipped through the row of books and stopped at their table. "Daphne, Theodore, this is Sally Granger. Sal, Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott."

Hermione stood, as per customs, to shake their hands. "A pleasure to meet you, Daphne, Theodore," she said with a small, controlled smile. They looked surprised, no doubt reminded of the greetings exchanged at their parents' gatherings. This would make sure they took her seriously.

"I've always wanted to meet Parvati's mysterious friend," she continued as they each took a seat, "and the only other first-year who'd brewed a perfect healing draught."

"Your potion deserves more congratulation, though," Theodore remarked, "I must say I was surprised, Sal. They say that traditionally, potion-making is a Slytherin art."

"I can see why. It needs you to be observant and precise, but most importantly, able to think quickly and adjust for errors. This is your house's strength, I believe."

"Not many people put it like that," Daphne noted.

Theodore agreed. "This is the first time I've heard someone praise the ability to correct course... Not that we get many compliments at all."

"I always thought it's a part of being clever," Hermione simply smiled, "but of course, you as a Slytherin would probably know better than I."

They didn't say too much, opting instead to set to work on their potion essays. This was the risk-free option. It seemed that both Daphne and Theodore liked to assess people and situations as much as possible before gradually involving themselves. Most likely, they would avoid talking about anything other than actual schoolwork, until they could get time to reflect. This suited Hermione fine. In keeping with her current reputation, she kept the discussions at first year level, while occasionally bringing up an idea that should be just above Theodore's understanding.

Theodore, as she'd expected, was very knowledgeable for a first-year. This was not only due to his habit of reading, but also to his talent for thinking creatively and applying what he read in books to different situations. His primary interests were potions and transfiguration. He didn't particularly gravitate to the more potent end of the magical spectrum, and had a stronger preference for things that would be handy. Like Sal herself, Theodore was reserved and kept his opinions behind a thin veil. However, they were different in that Theodore preferred to work alone whenever possible, whereas Sal would be more likely to leverage the strength of others.

Daphne was remarkably sensible and tactful - the reason she was able to remain close friends with both Pansy and Pavarti even after the two became openly hostile to each other. She always phrased her opinions in a way that could offend no one and, Hermione imagined, would leave her with room to maneuver should it become necessary. She also regularly wove little compliments into her dialogue, so seamlessly each time that Hermione wondered if she was aware of what she was doing. Daphne likely wouldn't have a group of followers bowing down to her, but the size of her network could easily surpass Malfoy's or Pansy's. She would never lack resources, for certain.

Their study session ended at lunchtime, with the pleasantly exchanged agreement to meet again the Saturday after they return to school. After they went their separate ways, Hermione took a quick detour through aisle 450. The book whose title she'd written into An Overview of Magic was gone. Noting this, Hermione strolled leisurely to the Great Hall, where she sat between Harry and Neville at the Gryffindor table. A discreet glance at the other side of the hall showed that Daphne was attentively listening to Pansy Parkinson, who seemed to be sharing a juicy piece of gossip. Theodore was engaging in polite conversation, as was Blaise, but mostly focused on his plate. Nothing about their demeanour spoke of anything out of the ordinary. The Slytherin table was business as usual.

In contrast, the Gryffindors were noticeably quieter. Harry didn't talk at all, and responded much more slowly when someone called him. It wasn't hard to tell what was on his mind. Nicholas Flamel, as well as a certain book authored by a certain infamous founder. She would give him a bit of time with that. However, the primary cause for the uncharacteristically demure atmosphere was the lack of input from the Weasley twins. Rather than cracking jokes every five minutes, Fred and George looked rather pensive. Lee Jordan wasn't talking as much as he usually did either. Ron and Percy were openly surprised by the change, and the latter was clearly pleased. They wondered whether their boisterous brothers were finally out of jokes and, upon being proven wrong, whether they'd finally learned to behave. Having caught them sneaking glances at her when they thought she wasn't looking, and from the way they kept staring across the hall, Hermione had a basic idea of what they might be thinking. She hadn't forgotten about their handy map, after all.

After lunch, Hermione slipped away from the stream of students to her underground chamber. Esmeralda hissed in greeting, and Hermione gently stroked her head. She was pleased by the morning's events. There was as much potential in House Slytherin as ever, and most of its students knew what was right. With a little bit of navigation adjustment, it was well on its way to become what it was meant to be in the first place. Meanwhile, she was making steady progress on healing the rift between Hogwarts' houses, and new opportunities were presenting themselves.

As long as she could keep her influences subtle until it was time, the prospects of resurrecting her name and legacy was looking good.

Excellent .

She just had to be patient and make it through the next few years without getting her cover blown.

Peeves was a poltergeist, but he wasn't immune to fear. Therefore, when the Baron descended upon him near curfew time and ordered him to set the bronze statue back where it belonged, Peeves obeyed without a word. Pity. The fun he could've had, dropping it on an ickle firstie's head...

The Baron was a scary man, he was. He was worse than Sally, really. Peeves had hoped that His Eminence Lord Slitheriness would forget to pass on his knowledge of ghosts when he left, but alas, fate was not kind to Peeves. Poor Peevesy had to spend a whole day hiding from smirking snakes while dodging volleys of Sally's choicest curses. The Baron was the most persistent of them all. He wouldn't let Peeves get away with anything. Peeves found this very unfair. It wasn't Peevesy's fault that of all the cute ickle firsties, the Baron had to be the one to get hit by the dungbombs...

Peeves was still afraid of the Baron, even now that he was a groaning, clanking ghost, which was why he glumly set the statue down even as an adorable ickle firstie turned the corner. But Peeves supposed he should be thankful after all. Firsties were fun, most of the time. But with this particular firstie... Well, Peeves was just glad that the statue was bronze and not iron.

Being locked inside an armour for three weeks was not fun, not fun at all. Peevesy couldn't move, couldn't make noises, couldn't hurl water balloons at professors... Peevesy had to admit that it was genius, even though it was so, so cruel. And when Peeves finally freed himself from his iron prison, he came to one terrible conclusion.

Peeves didn't know how, nor did he care, but His Eminence Lord Slitheriness was back. Or was it now Her Eminence?

"Hello, Sal-ly!" Peeves bowed dramatically. Peeves loved this nickname. When Peeves first arrived, Sally had cursed him every time he said that. Peeves found this very unfair. It wasn't Peevesy's fault that Godric's nickname was so funny. Eventually, Sally didn't bother to punish him anymore, but he still complained.

And now, Sally couldn't even complain about it! Ha!

Peeves was sometimes tempted to say Sally's full name, but then little Sally might get hurt, and then she might get angry enough to do something really dreadful to Peeves. Sally was smart, and Peeves wasn't an idiot. They still had an agreement.

The Baron whirled around, surprised. Peeves knew that the Baron would remember the millennium-old greeting, but Sally wouldn't mind too much if only the Baron found out, would she? The Baron wouldn't betray her. Sally was safe. Peeves was safe.

But still, perhaps it would be safer if he removed himself from the scene quickly. Don't stand beside explosives longer than you need to, that's what Peeves always said.

Cackling madly, Peeves disappeared with a crack.

Chapter Text

"Professor Slytherin?"

'Well, there goes the first person who found out, and now the second...' But fortunately she'd known this particular ghost quite well in life, which also indicated that she could still trust in Peeves' dubious loyalty.

Hermione looked the pearly white ghost in the eyes. "Hello, Baron Edmund. How have you been?"

"Not well," the Baron laughed drily, "but I complain more than I should. What happened to you, Professor?"

"Reincarnated in an experiment," He didn't move as Hermione's gaze slid over the chains around his neck, the silver blood splattered down his front and the knife wound in his chest. "What happened to you, Edmund? How did you die?"

"Professor Gryffindor and Professor Hufflepuff didn't write to you?"

"No... I must've gone before you did, Edmund."

"It's almost curfew, Professor. Perhaps you should go back."

"Ah, and when did you ever give a damn about curfews, Edmund?"

They both smirked.

"I'll look for you in the Astronomy Tower at midnight. I've been told you spend most of your time there."

"Certainly, Professor." He glided away. Hermione left the other way, up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. Upon entering the common room, she was greeted by the sight of her housemates huddled around the fireplace. More precisely, one table beside the fireplace.

"Sally!" Neville called, "Come and see! Harry's found Slytherin's supposedly anti-muggleborn book, and it looks like the history books' got it all wrong!"

"Really?" Hermione was impressed. She hadn't expected the tiny note she made in the encyclopaedia to be so effective. Most people were, after all, not very interested in debating history. Hermione glanced over Ron's head at the opened book. It was opened to last chapter, titled Final Notes. She read the page, even though she already knew what it said.

'Please remember that as individuals, muggles are inherently not very different from you or I. Their brains are perfectly capable of complex thoughts, should they take the trouble to learn. However, regrettably, their society does not allow for this, and thus they are restrained to listening to passages of a single book once a week at church. Perhaps this may change in the far future, but it certainly will not happen in our grandchildren's lifetime. It is safer, and better for both parties, to shield ourselves from their tantrums.

'Muggleborn witches and wizards ought to be welcomed into our society with open arms. It would be a shame, as well as a great loss for us, if they are forced to hide away their gifts and will themselves back into ignorance. My colleague Rowena Ravenclaw and I propose a system to identify every young witch and wizard by magical signature, rather than heritage. The details are still in the works, and will be implemented at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry once completed...'

"Hey, Slytherin actually sounds like a decent human being here," Ron squinted at the book as if trying to decipher a secret code.

"To start a school, Ron, you kind of have to be," Hermione reminded with both amusement and annoyance.

"They say Slytherin didn't want to teach muggleborns, but that can't be right if he helped ensure that muggleborns are accepted into Hogwarts, can it?" Harry questioned, "I wonder how many historians actually read his original text."

"But he does say he doesn't like muggles," Dean Thomas noted. "Mind, if what Professor Binns said about witch-burning was true, then he's got a reason to."

"He did practice the dark arts, though," Pavarti reminded. A number of students nodded. "But at least he wasn't as bad as we thought he was."

It was good that they still remembered her essay about witch-burnings, though not consciously. It created a good platform for her to build from, and she would be able to make use of it soon enough now that they have the muggleborn-hating nonsense cleared up.

For now, she just needed to do one more thing. "I wonder what Malfoy would say if he reads this. Maybe he would be nicer..."

Fred and George suddenly snapped their fingers. "We should show Slytherin's book to the Slytherins!"

Hermione watched as they withdrew to a corner and started drawing out their plans. She couldn't wait to see what they come up with. Smiling indiscernibly, she climbed up to her dormitory and waited for midnight.

Though it was neither hidden, or forbidden, the Astronomy Tower was deserted as usual. Pale moonlight beamed in through the open arches that served as windows, onto the cold grey stone tiles. Hermione sat down in one of the small wooden chairs before removing her disillusionment charm.

"I've had to pass Peeves again on my way up," she told the hovering Baron. "He seems to be immensely afraid of you."

Edmund laughed. "He should be. I can't begin to describe my happiness when you taught us how to curse a poltergeist."

"Well we can't let him have his way, can we?" Hermione smiled, "But Edmund, tell me what happened to you. That wound looks ghastly."

He nodded sadly. The chains on his chest rattled. "A broken heart does that to you. You know how I've always loved Helena…"

Hermione listened with a heavy heart as he described how Helena had stolen her mother's diadem and ran away, and how Rowena had asked him to find her daughter when she fell ill in her later years. He'd eventually succeeded - it had never been possible to hide something from Edmund forever - but when she refused to return with him…

"… I lost control of my rage, Professor Slytherin, as you've always cautioned me against. I killed her. And then… I couldn't live with the terrible deed hanging over my soul."

Hermione sighed softly. "You did this to yourself, Edmund,"

"I know."

"But you have my fullest sympathy...You never told the portraits?"

"We didn't want to grieve them."

"Perhaps it's for the better. Those were painted when everyone was as happy and content as we could ever be… Godric and Helga never told me that Rowena lost her daughter."

"She didn't tell them either, Salazar. She kept it to herself until her death," the Baron revealed, chuckling at the slight widening of her eyes. "Don't be so surprised, Professor. You weren't always forthcoming yourself."

Hermione had to admit the truth in this.

Edmund's voice took on a lighter tone. "So, Professor Slytherin, you're a student now. And you've gotten yourself sorted into Professor Gryffindor's house."

"The last place anyone would expect me to go, including the Sorting Hat," Hermione smiled.

Edmund wrinkled his nose. "I don't like what's happening with our house. Ever since the thirteenth century it's been falling."

"It's fortunate that I'm back, then."

"Are you going to restore it to its former grandeur, Salazar?"

"Of course, Edmund." Did he even need to ask? "It would be an injustice to the students, and the magical society as a whole, if it's left to deteriorate. Also, I owe it to myself."

Edmund nodded gravely. "I thought you would say that."

Hermione arched her eyebrow. What was the Baron driving at? She waited for him to continue, but he simply stared out the window at the shimmering surface of the lake.

"You've given me many valuable advices, Professor Slytherin," he said at length, "But I have a feeling you might benefit from one of them now. A new life is an opportunity. Don't make the same mistakes. Let the past go if you need to."

Hermione's eyebrow rose further. This she hadn't been expecting.

"Could you elaborate on which mistakes you're referring to, Edmund?"

Baron Edmund was now counting the stone tiles on the floor, rather like he used to do when facing an imminent detention. "I have a confession to make, Professor. In my fourth year, a group of my friends and I chanced to see the door of the staff room slightly ajar after dinner one day. We peeked inside, partly because we've never seen it before, and partly because we thought we smelled firewhisky. It turned out that you, Professor Gryffindor, Professor Hufflepuff and Professor Ravenclaw were celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the school."

"Ah! The one time I made the error of allowing Godric to talk me into drinking far more than I should," Hermione remembered. The argument Godric had used was that if Salazar was the only one to retain a functioning head by the end of the night, he would remember enough to tease the other three founders to no end. Or something along those lines. After Rowena had assured him that nothing could possibly happen that would require his immediate attention, and because he was already starting to have thoughts of leaving, Salazar gave in. Needless to say, it didn't end well. "How have I embarrassed myself, Edmund?"

The Baron scratched his head. "You didn't, actually. We were hoping you would, but you just sat there as if you were completely unaffected. Godric made quite a show, singing and dancing on the table and all. Even Professor Ravenclaw had firewhisky running down her chin. We sniggered about it for months."

Hermione chuckled. That would've been quite a sight.

"At around midnight, Godric was sprawled out on the table and snoring. Rowena and Helga seemed to have fallen asleep in their chairs. You slipped out of the room. My friends snuck away at this point as well, debating how you could still walk gracefully after… how many drinks was it?"

"I really have no idea, Edmund," Hermione admitted honestly. She - that is, Salazar - hadn't remembered anything when he woke up, and in the oddest circumstances too. "You tell me."

