Chapter Text
With only minutes until the start of Hogwarts Welcome Feast, Hermione Granger was still in the library, lost in the pages of a book.
Deep within a reader’s fog, she barely registered the pesky sound of someone clearing their throat. With barely a thought, she cast a silencing charm—a reflexive habit learned from her years as one of the few Gryffindor readers.
A Finite Incantatem was cast, followed by a snappish “Miss Granger!”
Hermione glanced up, startled. Before her stood the severe form of Madam Pince, frowning down at her with thin, wrinkled lips.
“Oh! Erm, have you been there long? Did you say something?”
“Indeed. I have asked for your attention several times now,” the woman responded tightly, glancing at the watch on her wrist. “I’ve permitted your pre-term invasion of this library for quite long enough, I think. The feast will be starting shortly, and I must ask that you vacate this table immediately.”
With a nod, Hermione turned her attention back to the fragile tome. “I’ll clean up in just a moment.”
Madam Pince exhaled a long, loud sigh, the sort one might reserve for a bartender who hadn’t heard of Firewhiskey.
Raising a brow, Hermione flicked her gaze back to the librarian and met her glare. Deep wrinkles and crow’s feet decorated the old woman's face, and her entire expression was pinched into a twisted scowl. The resulting effect brought to mind an irritable, grey-haired turtle.
At one time, defying an authority figure in this way, justified or not, would have been mortifying—completely unacceptable behaviour in her younger self's eyes.
That was one more thing the war had changed.
When it became clear that this particular student would not be intimidated, the librarian rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind me, then.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the stacks, muttering under her breath about respect and students and in her day.
Tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, Hermione watched Pince leave without a speck of regret. The teachers needed to remember that her attendance was voluntarily as both an adult and a veteran. There would be no bossing her around… Not this year.
Once Madam Pince was out of sight, Hermione rapidly collected her explosion of notes from the table. After all, the old librarian was right: the feast would start any moment.
Only the books were packed carefully into her satchel; the rest of the items flew into the bag haphazardly with a careless flick of her wand.
Her years as a student had always begun the same way: a mad scramble off the Hogwarts Express, a magical journey to the castle by boat or carriage, and a disaster involving Harry Potter right before exams. Of course, the exception was seventh year, when she had been rather preoccupied with the Second Wizarding War.
While Hermione did not regret a single decision from her childhood in the slightest, she was still aware that her immediate goals, ambitions, and studies had usually revolved around Harry’s needs rather than her own. It was a necessary choice at the time, and one she had made proudly.
But.
This year, with the boys moving on and Voldemort defeated, she had decided that Eighth Year would be all about her wants and needs. Academic research, school work, extracurricular pursuits—all ripe for the taking.
Symbolically, she felt that her arrival should be different as well.
Therefore, while the rest of the students piled off the Hogwarts Express and arrived at the castle in the traditional way, Hermione had tucked herself into her favourite study table—the old one by the wobbling bookcase and the long scratch down the left side—in her favourite room of the castle. She had spent the day blissfully reading and soaking in the atmosphere.
She was reluctant to leave.
Each part of the Hogwarts library, from the ancient rug beneath her feet, to the non-combusting lamps that adorned the ceiling, to the dusty, ancestral volumes, made her heart clench with a sentimental fondness, pure and uncorrupted. Nowhere else in the castle felt nearly as safe.
There was something about the way the heavy air of the library pressed comfortingly against her skin, as if the weight of knowledge itself was woven into the fabric of the timeless shelves.
As if the room were imbued with the very cadence of the stories it possessed.
She closed her eyes and took a final breath of the familiar, ancient air, hoping she could bring the smell of old parchment and leather into the Great Hall with her. After all, the library was the last place Hermione truly felt at home.
Safe.
∞∞∞
At the grand oak doors leading into the hall, students were still filing in to take their seats. Hermione blended in seamlessly with the rest, keeping a sharp eye out for her housemates.
She spotted a familiar head of Weasley-red hair at the end of the table. Ginny huddled beside Demelza Robins and a few other Quidditch players, facing away from the rest of the hall. Dean Thomas sat across from her, frowning down at a binder on the table and clutching charcoal in his hand. Hermione hurried toward them, grateful there was still extra room.
