── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── HADRIEN P.O.V ── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Mira gets my attention as quietly as possible, without disturbing the others who are still wrestling with their spells.
"Hey… how did you even come up with that thing about feeling magic?" she asks, with genuine curiosity. "When I tried doing it the way you said, it was much easier. I even imagined the color of the sun and the light came out the same. It's the first time I've felt magic inside me that strongly."
She finishes with excitement only half-contained. Her eyes are shining like she's just discovered the world had an extra hidden door and, for once, someone showed it to her.
I look at her.
I think for a few seconds before answering with something that sounds plausible enough not to raise any strange suspicions.
"I suppose when I was younger I was… pretty curious. Too curious, really," I say in a low voice. "I liked trying things, experimenting, reading whatever nonsense fell into my hands. And strange things started happening. Things floating for a second. Objects moving just a little. Nothing big, but enough to make you realize something is happening."
Mira keeps looking at me without blinking.
"I was also really into a film where they did something similar. Like a superpower," I continue. "So I got a little obsessed with the idea and started trying to understand what the hell it would feel like to do something like that. I concentrated, breathed, repeated it… until one day it worked."
A bit of truth.
A bit of lie.
A healthy amount of narrative makeup.
Mira looks down at her wand for a second, still processing.
"That is… very weird," she says, though not badly. More like someone who's just decided weird is another word for interesting.
"Yeah," I murmur. "It is."
"But it makes sense," Mira says. "You sound like someone who would've tried to figure out how to do magic even without really knowing what it was."
That pulls half a smile out of me.
"Yeah. That's a pretty fair diagnosis too."
Padma cuts in, because of course by now she can't keep ignoring me.
"It's surprising, actually," she says, lowering her voice as well while looking at her dark wand. "It was much easier like that. But I couldn't get the light to change color."
She sounds thoughtful, not frustrated.
Parvati nods at once.
"It was easier for me too," she says, "but it still took several tries to get it right."
Mira lifts her wand a little, still looking at the orange light that's already gone out as if it might come back by sheer good will.
I shrug slightly.
"Just practice more. There's no other way to get it," I say quietly. "And remember, you have to be sure you want to change the color… and almost order it to change. It's one thing to imagine it. It's another to impose it."
The three of them make a small sound of understanding.
Flitwick calls for attention with a light clap.
"Very good, very good, wands down, please," he says in that springy cheerful way of his. "Excellent work to those of you who managed both charms already. And for those who haven't yet, do not worry. With practice, patience, and a bit of well-directed stubbornness, everything comes."
He pauses briefly, waiting a few seconds for the room to settle completely and for several quills to return to desks.
"Now then, I shall leave you with a small piece of homework for next class," he continues, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. "Research the charm Tergeo, its uses, and whether there is any similar or related charm."
He claps once, satisfied, as though he's just distributed an academic blessing.
"Excellent. Class is over. You may gather your things… and remember to practice today's charms. Nothing dangerous, please. Do not force me to begin the next lesson by asking why someone set a curtain on fire."
The sounds of chairs scraping, desks creaking, books snapping shut, and quills being put away in a hurry begin at once. The classroom immediately fills with voices, low laughter, and that usual end-of-class chaos while everyone packs up.
And then Flitwick, who has clearly decided he still isn't done with us, raises a hand.
"Oh, and one more thing," he says, drawing everyone's attention again. "Your next class is History of Magic."
He pauses briefly. He smiles with a surprisingly decent amount of mischief for someone that small.
"Friendly advice: don't fall asleep."
He chuckles a little at the end, like he's just stated a universal truth and is far too used to seeing it confirmed.
Some people give him odd or curious looks because of what he said, but they keep packing up and making noise as if nothing happened.
Mira touches her lips lightly, looking a little upward as she thinks.
"What do you think he meant by that?" she asks.
"That the class might be boring," Padma replies simply.
Parvati shakes her head just a little.
"I heard History of Magic is taught by a ghost and people fall asleep in it," she says, lowering her voice as if she's about to share a state secret.
I glance at her sideways while closing my notebook.
"And who told you that, if it isn't too much trouble to know? Mostly so I can avoid giving that person any information and having my whole life spread around the school."