"I might've lost count," Edmund laughed. "It wasn't until I saw you heading for the wrong set of stairs that I realized you might be intoxicated after all. Thinking myself very clever, I followed you, hoping to score some details that might be - ah - persuasive should we have another negotiation about the length of my detention. I saw you climb further and further up the Astronomy Tower. I kept my distance, just in case you did decide to look back, but you never did. Eventually I reached the top landing - that is, here. I remembered creeping in quietly, curious as to what mischief you could've gotten into up here..."

A cold gust of wind swept through the tower. Hermione cast a warming charm.

"You were kneeling in the middle of the room, Salazar. I thought you were shivering from the cold. It took me a minute to realize that you were sobbing.

"And I was so surprised...I didn't think you could cry."

Had she trusted Edmund any less, and had he looked any less sincere, she wouldn't have believed him.

Hermione blinked, taking this in. She hadn't cried once after age five, if her memory served, in this life and the last. Tears were a safe form of outlet for victims of the circumstance, left at the mercy of fate and unable to change their situation. And Salazar had always been able to evade such a plight...right?

"And I didn't see why you should," Edmund continued, "You were as successful as anyone could ever be. You wanted to stop the witchhunts in your village peacefully, so you did. You wanted to eliminate violence between magic and muggles, so you established the Statute of Secrecy. You wanted to cultivate knowledge and progress, so you built Hogwarts. And even as you spent your time teaching, you still managed to maintain your duties as Lord Slytherin. Your village continued to flourish, and the muggles didn't even know you no longer lived there for most of the year! At the same time, you published volumes after volumes of insight on potions and souls and being. More and more practitioners of Dark Arts of our time were beginning to look to you as leader... Everything you set your sight on, and those were no mere trifles, you accomplished sooner or later. I couldn't fathom why at the height of your victory, when you should be celebrating, you were weeping in an empty tower instead."

Hermione shifted her left hand, idly feeling the smooth emerald of her ring. The Baron didn't say a word, though he did watch her carefully. "You could've blackmailed me with this, Edmund. I'm sure I would've paid handsomely."

He laughed again, but shook his head. "I couldn't do that to you, Professor. Besides, all I cared about at the moment was getting out of the tower while I could. Everything was starting to shake. There was a real danger that you might blow up the room and take me with it."

"So that's how I found myself in the midst of a smouldering mess the next morning," Hermione muttered. "Goodness, I almost thought we were under attack."

"I left at the right time, then," Edmund gulped slightly, before gliding over to one of the arches. "I still have no idea what the cause of your sorrow was, Salazar. Only you could know. I just hoped to remind you not to do the same thing again." The moonlight glistened over his pale form. "I do understand now why you would make for the highest tower, though. There's a certain melancholy to it. It's as high as one can reach, yet it's so very lonely up here…"

For a while, the tower was silent save for the soft whistle of the wind.

The talk with Edmund had a sort of effect on her that she could only call interesting. Though thoroughly embarrassed now, for a moment she'd felt... relieved? Understood? Had it really been so exasperating pretending to be a kid that being called "Lord Slytherin" again did such wonders on her ego? Weird.

Not that she had any intentions of changing her plans. Patience was a virtue, after all.

"Thank you for the insight, Edmund,"

"Best of luck, Salazar."

Chapter Text

The beginning of the holidays was marked by the line of students filing out of the school, and Hermione watched from the snow-covered window sills as they waited to board the thestral-drawn carriages. Before the Hogwarts Express, these carriages used to travel all over the country to pick up students - young children didn't seem to enjoy apparition, after all. Salazar had suggested the use of thestrals partly because he knew them to be gentle creatures, and partly because he hoped to see that over time, more and more students would see autonomous carriages rather than giant winged horses. He also wanted to continue studying the property of their tail hair as he'd done during his time with Antioch Peverell. His mentor had sought to release the full power of the thestral tail hair, binding it to the violent elder wood to create the most formidable wand ever known. Salazar had also used thestral tail hair as his wand core but, as he believed that great power must be matched with equivalent control, tempered it with the calmer and more loyal acacia.

Antioch had laughed at his use of "a lesser wood" then. Salazar had replied by saying that the apprentice could never surpass the master, and this had made Master Peverell noticeably less reserved about teaching him, but he wouldn't have traded his wand for anything else. This wand eventually went on to serve him better than he could possibly hope, throughout the construction and establishment of Hogwarts and onwards.

Life was remarkably peaceful in the days leading up to Christmas. As Harry and Ron toasted various pieces of food over the common room fire while charting ridiculous plans to get Draco Malfoy expelled, Hermione wondered if she could've gone home after all. The boys didn't seem inclined to ruin their holidays by worrying about Flamel, and Quirrell didn't do anything other than his regular nightly departure from the castle, most likely to report to Voldemort. He hadn't been using any of the secret passages to Hogsmead, but among the other entrances he seemed to have no preference. She considered placing a tracing charm on him, but without knowing where his general destination was, she would have to anchor it on his person. Those type of spells might be discovered. Granted, suspicion would fall to Dumbledore first - that is, if the headmaster hadn't already attempted something similar.

Hermione didn't take the chance, as she would be unlikely to benefit from knowledge of Voldemort's location in any case. She did keep a closer watch on Quirrell when he was within the castle, however. She'd dedicated an hour to producing a map similar to Fred and George's, and had spelt it to heat up whenever someone enters the chamber with the three-headed dog or if Quirrell went somewhere he shouldn't. So far, no one had made a move, and Dumbledore and Snape appeared to be on alert. The stone was still safe.

On Christmas morning, Hermione woke to the sight of a small pile of presents and a grinning house-elf. Thanking him, she smiled and began to unwrap her parcels. The first was a large science textbook and a loving letter from her parents. Hermione grinned. Dad knew exactly what she'd wanted.

The next package was from Neville, and contained a handsome eagle-feather quill and a inkwell. She found it very thoughtful of him, as she could never have enough of these. She hoped Neville would enjoy the herbology book she'd bought him. She'd read through it first, and it should be just at second-year level.

The next parcel was from Blaise. It also contained a book - Greatest and Noblest Families Throughout the Times. 'Dear Sal, enjoy Yule at school. I don't know many people who stay, but since it's Hogwarts, I'm sure it'll be grand... I hope you find my present helpful. I remember you were looking for something like it, and this author is about the most accurate and objective one I know.' Hermione agreed. This book should be very useful, and perhaps even more than Blaise realized. She made a mental note to continue tracing the Potter line, sometime during the day.

Her own present to Blaise was an elegant, ornate cloak pin. Not a typical gift for a child, but she anticipated that he would find use for it some day. 'For when you make your name, Blaise.'

The last two packages contained sweets - chocolate frogs and chocolate cauldrons from Ron and Harry. She'd never tried them before, as they were recent inventions, but she'd heard they were very good. Biting into one of the chocolate frogs, Hermione discovered a little picture of Godric, albeit a rather poor quality one. It couldn't think or speak, and had a limited range of motion. Not at all like the portraits at Hogwarts, but amusing all the same.

'Thanks, Ron, Harry,' Hermione chuckled, stowing away her presents. She'd bought them snacks as well. It looked like she'd made the right choice.

Christmas feast was as magnificent as she remembered. The boys, each wearing a "Weasley sweater", had great fun pulling the great abundance of crackers and digging through the roast turkeys. At the High Table, most of the professors were enjoying themselves as well. Hagrid called for more wine, getting redder and redder in the face, and eventually kissed Professor McGonagall on the cheek. Harry and Ron looked amazed to see the usually stern witch blush and giggle, she noticed. But then again, given what Baron Edmund said about Rowena, it shouldn't be too surprising.

Professor Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard hat for a flowered bonnet, and was laughing merrily at Professor Sprout's joke. Not many would've noticed that he was resolutely filling his goblet with pumpkin juice, as was Professor Snape (though he looked gloomy as usual). Quirrell reached for the wine, but then seemed to decide against it. Curious...

In the afternoon, while the boys went outside to sling wet snow at each other, Hermione ducked back to the Room of Requirement with her new book to look for the origin of Harry's parseltongue ability. "I'm becoming more convinced that Harry didn't get this from his parents," she told Portrait Salazar, "Not one of the Potters were parselmouths, otherwise it would certainly be noted, and it's highly unlikely that it just popped out of nowhere."

He steepled his fingers. "An acquired ability? But how? Parselmouths, like metamorphmagus, are generally born and not learned, and for young Harry it seemed to come naturally."

Hermione nodded, idly examining one of the roses in the vase. This caused her portrait self to laugh. "Is that how I look when I do that?"

"Is there a problem I should be aware of?"

"Not really," he waved dismissively, "Though I can see now why Godric... No, never mind. It doesn't make him any less ridiculous. How is Yule this year, by the way?"

"Excellent, though there are so few students that I wonder if the elves would be able to finish all those turkeys. It seems that Quirrell - or Voldemort - realized that drinking is a bad idea during his current, er, quest."

"That would be sensible, yes."

"Quirrell very nearly forgot," Hermione smirked, "though it's rather strange how his hand shot back as if the bottle stung him. It almost feels like Voldemort's been watching over his shoulder, making sure he did everything right..."

Grey and amber eyes widened as a thought occurred to both of them. "A spying mechanism inside Quirrell's turban?"

"Likely, though it would need to see as well as hear, right? Or better yet, know what Quirrell is thinking."

"Essentially the equivalent of carrying Voldemort on the back of his head, then?"

"For our purposes, yes," Hermione mused. "Well then... will we be able to use this at all?"

Albus Dumbledore peered over his goblet of pumpkin juice at the small group of children, gathered at one end of Gryffindor table. Several of the younger ones, Harry included, looked quite amazed at the bonnet he was currently sporting. The older ones seemed to have gotten used to the idea that he was "mad, but brilliant", as Percy Weasley had apparently put it.

In his younger days, a few perceptive people had been able to see through his whimsical act, but now they simply accepted it as a part of his identity. Even Minerva. And Severus... Albus suspected that Severus at least saw the act as an act, though even the shewd potion master didn't guess at what he'd hidden underneath.

But Albus really must refrain from thinking about that. It would accomplish nothing, and it would give him nothing but grief.

Young Harry was glancing at him again. Albus returned the boy with a smile while mentally sighing. He didn't like the idea of a young child going through so much hardship, especially potentially life-threatening challenges, but fate had marked the boy out for a dangerous destiny. The Dark Lord had already marked Harry as an equal. It was unavoidable.

Could he not seek out Voldemort first? It wouldn't take too long, and he could definitely keep Harry safe until then. But what next? He had a hunch that Tom Riddle would not die at his hands, just as he hadn't really died on Halloween in Godric's Hollow. The best Albus could do for Harry was to provide support, spread the risk and smoothen the steadily escalating path to the final challenge. He must ensure that when the time comes, the boy would be equipped with all the skills, knowledge and emotional preparation he needed.

Thus, he'd allowed Quirrell to teach at Hogwarts despite knowing that he'd travelled to Albania, suspiciously close to Voldemort's last known hideout. It was better for Harry to face a relatively weak servant first, than to be unprepared for the master. In addition, himself and Severus would always be on hand to step in before Harry becomes permanently maimed.

So far, the boy was doing nicely. He had a strong need to protect and a healthy amount of curiosity. Intelligent, too, having already connected the Gringotts package to the third floor corridor to his friend Nicolas. It was also very fortunate that Harry made some very good friends - As Albus had learned the hard way, who your friends are could greatly influence the kind of person you become. Ron Weasley was a bit rash, a bit insensitive, and more likely to listen to his heart than his brain. Nevertheless, the boy had a very strong sense of moral, and that was unfortunately more than Albus could say for some. Hermione Granger, or Sally Granger as the children knew her, was a good student, impressively well-read, who'd on multiple occasions held the boys back from trouble. Between the three of them, there would be no shortage of sense.

Albus had returned Ignotus Peverell's cloak to its rightful owner this morning. Harry seemed to have thought a bit about it already. It was nearly certain that the boy would want to try it on, tonight.

Perhaps it was time to set up the mirror.

Chapter Text

"Harry, I don't think you should go back to that mirror tonight... It might be dangerous."

"You sound like Sally! Oh, that reminds me... Don't tell her, alright?"

This was the conversation Hermione walked in on when she arrived at the Gryffindor table. They both clamped their mouths shut the moment they saw her.

"Tell me what?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly. Ron looked as if he wanted to say something, but decided to keep Harry's secret.

"O-kay," Hermione turned away dubiously and started on her breakfast. Now there was no way she was staying out of that. The last time she'd heard the words "Don't tell Sally" and turned a blind eye, a good portion of the castle's roof had been destroyed by three rampaging griffins that their namesake had so proudly lured into school grounds. Besides, if even Ron felt the need for caution, then surely it cannot be taken lightly. She would keep an eye on them today. Better spend the night in the common room as well.

In her musing, Hermione was vaguely aware of two red-headed twins approaching the table with exceptionally wide grins on their face. She had to admit, even after teaching the House of the Cunning for twenty-two years and seeing nearly all kinds of smirks imaginable, theirs were a little unnerving. What were these two up to now?

Fred and George Weasley didn't know what to make of the little first-year girl named Sally Granger.

Their first impression of her was that she was a Goody-two-shoes just like Percy the Prefect, who would grow up to be a boring officious killjoy just like Percy the Prefect. After all, who else would spend a good half of the Welcoming Feast listening to Percy drone on about rules, instead of devoting their full attention to more deserving things, such as the food or the Ghosts or even the floating chandeliers?

They had been so surprised when, as they were huddled in the dark in preparation for their first prank of the year, they realized that little Miss Granger was not in her dormitory as she was supposed to be. They hadn't gone to see what she was doing on the second floor at midnight - they had a prank to pull off after all - but they did see little Sally in a different light from then on.

It was clever of her to act all nice and obedient, they'd decided. She could probably even stroll down the hall with an armful of dungbombs, and the teachers would simply praise her for disposing of them.

And then one day, when they glanced at the Map, they'd seen her name beside "Blaise Zabini", "Theodore Nott", and "Daphne Greengrass". They'd thought the Slytherins might be bullying her at first but, when the names stayed that way for the whole morning, realized that they might actually be getting along.

Sally Granger was hardly the first Gryffindor to talk to Slytherins. Pavarti Patil and Daphne Greengrass hang out regularly, after all. But they'd known each other from before, while Sally was a muggleborn. How she'd managed to make friends with a bunch of blood-purists was beyond Fred and George's comprehension.

Or perhaps they had it wrong all along?

'Salazar Slytherin never hated muggleborns.' Wasn't that the whole moral of the little spectacle they needed her help with?

They grinned. Taking identical strides, they marched over to the Gryffindor table. Nudging their little brother aside, they each took a seat. The person they'd sandwiched between them, one Sally Granger, looked up from her toast, eyebrows raised in question.

"So," they both scooted over, forcing Sally to shuffle down the table away from prying ears with them.

"Sally," said Fred,

"Miss Granger," said George,

"We have a proposition for you."