Dean flicked his chin up at her in greeting. At once, Ginny whipped around in her seat, eyes roving until they lit upon her. With a Molly-esque purse to her lips and a dangerous, steely glint in her eyes, she waved impatiently.
Her stomach twisted.
Of course. The youngest Weasley had struggled with not knowing people’s whereabouts recently, a remnant of being left in the dark by her mother throughout the war. Hermione understood better than most, considering that they had confided in each other all summer.
But she’d forgotten to tell her friends that she wouldn’t be on the train.
“There you are!” Ginny fumed. Her immaculately styled hair, twisted into a braid and an updo, was starting to unravel. “We saved you a seat on the train, and then you didn’t show up… Could have told us… Where in Merlin’s baggy Y-fronts were you?”
“I was in the library—”
“Of course you were,” Ginny interrupted with a huff of derision. “Merlin… I’ve been furious with you all afternoon. Not a word from you! I thought—” She shook her head.
As she settled into the open seat beside Dean, Hermione's insides writhed with guilt. “I am sorry. I swear, I didn’t mean to make you worry. It’s just—this is going to be my year, and I thought symbolically, a different arrival…” she trailed off at the incredulous once-over Ginny pointed her way. “I was just aching to get to the library.”
For a moment, they held each other’s gaze. Ginny was usually expressive, but Hermione couldn’t get a read on what was running through her head. Heavens, this wasn’t how she’d wanted the year to start at all!
Suddenly, a genuine grin split across her friend's face. From the stiff way her cheeks moved, it was possibly the first time she’d smiled that day. “I didn’t think I’d miss the sound of you saying that so much.” Ginny poured a cup of pumpkin juice from the table’s pitcher, and the moment of tension evaporated.
Hermione inwardly sighed in relief, though worry still prickled along her skin. Yes, this was her year, but that didn’t mean she should be selfish and thoughtless! Hadn’t the Weasleys worried enough? She made a mental note to make a copy of her school agenda for Ginny.
With that taken care of, she turned her attention to the side.
“Dean! It’s great to see you, I wondered if there would be others back for an Eighth round,” she gushed, addressing the hunched form beside her. Without Harry and Ron this year, Hermione wanted to connect with the other students of her age, rather than hunkering in complete solitude. It was all part of her master plan.
When he didn’t respond, she tapped his shoulder, concerned. “Erm…?”
“Eh?” Dean jerked his head up. When Hermione repeated her question, his cheeks flushed a deep amber. “Sorry, I’m just very… Well, you know. Like you get with your books. Very focused at the moment.”
Well, she could appreciate that. Without thinking, she peered over his arm to see what Dean was sketching.
Her stomach lurched; it was Lavender Brown.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione said, jerking her head back. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to pry. Were you two…?”
Dean smudged some charcoal and frowned, then tilted the sketch so Hermione could lean closer. “It’s okay, I don’t mind if you look.”
She took his invitation and craned her neck over the sheets.
“With Lavender, it wasn’t like that,” Dean continued, his brows drawn together. “But I’m only back because Hogwarts is one of the best places in the world to learn the foundations of magical portraiture, and drawing them feels like the right place to start.”
“Them?”
While Ginny pretended not to watch, Dean flipped open his sketchbook, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. At his encouraging nod, she reached out with trembling fingers to look at page after page. Colin. Ted Tonks. The drawings were gorgeous, each capturing an indefinable quality somewhere between fondness and homesick.
When Hermione reached a melancholy illustration of Fred, Ginny flinched and jerked her chin back.
“Is this why…? Or, well. Is this what inspired you to do portraits?” Hermione asked. With a pang, she made a mental note to find her own way to memorialise the people in these drawings, like Dean had done. They were gone, and she hadn’t done enough, not nearly…
“I always wanted to study portraiture, actually, but I missed my chance last year,” Dean said as Hermione handed the binder back to him. “And Lavender, Colin, Fred… being back here, it felt like the right place to start.”
“You have all year for that, Dean,” Ginny cut in, voice raspy. Her hands were clenched into fists, but when she noticed the two of them looking at her, she let out a forced laugh. “Let’s talk about… Hey, have you got any Quidditch drawings in there?”
Dean scratched his nose, leaving a bit of dusty charcoal behind. “Well, I’ve done a few drawings of the West Ham players.”