Parvati smiles immediately, very pleased with herself.
"No, no, no," she says playfully, wagging a finger back and forth. "I can't reveal my sources."
Then she crosses her arms in an X, dramatizing it even more.
"Hm. I'm starting to get an idea who it was."
"It's not exactly classified information," Parvati shoots back with a smile, her hands behind her back.
Mira looks between the three of us, still curious.
"I still don't understand how a ghost can teach a whole class and get everyone to fall asleep."
"Because being a ghost doesn't stop you from being boring," I say.
A few feet away I spot Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus, and Neville waiting in a loose cluster, half blocking the way like any respectable group of first-years.
Harry sees me first. Then he notices I'm not coming alone.
Parvati steps half a pace ahead of me, as though carrying the group's social flag.
"She's Mira Hawthorne," she says, pointing to the green-eyed Ravenclaw.
Mira raises a hand with an easy smile.
"Hi."
Parvati turns slightly toward her sister.
"And this is Padma. My sister."
Padma inclines her head, brief and proper.
"Hello."
Harry answers first, in that quiet voice of his.
"Harry."
"Ron," says Ron, much louder than necessary, like he's introducing himself to a crowd.
"Dean Thomas."
"Seamus Finnigan."
Neville takes half a second longer.
"Neville."
Hermione had already been looking at them with that silent evaluative attention of hers. Then she nods.
"Hermione."
Enough. Civilized. Functional.
Parvati latches onto Padma's arm almost immediately as though they've done it all their lives, which is probably true. Hermione sees it. She glances at me for a second. Then, without saying anything, she moves closer and hooks her free arm through mine as if the idea had simply occurred to her on its own.
I don't say anything.
I just let her do it.
Hermione walks like that, with a small smile on her face while holding the parchment in her other hand and checking the directions to History of Magic as if clinging to my arm doesn't reduce her functionality even slightly. What an efficient woman.
"This way," she says, looking at the parchment. "Two corridors, one staircase down, then right."
"Perfect," Ron says loudly, because he doesn't talk, he announces. "I just want to get there before another professor makes us think too much."
"Difficult," I mutter.
We set off. The group arranges itself naturally: Harry and Ron near the front, Dean and Seamus behind, Neville orbiting around us like he still hasn't fully trusted that he actually belongs here. Mira walks on Parvati's other side, curious, looking at everything. Padma stays close to her sister, quiet, observing in silence.
Ron, of course, takes less than half a minute to come back to the important topic.
"Hey, how did you do that thing where you changed the color of Lumos?" he asks over his shoulder at me. "That was brilliant."
Seamus nods at once.
"Yeah. My light barely came out and you were already putting on a fairground show."
"A tacky fairground show," Hermione says without looking up from the parchment.
Ron is still just as interested.
"My brothers once tried to teach me a spell to change Scabbers' color," he says. "Well… a 'spell.' It didn't work."
Hermione finally looks up, already wearing that expression that means I'm about to destroy this story with facts.
"That wasn't a spell."
Ron turns to her.
"Yes it was."
"No," Hermione says sharply. "It looked more like a childish rhyme with a pun at the end. And besides, it didn't do absolutely anything."
Ron frowns.
"It changed his color a bit."
"No, Ron. Scabbers was already brown."
Dean laughs.
Seamus does too.
Even Harry smiles.
Ron makes an indignant gesture with his hand.
"Well, it sounded magical."
"That is not a real criterion," Hermione says.
Mira cuts in for the first time, still with that curious way she has of arriving half a second late because she's always thinking about ten other things at once.
"So there is actually a spell for changing colors?" she asks. "I mean… not just light. Anything?"
"Yes, there is," Hermione replies immediately. "It's called Colovaria. It's on page 32 of our Spells book."
Mira looks at her with immediate interest. Ron, meanwhile, already wears the expression of ah, damn.
Hermione continues, utterly merciless.
"So Ron's supposed spell was almost certainly a prank from his brothers."
Dean laughs.
Seamus too.
Harry smiles and Ron huffs, offended.
"Well, excuse me for not having memorized the index."
"You should start," Hermione says calmly.