They'd never recruited a first year in their pranks before, but this particular plan called for a face that people should be relatively unfamiliar with. And little Sally was the best girl for the job because she knew the castle almost as well as they did, because she could probably perform the spell they'd need her to do, and because they could always threaten to tell Percy that they'd seen her sneaking out at night if she tattled. It also didn't hurt that she knew a thing or two about their target, and would be smart enough to contribute a few ideas.

"You see, it concerns a small -" 'Ha! Small!' "- Christmas surprise we've been planning for the Slytherins…"

Hermione wouldn't dare say this to Godric, but she could somewhat appreciate the ambience of the Gryffindor common room.

The Slytherin common room, with its steady green fire and tall underwater windows, had been designed to calm and inspire. It was a place for students to cool their heads, gather their thoughts and make their plans. Its high, arched stone ceiling was grand and unrestricting. Its furnishing was of the same style as the Slytherin castle, as well as Salazar's office and chamber: elegant, but simple and functional. It was well-lit, reasonably open and offered as much comfort as could be afforded. Yet, when Godric and Helga had came down to see it at its completion, they'd complained that it was too cold.

Now, looking about her, Hermione could see that they had a point. The Gryffindor common room was cluttered, amorphous, and featured an excessive amount of red fabric. Not to mention that its leaping golden fire was a little too much for her. Nevertheless, it had a cozy warmth that felt so welcoming, like an embrace. Most people could stay here forever and never wish to leave.

Currently, they were all holed up in the Gryffindor common room, enjoying the last days of the holidays. Harry turned down Ron's multiple requests for a game of chess, until Ron eventually gave up and asked Hermione to play instead. Harry hadn't spoken much since breakfast, she thought as she checkmated Ron's king for the second time, much to the red head's dismay. It was almost as if he was just waiting for curfew. What kind of mirror would have such a strong attraction?

"How are you so good at this?" Ron asked, amazed.

"You're very good at chess yourself," Hermione assured him. He really was. "But I doubt that many people would be able to win against the friend I used to practice with." Perhaps surprisingly for some, Rowena was not very good at chess and didn't care much for games in general. But Helga - she was the true master. She always patiently scanned the board before making a move, uncovering all traps and leaving very little exploitable weaknesses. Even Salazar counted more losses against her than victories.

After playing five more games, and making sure that she lost at least two, Hermione picked up a book while the boys went off to bed. Harry left as well, though she knew he was going to return. Disillusioning herself, she waited. Her thoughts turned back to what the Weasley twins' had disclosed to her in the morning. She could see how they earned their reputation. This "welcome back to school prank", as they called it, had what seemed to be their usual style: loud, dramatic, with no small amount of flamboyance. With just the tiniest bit of modification, it would be perfect.

Impatient footsteps drifted down from the stairs to the boys dormitories, but no one appeared. Yet something had passed in front of her, did it not? Hermione waited until the entity was safely out of the portrait hole before taking out her map and removing the disillusionment. Harry Potter was now outside.

As she followed Harry through the halls, Hermione wondered how he'd achieved complete, perfect invisibility. Or perhaps the darkness was diminishing her eyesight? The disillusionment charm is fifth-year level, she recalled. It wasn't difficult to learn - the difficulty lay in casting without any wavering, or outlines. Even she and Master Ignotus couldn't always accomplish such a level of perfection.

But Ignotus had been working to make the charm permanent, hadn't he? He'd been testing it on a specially-made cloak. Perhaps Harry had acquired something like it?

Despite Harry's invisibility, the boy was surprisingly easy to follow even without the aid of her map. His footsteps were uncontrolled and hurried, and frankly much louder than they should be. Hermione struggled to keep up with quick but silent strides, until they came to a stop in front of a large, ancient-looking mirror. She watched as Harry whisked off his invisibility cloak and sank to the floor in front of it, gazing into it dreamily. She also noticed a very slight flickering in the corner. 'Well. This is interesting indeed,'

There was an inscription around the mirror's frame. 'I show not your face but your heart's desire.' A mirror that showed whatever you wanted most desperately... No wonder Harry looks so spellbound. Curious, she was almost tempted to take a peek herself, but then she decided that it would be harder to mourn what she'd never seen.

But that begged the question of why such an artifact had been made so easily accessible.

As she'd expected, Professor Dumbledore revealed himself in the corner, to Harry's surprise. He patiently explained how the mirror worked, warned Harry not to look for it again, and informed him that the mirror would be moved to a new home tonight.

This would be the real protection for the Philosopher's Stone, Hermione realized. One would think it's sitting behind all those layers of traps, but really the bait didn't have to be on the hook all the time to be effective. The use of the mirror here would be quite clever, since it could prevent people from taking the stone for any reason except to protect it. This knowledge brought her a small amount of relief. 'Very good, Headmaster. Now you'll just have to watch and make sure everything does go as expected, won't you?'

Harry was turning to leave, but curiosity seemed to make him pause. "Sir, what do you see when you look into the mirror?"

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolly socks."

A typical, Dumbledore-style lie. From what she knew of their current headmaster, this would be one of the secrets he'd take to the grave. To be safe, Hermione stayed in place and waited until Professor Dumbledore left the room before turning toward the door herself.

It was good to see that Dumbledore had the sense to make it difficult for Quirrel to access the stone even if Harry doesn't manage to retrieve it first "as hoped". One more thing taken care of by the Headmaster meant one less reason for her to get involved. It was too bad that there was one thing he didn't seem to account for as fully as she would've liked, and that was Voldemort and therefore Quirrel's lack of aversion toward murder.

Hermione sighed silently. Her original plan had been a simple "gain my bearings and stay out of trouble", but that was slowly but surely turning into "steering misguided students in the right direction while making sure nobody dies, all without drawing attention to myself". Getting more complicated by the second, it seemed. And somehow she'd even signed up to help two mischief makers pull off a prank in a week - although that was for a good cause, she swore. Ah well.

Pride and self preservation demanded that she try harder, but Hermione was starting to wonder if she should just accept her apparent inability to stay uninvolved and pettily console herself by making the responsible party recuperate her losses threefolds instead.

Chapter Text

"Mortal dread."

Fred exchanged a look with George. They, and little Sally, were currently hiding in the passage that lead from the dungeon to the entrance hall. The portrait that guarded this entrance was a witty fellow with silver eyes and a decent sense of humour, at least as much as one could hope for in a potion master. They could trust him not to give them away when an enraged Filch come by, demanding to know which direction they ran off in.

In fact, they used to prepare for nearly all their pranks here. That is, until one day the portrait nonchalantly "remembered" that since this was the Potion Master's Passageway, naturally it would be used quite frequently by Professor Snape.

"Remember what you need to do?" Fred asked, handing Sally a green and silver tie. He and George couldn't help but feel a little bit concerned for her. It was the first time they'd involved a firstie, after all. Much less sending a muggleborn firstie into Slytherin territories. However, Slytherins were notoriously suspicious of Gryffindors strolling in the lower dungeon levels. Hence, the need for an unfamiliar face and a disguise.

"Perfectly," Sally replied, taking off her own red and gold tie and pocketing it. She then tied her hair back and smoothed it as much as she could. "How do I look?"

Scanning her over, Fred doubted that anyone would see her as an infiltrator. Although, it was unlikely that she would encounter anyone, since all the students would be having dinner in the Great Hall at the time.

Now, standing with her chin lifted jauntily and a slight smirk over her lips, Sally certainly looked the part. And with her hair sleeked back into a subtle sort of wave, she very much reminded him of Malfoy. "You still look too nice, but otherwise excellent. I don't suppose we can make you look pug-faced like Pansy Parkinson, can we? A few well-placed stinging hexes would do it."

"Not unless you want to play Crabbe and Goyle. A few dozen stinging hexes each should do it. We'll have to burn your hair too, but at least the height won't be a problem."

Yup, the attitude was there too. No need to worry about her.

George checked his watch. Five minutes till dinner. "C'mon, let's go. Good luck, Sally,"

Fred could hardly contain his grin as he walked up the stairs to the Great Hall. He could tell this was going to be brilliant. Once there, he and George sat down next to Lee and started on their dinner like everyone else. They pretended to be perfectly oblivious to the underside of the benches, where a hundred or so of something that they'd charmed over the past few days were waiting to activate upon the command -

They traded a look. Together, they discreetly waved their wand under the table. "Locomotor!"

Suddenly, the room was filled with multi-coloured, animated toy snakes. Quickly growing to around a meter in length, they hissed and slithered around ankles, startling all four houses alike. Fred and George we're very happy to see Marcus Flint fall backward out of his seat in surprise, before a neon pink snake so kindly nudged him back into place. Malfoy seemed to have spilt his pumpkin juice on his crotch. Ron shrieked like a girl when a black snake coiled itself rather realistically around his leg. "Salazar..." he cursed.

"'Salazar' is right, dear brother," George nodded at the door, where a large banner had unfurled itself. 'In memory of the Snake Lord,' it said. Fred grinned. He was quite proud of his handiwork.

Ron glared at them. "Please," he grumbled, "Slytherin doesn't need you two helping him. He's done enough damage already just by leaving us stuck with his bloody house."

Beside Ron, Harry was equally surprised, though he was also smirking. "Sorry," he'd laughed when the other first years looked at him weirdly, "this reminded me of that time at the zoo with my cousin." Fred wished he'd shared the whole account of the incident, as it seemed to be very funny, but Harry had stopped talking in favour of eating more chicken.

Up at the staff table, the professors were glancing around them with disapproval. Nevertheless, as Sally had correctly predicted, Snape's hilariously outraged expression made them strangely reluctant to help. Even Professor McGonagall simply sat back and watched her greasy-haired colleague fire spells left and right in an attempt to get rid of the rainbow-hued disasters. He wasn't having much luck. The snakes were very fast.

Fred grinned. This little - Ha! Little! - dinner entertainment served several purpose. Firstly, it was hilarious, and brilliant even as a stand-alone prank. Secondly, it ensured that Snape would be kept busy in the Great Hall for some time. This meant that he would be unable to discover and remove the little - Ha! Little! - thing that should now be in place in front of the Slytherin common room until much, much later. "Well, that turned out very nicely, didn't it dear brother?"

"If it's good enough to lure a potion master out of his lair, then it'll be good enough to keep a potion master out of his lair," pointed George, who was busy directing a neon green snake to dance in a loop. Fred looked across the hall in the direction he indicated. In the paintings, among the figures huddled to watch the spectacle, was their favourite potion master. They knew he would sometime leave his painting, though they'd never actually seen him elsewhere in the castle. Sir Cadogan seemed to be attempting to use this opportunity to provoke him into a duel. Fred doubted that he would agree to it. He didn't look like the brawny or violent type. Could paintings even duel?

In the commotion, Fred noticed Sally silently slide into the seat beside his. "Where did you go?" Harry asked.

Sally shrugged, wearing her typical innocent expression. "I went back to the common room to drop off my books. Er...What's going on here?" Under the table, Fred felt something being placed into his hand. The green and silver tie.

He hoped the Slytherins would enjoy their present.

The entity on the back of Quirinus Quirrell's head watched through Quirrell's eyes as the crude idea of a joke unfolded before them. How dared they use the name of his ancestor for something as frivolous as this! When he obtains his own body, which would be soon enough, he would find out who was responsible and decimate them.

His plans were going well enough. The unicorn blood he'd made Quirrell drink every night was keeping him sufficiently strong. And once he could determine what exactly Dumbledore had in place to protect the stone (for surely those childish games and the beast couldn't be all) and keep Dumbledore busy at the right time... Oh, he'd love to see the horror on their faces when he reveals himself, as powerful as ever. They'd thought him dead for ten years, hadn't they?

"Look forward to hell."

Had someone said something? He made Quirrell glance around the hall, inspecting the oblivious faces. No, it didn't look like it. The room was simply too loud, and too noisy. Or perhaps it was he who'd accidentally stated his thoughts out loud?

He sneered coldly from within the purple fabric. Soon enough, he would not have to put up with this nonsense. Soon enough.

The Slytherin common room was concealed behind a stone wall at the end of a corridor in the depth of the dungeons. To enter, one would say the password - usually a word or phrase that changed logically every night - and the door would reveal itself. Alternatively, according to some unreliable tales, one could use the Parseltongue password that never changed.

But it seemed that no one would be entering the Slytherin common room now, or for the next few hours, for that matter. Because the entirety of the entrance was simply and effectively blocked by a giant book.

"Who's responsible for this?" Blaise heard a seventh-year growl. Someone cast a "Reducio!" at it, to no avail. The book refused to shrink.

Personally, Blaise had no doubt that this was the work of the Weasleys, as was the fiasco in the Great Hall earlier. 'In memory of the Snake Lord', was it? Blaise sighed. He should've suspected that they weren't finished. And he had been so looking forward to going to bed early...

"Incendo!" A tongue of fire shot out dramatically from the tip of someone's wand. The third year girl who cast it looked smug at her clever idea, though her smirk faded when anticlimactically, the book remained unharmed.

The next hour passed quickly, during which the upper years tried unsuccessfully to cut, burn, shrink, transfigure or vanish the book using all the spells they knew. Several students were sent up to get Professor Snape, though each time they returned alone because "at least the book isn't trying to run away like the abominations in the Great Hall". The younger students like Blaise, who didn't know enough magic to be helpful in the endeavour to gain entry to their own sleeping quarters, were gradually nudged to the back of the group. Blaise tried to stand on tip-toes to see what they were trying, but there were too many heads in front of him. All he could see was the top half of the book. 'Please remember that as individuals, muggles are inherently not very different from you or I. Their brains are perfectly capable of complex thoughts, should they take the trouble to learn...'

Trust the Weasleys to put something about muggles in front of the Slytherin common room. The author's opinion was an interesting one, though. He advocated against the mistreatment of muggles, though the way he said was very different from the over-enthusiastic muggle worshipping of the Weasleys. His tone was diplomatic, with a slight but noticeably cool and cynical character. It wasn't exactly clear which side he was on.

Blaise noticed that most of his housemates were starting to pay attention to the contents of the giant obstacle as well, if only out of sheer boredom. He found himself wondering what the rest of the book was like. Perhaps he would read it sometimes. If it could survive until the end of the evening, of course.

"Whoever did this," noted Theodore from his right, "must've done some pretty impressive spellwork. You'd need powerful shields to withstand their assault for so long. A good portion of those spells they're shooting at it are not exactly legal, I might add."

"True, those last three were dark. I expect I can trust you not to tell anyone, since you're a Slytherin and a Nott," admitted a fourth-year, Jennifer Meadows. She, like most others, had given up and decided to wait for Snape. "It's weird that even those aren't working, though. Can nothing damage this book?"

"Looks like it," a fellow fourth-year said, turning the giant pages. Unsurprisingly, it didn't rip. "I don't think a student cast these protective charms though... If anyone here had that sort of power we would've heard about it. I think it's the author's work. Maybe he wasn't very popular? He did argue that we should welcome mudbloods into our society."