“Let’s see those then,” Ginny said at once, whipping out her wand. “Accio!”
With lightning-quick reflexes, he snatched the notebook mid-air, eyes wide. “No!” he cried. “They’re not… appropriate…”
Ginny’s eyes widened in delight. “Are they naughty?” she crowed. “Ooh, you have to let me see!”
Demelza Robbins, who had mostly ignored the group until now, spun away from the Quidditch team to face Ginny eagerly. “What’s this about naughty drawings, then?”
“They aren’t naughty, they’re very tasteful,” Dean snapped, a very deep flush crawling across his copper skin. “It’s simply a study in muscle tone and, erm, torso structure. Nothing that isn’t already on a calendar.”
Ginny’s head snapped toward Dean with impossible speed. “There’s a calendar?”
“So you’re into boys now?” Demelza pressed. “Are you looking for a boyfriend? Can I set you up with Jack Sloper?”
Dean chuckled, but he was firm in his response. “I’m not looking at the moment, Demelza. I was on the run for the year, and then the Battle…” He shook his head, a distant look in his eye. “I just want to draw. Focus on myself, and I’ll date next year.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I know all the seventh years,” Ginny said, her eyes roving down the long Gryffindor tables. “Not that many eighth years to choose from, though... You into younger men?”
Dean cast a cursory glance around the Hall and dodged the question. “Yeah, not too many Eighth Years. Probably because it’s mostly us Muggle-Borns who bothered to return.”
“Well, Muggle-Borns, or…” Demelza turned round in her seat and cast a look across the Hall to the Slytherin table, and her mouth twisted. “Or the ones with parole agreements.”
Hermione followed Demelza’s gaze, and her eyes landed upon the tall form of Draco Malfoy.
She wasn’t surprised to see him this year, of course. Having been at his trial, she knew he’d had to select between a year of school or a year of Azkaban, which was hardly a choice at all.
But she was surprised to see how little he belonged.
Even now, as students were settling into the Great Hall, his mere presence was jarring. He stood out in the warm gathering of feasting students, freshly sorted first-years, and cheery decorations like a bedraggled stain. A human contradiction: pale face, shadowed eyes. White hair, black expression. There was a careful, empty gap in the benches around him, small enough to not draw attention, but noticeable to those who were looking nonetheless. In a Great Hall that was almost offensive in its jolly, cosy normality, Malfoy still looked like war.
She could appreciate that about him, she thought, as she scanned the different tables. Here and there, she saw another student—usually another seventh or eighth year—looking lost, perhaps even aggrieved by the cheerful atmosphere, still haunted by phantoms of the year past.
Around her, Dean, Ginny, and Demelza were still bickering.
“Dean could date a Slytherin, Demelza—”
“Not an option—”
“I told you two I am not looking!”
Hermione’s thoughts, and the chatter of the other Gryffindors, were interrupted as the rumble of the Great Hall slowly lowered to a soft whisper, then fizzled out entirely. Professor McGonagall had approached the podium with weary steps.
“Welcome, students,” McGonagall began. “Today, as we gather…”
As the old witch spoke, Hermione’s attention wandered, alighting on student after student from all four houses. Some looked determined, while others were barely hanging on. She could certainly relate to the lost, dispossessed look in some of their eyes.
No one embodied the displacement as beautifully as Malfoy, however. He was chiaroscuro; a study in contrasts. A brilliant light, a dark haze.
No matter how she tried to pay attention to the Headmistress’s long speech about unity and rebuilding, or even to linger on the faces of other students, Hermione’s attention ultimately drifted back to him.
It was only as the Professor solemnly offered grave toasts to the dead and wrapped up the speech that she realised: for the first time in memory, she had barely paid attention to the ceremony. Heavens, what was the matter with her? She hadn’t heard a word of what McGonagall had said!
She didn’t pay attention to the Sorting Hat either, which sang the longest, most desperately boring song Hermione had ever experienced, sticking to themes of death and rebirth. She didn’t clap and cheer for the First Years as they were sorted into their new Houses.
It was her first day, and she was already failing.
Long after the feast had ended, as she settled into her dorms, Hermione was incredibly grateful that she was the only Eighth year girl to return from Gryffindor—it meant she had her own room.
It meant she had space to breathe.