Ron makes a sound of total disagreement.
"I'd rather die."
That gets a laugh out of me through my nose.
Hermione squeezes my arm lightly without stopping walking or looking at the parchment.
Ron, of course, comes back to the real point, because he has no intention of letting it go.
"But seriously, how did you do it?"
I glance at him and let out a breath through my nose.
"All right, how do I explain it…?" I say. "When you cast Lumos, do you just say the spell and do the wand movement?"
Ron blinks.
"Yeah… I suppose."
"Well, there's the problem," I answer. "If that's all you do, it'll probably work after MANY tries, or come out badly, or just not work at all. It takes more than the movement and the name to make it work."
Ron grimaces, like magic has just become unfairly more complicated.
I keep going before he falls asleep standing up.
"Picture the light at the tip of your wand. As if it's already there. Don't doubt that it exists. Just visualize it. And at that moment you can imagine whatever color you want. If you really see it, it works."
Mira turns her head toward me again. Padma does too. Parvati is listening, even though she pretends she isn't.
Without taking her eyes off the parchment, Hermione adds:
"Intention matters just as much as execution."
"Yeah," I say. "The spell doesn't do all the work by itself. You also have to do something with your head, not just wave your hand around like you're swatting flies."
Dean laughs. Seamus too. Ron looks at me, offended.
"Okay, sorry for not knowing how to talk to a wand like some deranged artist."
"You're not talking to the wand," I correct. "You're making sure you're not casting magic with an empty head."
Ron huffs.
Dean chuckles under his breath. Seamus too. Even Harry smiles a little. Hermione squeezes my arm again, though by now I'm no longer sure whether it's to stop me or just because.
Mira, on the other hand, doesn't stay on the subject of the wand. She's already looking at something else.
Well. Several things.
The portraits. The suits of armor. The torches. Everything.
She pauses to watch a portrait turn its head just as we pass, then a suit of armor shift its arm slightly as though it has just readjusted itself.
"Does anyone know how they make the paintings move?" she suddenly asks, with that curiosity of hers that seems to spill out on its own. "It's really beautiful. I'd love to learn how to do that."
Mira keeps going, more and more caught up in the idea.
"And the armor that moves… does it have a personality? Is it alive? Or does it just obey a charm? And how does it know when to move?"
They're valid questions. Pretty good ones, actually. It's just that almost no one asks them, because most people are still too busy trying not to get lost or make fools of themselves.
Hermione is the first to answer, of course.
"I don't think they're alive," she says. "They probably react to certain stimuli or have a pre-set sequence of actions. Like a set of linked enchantments."
Mira makes a slight face, as if someone has just ruined a lovely fantasy for her.
"That sounds logical."
Pause.
"And a little boring."
"Logic often gives that impression," I mutter.
Padma chimes in without drama.
"Not necessarily. If the system is well made, the real explanation can be more interesting than the fantasy."
Parvati turns her head toward her sister.
"Wow. What an elegant way to say 'let me enjoy my theories in peace.'"
Padma doesn't even look at her.
"I didn't say that."
"Semantics," I reply.
Mira keeps staring at a suit of armor, clearly not entirely satisfied.
"I don't know… some things here feel like they almost have a life of their own."
Interesting.
And she might actually be right.
Dean also looks at one of the suits of armor and shrugs slightly.
"As long as they don't chase me, I'm good."
"I support that," Ron says at once. "I've already got enough trouble with ghosts and my brothers."
Seamus laughs.
"That list's growing fast."
Mira turns back to the portraits, fascinated.
"I'd still like to learn how to make something like that. A portrait that answers you. Or a suit of armor that recognizes you and says hello. Or judges you. A little."
"Some people already do the last one without being enchanted," I say.
Parvati laughs. Hermione too, very quietly.
Mira smiles as if she's just made a mental note of a dangerous idea for the future.
We keep going down the corridor and turn at a fork where there aren't just students crossing anymore: now it feels like the castle has decided to vomit eleven-year-olds in every direction.
Black robes. Colored ties. Voices. Parchments in hand. People walking with false confidence and others looking like if someone lets go of them here, they'll die.