By now, everyone had sat down along the sides of the corridor in resignation, giving Blaise an unobscured view of the giant yellowed pages, of something that made him yelp in surprise. Theodore noticed it too, though his reaction was less dramatic.

"What?" Jennifer frowned.

"I think it's the other way around," Blaise laughed weakly and pointed at the seal impression and signature on the last page. Muttering broke out all around, because there was no mistaking who those belonged to. Was this what "In memory of the Snake Lord" was referring to?

"Salazar Slytherin," Theodore murmured, "Funny. Who would've thought that he, of all people..."

"This has to be a trick!" Marcus Flint shouted, outraged. He sent another jet of flame at the book, which lazily absorbed it. Jennifer grabbed his arm before he could raise his wand again. "Don't even think of using Fiendfyre. You can't control it, and you'll get all of us killed."

"I wasn't going to," Flint sneered, "I'm not going to die for a damn book."

"Well, that is the Slytherin family crest," Theodore pointed out, "see how the one at school is a simplified version of it. I can't speak to the signature, but I'm sure that'll be easy enough to verify."

"It must be a forgery!"

"Have you any idea how difficult magical forgery is? Especially something like this?"

"Then - then someone must've altered the words somehow..."

"I think Slytherin would've thought of that," Blaise reminded him, "he'd remembered to fire-proof the book. Why not protect it against vandals as well?"

"I can't believe this," Marcus muttered.

Grabbing the corner of the giant pages, Blaise arduously opened the book to the first page. 'The Muggle-Magic Relationship: Current Status and How to Proceed'. "But we've only read a couple paragraphs... Let's take a look at what point he's actually trying to make, shall we?"

The rest of the book sounded more like what one would expect from Slytherin, according to the history books. He didn't approve of torturing muggles as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done, though, instead arguing that it would be better for both societies if wizards left the muggles alone and had nothing to do with them. Nevertheless, he clearly disliked muggles, and frequently made insults to the their ignorance and the stupidity of their actions in his ever-so-refined manner. This made things much easier to swallow.

But Blaise couldn't help but noticing that the reasons he gave for his "ill opinion of muggles" were all based on circumstances in the Middle Ages, when muggles were illiterate and uneducated, and witchburnings were rampant. He wondered what Slytherin would say if he saw muggles today. Would he still find them inferior? Or might he even praise them for their ability to cope so well without magic?

Eventually, a tired-looking Professor Snape came down and helped them remove the book. It was simple, really. A basic sticking charm had been applied to the back of the book and the wall. When they tried to shrink the book, the wall stretched the book to maintain its size, while the book's original protective charms maintained its integrity. All they had to do was unstick the book, and then easily shrink it to normal size. Any second-year could've done it.

"Finally!" Malfoy complained before heading up to the boys' dormitory, "My father will hear about this..." But no one was paying him any attention, and Blaise privately thought he should be thankful for it because the wet patch on his crotch had yet to dry.

The book was by far the most interesting thing that happened this evening - probably even enough to replace the Malfoys' Winter Ball as the gossip of the month! Should Blaise tell Sal about it? His first impulse was "yes", but on second thought, it might be tactless. Besides, whatever happens in Slytherin stays among Slytherins. People had broken this rule in the past, and the whole house had suffered for it. Some almost thought of it as their own Statue of Secrecy.

The potion master looked thoughtful when they told him about what was written in this book, and who it was written by. Blaise thought he looked almost mournful, but perhaps he'd imagined it. Snape was always wearing a sour expression.

Blaise quietly headed for the boys' dormitory as well, intending to get there before his housemates inevitably swarm the stairwell. Yes, a good night's sleep would be very welcomed.

Meanwhile, in the Room of Requirements, Hermione leaned back into the green velvet of the chaise lounge. On the map spread over her knees, she watched the large cluster of names in front of the Slytherin common room slowly dissipate. The Weasley twins were probably doing the same thing this instant, she imagined. "About Quirrell, did he...?"

"He understood," her portrait self confirmed. "Or rather, Voldemort did."

"Which means he is most likely who we think he is," Fred and George had charmed all the toy snakes to hiss loudly. However, unbeknownst to the pranksters themselves, one of the snakes had been "modified" to deliver a particular message in Parseltongue. She'd wondered if it would reach its intended audience. "Look forward to hell... Well, I did promise Esmeralda."

'Tom Marvolo Riddle... So this is what you've become. You've done quite a bit of damage, haven't you? Not to mention that your abuse of power's disgraced the Slytherin name, butchered whatever's left of the reputation of dark wizards, and nearly exposed us to the muggles. You're talented, but power seized this way never lasts. It's a pity that you couldn't see it.'

But this "prank" also confirmed that Voldemort was influencing Quirrel quite directly. Would Quirrel have access to some of his knowledge, or even some of his skills as well?

This was dangerous - for the students, but at the same time for her as well. She simultaneously felt more and less eager to go and forcibly evict him now.

She would have to cross that bridge when she get to it, she supposed.

Chapter Text

Ron heaved a loud sigh as he plopped down in one of the soft armchairs in the Gryffindor common room. "So, holiday's over. Time to face Snape again... And homework..."

"Well you are here to learn," Hermione told him.

Ron mumbled something incomprehensible at that, but was interrupted when Harry fell into the chair beside him with an equally glum expression. "Whoa...What happened to you, mate?"

"I've discovered that Snape's refereeing the next Quidditch match."

Hermione knew that Snape's decision was most likely for Harry's safety than his own enjoyment, but the two had managed to look so sorrowful that she almost felt sorry for them. But what could one say? When there's a confirmed mass murderer around, one could never be more careful.

"Want a chocolate frog? I've still got some left," Hermione offered. They were delicious, as she'd been told, though perhaps a little too sweet.

"Yes please," Harry and Ron, as well as all the first years in their vicinity, chorused. It was a good thing that she'd only eaten two, because by the time everyone took a frog, her box was nearly empty.

"I love these," Harry unwrapped his. They'd finished his box the day after Yule. "Oh look, I've got Merlin again." Hermione peered at it. She doubted Merlin would wear his beard at such an impractical length, as he was said to have frequently travelled by horseback. Granted, she'd never met him either. He had been recently deceased when Salazar was still an infant.

"I've got... Herpo the Foul? He's a new one," said Ron, showing them his card.

"And I've got," Hermione said, opening her own, "Salazar Slytherin, apparently." She said "apparently", because the caricature was so ridiculous that it was almost hilarious. What an awful depiction of yours truly! True, Salazar was tall and thin and had somewhat sharp features. True, Salazar liked to steeple his fingers and occasionally wore contemplative expressions. They'd gotten that much right... But really, did they have to make him look more terrifying than Herpo?

Harry was about to say something when they were interrupted by the sight of Neville bunny-hopping into the room. "Malfoy... jinxed me... said he needed practice..."

Hermione quickly removed the spell, and helped him into the chair she had previously occupied. "Did you use 'protego'?" Knowing how often the boy got targeted by bullies, she'd been teaching him the shield charm to set his mind at ease. It took a bit more power than one would usually expect from a first year, but Neville had been practicing very hard.

"I was too slow," Neville panted, though his expression brightened, "I managed to cast the spell though! I think Malfoy walked into it when he tried to follow me. Gave him a bit of surprise, that."

"Good work," Hermione smiled, offering him the last chocolate frog, "I'm sure he would be getting a face-full of his own spell if he tries it again."

"Thanks, Sally," nodded Neville gratefully. Taking a bite out of his frog, he placed the card on the table with the other three. "Here, you can keep the card. You're collecting, right?"

Harry picked it up. "Albus Dumbledore... He's the first one I've ever got -"

He suddenly stopped. Hermione watched his gobsmacked expression with growing apprehension. 'Oh surely, this wasn't where he'd found -'

"Nicolas Flamel! I think I found him! It says here that he's famous for alchemy!"

'Damn it.' He'd seen Flamel in a piece of sweet, of all places. And it wasn't all that unexpected, when she thought about it... But there was nothing to be done about it now, Hermione thought as she chased after them all the way to the library, leaving behind a very surprised Neville. Indeed, it only took them four hours to realize that the Cerberus was guarding a philosopher's stone. Four short hours, and their Gryffindor instinct for seeking trouble was back on full throttle.

"A stone that gives you as much gold as you want! Anyone would want it!" Hermione exclaimed, deliberately drawing their attention away from its other properties. If they don't connect the stone to Voldemort, there may still be a chance of dissuading them from trying to rescue it.

"Of course!" Ron agreed, "Snape would be rich! Then he wouldn't have to teach!"

"I've got to go. Don't do anything dumb and get into trouble!" Hermione slipped away as the boys began to discuss what they would do with a philosopher's stone if they had one. She would've watched them for longer, but she'd already promised to meet someone else. She just hoped her request wasn't too much to ask from two Gryffindor boys.

Ah, who was she kidding? How could she expect them to stay out of trouble when she was hardly managing it herself?

Stars, this was starting to look dire...

"Professor Snape's been in an exceptionally bad mood all week, hasn't he?" Daphne remarked.

The mood of the current Head of Slytherin House was notoriously difficult to read, Blaise thought, but the exceptionally large pile of homework on the table before them left preciously little doubts. Honestly, did the man realize that he would have to read these things? Did he even plan to read them? Or did he simply decide that he wanted more tinder for his fireplace?

"I think he's still recovering from that prank two days ago," muttered Theodore.

"Ah, I apologize on behalf of the perpetrators," Sal chuckled, "I think I know who they are."

"No kidding," Daphne looked at the rolls of half-finished, not-yet foot-long essays and sighed. "Everyone knows it's the Weasleys. I sincerely hope that next time they pull something like this, they consider the consequences first. This is not fun..."

The corner of Sal's lips twitched with amusement. Something told Blaise this wasn't the first time she'd heard the comment. "They don't do this every year, do they? I wonder why they suddenly decided that the Great Hall needed a hundred more snakes."

The three Slytherins exchanged subtle glances at this, deciding not to mention that the prank had a "part two". Nevertheless, Blaise was glad to see that his friends got along well enough to joke about this. Just last month, the incident would've been considered sensitive.

Sal kept laughing, though softly so as not to disturb the quiet of the library. "Well, we've gotten so far already. Surely the rest of it can't take too long," she said comfortingly. "How was Malfoy's party, by the way? I've heard him boast that it'll be the gossip of the month. I wonder if it, er, lived up to the expectations?"

"Well, it certainly was grand," Theodore allowed.

That was no overstatement, Blaise thought, even if Malfoy had exaggerated tremendously in his bragging. The Malfoys didn't things by halves. Upon arriving at the gates, Blaise had been greeted by two pure white peacocks, strutting along the hedge. Where Lucius Malfoy had got them from, Blaise had no idea. Then he'd unfastened his cloak (since he didn't want to wear Sal's present just yet) and gave it to one of the five house-elves, who bowed and showed him to the children's lounge while his parents went off to join the main party. Clearly the Malfoys wanted to keep the kids out of the way, so that they could entertain the people who could actually do something for them.

Blaise could only guess at how extravagant the main feast was, but the fact that even the children's area was richly decorated and had a full banquet table of delicacies such as lobster tails gave him a good idea. And throughout all this, musicians were performing outside in the gardens, under a weather-proof charm to repel the snow.

"They'd hired a whole orchestra to perform" Daphne told Sal, "Though, I'm a bit disappointed. Draco promised Theo that his father would be personally playing a Nocturne."

"And he didn't?" Sal asked.

Theodore snorted. "I only asked him that to call his bluff... I doubt Draco even knew what a Nocturne is. I'm pretty sure his father could play though. I would be impressed if he did."

Blaise nearly raised an eyebrow at this, though he pushed it down at the last second. Was Malfoy Sr.'s aptitude for music important in some way? He wished Sal would ask, because he wasn't very sure either.

Sal's eyes flickered briefly over their faces. "Excuse my ignorance, but what exactly is the significance of the Nocturne? From what I've read, a Nocturne in the magical world is music performed directly by magic, yes?"

Music... directly from magic?

"Exactly," Daphne nodded, "My mom says you're supposed to draw your magic through the air to make it sing. It sounds really beautiful, a bit like a flute, but you have to be really precise or the notes won't come out right. "

Blaise tried not to look too surprised. He didn't know magic could do that.

"You also need to carefully control the amount of magic you let out, as well as how fast you do it," Theo added, "That's why wizards traditionally play the Nocturne to show off their strength, and how well they wielded their magic. There's a direct correlation between the quality of your Nocturne and your aptitude for wordless or wandless casting, the reliability of your spellwork, and even your duelling ability. Not to mention that you also need some inspiration to play tastefully."

Well... That explained why it was such a big deal. Blaise tried to imagine what magic must've sounded like. It was still a foreign concept to him. Though, it would be nice to learn this art form if possible. It would likely be helpful.

An unsolicited name suddenly popped into his head: Knockturn Alley. He shrugged and dismissed it.

"But people don't play anymore?" Sal wondered.

"Unfortunately," Theodore nodded. "Probably because most people can't play very well. It's easier to have instruments like violins and pianos, which you could hire someone to play for you whenever you want. Only the older families remember it now. But I've read that up until the 13th century, every respectable wizard practiced the Nocturne to some degrees. I wish my father would teach me. He never seems to have the time."

"I'll see if I can find some books about it," declared Sal. Of course.

"It'll be awesome if the four of us manage to learn wandless casting," said Daphne, dreamy-eyed, "imagine that! We'll be legendary! How many people do you reckon can do it?"

"There's Dumbledore," Blaise shrugged.

"Maybe it's not actually that hard," Theodore smirked, "I mean, I saw Quirrel summon a book wandlessly just yesterday."

Sal pulled a face. "I guess it makes sense. His wand is made of Alder I think, and I've read that it goes well with people who are wandless casters. No idea why the wand would prefer to get used less often. Maybe it's lazy?"

The conversation quickly drifted into a discussion on everybody's wand-buying experience and Mr. Ollivander's weird comments. It was a lovely afternoon. And to think just a month ago, all they could comfortably talk about was homework!

"Oh, no!" Daphne exclaimed, "We've completely forgotten about the essays!"

After grabbing Gregory Goyle's hand just in time to prevent him from blowing up his cauldron and the class, Severus Snape sank back down into his chair tiredly. The idiot boy... How he wished that Goyle had been sorted into another house, so that he wouldn't have to deal with complaints about the hulking bully from students and teachers alike! But instead, he just had to be Slytherin and friends with Draco Malfoy.

Severus rubbed his temples. He hadn't had a full night of sleep ever since they'd found Slytherin's book. After the students had gone off to bed, he'd stayed in the common room and read that book from cover to cover, examining it closely for signs of deceit or forgery or whatnot. Eventually, he had to conclude that it was not only genuinely authored by their esteemed founder, but also written in good faith.

'If only someone could've read this book sooner...'

If only this could've happened when he and Lily were still in school. Then, maybe things wouldn't have turned out this way. Maybe then he wouldn't have lost her...