She collapsed into bed like a marathon runner crossing a finish line, smiling a bit as a familiar ball of fur leapt lightly onto the pillow beside her.
"Night, Crooks," she murmured. Within seconds, she had fallen asleep.
∞∞∞
At five in the morning, Draco Malfoy was already awake.
The only light in the dormitory came from the ambient glow of Theo’s enchanted model of a working pirate ship, complete with Slytherin-green colours and singing mermaid toys (permanently silenced by Blaise in fourth-year). In the dark, the dorm room was mostly shaded in colours of grey. His sweaty, rumpled sheets, normally emerald green: grey. The dark forms of Blaise, Theo, and Greg, half-hidden behind bed curtains, bodies rising and falling softly with the sounds of their snores: dark grey. The ripple of water outside the dorm window: midnight black. His own skin, barely visible in the ambient light: shockingly, deathly white.
Draco’s shoulders ached from the variety of positions he had tried while tossing and turning in his bed. One moment, the sheets were stifling, nearly damp with heat against his skin. But then when he kicked the sheets away, his skin burned from the cold air instead. Could he really say he was ‘already’ awake when he’d barely closed his eyes?
It was pointless.
With a surreptitious look around to make sure Blaise, Greg, and Theo were still asleep, and carefully avoiding any glimpse of Vince's old bed, Draco slunk quietly through the room and changed into his uniform, then knelt at his bedside table. He just needed to reread that one part of the letter, and he didn’t want them to see…
Draco pulled out a set of folded and well-used papers and flipped through the pages, looking for the paragraph he wanted. His finger drifted down the scrawl of Granger’s handwriting, eyes catching on familiar passages here and there.
The nature of Voldemort’s regime was especially dangerous for minors. In a system requiring absolute obsequious behaviour, physical punishments, psychological punishments, isolation, secretive behaviour, and limited or non-existent autonomy, children are the most vulnerable group…
No, the section he wanted was farther down… there.
Furthermore, it creates a prime breeding ground for grooming. For those on the Wizengamot who are unaware, 'grooming' is the set of actions that an adult takes to assert inappropriate control and power over a vulnerable person, usually a child. First, an adult, henceforth called 'the abuser', will gain the trust and fill a need for the vulnerable party, henceforth referred to as 'the child': perhaps the abuser will exploit a poor home life, or they aim to fill the child’s need to feel loved or valued.
Once they have exerted enough control and dominance, the abuser will employ a range of tactics to confuse or subdue their victim. These tactics include threats of harm, shunning strategies, creating doubt around the authenticity of past situations, shaming techniques, and fostering a general environment of helplessness. Surely some of these ideas sound familiar when considering the case of Draco Malfoy, who—
Draco stopped there. He often revisited the words Granger used to describe generalities, but he found it too painful to re-read her assessment of how it applied to him personally. He hoped by the end of this year that she’d look on him more favourably than that.
Still, he let his fingers trace over a phrase: an easy task in an unsafe environment ruled by Death Eaters. Draco wondered if Granger understood just how easy, even as the author of this multi-page sermon.
Excerpts of this letter had been read at his trial, and the words had been pivotal… if not to the Wizengamot, then certainly to him. Her descriptions of cults, coercion, indoctrination, and conditioning had felt like a cool waterfall of truth. He had felt so misunderstood by all the adults in his life, from all sides of the war, and even his friends.
He’d realised: she understood.
And if she understood, maybe she’d be willing to give him a chance. Maybe if she could see in him what not even his own family saw, then what else might she have to say?
Should he not put his faith in her?
Draco was torn from his thoughts as Blaise stirred noisily in his bed.
Quickly, Draco folded his copy of the letter and shut it in his bedside drawer. He finished by setting a long and increasingly venomous series of wards and hexes on the drawer.
“Morning, mate,” Blaise called out. “Sleep well?”
“Yep.”
Theo moaned and rolled over. “Pipe down, you wankers…”
“Up early though, aren’t you Draco?” called out Blaise, even louder.
Draco shrugged. “I woke up hungry,” he lied.
“Course you did,” grumbled Theo, pushing his hair out of his face as he sat up slowly. “Barely ate anything last night, did you? Or last year, in fact.”
Draco sneered in Theo’s direction. “You ate enough for the both of us, I expect.”
Theo pulled his sheets up to his chin, offended. “I’m an emotional eater!”
