Chapter Text
June 25th 1995, night of the third task in the Triwizard tournament, Black Lake
Hermione long since decided nervous thoughts should be kept to herself.
Alone, she stares out onto the Black Lake, tilting her head so that it rests against the rough tree trunk. She inhales the warm, humid air deeply, just grateful her breathing has finally returned to a somewhat normal pace.
Moving her exhausted gaze to the giant squid dozens of meters away, she squints, hyper-fixating on the pattern in which the twinkling night stars sparkle light onto its purple tentacles. It’s the closest thing she has to a peaceful anchor.
The witch knows she has to work out a coping mechanism to get her mile-a-minute brain under control. To dismantle the anxious thoughts.
Focusing on her surroundings in nature helps. An excellent novel numbs the worries. But it always fades. The thoughts always come back – and as if they are cross with Hermione for trying to send them away, they double their efforts.
But tonight, as the first domino of what would later be called the Second Wizarding War in Great Britain falls with a crash through Cedric Diggory’s death, Hermione is at a loss. It feels as if someone is recording her restless thoughts, loading them onto a cassette tape and playing the tracks back to her over and over on full blast. It has never been this bad.
She started hyperventalating in the Great Hall once Dumbledore announced Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s return.
Vivid images of the imaginary brutal murder of her parents, friends and life as she knew it had flashed in her mind. Until she was left panting like a dog. They’d come and gone for awhile now. Usually, it was doable to suppress them. But there was no escape tonight.
And so she took frantic, quick steps out of the Great Hall with shaking legs and a heart threatening to pound out of her chest. Running into the courtyard and down the grassy hills of the castle to the Black Lake. A dazed and confused gleam in her eyes as to what was happening to her.
Now, as the erratic breathing subsides and the hollowness in her chest transforms into a faint burn, she knows a permanent solution is needed. This cannot ever happen again. If she buries this glaring problem any longer, and has another incident, the war will swallow her whole. She will lose before she can even fight. Not like she can read a bloody novel in the middle of a duel.
Cedric Diggory is dead. Voldemort is back.
The squid stops working as a grounding force as this new truth races to the forefront of her mind.
An innocent life lost just because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. How many others have doomed fates? Will Harry be one of the fallen? Will she?
Cedric Diggory is dead. Voldemort is back.
The mantra seeps into the corners of the witch’s mind as she repeats it. The sooner her heart stops racing and the denial fades away, the more efficiently she can help Harry come to terms with this. She knows it's like a dead weight on his shoulders.
The tree next to her shakes and rattles. Someone lands on their feet effortlessly, breaking several twigs in the process.
So much for getting her heart rate down. The witch springs her wand forward in the direction of the culprit. By the time they tilt their face up to her, she already has the vinewood pointed in between their eyes. Blood rushes to Hermione's temples, her heart drums violently, and all she tastes is metal. The Gryffindor clutches her wand so tight, the spiral vines leave a dent on the skin of her fingers.
The planes of the culprit's face are unrecognisable in the bloody darkness.
Hermione squints — trying to make their features out. “Lumos,” she fearlessly whispers, ready for a fight if need be.
The dark figure’s face brightens, revealing the stature of a dauntingly tall male, a slender body balanced by somewhat broad shoulders. The sharp angles from his strong jawline, high cheekbones and the faint bags under his eyes are broodingly intense. Big curious, calculating eyes stare back at her – not only as blue as the ocean but as deep as the secrets that lay within it. His expression unmoving but relaxed.
“Nott?” she asks in a mix of relief and confusion. Huffing out the breath stuck inside her chest, the death grip on her wand loosens.
“Evening, Granger,” Theodore Nott replies, dragging a lazy hand through his silky brown hair and clutching a book in the other.
Oh god. Had he heard... heard, whatever that was? How long had he been there? She doesn't think she'd been particularly loud though, and his face gives no indication he knows. She won't supply him an apology when he appears to not have heard. Won't give him a leg to stand on in case he decides to air it out to his friends.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
No matter how many times she hears it in class, Hermione still finds Nott’s voice mesmerising to listen to. There has been once or twice (fine – perhaps more) over the years she purposely threw a rebuttal at an argument the Slytherin raised in class, just so he would speak. She remembers hearing a few voices similar to his in a BBC period drama her mum used to watch.
Lowering her wand, Hermione's mouth curves into a soft but weak smile.
“I know. Just being extra careful… in light of recent events with..V-Voldemort.” Her stomach twists. No. She will call him by his name. She needs to get used to it.
Hermione prepares for Nott to roll his eyes dramatically or call her insane, the way many are with Harry right now. Maybe cruelly laugh in her face while spitting that there is no reason to be on edge. Its what his friends would do.
“Clever witch.” Nott’s crystalline eyes sparkle from the light of Hermione’s lumos.
A pool of calm settles into her bones when he makes no move to debunk her. Their gazes lock, a mutual understanding passing through them of what is to come.
The chirps of crickets in the background add weight to the dreadfully heavy silence.