Severus cursed himself for his distraction when a loud boom sounded in the back of the class. He immediately made his way to Seamus Finnigan's now-deformed cauldron, making sure to give Potter a good scolding as well. The boy was a spitting image of his father: same hair, same face, same popularity, same mannerism. Probably fancied himself a little hero too. Severus would give his life to ensure that Harry grows up safely and amounts to something, for Lily. Heck, he would even referee a Quidditch match for him. but he could certainly do without having to set eyes on the boy so bloody often.

Sighing, he stalked back to the relative calmness of the front of the class. While Malfoy wasn't a particularly talented potioneer, he had at least enough literacy skills and common sense not to do anything catastrophic. Avery and Nott's potion was excellent. Zabini and Greengrass's potion was fine. And Granger clearly knew exactly what she was doing, which was not something most potioneers could claim.

He hadn't expected to find someone with her talents in Gryffindor, but perhaps he shouldn't say that. Lily had been a Gryffindor and a muggleborn, after all, and she was brilliant.

If only someone could've read the book sooner. But there was no use in wishing.

There was no use in wishing, but there was still hope for the future. And now, he wished Granger and her friends luck.

Chapter Text

The long anticipated (or dreaded, depending on who one asked) Quidditch match finally arrived. Hermione did not allow herself to be dragged out to the audience stands this time, having purposefully avoided Ron after breakfast. However, she did station herself with a pair of binoculars at a window facing the Quidditch field. This was a much better way to watch the game, in her opinion. From up here, she would be protected from the elements. She would not have to strain her neck by looking up for long periods of time. She would not get scolded for multitasking, or lacking enthusiasm. But most importantly, she could point her binoculars wherever she wanted without getting odd looks.

She watched as Snape glide into the center of the field smoothly on his broom, wearing an annoyed but determined expression. The Gryffindor team had been wailing for days over how Snape would be picking through their every move, but they really had nothing to worry about. In fact, since his full attention would be focused on Harry and Quirrell, Hermione doubted he would say much even if the whole Gryffindor team started playing like the Slytherins.

Hermione followed Snape's gaze to the hovering, scarlet-clad figure that was Harry Potter. She still found it amazing that the boy would continue to play Quidditch, even after what happened to his broom during the first match. Certainly, he was alarmed at first, but Ron and the other Quidditch fans assured him that brooms never behaved this way. Of course, there had been speculations on why Harry's broom acted so erratically, but then Professor McGonagall had done some checks to verify that the broom was still functional, so Harry was good to go. He'd also gotten the idea that he simply had to play, since there were no reserve Seekers and the small risk of falling from his broom was outweighed by the prospect of losing the House Cup.

And Hermione felt, not for the first time, that Quidditch really shouldn't count so much toward the House Cup. True, it helped students build up their physical agility, stamina and coordination, and promoted teamwork. Nevertheless, it should not be the primary way of earning points. Even Godric would never award 150 points for a game! If he'd tried to award more than twenty, he would've been outvoted three to one.

In the audience stands, Blaise and Daphne were sitting beside each other, but also with their respective group of friends. Theodore was not with them, however. She wouldn't blame him if he found the whole affair as boring as she did. Ron and Neville were watching the game with fingers crossed. Unfortunately, their peace was about to be disturbed, because Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were moving their way while sniggering among themselves. Hermione sighed as Ron flushed red and punched Malfoy in the nose. Neville had managed to cast a shield charm strong enough to keep both Crabbe and Goyle off them. This was fortunate, because otherwise they would've walked away with far more injuries.

Soft footsteps approached. A little unexpectedly, its owner came to a stop beside her. "Hello, Sal,"

"Oh, hi, Theo," Hermione half-turned, setting down her binoculars to look at the "missing" Slytherin first-year, "Have I occupied your usual spot?"

"I stood two windows down last time," he pointed, "I wasn't expecting to find anyone else here though."

Hermione explained that she didn't care much for Quidditch, but had to at least know what happened lest her fellow Gryffindors try to make her sit out there next time.

"Same here," Theodore nodded, taking out his own binoculars, "Oh look at Longbottom. Isn't that the shield charm?"

"He's gotten pretty good at it too, I think."

Theodore raised an eyebrow incredulously, but knew better than to comment.

Quirrell hadn't moved. Hermione had just shifted her attention back to Snape when Harry suddenly pelted toward the potion master-turned-referee. Her hand immediately closed on her wand, but it turned out that there was no cause for alarm. Harry had caught the snitch.

"What? Already?" Theodore stared in surprise. "The game's barely started!... Not that I'm complaining, of course." Indeed, it took a second for people to wrap their head around the fact that the game was over. After that, the stadium burst into cheers from Gryffindors, and applause from the other three houses, for the monumentally swift victory. Theodore extended his hand to her in good grace. "Well, congratulation, Gryffindor,"

She shook it. "Good game, Slytherin," she laughed, once again noting the irony. "At least your common room will be nice and quiet and usable when you go back. I bet the Weasley twins planned - in other words, stole supplies for - a loud celebration again." She was just about to stow away her binoculars when she caught sight of a small scarlet-clad figure taking off, some distance away from the retreating crowd. What was Harry doing?

It wasn't until she followed his flight path with her binoculars that she saw them: two figures, who she could make out to be Snape and Quirrell, were heading into the forest. Snape was bearing down on Quirrell threateningly, while the poor defense professor made a big show to be flustered and frightened as usual. Of course, in reality, Quirrell had someone much more dangerous to be afraid of.

Hermione tapped her fingers on the windowsill. Making Quirrell chicken out would've been a good strategy, if Quirrell had simply been receiving orders. Snape would've been told of Quirrell's possible connection to Voldemort and warned to watch out for him, if her understanding of Dumbledore's character was correct. However, Snape clearly didn't realize just how close that connection was. Was Dumbledore being secretive, or was he equally oblivious that Voldemort can effectively see through Quirrell's eyes and control his every move? Hermione was inclined toward the latter, and she was glad. Even though she would rather that Dumbledore knew exactly who he was dealing with, her respect for the headmaster's character would've dropped significantly if he'd been deliberately tricking the professors on this.

Snape seemed to be in the process of wrapping up his threats. Quirrell was still shaking. She couldn't hear their actual conversation, but Harry seemed to be listening attentively. She'd most likely receive an account of this the moment she enters the common room.

"Potter's eavesdropping?" Theodore had also noticed this.

He sounded unsurprised, Hermione realized, as if this was only logical. Why?

"Did you tell him, then? That Snape or Quirrell jinxed his broom last time?"

"How did you know I suspected them?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. She didn't expect another student to notice Snape and Quirrell, much less notice that she'd noticed them...

But he couldn't suspect she had something to do with the Bludger - she'd been very subtle after all, and her wand had been concealed in the sleeve of her robe. Theodore wouldn't have seen it even if he did search among the audience as she did.

"I thought you'd probably read a thing or two about jinxes. Besides, Potter clearly wasn't in any condition to look down at the time, and I doubted Weasley would've been much help. It would have to be you who noticed them."

That was not actually why Harry was investigating Snape, Hermione thought, but an interesting deduction nonetheless.

"But why would they do it?" Wondered Theodore, confused, "I mean, we all know that Snape hates Potter, but not enough to risk Azkaban to jinx his broom right? And what motives can Quirrell possibly have? It doesn't make sense, unless there's a third person hidden somewhere that both of us missed... But why's Snape mad at Quirrell then?"

"Beats me," Hermione shrugged. "But maybe that's why Dumbledore's at the game today - to figure out who did it."

Theodore nodded in acceptance. She knew he would keep watching, but he wouldn't attempt to involve himself in a situation that was far beyond him, that was already being taken care of by someone more capable, unless his own interest was affected. Thus was basic risk assessment, as well as the Slytherin doctrine.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Harry and Ron. Upon returning to the Gryffindor common room, as expected, Harry pulled her and Ron aside and told them how Snape demanded Quirrell to tell him about his "hocus-pocus". This must mean, he'd somehow concluded, that Snape had gotten past all the protections around the Stone except Quirrell's and Fluffy.

Hermione corrected that last piece of logic of course, but this did not reassure the boys completely. They started telling people off for making fun of Quirrell in class and sending him encouraging smiles, and they were more nervous around Snape than ever. To give them credit, they at least remembered her advice and took care to aim their suspicious glances at Snape's back only, rather than glaring at him outright - Not that the seasoned spy was fooled, of course. He simply didn't seem to have the energy to interrogate them.

To keep their minds off things that they'd best not concern themselves with, Hermione began insisting that they start studying for their exams. She knew that most students would've started later, but hard work would pay off sooner or later anyways. More importantly, given the kind of trouble these two seemed to be attracted to, they ought to become better than just passable.

"Aww, Sally!" On the seventh level, Portrait Godric chuckled once Harry and Ron were out of earshot, "Don't be so hard on my lions!"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm already cutting them a lot of slack for the theory, considering that they're Gryffindor, but they should at least reliably perform the practical portion of transfigurations and charms. And the leg-locking jinx and full-body bind are entirely within their skill level. There's no reason why they shouldn't learn those."

"That's true," Godric conceded. "It's a shame they had to cancel the duelling club. I think my students benefited a lot from it. Speaking of which, I've got a duel with Sir Cadogan at eleven o'clock. You know, though I still wish we could find a better portrait of my mentor, he's not half bad."

Hermione snorted. The other three founders could understand that Godric had wanted to honour his old mentor at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, painted by an amateur artist, certain aspects of Cadogan's personality had clearly been greatly exaggerated. This unfortunately resulted in a brash nuisance with very little wit and far too much enthusiasm for picking fights. Salazar had to charm his paintings so that nothing could enter it without permission, in order to keep Cadogan out. This worked for one year, until Cadogan heard rumours from students and became determined to "test the worth of the duellist whose prowess could supposedly parallel his protege's". He then started to scream at him from Godric's, Helga's, or Rowena's portraits in an attempt to bait him out, causing the greatly irritated witches to cast the same charm on their own portraits.

Godric later did the same for his portrait, though he did this mostly in the interest of defending himself from Salazar. (Salazar had a habit of throwing his eagle feather quill like a dart when he became annoyed, in life and much more so in painting. Much of the time, it would soar into the adjacent painting, which happened to be Godric. Though this was not entirely an injustice since, much of the time, the cause of his annoyance also happened to be Godric.)

"Suit yourself, but come and visit me when you finish, would you? There's something I'd like your opinion on."

"As you wish, M'lady," he mumbled.

"Why thank you, Godric. Starshine?"

In the depth of the night, Hogwarts was still and silent. Even the castle itself drops into partial hibernation due to the lack of residual magic to absorb. Occasionally one might hear the footsteps of a professor on patrol, the faint padding of that abomination of a cat called Mrs. Norris, or the gentle whoosh of a gliding ghost. But if one happened to be in the second floor girl's bathroom, for whatever reason, one might get a strange sensation that the floor might be vibrating. Of course, it would be completely silent - because there was a silencing charm at work after all - and very faint. But even then, one could swear that there was some sort of fascinating logic to it, that it was almost rhythmic, before chalking it off to imagination.

But if one spoke Parseltongue and ventured down into the Chamber of Secrets at this moment, one would've been surprised to hear not the sleepy silence of the rest of the school, but music - a bit like a flute, or an organ, or a harp, or a drum. A single beautiful melody, elegant and fluid, sometimes warm and sometimes chilling. And if one saw that the source of the music was the acacia wand in the hand of a little girl, one would be more surprised still.

The final note dissipated into the large, empty anterior chamber. Hermione Granger stowed away her wand, whispered the password and stepped through the narrow stone entrance. "What do you think?" She'd been practicing frequently, but she wanted her friends' judgement for confirmation.

"Your signature Nocturne," Portrait Godric applauded, "I'm glad to finally hear it again."

"That was beautiful," Portrait Helga nodded kindly, "And you didn't make a single mistake, as far as I noticed."

"We struggled with sections of this when we composed it at fourteen," Portrait Salazar noted, "I'd say you're definitely at that level." At the time, it was the most challenging sequence of music Salazar could think of - he'd just finished work on his new wand, and he'd wanted to honour and test its brilliance. At the time, he could hardly play through all of it without stumbling. Just enough to appreciate what it sounded like, and glimpse what it could potentially sound like.

Hermione nodded. This was expected. Since her magic had already been trained once, it was more responsive and maturing faster than it had done the first time around. Not to mention that her wand had matured as well.

"You were somewhat unsteady on the louder passages," portrait Godric noticed. Hermione knew he often played at loud volumes as a self diagnostic when he was not at his strongest. "Which means you shouldn't try things like fiendfyre yet, as you probably realized."

"And you have little control over the timbre still," Observed portrait Rowena, "Well, perhaps I shouldn't say that. I doubt most people, the three of us included, could've done much better. But you... I remember how you used to make that cadenza sound like shattering glass, or running water, or dancing moonlight, depending on your mood," She smiled, "The brilliance that was your signature, Salazar."

"That's the degree of control I have to gain back. I've still got a very long way to go, then," Hermione sat down in the low walnut armchair near where Esmeralda had coiled herself. "I've been wondering, is Quirrell being physically or magically tapped in some way? And this would be indicative of how much Voldemort's learned of the dark arts, because if he knew how to siphon power from Quirrell to strengthen himself he would surely do it."

The others shrugged, but portrait Salazar's relaxed smile turned into something more serious and contemplative. "You're not just sizing him up now," he realized, "You're preparing to enter the battle early."

"Are you sure, Sal?" Asked Portrait Helga, "I don't want anyone to suffer either, but you're still a child! That sounds like the sort of thing Godric would do, actually. You know, go out and vanquish a Dark Lord at age eleven."

"I am a dark lord," Hermione waved jokingly, "why, so little faith, my friends? And here I was just starting to think I can get away with pretending I'm not some old has-been."

"You're not old. You're eleven."

"I'm trying to judge how much I can afford to enter the battle early," Hermione nodded, steepling her fingers again. This was the dilemma she'd been considering for some time, but more and more often recently. She'd decided to stay out of trouble, but...was that even possible anymore? "Once he returns to power, a lot of lives would be lost very quickly, not to mention that many Slytherin students and their families would be pressured to join him. Time will be critical. Of course, I still intend to let Dumbledore deal with things as long as he's in a position to do so. But if the situation arises... "

If, for example, Harry Potter does end up foolishly challenging Voldemort for the Philosopher's Stone this year. If Dumbledore had underestimated Quirrell or Voldemort or both. Both conditions were becoming increasingly likely.

She caught Portrait Salazar's eyes. If she fights now, then at best she and Voldemort would be evenly matched. The likelihood of winning and losing would be 50%. The penalty of losing would most likely be death, she realized rather soberingly.

In muggle terms, it was Russian Roulette, effectively. Except played with a coin toss instead of a six-chambered pistol.