“You’re an emotional everything,” said Blaise.
Greg let out a loud snore, and Theo shot him a wistful look, still rubbing his eyes. “He can sleep through anything, can’t he? Wish I could. Only one of us who—” suddenly he broke off, his face blanched. As one, all the boys in the room glanced toward Vince's four poster. The curtains were drawn closed, as if it was any better to look at than an empty bed.
Quicker than the swish of a wand, Draco suddenly felt smothered by the familiar banter. He tugged at his collar uselessly.
“I’m down to breakfast, then,” Draco said, with a quick turn on his heel. If Theo or Blaise said anything else, he didn’t hear it. He just kept walking, reminding himself: it’s just one year. One final, suffocating year in this sodding school, and he would be done. And anyway, it was better than Azkaban.
∞∞∞
After a year of camping and starving and fighting, a day filled with lessons was a welcome change. That said, Hermione could have done without History of Magic.
It was a course few students chose to continue after O.W.L.s. Those who did brave the extra two years of Binns’ droning were usually students like herself—high achievers who wanted to collect the maximum number of N.E.W.T.s. Though occasionally, there truly were a few young witches and wizards with specialised interests as well.
This year, the class was a mishmash of about twelve students total, even with the Seventh and Eighth years combined. Predictably, the group was mostly composed of Ravenclaws and Slytherins. She tended to be the lone Gryffindor in classes on the ‘overachiever’ path.
From her year, Lisa Turpin—the only Muggle-Born Ravenclaw her age, she remembered—Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini were in the room. The rest of the room was filled with Seventh Years, including one student she knew particularly well.
“Hello, Hermione,” Luna called out dreamily. “I’ve saved you a seat.”
After a desperate, pointless survey of the room for an alternate seating option, she headed toward Luna with a terse smile. The spacey Ravenclaw had always been Harry’s friend, primarily. Not that Hermione didn’t like her or harboured any ill will, of course.
It was simply that she could never quite seem to interact with the blonde… correctly.
“Thank you, Luna.” She settled into her seat and unpacked her pristine notebook, ready to fill it with a year's worth of knowledge.
“You could really use some parsnip cream, you realise. I always keep a few tins on me, if you would like some,” Luna offered randomly.
“What does it protect against, the bollywags?” Hermione quipped in a dismissive tone. She continued to arrange her muggle pens in order.
“What’s a bollywag?” Luna asked curiously.
Hermione sighed.
“You’ll have to tell me all about them later,” Luna continued in her soft, lilting voice. “But the parsnip cream is for your hair. It’s very helpful with frizzy things. I think you would be really pleased with the results—”
Someone chuckled, and Hermione whipped around sharply. When she could not identify the culprit, she turned back to Luna, lips tight.
“No thank you to the parsnip, Luna,” she gritted out.
“A strange choice,” said Luna, her eyes wide and clear. “But I respect your right to refuse help.”
Hermione bit her lip so hard she tasted iron. “Thank you,” she managed.
Just then, instead of the familiar, transparent shape of Binns drifting through the blackboard, the classroom door swung open. A young-ish, good looking man strode into the room. He was tall and well-built, with a chiselled jawline and a confident air.
“Good morning, class.” The man pushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. “My name is Professor Quibbling, and I am your new History of Magic Professor.”
Had he been at the Feast? Had Hermione really been that disengaged? She exchanged glances with the other students in the room, but everyone else seemed equally startled at the new face. A few people were muttering to their neighbours and openly staring.
As Hermione scanned the faces of the other students, she accidentally locked eyes with Malfoy. His wide, silver eyes were fixed on her with an unexpected, sort of intense focus. Quickly, she looked down, but she could still sense his gaze on the back of her head.
Malfoy. Again.
He’d been in so many of her classes today, which unnerved her. She appreciated his presence like one might enjoy a melancholic painting: sadly, briefly, but with little desire to bring it from room to room. He reminded her of things she didn’t care to think about. Once a day in the Great Hall was more than enough of his haunting visage… Now, the sight of him was starting to wear on her.
Professor Quibbling cleared his throat and raised a hand. The class fell silent.
Lowering his arm, the Professor looked around, a small smile toying around the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure you’re all wondering about Professor Binns. The Hogwarts Board felt that it was… past time for him to make space for a teacher with a new vision. And that’s why you have me. I expect we’ll have a very productive and rewarding year together. If there are no questions, we can dive in—”
Hermione raised her hand.