“So is this your reading spot?” she abruptly asks. She isn’t one to usually make small talk, especially with Theodore Nott of all people. But Hermione's muscles feel heavy, her logical mind on a holiday, body utterly spent from attacking itself.
Nott meets her eyes boldly once again, lips curving into a devious smirk.
Hermione's mind comes to an inner stillness. A petrificus totalus cast at her thoughts. The witch basks in the brief but peaceful moment before it is snatched away.
“Yeah. It’s also the place to be if you want an up-close view of the squid show,” Nott muses. He lazily tosses his book from one hand to the other, causing Hermione’s eyes to skim the cover. Advanced Occlumency: The Art of Control and Persuasion.
She raises a curious eyebrow. Hermione regretfully knows little on the subject – since Hogwarts banned classes on both legilimency and occlumency following an accident in 1943 where a certain dark wizard used his talents to drive another student mad. From what little research the school provides, she gathers that it's a way to keep legilimens from invading one’s mind.
Shoving the thoughts away, Hermione places a hand over her mouth and smiles. “The squid show?”
A corner of the Slytherin’s mouth tugs upwards. “Yeah, I swear it, the squid knows I’m out here. It’ll start doing random tricks sometimes.”
A deep, genuine laugh erupts from Hermione. Moments of real laughter have been few and far between since Harry was chosen for the tournament, so she always savours these interactions.
“You’re kidding.”
His chuckle is deep and captivating. “No, really. It’s a bit of a goofy little thing.”
“I don’t know about little.”
“Yeah, well, you’re right about that.” The now calm witch tilts her head, staring right into his eyes.
The first thing she observes is it looks like someone has turned the Maldives into two small irises. Hold on — does he have sanpaku eyes?
In Japan and China, these types of eyes are commonly associated with pure, raw evil. Murderers, the devil, that sort of thing. Nott doesn't fall into either category — sure, he's a bully. But a murderer? Hermione knows it's all folklore. One factor Ancient Asia had been irrevocably correct about though, is the allure and intoxication behind eyes like his.
“So, why are you out here all alone? They're still looking into what happened. There could be another Death Eater roaming the school for all we know. It’s not safe,” he says, voice revealing a polite undertone but dripping in assertiveness.
Hermione waves him off. Revealing the truth is out of the question. “I needed some quiet. It’s too noisy and panicked in there. Plus, I think you are a first-hand witness to the fact that I can take care of myself,” she counters with a laugh.
Nott’s smirk glints with mischief and in the same heartbeat, Hermione registers she likes when he looks at her like that. Maybe a little too much.
“I’m sure you can, Granger. But humour me and let me walk you back.”
Remembering what awaits her inside the castle, she quietly groans. Hermione's not ready to go back. Not yet. Once she does, she'll go into an autopilot state of theorising and planning. Questioning Harry about what happened in the Graveyard with Voldemort. Thinking through the next steps. If she can just prolong the peace and quiet for a few more moments, she can handle that all better.
The worn-out witch huffs out a laugh, sitting down to the ground. Hermione lets her fingers soak in the cool misty grass, closing her eyes. The eager crickets continue on with their chirping.
“I’m not ready to go back quite yet.” Hermione breathes out, unsure if Nott even hears her. Trying to get lost in the senses that surround her. The distant crash of waves. The hoots of the owls moving in and out of the owlery.
Nott kneels, placing a hand in the grass and plopping down next to her. Opening her eyes, Hermione takes a quick glance at him from her peripheral.
Merlin, the wizard is gorgeous. If Nott stops moving, he can pass for a perfectly carved marble statue of a royal.
“That’s fine. I’m a patient man.” When he readjusts, Hermione gets a whiff of him. There's a hint of spicy, expensive muggle cologne. Rich pine. Smoky, aged parchment.
She can easily guess why he smells this way. Pine, from hanging around in that bloody tree. Parchment from the constant array of books he always carries around. Cologne on his pulse points for good measure.
Hermione sneaks another glance at him, heart dropping when she finds his curious eyes already on her. An unfamiliar warmth settles in the pit of her belly, her throat tingling. Like she is chugging a cup of scalding hot cocoa on an empty stomach.
Neither of the two look away from the moment that the currently tense witch will play in her head on a loop for the rest of the summer. Nott sneaks a quick glance at her pink lips over his long dark lashes, before going back to her frazzled, nerve-wracked eyes.
Oh Godric. He’s surely not about to make some sort of move on her, is he?
The Slytherin moves his angular chin a fraction of an inch towards Hermione. As if he is dipping his toes into the ocean. He might as well be because she’s drowning right now. Hermione's heart drums against her chest.
Nott turns his shoulder towards her, leaning in closer by a mere hair. It's so minuscule, that Hermione wonders if she's imagining it.
Just when his hot breath brushes her face (or maybe it's been there all along? She doesn't trust herself at this point), a disruptive crash of waves erupts from the lake.
They turn their heads the second the squid twirls its tentacles around the water, making several splashes in the darkness.
Hermione huffs. The entirety of her neck is warm, cheeks flushed. Merlin, she must look like a tomato right now. The sodding June air sure isn't doing her any favours.