But if she does nothing, then Harry and Ron may die. And while she didn't worry as much about Theodore recklessly running toward danger, he was still standing a bit too close to it for comfort. He'd already noticed Quirrell's ability to do wandless magic last library meeting, for example, and if she hadn't changed the topic he might've gotten the others thinking as well. Her hand would be forced really soon with the way things seemed to be heading.

Was there some way out of this that didn't involve risky duels?

...

Perhaps things would be much simpler if, as the popular opinion insisted, Slytherins had no hearts.

Chapter Text

"Is it just me, or is Hagrid acting a bit ... well... odd?" was the first thing that came out of Daphne's mouth the moment she sat down at their usual table.

"Odd is an understatement," Blaise snorted, "I saw him on my way in too, and I think sneaky is the best word."

"Which really doesn't suit him at all."

"Too right, Theo."

"Is he still there looking for whatever he's looking for?" Hermione, who had been silently remarking on the mildly relaxing effect of not having to listen to Harry and Ron guess at the enchantments around the Philosopher's Stone for an afternoon, quirked an eyebrow. She, too, had spotted Hagrid as she passed though the library. Towering among the bookshelves, he had been rather hard to miss. Still, she suspected that they wouldn't be discussing him now if he hadn't been ducking his head and trying not to be noticed. It really was a rather funny sight to behold.

"Yup," Daphne confirmed helpfully. "I wonder what..."

Having all remembered the gamekeeper's location as they came in, it had been no trouble to take a detour through that section as they leave. There, they realized, to their horror, that Hagrid had been trying to learn about dragons' lives. Because knowing Hagrid's affinity to dangerous creatures, recalling his incredibly incriminating expression, considering the subject matter...

"Dear Salazar..." Blaise blanched, "I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means,"

"That we should watch out for a dragon when we go outside in the near future?" Daphne grimaced. "It sounds ridiculous, but for some reason I'm not assured..."

"Isn't it against the law to raise dragons?" Theodore remembered.

"I'm not sure if he cares,"

Hermione facepalmed. 'So Hogwarts finally gets a dragon. Happy now, Godric?' Too bad it couldn't be allowed to stay. Legilimency and Godric's efforts had shown that dragons were simply not capable of developing complex thoughts or detailed information retention. And Hagrid was unfortunately no more equipped to keep and train a dragon than Godric, even if his half-giant status granted him substantial immunity to injuries.

"We should tell someone," Daphne suggested, "but since we don't have proof they probably won't believe us."

"Especially since we haven't even seen a dragon or an egg. We're only guessing," Blaise agreed, "though there isn't much of a puzzle here, in my opinion."

Theodore shrugged. Daphne and Hermione glanced at each other thoughtfully.

Eventually, Theodore proposed, "I don't suppose there's any harm to checking it out this time?"

And so it was that the four Slytherins (give or take) ended up crouched beneath the windowsill of the gamekeeper's hut, trying to peek inside through a small crack in the drawn curtains.

"Theo, do you see anything?" Daphne asked again, a little impatiently. "I don't appreciate having to kneel in such a filthy place!"

"Not much," Theodore replied, his nose up against the glass. "Can't see anyone inside. Room's not as dark as you would expect it to be though, what's with the curtains and all. I think he's got a fire going."

"Even when no one's inside?" Blaise, who had been facing the other way to keep a look out for people approaching from the castle, turned. "What's the bet that the dragon's in the fire?"

"Hagrid's on his way back," Hermione, who had been watching for Hagrid's return from the forest, warned. It occurred to her that they hadn't checked whether the other side of the hut was clear, and would be found if Hagrid had been working in the pumpkin patch all along. She didn't bring it up, however. It wouldn't hurt for them to have a talk with Hagrid - and if he was really raising a dragon, he probably needed one. "Oh, never mind. He's turned around again."

They looked at each other, trying to decide what to do next.

"Ooh, let me have a look,"

"All yours, Daphne." Theodore said, scooting over to make space.

"Whoa... is that unicorn hair hanging from the ceiling? And is it just me, or does the room look kind of smoky?"

"Not sure... What now?"

Before they could do anything, however, they were interrupted by loud barking. Fang, Hagrid's black hound, had leapt out from behind a pile of pumpkins and latched onto Blaise's cloak. "Ahh! Get off me!"

"Down, boy! Down, boy!" Daphne tried, wanting to help yet afraid to get too close to Fang's teeth. Theodore pointed his wand at the large dog and tried to think of a spell that would subdue it without injuring it severely. They would be in so much trouble if they accidentally kill the dog.

"What are y'all doin' here?" Hagrid boomed, bounding over at the commotion. Noticing the green-and-silver scarves, his normally ruddy face turned a shade paler with alarm. With surprising swiftness, he planted himself protectively between the children and the door of his hut.

Hermione saw Theodore and Daphne conceal an eye-roll at this, opting instead to smile innocently. Blaise was holding the bite marks on his cloak mournfully, now that Fang had slinked away. "This was my best cloak..." he fretted.

Hagrid surveyed the group suspiciously, hands on his hips, before noticing Hermione. His bushy eyebrows shot up like rockets. "Sally?"

"We're visiting, Hagrid," Hermione smiled back, angelically.

"All o' ye?" Hagrid asked, unconvinced. "But them Slytherins never come here..."

Daphne and Blaise exchanged a subtle glance that said, 'You don't wonder why...'

Hagrid's expression became increasingly guarded as he worked out why they could suddenly be interested in his hut. "Yer not here about the... I don't know where you heard it from, but it's all rumours! I'm not raising a ... anything dangerous here!"

Hermione resisted the urge to facepalm at how quickly Hagrid gave himself away. Theodore wasn't so successful.

"We didn't know before," Daphne said, deliberately wide-eyed, "It must be your guilty conscience playing tricks on you, my friend! But now we do! Allow us to advise you against the hazards of keeping a volatile fire-breathing creature in a wooden hut?"

Rubeus Hagrid glanced furtively at the lot, then sighed in defeat. "Come on in, then. And please don't blab about this to the whole school..."

They followed Hagrid into his small hut, all deciding not to tell their host that he was doing a very good job of it himself. Minutes later they were sitting, surprisingly calmly, around Hagrid's small round table sipping tea. Hagrid had also offered them a platter of rock cakes, but those mostly went untouched. A dragon egg was indeed lying in the fireplace, which also explained why the temperature within the room needed to be so high.

"So let me get this straight," Blaise asked, "you got a dragon's egg from some bloke in a bar?"

"Won it in a bet," Hagrid grinned. "The bloke challenged that I couldn't drink four mugs of malt whiskey, so I showed him -"

"I'm sure you did, Hagrid," Daphne shook her head disapprovingly, muttering something about livers.

"- and he jus' happened to have a dragon egg with him -"

"Normal people don't just happen to carry dragon eggs around," Theodore interrupted, "What kind of shady places do you go to, Hagrid?"

"I don't -" Hagrid waved his large hands vigorously, affronted. "It was a decent pub! Can't believe I'm bein' lectured 'bout shady places by Slytherins..."

Theodore was wearing a look that clearly said, 'I don't believe you,' but didn't comment.

"Anyways, I've always wanted a dragon as a boy," Hagrid continued with sparkling eyes, "and I was so happy when he handed the egg to me. I promised him I'd take good care of it an' all."

"But Hagrid, what are you going to do when it hatches?" Hermione reminded him gently, "It'll breath fire, so it can easily burn your hut and the forest. And soon it'll grow so big that it won't fit in your hut anyways. And it'll have to eat too. Can you control it and make sure that it doesn't eat, well, us?"

"I... I haven't thought o' that yet," Hagrid mumbled, "I guess, I guess I'll jus' have te train him like Fang."

"Dragons don't learn as well as dogs, Hagrid, and they're much more dangerous. And I have it on good authority that great wizards have tried many things and failed. Even tickling - don't do that, by the way. It won't end well."

"But I can't just leave him! He's just a baby!" the gamekeeper looked at them pleadingly, then looked toward his precious dragon egg. The deceptively innocuous thing was sitting among the charred wood, oblivious to the trouble it was about to cause and - 'Oh hell is that a CRACK?'

Hagrid leapt up and excitedly ran to the grate. "It's hatching!"

"Oh great!" Daphne wailed.

Hagrid didn't hear her, as he was busy fawning over the egg. He attempted to cradle it in his arms, but jerked his hand back when its surface proved to be quite hot.

"Now what do we do -" Blaise began to ask quietly, but didn't get the chance to finish because the door suddenly opened.

"Hey Hagrid we had a free period and we just thought we'd stop by to talk to you about the st- " Harry and Ron stood in the doorframe. Their mouth opened and closed as they took in the thick smoke in the room, Hagrid's ecstatic grin, the odd round object in his arms, Hermione and the three Slytherins. Understandably, they were at a loss of words.

"Erm... What - "

...

It was Hagrid who broke the momentary silence.

"Want te see my dragon?"

...

In that moment, Hermione truly appreciated the sentiment of "no rest for the weary".

Chapter Text

"What are you doing here?" Ron blurted.

Harry winced slightly at the accusing tone. He was surprised to see the Slytherins as well, but did Ron really have to start an argument?

Well, surprised was an understatement. He was still wondering whether he might be dreaming, actually. Maybe this was just a weird dream, where Hagrid's house was on fire, and Sally was happily having tea with Slytherins while Hagrid was waltzing around them and holding a dragon egg which hatched -

"Look at 'im! Isn't he the cutest little dragon you've ever seen? Mummy loves 'im so much -"

The little dragon responded by blowing a tongue of flame onto the wooden table, which Sally quickly put out with aquamenti. Harry pinched himself. It felt real enough.

"We are trying to convince Hagrid that he can't raise a dragon in his hut," Sally told them, and Harry hoped the dragon would distract Ron enough to stop him from saying any more rude things. He could see that the Slytherins were offended, and rightly, but fortunately they didn't retaliate yet. It would only be a matter of time if Ron wouldn't stop, though.

And why did Hagrid have a dragon in his arms anyways? Were you even allowed to do that?

"Not you, them -"

"But I can't jus' get rid of 'im now! He's jus' an adorable baby - Ow! He bit me, the little tyke. Don't worry, he's just playing,"

"Hagrid, I'm not sure if it's a good idea to keep a dragon," Harry frowned.

"Yeah," the Slytherin girl nodded. 'Her name's Greengrass, I think.' "What if it takes a bigger bite next time?"

Unfortunately, Ron plowed on. "Sally, what are you doing with those slimy snakes?"

Sally folded her arms. "Snakes are not slimy, for your information. And stop being rude to my friends, please."

One of the boys, Zabini (?), had been on the verge of saying something scathing, but calmed a bit at this.

"This is Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott."

Ron just glared.

Harry didn't know who to side with. Ron was his friend, but so was Sally, and he didn't see why they should be mean to Daphne, Blaise, and Theodore in the first place. He never appreciated people telling other people who to be friend with. He remembered how no one in primary school would play with him because Dudley told them not to.

'But they're Slytherins!' said a small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ron's.

But what was the problem with Slytherins? Slytherin himself hadn't been that bad, had he? Certainly not as bad as everyone insisted that he was. And as far as he could see, Ron was the one being rude here. The Slytherins hadn't even said a thing.

Another thought occurred to him. What would Ron say if he found out that Harry was a Parselmouth? Would he become the "slimy snake" then? But he hadn't done anything to him! 'And neither has Daphne, Blaise, or Theodore.'

Sod Ron. "Er, it's nice to meet you," he greeted tentatively, not sure whether he was supposed to shake hands or not.

Harry felt relief when Blaise and Theodore smiled back. Ron looked outraged, but was again pointedly ignored by the others. "Good to meet you too," Daphne said warmly, "Harry,"

" - Mummy's gonna name 'im Norbert! What d'ya think, eh? Norbert's a cute name fer a dragon?"

Six pairs of eyes rolled simultaneously.

Though Ron still refused to talk to the Slytherins, and vice versa, there were some things that they'd agreed on fairly quickly. For example, they'd unanimously agreed - well, excluding Hagrid - that "Norbert" had to go. It was further decided that Ron would write to his brother Charlie, who worked in a dragon reserve, to ask if someone could come and collect the dragon, and that Hagrid would keep the dragon safe and hidden in the meantime. Then, when Charlie sent a reply saying that the dragon must be picked up at night, and smuggled up to the Astronomy Tower no less, it was realized that they shouldn't all go, since it would only increase the amount of noise made and thus their chance of getting caught. It was further decided, again unanimously, that one person from each house should go, in order to prevent either house from ratting the other out.

Lastly, these two representatives were determined to be Theodore and Hermione. 'Sooo... I guess I'm smuggling a dragon now.'

Any remaining confidence she might've had about being able to stay uninvolved had just flown out the window with that thought. Whatever.

Daphne, Blaise and Theodore had later expressed to her that while they'd very much like to make Harry's acquaintance, they hoped they'd never have to stand beside Ron Weasley again. Hermione completely respected this, and sometimes brought Harry along to the library when Ron was out of sight. Harry complained less about studying since he started meeting with them, she noticed. Good influences certainly did help.

Meanwhile, Ron was none too happy about Hermione's, and now Harry's, continued association with Slytherins. He'd been fuming when they'd first returned from Hagrid's hut. "How could you two side with them!"

"You were being rude, and they weren't," Hermione had told him calmly, "Listen, you can't just insult people because they're in Slytherin. You don't hear Daphne calling us 'grisly Gryffindors' or something, do you?" Indeed, she was grateful that her Slytherin friends had managed to refrain from openly insulting Ron, for her sake and for their own sake. If they'd acted like Malfoy did on the train, Harry would've been forced to come to Ron's defence.

Although, come to think of it, 'grisly Gryffindor' did have a rather nice ring. Should've thought of this a thousand years ago.

"But she's a slimy Slytherin!"

"Daphne's a nice girl, as I'm pretty sure you'll realize if you actually take a minute to talk to her civilly. Right, Parvati?"

"Of course," Parvati vouched, hands on her hips, "We've been friends since we were little. Don't be so mean, Ron!"

Ron huffed.

Hermione sighed silently. "Ron, why do you hate Slytherins so much?"

"They're Death Eaters!"

"They're eleven-year-olds," Hermione corrected patiently. "You-know-who wouldn't recruit eleven-year-olds, would he?"

"Then they're a bunch of stuck-up arses!"

"It's called manners, Ron." 'Ha, funny. I think Godric said that once, although it was singular then.'

"They think they can buy their way into anything, or just cry to their daddies."

"That's Malfoy. Theo and Blaise work hard for everything they got, whether it's grades or points."

"But, but... they cheat on Quidditch!"

"Theo doesn't even like Quidditch. And I saw Blaise and Daphne applaud for Harry when he caught the snitch." Now there was an actual point. One of Slytherins' greatest strengths was to think around rules that would otherwise put them at a disadvantage, and turn the situation in their favour. Take Quidditch for example. How could Slytherin expect to win a single house cup, when the Quidditch team pretty much secures the victory and people with Gryffindor-type personalities were generally more athletic? But in bending the rules, they cause life to become very unfavourable for everyone else who didn't want to play their mind games. It was only natural that people like Ron would shun them to protect themselves.