Hermione lifts the parchment a little higher.
"It's left," she says. "Then one staircase down."
"Wonderful," Ron mutters. "Another staircase. Lovely. My favorite part of this castle is how much it seems to hate legs."
"That explains a lot about you," I say.
Ron throws me an offended look.
We go down the staircase as a group and, when we reach the landing, we see another small cluster of first-years coming from a similar direction. Yellow and black among the sea of robes.
I recognize them partly from the Sorting and partly because one of them walks like he was raised to cross expensive rooms without tripping over anything.
He approaches with his friends.
"Hello. Granger, Potter and Weasley, right?" he asks with ease.
"Right on target," I answer.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley," he introduces himself, with the naturalness of someone raised to talk to strangers without seeming odd.
The boy beside him straightens a little more, as if posture were a moral duty.
"Ernie Macmillan," he says clearly, "but you may call me Ernie."
The other two girls introduce themselves without fuss.
"Susan Bones," says one.
"Hannah Abbott," adds the other, with a small smile.
We keep walking, already almost like one strange mixed mass of first-years. It makes sense. History of Magic brings us all together anyway, so today the castle has decided to speed up the process.
Since Justin had already identified half of Gryffindor without divine intervention, the rest of the introductions happen naturally, in pieces, as we keep walking.
"Hermione Granger," says Hermione, because of course if they're going to use the surname, at least it should be clear which Granger is which.
Justin nods as though filing the information away for future social use.
Parvati jumps in at once, thumbing toward herself.
"Parvati Patil. And that's my sister, Padma."
Padma dips her head slightly, proper as ever.
"Hello."
Mira lifts a hand with an easy smile.
"Mira Hawthorne."
Dean takes advantage of a gap between people and suits of armor to introduce himself too.
"Dean Thomas."
"Seamus Finnigan," Seamus adds, with that easy way he has of talking as though he's known everyone forever.
Neville takes a little longer, but in the end he murmurs:
"Neville Longbottom."
Susan and Hannah answer with smiles and nods. Justin seems delighted that we're no longer strangers in robes. Ernie, on the other hand, looks like he's evaluating whether we meet minimal standards of presentation.
Susan is the first to ask, in a friendly tone.
"How was Charms?"
Mira turns her head at once, still with the energy of someone who has discovered a new crack in the world.
"Good. Quite good," she says. "Flitwick is tiny, nice, and a little terrifyingly enthusiastic."
"That sounds better than Potions and Professor Snape," Hannah says with complete sincerity.
"Much better than Potions," Ron confirms, like he's speaking from wartime experience instead of one single morning.
Mira, of course, doesn't stay general.
"Hadrien did Lumos on the first try and then changed the color of the light like he was bored," she says, pointing at me with a cheerful betrayal that's quickly becoming a habit. "White, blue, green, red… it looked like a tiny indecent party at the tip of the wand."
Justin turns toward me with immediate interest.
"Really?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione says before I can open my mouth.
"What moving support," I mutter.
One corner of Justin's mouth lifts slightly.
"That is interesting," he says. "In our class, we were mostly trying not to kill the cauldron by accident. While Professor Snape was breathing down our necks."
"A noble goal," I reply.
"It was," Susan says.
"Especially since we nearly had a whole cauldron go over," Hannah adds, glancing sideways at Ernie.
Ernie grimaces.
"It was an accident, okay? I only moved a little."
Justin exhales through his nose.
"Yes, of course. If you move like a fish out of water, I'm not surprised you nearly tipped everything. Snape gave us a fairly nasty scolding because of you."
Justin looks at me for another second, as though measuring whether he can ask without seeming bothersome. Then he decides he can, because clearly he was raised to ask questions like a functional human being.
"And how did you do the color thing?"
Ron opens his mouth at once.
"That's exactly what I asked him!"
I let out a breath through my nose and look at Justin.
I explain the same thing I told Ron a moment ago.
Justin listens with real attention. Not with that blank face of right, yes, magic, next topic. He's actually processing it.
"That is… fairly elegant," he says at last.
Ron huffs.
"I think it's unnecessarily complicated."