“Told you,” he teases. The witch notices he's completely back to his original spot, his long arms resting on his knees. Nott's full attention appears to be on the squid, as if he was not just staring at her lips like they were sugar quills.
Should’ve told me that I’d be bloody blind-sided tonight. Who the bloody hell is Theodore Nott?
Other than the occasional classroom debate where she just wanted to hear his voice, Hermione had written him off.
He's a bully after all. A cunning one. A less obnoxious one than Malfoy or Zabini. But a bully nonetheless.
He's always been neutral with her, neither egging on the name-calling nor condemning it. However, he treated her with proper respect tonight. Hell, he nearly bloody snogged her.
What does he want with her? Is he being kind to get her guard down? Is she judging him too quickly?
Ugh. No. She knows he's the leader and force behind his boisterous and relentless Slytherin friend group. Which includes Malfoy as his right-hand man. She's judged him rightfully so. Any other conclusion would be foolish.
It's like someone's splashing an ice-cold bucket of water on her. Hermione deflates, briskly feeling like a dumb schoolgirl who cracked the second the popular wizard spared a second glance at her.
“Guess I was wrong,” she responds, giving him a small smile and turning to look at the lake as well, soaking in the last few minutes of the squid show.
September 1st 1995
Hermione, Ron and Harry storm into a completely full Great Hall, meeting the boisterous sound of students greeting one another after months apart. They rush over to the Gryffindor benches, aware of how late they are.
Swiftly sitting down, Ron and Harry waste no time filling their plates full of pastries, cake and pudding. Hermione takes a large slice of creamy chocolate cake, scooping a bite with her spoon and savouring the sweet, rich dessert. With her best friends now deeply engrossed with their meals, her eyes roam over the filled seats of the hall.
Hermione has to actively force herself not to look at the Slytherin table. She's replayed and reanalysed that night with Nott many more times than she'd like to admit.
Okay. Just one quick look. That's all she'll give herself. Then Hermione will wash her hands clean of him.
The moment Hermione's eyes settle on the table, she stops chewing, mouth slightly agape. She finds a set of piercing, pale blue eyes staring back at her.
Nott has no regard for the fact he is caught. He keeps his gaze set on Hermione as if it's simply the two of them. Like they aren’t surrounded by hundreds of chatty, loud students and staff members. He demands to be looked at.
Then, just when she thought this could not get any more shocking, the edges of his mouth curve into a wicked smirk.
As if hit with an electric shock, Hermione's stare immediately moves to her lap.
Did that just happen?
Her cheeks heat, so engulfed in her thoughts that she does not realise Dumbledore is speaking now.
“We also wish to welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dolores Umbridge. And I’m sure you’ll all join me in wishing the professor good luck. As usual, Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you–“
Umbridge clears her throat an octave or two too high.
Every set of eyes travel to her, including Dumbledore’s. She leisurely rises from her seat, her bubblegum pink suit worth a thousand words as she struts over to the podium with a bright smile on her face.
Hermione’s mouth curves in a frown, unnerved by how Umbridge’s innocent grin does not match the almost snake-like predatory feel of her eyes.
“She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge,” Harry mutters in Hermione’s ear.
A crease forms in between the witch’s eyebrows. If Umbridge is a ministry employee, then she is certainly here to keep tabs on the school for Fudge, and keep everyone in the dark about Voldemort’s return.
“Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome. And how lovely to see all your bright, happy faces smiling up at me.”
Hermione peeks around the room, seeing nothing but scowls and frowns.
She scoffs. Love the confidence.
“I’m sure we’re all going to be very good friends.” Umbridge says in a soft but stern voice, enunciating unnecessarily and continuing to smile like a madwoman.
“That’s likely.” Fred and George say in sarcastic whispered unison.
The side of Hermione's mouth twitches. Umbridge pointedly raises her eyebrows at the twins.
“The ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance.” Umbridge steps closer to the podium until she is nearly where Dumbledore is. Hermione doesn’t miss the deliberateness of this move and she is certain her headmaster does too.
“Although each headmaster has brought something new to this historic school… ” A nod from her to Dumbledore, which he weakly acknowledges.
“Progress, for the sake of progress, must be discouraged. Let us preserve what must be preserved, perfect what can be perfected, and prune practices that ought to be prohibited.” A high pitched giggle.
Reading between the lines, Hermione purses her lips, a heavy, dark cloud of frustration settling over her head. If the Ministry is in this level of denial and sending in someone like Umbridge to keep everyone else ignorant as well, she's going to be a major roadblock in their progress.
“Thank you Professor. Umbridge, that really was most illuminating,” the headmaster says with a kind smile.
“Illuminating? What a load of waffle,” Ron scoffs, putting a bite of cheesecake into his mouth.
“What’s it mean?” Harry asks, his bright emerald eyes widening, peering at his right-hand with worry.
While continuing to send a death glare at Umbridge, Hermione's heart drops. She has no doubt this lady will attempt to make life a living hell for Harry. He is the root of the ministry’s problems after all.
“It means the ministry is interfering at Hogwarts.”