Professor Quibbling raised his brows. “Ah, I certainly recognise you, Miss Granger. Brightest Muggle-born witch of the age, eh? Do you have a question already?”
Hermione paused at his tone, but graciously decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, several actually, but first—do you have a new curriculum you’ll be working off of? And, will you take suggestions?”
A few people in the back row snickered, but she ignored them. This was a really good chance to make a difference, and she was entitled to ask.
Quibbling lifted his chin and peered at Hermione thoughtfully. “While I’m sure you’re very clever, Miss Granger, the curriculum has already been designed. And I think you’ll find this class will work quite a bit differently this year.”
He smiled blandly at the room. “Any other questions?”
Hermione’s jaw clenched at the way he’d brushed her off. She glanced around, fingers tapping in frustration along her notebook. Would anyone else jump in with a question, or would she have to once again do everything herself?
Luckily, a seventh year Ravenclaw had raised her hand.
“Yes, Miss…”
“Horthrop, Sir. How will the curriculum work, then?”
Mr Quibbling turned his wand over in his hand. “There are students in this class who may or may not have been able to participate in school last year due to the… troubles.”
“The war,” Blaise Zabini piped up from his seat in the back.
The majority of the class turned around to look at him. But Hermione watched Professor Quibbling’s face, noticing how his face darkened.
“Yes. The war. Thank you, Mr Zabini. Therefore, the faculty and I felt that it was time to implement a structured set of individualised programmes.”
A snub-nosed Slytherin raised his hand.
“Yes, Mister Engleton?”
“So… we’ll all be learning different things?”
Mr Quibbling tilted his head and smiled. “Some of you will experience alternative Paths to Learning.” He sighed, as if quite beleaguered with the burden of explaining such things. “We will discuss some sensitive topics in this class… The history of magical creatures. Magical humans and muggles. The grim realities of war throughout the ages.”
The wizard paced as he spoke. “There are many sides of history, and it is possible to view such events through a different lens based on our own experiences.”
Normally Hermione would agree, but something about the way Professor Quibbling said it did not ease her distrust. She narrowed her eyes.
He quit his pacing to look up and met Hermione’s stare. “It is my goal to help you, especially the Muggle-Borns, catch up on the context that you might be missing from an outside perspective. Let us magical folk all learn to be on the same page. We do not want to distance those of a different blood status. We want to bring Muggle-borns into the fold, so to speak.”
Without breaking eye contact, Hermione raised her hand. “That implies that you think the Muggle-borns are behind. And from your tone, I would infer that you regard muggles as less than.”
Quibbling’s lips thinned. “Not behind, Miss Granger. Just lacking a certain context. And as for your inference…. Yes, you presume correctly. It is merely a fact of life that Muggles are less than. We have magic. They do not.”
“But—”
Quibbling raised a hand and moved so that he stood right before her. “It is indisputable that Muggles are less than, Miss Granger. However, it is my firm belief Muggle-borns are not less than. They are simply in need of a guiding hand.”
Hermione scoffed and leaned back in her seat to look up at him, enraged. Her benefit of the doubt was long gone. His face no longer appeared chiselled to her, but stony. It was superficial, but the more he’d spoken today, the uglier he grew in her mind. In fact, standing this close, she imagined she could see all the tiny little pores on his nose.
“Are we understood, Miss Granger?”
Hermione crossed her arms. “Professor Quibbling… As you yourself said, history comes in many lenses. Have you considered that the Wizarding World’s context is also lacking a muggle point of view? And that furthermore, the ideas from the mundane that this world is missing are worth investigation, worth discussion and debate?”
“I have all the context I need, Miss Granger,” Quibbling said condescendingly. He walked back to the front of the room and swept his eyes across all the students. “But don’t worry, class—I promise that soon, each and every one of you—yes, including you, Miss Granger—will have it too.”
It was blindingly obvious what Quibbling was trying to do. She was so furious that she was practically vibrating in her chair.
For the rest of class, Hermione didn’t listen to a word… She simply stewed and plotted her own version of what a Magical History class ought to be. Why, why did she have to be the one to fix everything?
She had a lot of work to do.