"Anything that involves using your head for more than four seconds seems complicated to you," Hermione says.
"That's cruel."
"No. That's the truth you still haven't accepted."
Justin lets out a short laugh, genuine this time.
Interesting.
"I suppose it makes sense," Justin says. "At heart, it sounds like when people tell you that in music it isn't enough to play the note; you also have to know how to put something into it."
He says it like he plays an instrument. Or at least like he seriously tried to at some point.
I look at him from the side.
Aha.
"Were you raised by a butler, or do you always talk like you're about to ask for tea in a manor house?" I ask.
Hermione squeezes my arm.
Justin blinks. Then, to my great annoyance, he laughs.
"Not exactly," Justin says. "But I was supposed to go to Eton before I got the letter, so I imagine part of the damage was already done."
Ron turns his head toward him at once.
"Eton?" he repeats. Clearly he has no idea what that means.
Justin nods with a calm that only makes the matter worse.
"Yes. My family had it rather firmly decided."
There it is.
Money. Lots of it. And probably a surname that opens doors just by existing in the Muggle world.
"It shows," I mutter.
Justin looks at me, amused rather than offended.
"That much?"
"A little," I answer. "You look like you grew up surrounded by cutlery no one actually knows how to use correctly."
Ron keeps looking between the two of us as if half the conversation is missing.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"That Eton is a Muggle British school for people with a lot of money, a lot of surname, or a lot of political power," I explain. "Or all three at once, if the universe is feeling especially generous."
Ron looks at him for a second longer than necessary. At the immaculate robe, the new shoes, the hair that somehow is still in place after half a morning of walking around Hogwarts.
Yes. There's a tiny bit of jealousy there. Not much. But it's there.
Justin, fortunately, doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he ignores it.
"Well, now we're all stuck in here together anyway," he says with considerable naturalness. "And honestly, I prefer an enchanted castle to boarding schools with gray walls and prefects with delusions of power."
"We've already got prefects with delusions of power," Ron says.
"Yes," I add. "Only here the portraits judge you… literally."
That draws a smile out of Susan. Hannah laughs quietly too.
Ernie, who hasn't said anything relevant in nearly thirty seconds, finally speaks up:
"History of Magic ought to be an important subject. If students use it for sleeping, that reflects badly on the students, not on the content."
So almost everyone already knows about that.
"Though it could also reflect badly on the professor."
Justin turns his head toward him.
"Thank you, Ernie. Admirable diplomatic balance."
"I try to be fair."
Mira chimes in again, still far too fascinated by everything.
"Are you going to History of Magic now too?" she asks, looking at Susan and Hannah.
"Yes," Susan says. "We've got it together."
"And Astronomy tonight too," Hannah adds, with a mix of resignation and curiosity.
Ron groans like he's just been given a sentence.
"At night too? Are they trying to kill us on our first day?"
"No, Ronald," Hermione says. "Just educate you. Which is harder."
We keep moving through corridors, suits of armor, and students drifting around us in different directions.
Justin edges a little closer to me, not intensely, just enough to keep the conversation going without shouting.
"I like you, Granger," he says, almost as if he's just decided it. "You're strange, but useful. A respectable combination."
I look at him.
What the hell did you even mean by that?
"Thanks. I think."
"And the colored Lumos was rather well done."
"How touching. I have admirers now."
"Don't exaggerate," Justin says.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── HERMIONE P.O.V ── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
I don't let go of Hadrien's arm.
Not because I'm going to get lost. I already know where we're going.
Simply because I don't want to.
And because, if I'm being honest, the group feels more compact this way. More stable. More ours.
I still have the parchment in my hand when I see them coming around the opposite corridor.
Malfoy in front, of course. As if he had been born convinced every corridor in this castle belongs to him. Crabbe and Goyle behind, large, ugly, and unpleasant as a set. Pansy Parkinson at one side, with two other Slytherin girls orbiting close to her as if they'd decided her personality would suit them too.
They don't even need to say anything for the atmosphere to change.
I notice it first in Neville. He curls in on himself a little. Barely at all. But enough.
Ron sees it too. His face hardens instantly.
Harry stops smiling.