But contrary to what people thought, Slytherins never disregarded all the rules. Like all decent human beings, they had certain morals and standards that were strictly upheld. One of Salazar's personal rules was that those he manipulated would suffer no harm or net loss from things he made them do. Typically he would even try to ensure that something good came out of the deal for them as well. Of course, things may be different if they'd wronged him previously, or took a risk in hopes of double-crossing him.

But back to the subject of Ron. Though he still disapproved of Hermione and Harry's choice of company, the redheaded Gryffindor at least stopped pestering them about it. There wasn't much he could do to stop them, after all.

When the time they'd agreed upon came, Hermione easily slipped out of the castle and met Theodore at Hagrid's cabin. A sniffling Hagrid reluctantly handed them the large wooden(!) crate that contained Norbert. "He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey, and I've packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely... Bye-bye Norbert! Mummy'll never forget you!"

Hermione and Theodore looked from the sobbing half-giant to the crate and sighed. "Wingardium leviosa. C'mon, let's go..."

They made their way back into the school carefully, one hand holding their wands and the other pushing the crate along. Peeves was playing tennis in the entrance hall, but pretended not to notice them as they passed behind him.

"Any trouble getting out?" Hermione whispered.

"Not really," Theodore whispered back, "I've been sneaking out occasionally to practice my spells, so I've got some experience with this."

"Same," Hermione made a mental note of this.

They made it to the astronomy tower without too much trouble. They'd been found by Mrs. Norris in a ground floor corridor, but Hermione immobilized her with 'petrificus totalus' before she could even do so much as meow. She then took a quick detour to a nearby torch bracket and levitated the cat's tail through it.

"When do you reckon Filch's going to find her?" Theodore smirked. Clearly the nuisance of a cat had annoyed him too many times as well.

"In the dark, up there? Probably not for some time. Maybe tomorrow morning, poor soul."

They handed off Norbert with relief. At the bottom of the tower, they were surprised to hear an ominously angry voice. "Detention! and twenty points each from Gryffindor!" That sounded like McGonagall. "Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you! What do you have to say for yourselves, Mr. Weasley? Mr. Potter?"

"What in Merlin's name are they doing out?" Theodore hissed, wide eyed, but wasted no time in backtracking carefully up the spiral stairs.

"That's what I'd like to know," Hermione replied, glancing over her shoulder at the one and only exit to the tower while skipping up the stairs as quickly as she could while maintaining silence. When the bathrobe-clad Professor McGonagall passed while dragging two Gryffindor boys behind her, they carefully snuck out of the tower and headed the other way back to the grand staircase, where they parted ways. Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room, uneventfully as always.

As she lay down in her bed, she wondered what pitiful excuse Ron and Harry would give her tomorrow morning. It was their own problem that Gryffindor lost forty points, and that they got detentions.

And if they get blamed for Mrs. Norris tomorrow morning, it would be their own problem as well.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Ron had bravely left the safety of the Gryffindor common room yesterday to protect her. From whatever nefarious schemes the Slytherins had surely got planned. Ron didn't consider that she'd gotten along fine before he knew about who she was spending time with for the past few months, or that Theodore's performance in class made it quite obvious who would win in a duel, or that his wandering around at night would negate the benefits of their previous agreement. He just had to do something.

Harry, realizing that it was a terrible idea, followed him out to try and turn him back. In his haste, he'd forgotten to bring the invisibility cloak.

Hermione had already facepalmed multiple times by then, but actually had to fight down an urge to draw her wand and hex Ron when she heard the next bit of the account. When questioned by McGonagall, before Harry could do anything, Ron had the galls to blurt out that "Sally and Nott are meeting each other tonight, and I didn't want the slimy snake to do anything to her...you know..." How dare he!

She did not stop the kids from going after Quirrell, dispose of a dragon and hold their shaky Slytherin-Gryffindor group together just to get into a scandal, thank you very much!

Clearly the child had no idea what he'd accidentally insinuated, but Professor McGonagall did. The end result was that herself and Theodore were invited by McGonagall and Snape respectively to their offices, thankfully discreetly. There they were each given a private lecture on the danger of, as McGonagall most eloquently tried to explain, "doing something improper with each other" before they were ready. ("Miss Granger, I am aware that children these days - er - mature sooner than in my time, but you're only in first year!") Fortunately, both Hermione and Theodore were in good standings with the professors, must've looked suitably confused at the accusation, and hadn't actually been caught. This allowed them to be let off with an awkward apology (from McGonagall. She could only guess at what happened on Theodore's end) and no complications.

Meanwhile, Ron and Harry could look forward to a special detention. Also, Gryffindor lost eighty points - forty last night and forty more once they'd found Mrs. Norris, and were again nearly neck-to-neck with the Slytherins, much to their housemates' dismay and to Malfoy's delight. Theodore now glared at Ron with cold fury whenever he set eyes on him, making the redhead shiver. Blaise and Daphne, who had evidently been told that Ron had blabbed but not about the meeting with Snape, wore less intense expressions of distaste. Even Harry couldn't resist glowering at Ron whenever something reminded him of his own impeding detention.

Hermione thanked Harry for being sensible, though she suggested that he make use of a helpful spell called 'petrificus totalus' the next time he finds himself in a similar situation. For Ron, she had only a liberal amount of dirty looks and three words: "your own fault". There were so many things he shouldn't have done that she didn't even know how to start.

When she'd stop feeling tempted to hit him, perhaps.

"I don't get why everyone's so mad at me!"

Fred and George couldn't help but smirk. Ickle Ronnikins was too funny when he sulked. "Aww, Ronnikin's in trouble?"

Ron nodded. He looked so lost that Fred felt like petting his head, so he did. Ron swiped his hand away. "Everyone's glaring at me! Harry, Sally, everyone! Just because I got caught sneaking out yesterday and Harry got caught trying to stop me and we lost eighty points -"

"What the hell, Ron! That was you?!" So he's the reason why they'd almost lost their lead! Small wonder that everyone was mad at him! Fred and George and Lee had, in fact, spent the whole morning plotting how to punish the bastard who'd lost their hard-earned points...

"Not you too!" Ron wailed adorably, "And forty points weren't even my fault. I don't know which of them hanged Mrs. Norris - not that I'm complaining - And it's not as if you two never lost any points for us!"

He had a point there.

"And what have I done to them? It's not as if I got them into trouble - well, Harry got detention. But Sally got away, hadn't she? I mean, I kind of told McGonagall that she was out of bed at night as well, but she didn't get caught! Why's she still mad at me?"

Fred chuckled while George tut-tutted as their little brother recounted the whole dragon egg debacle. Ronnikin still had so much to learn. "Ron, one of the golden rules of mischief-makers is, 'If you get caught, don't drag your accomplice underwater with you.' By tattling on her, you not only increased her risk of getting caught but also possibly jeopardized the whole operation. You also might've made McGonagall suspicious of her, so she's mad at you. Simple."

"And why didn't you stick to the plan anyways?" George asked, "I personally thought it was clever of you to send one person from each house. And you couldn't have chosen your representatives better."

"Why?"

"Well, take it from our years of experience with pranking and general hooliganism," Fred smirked.

Ron flushed. "But I had to make sure she's ok! Who knows what those Slytherins are planning behind our back? And what about the points, then? They could get her caught to make Gryffindor lose points!"

"Getting caught won't be of any use to them if they can't extract Nott, and you all knew that," Fred reminded him. "You'll lose an equal amount of points - that's why your original plan was so clever. But then you and Harry had to go out as well, making it advantageous for Slytherin to expose the operation since now three Gryffindors would get caught versus one. And besides, they didn't tattle, if I heard you correctly. You broke the agreement, you got caught because you were clumsy, and then you tattled. Your own fault, as Sally said."

"But it was for her own good!"

Fred traded a look with his twin. "Ron, you don't need to worry about Greengrass, Zabini, or Nott," George told him, "We've been watching for some times. We don't think they'll hurt Sally." Besides, they probably couldn't anyways. Fred and George knew that little Sally was as devious as any Slytherin. They'd worked together, after all.

They weren't about to tell though. Golden rule of mischief-makers and all.

"How do you know?"

"We have our ways."

"Look, we know you don't like Slytherins much. We're not sure what to think of them either," said George, "But maybe they're not all bad. I mean, we never really got to know any of them, and a lot of the bad things we heard about Slytherin the founder turned out to be wrong. Have we ever talked to any of them properly? Like not for the purpose of slinging insults, I mean?"

Ron shook his head slowly. "That's what Sally said too..."

"Anyways, Sally's not stupid. If she trusts them enough to be friends with them, then I don't see why you should object," Fred finished, vaguely wondering whether he'd ever sounded so sincere in his life.

Ron nodded reluctantly, gathering his bag. "I've got to go to detention now... Nott, Zabini and Greengrass are mad at me too. I don't think they liked me much after I insulted them the first time, but now they're glaring at me wherever I go."

"That's not surprising," George pointed out, "I'm sure Nott doesn't appreciate betrayal either. He has a perfect record to maintain too."

"Oh."

But now that Ron brought it up, Nott's reaction did seem a little strange. After all, Ron's actions did Slytherin a great favour. If he got away without any consequence at all, then he should in all rights be gloating, right? "Ron, what exactly did you tell McGonagall?"

"That I was trying to protect Sally."

"No, the exact wording."

"Merlin! Why does everyone keep asking me that? I just said that Sally and Nott are meeting each other tonight, and I didn't want the slimy snake to do anything to her - Hey! What's so funny?"

Ron looked around bemusedly as the twins started to laugh in his face.

"In that case -" Fred tried to speak, but was having difficulties sitting up straight. He was glad that the common room was currently abandoned, or they would've been heard by the whole house. Sally wouldn't appreciate it.

"-In that case -" George wheezed between cackles, "you're lucky he hasn't cursed you yet! They must've gotten talked to by McGonagall and Snape - Snape! Oh Merlin - "

Fred tried to imagine Snape giving someone the talk. It proved to be a horrible idea, because it made him laugh so hard that he fell out of his chair. "Oh great going Ron! This is why we always choose decent accomplices! This is bad... This is really bad..."

Poor little darlings! Perhaps he should avoid the pair ('No! No! Don't think that, damn it!') for the next few days. If he sees them, he might burst out laughing, and then more than one Weasley would get cursed.

"What! Why?"

Ickle Ronnikin still had so, so much to learn...

"We'll tell you some other time... When you're older," giggled George, "Just... Go and apologize for the tattling... and maybe for being rude... but don't bring this last part up again, 'kay? Trust us."

"Oh, and Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't repeat what you've just said to anyone. Please."

Midnight, Hermione woke with a start, then sighed when she realized the cause.

There was a warm sensation on the left side of her chest, where a piece of enchanted parchment was folded.

Quirrell had entered the trapdoor chamber.

It would appear that the excitement of the day had started early.

Chapter Text

Albus set down the message and stood, preparing to apparate. Emergency Wizengamot meeting? He wondered what Fudge was up to this time. Typically, the man only called emergency meetings in hopes of discouraging certain individuals from attending.

"Are you going somewhere, headmaster?" A soft, lilting voice addressed him.

Albus paused. This was a voice he very rarely heard, and did not particularly want to hear, but one that he felt compelled to pay attention to whenever it did speak. Warily, he turned and looked up at the portraits of the founders, hanging above the headmaster's seat. More specifically, at the sharp-looking man in green.

"Emergency Wizengamot meeting, Salazar," Albus nodded curtly, not wishing to elaborate too much. Ever since he became headmaster, he'd never really felt comfortable around Slytherin's portrait. The pair of silver eyes, even in painting, held a perceptive gleam that never failed to unnerve him. (Rather like the way his own "twinkling" blue ones sometimes unnerved others?) Its relatively high location in the office was such that Albus could generally avoid looking at it as he went about his daily business, so he did. Perhaps noticing Albus's discomfort, Slytherin generally didn't assert his presence either. He didn't chatter like the other portraits did, and most of the time Albus hazarded a glance at him, he was either absent or sleeping.

Most of the time, Albus was allowed to pretend that he wasn't there. Today seemed to be an exception. "It seems rather out of the blue, no? Are you certain it's wise, headmaster, to leave Quirrell unattended?"

"I've asked Severus to be on patrol in addition to Minerva. He's an expert duellist, and Minerva is formidable in her own right. I trust that they will be capable of keeping the school safe while I'm gone." How did Slytherin know about Quirrell? Albus had been careful not to let his suspicion for the possible Death Eater show while inside the headmaster's office. It wasn't that the portrait showed any inclination of sympathizing with Voldemort, of course, but Albus wasn't so delusional about his own abilities to pretend that Slytherin could be read like an open book. One couldn't be too cautious with people like him.

And he couldn't help but feeling that Slytherin knew too much already.

"If I may ask, why do you suspect Quirinus?"

Slytherin shrugged. "I have my ways,"

Of course.

"Back to my point, headmaster. Are you confident that Severus can handle Quirrell?"

"Yes, Salazar. Now I must get going, or the Wizegamot might berate me for my lateness," Albus managed a ghost of the whimsical smile that he usually gave everyone else. He almost pulled it off. "So if you'll excuse me -"

He was halfway through his turn when Slytherin stopped him again. "Headmaster."

Albus looked up to show that he was listening. The sooner this conversation ends the better.

"Are you aware that Quirrell's actions - his body and senses - are currently directly controlled by Voldemort?"

Albus stiffened, meeting the silver eyes for a fraction of a second. Then, he disapparated with a crack.

So. Quirrell finally decided to make another move.

After noting the location of several important names, Hermione tucked her map away before going downstairs to the Gryffindor common room. Harry and Ron, who had been returning from detention, appeared through the portrait hole soon after.

"Oh good, you waited!" Ron exclaimed when he saw her. "We thought you might still be angry!"

"I am, but we'll worry about that later," Hermione surveyed their breathless faces, "There seems to be a problem?"

They hurriedly told her about seeing an entity drinking unicorn blood. Having assumed (most likely correctly) that it was Voldemort, and after obtaining some hints from the centaurs, they realized that Voldemort was the one who wanted the stone all along. "We've got to do something!" Harry insisted, "Voldemort's killed my parents. I won't just stand aside and let him come back!"

"I'm with you, mate," Ron declared determinedly. Though their course of action was suboptimal and their decision ill-considered, their tones had a impressively hardened resolve that would surely make Godric proud.

Both boys were currently looking at her expectantly. Hermione looked slowly from one Gryffindor to the other. She'd feared they would say this. She'd known they would say this. 'Just like heros. Just like martyrs... Damn you, bloody Gryffindors.'

"Are you sure that we, as in the three of us, have to do something, and now? Can we not tell a teacher tomorrow?" Hermione asked. Having the boys running into Voldemort was the last thing she wanted.