And Hadrien… Hadrien says nothing, but I can feel his arm tense slightly under my hand.
Malfoy spots us immediately. His gaze passes over Harry, Ron, Hadrien, and me. Then it comes back. Slower.
He smiles.
Like someone who has already learned to enjoy being unpleasant.
"Well, well," he says, dragging the words a little. "Potter. Weasley. The Grangers."
Pansy doesn't limit herself to looking at me. She looks me over, yes, but then she keeps going. Parvati. Padma. Mira. Hannah and Susan. She lingers for a fraction of a second on each of us with that kind of cold social contempt that doesn't need any explanation to be understood.
As if she's already sorted us mentally into categories.
As if none of us quite makes the grade.
As if, with one glance, she has decided which surnames matter and which ones merely decorate.
Malfoy takes another step and his eyes land on Neville.
Ah.
I see.
He's not going to start with Harry. Not today.
He's going after the one he thinks is easiest.
"Longbottom," he says, in fake unpleasant surprise. "What a miracle. Are you still in one piece, or have you broken something already before lunch?"
Neville lowers his eyes a little.
I hate that instantly.
I hate how quickly Malfoy identified exactly where to press.
"Leave him alone," Harry says, flatly.
Malfoy doesn't even look at him.
He keeps on Neville, because of course he does. Because cowards always know how to choose.
"It's a serious question. You look like you'd panic if a spoon moved on its own."
Goyle laughs. Crabbe too. Pansy smiles with her lips closed, pleased.
Ron takes half a step forward.
"And you look like an idiot even without trying."
Malfoy turns his head toward him.
"Ah yes," he says, with lazy contempt. "The Weasley."
He looks Ron up and down. At the worn robe. The hair. All of him.
"Tell me, have you fully decided what you are yet, or are you still in that pathetic phase of being a blood traitor with a Potter pet complex?"
Ron goes red in a second.
"Go to hell."
"What refined vocabulary," Pansy murmurs.
And then she looks back at us girls.
All of us.
Her eyes land on me, drop to my shoes, then rise again. Then move over Parvati and Padma, their braids, their robes, their faces. Mira gets the same unpleasant inspection, as do Susan and Hannah. The other two girls with Pansy do the same, almost copying her.
"What a… picturesque group," Pansy says, with that sickly sweet voice that sounds worse precisely because she never has to raise it. "Some of them don't even look like they're from families that matter."
One of the other girls laughs softly.
The other smiles as if she's understood a private joke.
Pansy keeps going, looking at me again.
"And others clearly think reading a lot makes up for the rest."
I feel my jaw tighten.
Parvati stops smiling altogether. Padma goes completely still. Mira frowns with a clarity that surprises me. Susan and Hannah tense too.
"Excuse me?" I say before thinking better of it.
My voice comes out sharper than I expected.
Pansy lifts her brows slightly, delighted she's managed to get a response.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm only saying some people might benefit from understanding that existing near more important people does not make them important too."
"And some people might benefit from shutting their mouths," I snap.
That comes out louder. Faster. More agitated.
I take a step.
Or try to.
Hadrien releases my arm at once, but not to move away. He steps in front of me with infuriating speed and ease, like he's been expecting this exact thing for half a second already. He doesn't shove me. He doesn't move me aside roughly. He just plants himself between them and me, one arm barely extended behind him, cutting off my path.
As if he knows perfectly well I'm two comments away from trying to hit someone with the parchment.
Malfoy sees it and smiles again, filthy.
"How sweet. Is your little brother protecting you so you don't claw at people, Granger?"
I don't answer. Because if I open my mouth right now, I probably will.
Hadrien doesn't answer either.
He doesn't move.
For some reason, that is worse.
Malfoy tilts his head slightly, satisfied with the audience and the moment.
And then he says it.
"I suppose that's normal. You know what their kind of Mudbloods are like."
I don't completely understand the insult. But I understand the reaction.
The silence doesn't last half a second.
Because the noise breaks it.
Not a word. A sound.
A collective one.
A horrified, restrained, dramatic did he really just say that? comes from several places almost at once.