"But Professor McGonagall insists that the stone is safe, and she said Professor Dumbledore's been summoned away for an important meeting! It's going to be tonight!"

"Professor Dumbledore's been summoned." Hermione repeated.

Harry nodded gravely.

'Well, I tried...'

"Then you're right. We've got to do something." She agreed. "We've got to head down to the dungeons and make sure Snape doesn't get anywhere near the Stone!"

"Yeah!"

There were so many problems with that plan that if Snape was truly the enemy, they would likely be doomed. Fortunately this time, in stereotypical Gryffindor fashion, they were already heading for the dungeons under Harry's invisibility cloak and did not spend time on considering alternatives. Today this was just what she needed.

So, they couldn't do nothing. But that didn't mean anyone had to gamble their lives either. If her assumptions up to now were correct, then Dumbledore would've most likely placed Snape on patrol tonight with special instructions to watch the third floor corridor. Meanwhile, Snape wouldn't dare go anywhere near the third floor corridor if it meant that Harry would follow along, since Harry's safety came first. With luck, he would lock the two in his office for her.

They did meet Snape coming out of the dungeons, and Harry and Ron tailed him dutifully. At this point, Hermione offered to go and wait outside the Headmaster's office to alert Dumbledore immediately upon his return. This, too, was accepted. 'Good luck, boys. And sorry about that, Severus.'

And now for herself...

Hermione climbed upstairs, bribing Peeves with a box of dungbombs in exchange for keeping the boys out of the third floor corridor as a precaution. She then made her way to the second floor girl's bathroom. Esmeralda's pipes extended nearly everywhere in the castle, and one of the multitude of concealed exits happened to be within the room in which 'Albus Dumbledore' was currently pacing. It functioned somewhat like the brick wall at Platform 9 3/4: One could see out, but not in.

Meanwhile, 'Quirinus Quirrell' seemed to be standing still, some distance away.

Voldemort had done her a favour by sending the fake summon, because it would've allowed Portrait Salazar to alert Dumbledore of Quirrell's attempt without giving herself away. Hopefully the sight of Dumbledore and the knowledge that his plan had been disrupted would cause Voldemort to flee. But if he insisted on duelling, well... two were better than one.

Checking one more time that Harry and Ron were still following Snape, Hermione transformed into the familiar horned viper and slithered off. The first time she'd done this, she'd been intrigued but not surprised to find that she was now black-brown and amber instead of black-green and silver. Well, that and being female.

'Well. Let's see what awaits at the end of this tunnel, shall we?'

Perhaps contrary to what he'd let Slytherin believe, Albus hadn't apparated to the Ministry of Magic, but to a room within Hogwarts itself. Disillusioning himself, he stood beside the Mirror of Erised and waited.

He didn't know that Voldemort was directly controlling Quirrell, in fact. He wondered how Slytherin came about this information, and why he decided to share it with him. One might almost think that Slytherin was concerned that Voldemort might succeed... He would think about it later. After he noticed Quirinus acting somewhat different after his return from his sabbatical, after he realized that Quirinus had travelled to Albania, he suspected that Professor Quirrell might be reporting to Voldemort. He didn't think their contact would be so close.

When he'd asked the professors to set up the "protections" for the Stone, he'd asked them to come up with the most frustratingly time consuming, yet most humiliatingly simple obstacles they could think of. Their goal had been to wear down either the intruder's patience and ability to think cool-headedly, or to tire him out if he chose to take all the barriers down by brute force. Severus's potions were a very nice touch, for example, as it forced the intruder to play word puzzles like a muggle.

He didn't tell them that their protections would also serve as an obstacle course for a first year. They probably wouldn't like it. On that note, he was a bit disappointed that Harry didn't investigate this corridor any further. Although, given the new context of the situation, he supposed this was fortunate.

At the end of the corridor, having come all this way, the intruder would still be unable to extract the stone in any case. The spell on the mirror, along with a multitude of others, would prevent that...

For virtually every wizard in the world, Albus could claim this with certainty. Unfortunately, Tom Marvolo Riddle was one of the exceptions, even though Albus couldn't see any way he could get at the Stone. His Death Eaters were nothing to worry about, but Tom... His pattern of logic, like Slytherin's, made it difficult to say anything for certain.

Slytherin was right. He didn't feel confident leaving Voldemort to Severus and the other professors, let alone letting him anywhere near Harry anytime soon. Originally he'd also been hoping that the moral burden of killing his own students and colleagues would stall Quirinus, but now that seemed unlikely as well. It was better to deal with him personally, and alone, to be safe.

Quirinus's victorious figure finally appeared through the black flames. Albus observed for sometime while Quirinus, and Tom, contemplated the mirror. He wondered what they'd see. Perhaps Quirinus presenting the stone to his master, or Tom returned to full power with the entire world kneeling at his feet? Finally, he removed the disillusionment charm on himself. "You won't get what you came for, Tom."

A high, cold laugh echoed through the chamber. It wasn't Quirinus's mouth that replied, but a sound source that seemed to be within the back of his turban. "Dumbledore." It spat. "You knew that I'm here, then?" And the purple turban was unravelled, revealing what was arguably the most grotesque face that Albus had ever seen. How it would awe people, if they knew that this was what the once handsome Tom Marvolo Riddle was on his way to becoming! "I didn't think you would ever realize."

"I suspected that Quirinus was working for you at the start of the year. I realized that you were controlling him like a puppet mere hours ago, regrettably. Even then, I had not a clue that you've physically attached yourself onto him."

"How did you know?" Tom demanded, in the same authoritative tone that he'd used the first day Albus met him at the orphanage.

Should Albus tell him that the information was willingly supplied by his own esteemed ancestor, to see what Voldemort's reaction would be?

"I have my ways, Tom." Better not bring Slytherin into this, when Albus himself hadn't had time to process what the portrait's surprising co-operativeness entailed. "I did not think anyone would go that far, Tom, even you."

Tom laughed. "There is no good or evil. There is only power. And those too weak to seek it suffer the consequence of their own stupidity."

"You're wrong, Tom, and I've told you many times already." He, too, had nearly believed that there was no good or evil. He and Gellert both. It was fortunate that he caught himself in time, possibly with his help ironically, or there would be two Dark Lords instead of one. And even then, some things were already too late to repair... "Will you attempt to duel me, or will you leave Hogwarts on your own?"

Another chilling laugh. "Since you're here, Dumbledore, I won't waste your time or mine. But know this: you have not killed me. You cannot kill me."

Albus knew that. There was the prophesy, after all.

With that, a black cloud rose from the back the back of Quirinus's skull. Albus did not pretend to be an expert in the mysterious field of soulcraft, especially since he'd actually conversed with one, but he'd studied them sufficiently in his youth to recognize the wraith for what it was. He looked down at Quirinus's body, now a lifeless heap on the floor. 'He wouldn't even spare his host, now that he's useless to him...'

Suddenly, Albus's vision went black, and he realized belatedly that he'd forgotten to watch the wraith. How foolish of him, to forget that Tom never gave up so easily! But that knowledge wouldn't help him now. He thrashed about in the darkness, his ears buzzing and his mind blank with shock. He tried to rack his brain, search all of his extensive knowledge and experience, for some scrap of information that would extract him from the smothering darkness, but came up with nothing. And somehow, it was still closing in, growing thicker and thicker...

Albus couldn't tell if it was real or his own imagination, but he could almost hear his former student's high laughter ringing next to his ear - giddy, like a boy who'd finally beaten his mother to the cookie jar. Elated, that he'd finally had the advantage over the one professor who'd always made him feel like a child. Victorious, to finally be able to assure himself that he was the most powerful wizard bar none.

Albus did still have his magic at his disposal, however. He could feel it flare about him even though he had no idea or control over what it was doing. It had to be doing something, though - he could feel the resistance. He thought it scattered like dust in some places, but remained steadfast, or else fought viciously before faltering, in others... Or wait. Maybe the wraith was circling him? He couldn't tell. All he could do was push out more power in hope that it would somehow make a difference.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the darkness receded.

Albus glanced around the now empty and peaceful room. He could feel himself shaking slightly from his previous surprise, the attack and the heavy use of magic. He must not allow himself to be caught off-guard again.

Taking one last look at the Mirror of Erised, of his family and Arianna, he gently picked up Quirinus and apparated them away.

Hermione watched as Voldemort's soul floated off into the ether, and knew that it was over - for the time being.

Portrait Salazar and Esmeralda were waiting expectantly upon her return. "Problem averted?"

"Not entirely, though for the most part yes," she told them, sinking heavily into the her walnut armchair. At the moment she felt very grateful for its existence. "Harry and Ron are still busy with Snape. Dumbledore came down to head Quirrell off, but he was attacked by Voldemort's wraith in the end and seemed to be losing. Fortunately, in attempting to defend himself, he'd sent out an impressive amount of magic, enough to enable me to banish the wraith by directing the headmaster's own power. Neither of them should suspect that they were fighting anyone other than each other...Voldemort actually attached himself to the back of Quirrell's head, by the way, not some spying mechanism. Even we had no idea."

Portrait Salazar frowned, trying to imagine how Voldemort would've accomplished that. "And how is our dearest cousin-some-hundred-times-removed?"

"His body is gone, but his soul is still tied to the realm of the living. It's terribly unhealthy, though. It felt wrong. It has far too little coherence, and was noticeably incomplete." Salazar had studies souls more than enough during his life, especially in the fifteen years after he'd left Hogwarts, to know that this was not normal.

"Might this be a ritual similar to the one you used?"

"I don't think so. Knowing his history, I doubt he would survive a ritual like mine. The potion I used... you have to be reasonably confident in the strength of your soul to try it. Otherwise it would not be able to pull itself back together, and you would simply die. And if you get the theory wrong - no. It's not his style."

"I see," he nodded slowly, committing this new bit of knowledge to memory for future processing. "The lack of coherence is due to the number of people he murdered then, most likely. But incomplete... Do you think he might've tried That?"

"The single worst thing one could do to oneself?" Hermione steepled her fingers, thinking. "From the evidence, it's not unlikely. And he did sound confident when he announced that Dumbledore cannot kill him."

"To murder for the purpose of intentionally tear his soul apart... " Portrait Salazar shook his head disgustedly, "We thought Herpo had to be the only one in all of history to do something so appalling, now that everyone else knew what happened to him. But now to see 'the Heir of Slytherin' following in his footsteps! Merope, even Marvolo, would never dream that - they would be horrified!"

Yes they would. While Marvolo was a swindling tramp and Merope a vain airhead, neither would ever imagine one of their family turning into a monster like Herpo. "This gives me something else to do for the next few years, I suppose. Find the horcrux. I've no idea where to start though, so that might take some time."

Portrait Salazar nodded. "I'll keep watching Albus, of course."

"He's suspicious that you knew about Quirrell's turban, most likely." This was the reason why they hadn't wanted to alert Dumbledore of it before.

"He is, but he's also used to me knowing things. You're safe for now."

"That's good to know. I should go and wait outside the headmaster's office as I promised now - Dumbledore needs to see me there when he returns from the hospital wing. And then perhaps I can spare Snape from the boys' torment. I do feel sorry for what I'm subjecting him to."

He chuckled. "Of course. Take care, Sal."

"Don't I always?"

Chapter Text

Hermione thought her first year ended on a reasonably happy note. Harry and Ron had been dragged by the ears to the headmaster's office for repeatedly disobeying orders to go back to their dormitory, where they were astonished to hear from Dumbledore that it was Quirrell who'd been trying to steal the Stone all along. Dumbledore had also informed the three that Voldemort had been possessing Quirrell, instructed them to keep this information to themselves, and surprised Hermione by saying that the Stone would be destroyed.

Hermione's view on this was ambivalent. It was Nicholas Flamel and his wife's decision, and they would've considered the trade-offs that were important to them.

All her friends did well on their exams, from Theodore ("You and I and three Ravenclaws are tied for first place, Sal!") to Ron ("Yes! Only one 'Troll'!"). Blaise and Daphne had excellent scores in Potions, and Neville in Herbology. Harry and the Gryffindor team was able to claim victory again in the last Quidditch match, earning Gryffindor the House Cup by a narrow margin. Hermione applauded loudly at the year-end feast, both for Gryffindor's victory and the fact that Slytherin had been able to hold on to the Cup for seven years in a row.

Ron and Harry still maintained that Snape was a git, even though he may not be evil. Hermione protested the insult somewhat, mainly out of guilt for sending the boys after him as a fool's errand, but knew that it was a lost cause given the way Snape acted. Meanwhile, Ron apologized to Hermione and Theodore for snitching, and his treatment from the Slytherins returned from open glaring to veiled dislike. Theodore ceased imitating a basilisk and went back to looking perfectly indifferent around Ron quickly enough. The redhead interpreted this to mean that he was out of the woods, and breathed a sigh of relief. Hermione understood this to mean that some form of revenge was on the way, and rather looked forward to it.

On the train ride home, Hermione again roamed through the compartments to talk to various people. She exchanged promises of correspondence over the summer with Blaise, Theodore, and Daphne, as well as Neville. (Blaise and Theodore were both quite insistent that they all wrote frequently, since their summer would otherwise be effectively spent by themselves and would be very boring.) She had no particular interest in corresponding with Lavender and Parvati, but they'd pestered her so enthusiastically that she had to agree. Fred and George stoically told her that having witnessed her great talent in the art of mischief making, they would be honoured to receive her opinions on some of their future pranks.

However, she'd spent the largest part of the trip playing chess with Harry, Ron and Neville, who they'd found was actually remarkably good. Harry had asked Dumbledore whether he could stay at school for the summer at her suggestion, and had surprisingly been refused. As she exchanged both addresses and phone numbers with him, Hermione resolved to ask her parents whether Harry could come for a stay over. It may be a bit too much to ask of them if Harry was to live with them for the entire summer, but they should be ok with two weeks. As for herself, she planned to visit Hogwarts once in a while. Unlike the rest of the school, the apparition and disapparition wards of the bedroom of her underground chamber were still in her control, not the headmaster's. For the most part, however, she foresaw that her summer would be occupied by reading muggle books.

Her initial plan for the year had been to stay uninvolved. She'd more or less failed at that, and had ended up stirring quite a few pots anyways. But looking back she supposed she shouldn't have expected any differently. In fact, now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember living a single uneventful year in the entirety of her first life... She just wasn't made to sit out on issues she cared about. Perhaps in that she had more in common with Godric than she'd admit out loud.

But at least she did manage to be subtle about it. That made it much more acceptable for her.

Outside the train, warm, golden sunlight washed over the bright grassy meadows and the gently rolling hills. Hermione could see why Helga had wanted this to be the view through her common room windows. Gazing out, one could almost feel all troubles floating away like smoke. Life felt golden.

Eventually, the train slowly pulled into the station. Hermione waved goodbye to her friends and walked toward the archway that led to muggle London, where Mum and Dad would be waiting for her with big smiles. She really did miss them.

"See you all next year!"