Susan's eyes go wide. Hannah's too. Ernie goes rigid, as if he's just swallowed a book on protocol backwards. Parvati makes a face of pure disgust. Even Padma blinks more slowly. Ron takes another step. Harry's whole face hardens; he understands it's an insult, even if not exactly what it means. Neville has gone white.
And Hadrien…
Hadrien just looks at him.
He says nothing.
He only looks at him with such ugly, cold stillness that it frightens me more than if he had shouted.
There's no visible rage. Not at first.
Just a kind of perfectly controlled violence behind his eyes.
Malfoy sees it. I know because his smile shifts slightly.
Justin is the first to react in a useful way.
He takes a small step forward, not to physically get in between anyone, but to cut the air before someone does something stupid.
And somehow, when he speaks, his voice sounds even more polished than usual.
"What an extraordinarily vulgar thing to say," he remarks, with a softness more humiliating than a direct insult. "Were you always brought up that way, or did you make a special effort today to seem cheap?"
Pansy looks at him as if he has just insulted her entire family tree.
Malfoy turns toward him.
Justin doesn't change his expression.
He doesn't raise his voice.
He doesn't rush.
He just looks at him with that polished calm of a boy who clearly learned manners before magic.
"I ask quite sincerely," he adds. "One expects a certain lack of judgment at this age, but this is simply bad breeding."
Dean makes a strangled noise. Seamus outright covers his mouth. Ron looks torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw himself at Malfoy.
From behind, Susan sticks her tongue out at Malfoy. Quick, childish, and absolutely inelegant.
Perfect.
Hannah looks at her, scandalized for one second.
Then almost smiles.
Pansy notices and puts on a face of pure disgust.
"What a pathetic spectacle."
"Yes," Padma says for the first time, dryly. "We're watching it."
That is enough to make me want to smile. Just a little. Just enough to keep from starting to shout.
Malfoy looks back at Hadrien, because he has clearly decided that is the true center of the problem.
"And what are you staring at?" Malfoy says. "Do you think looking at me like that is going to make me afraid of you?"
Hadrien remains still.
When he speaks, he does it so calmly it sends a chill through me.
"I'm deciding whether you've always been this pathetic or whether you just make more of an effort when you have an audience," he says. "And it doesn't matter whether you're afraid right now or not. You'll find out later."
Ron laughs. Loudly.
Harry shudders trying to hold his own in, but I know he is too.
Malfoy loses a little more of his smile.
Good.
Very good.
My heart is still beating far too fast. My hands are tense. The parchment is wrinkled. And Hadrien is in front of me like a wall, insufferable and perfectly placed between them and me.
I don't know whether I want to shove him aside or thank him.
Probably both.
"And I'm fairly sure the professors," Hadrien says, just as calmly, "and the Headmaster would love to know that someone decided to use a word that controversial and disgusting on the first day of classes."
That does affect Malfoy, a little.
Not much. But it's there.
He takes a couple of steps backward, almost imperceptible if I hadn't been watching closely. Pansy's face shifts a little too. Not much. Just enough for it to be clear that the idea of professors, the Headmaster, and real consequences is much less amusing to her than insulting people in a corridor.
Malfoy smiles anyway.
Not a clean smile. One of those crooked, ugly ones, meant to pretend nothing matters.
"Of course," he says, with practiced disdain. "Run and cry to a professor about it, if that makes you feel important."
He waves one hand dismissively, as though the whole matter has already bored him. Then he gestures to Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and the rest of his little court.
"Come on."
As if he's untouchable. As if nothing can touch him. As if simply walking away leaves him above all of this.
And yet, he leaves.
We watch them moving away down the corridor toward class, their followers stuck to them like a personal shadow.
"Hmp. He's just a pampered coward. Don't pay him any attention," Hadrien says.
And then we hear a dry thump.
Everyone turns toward the sound.
Malfoy has just gone face-first into the corridor floor with a truly admirable lack of dignity.
I stare at him for a second.
Then I look at Hadrien.
He's trying not to laugh. He's genuinely trying. Very badly. And he lowers his hand slowly, as if he doesn't want to draw attention to the tiny detail that, half a second ago, it had been very slightly raised.
…
Did he just trip him?
I cover my mouth before something escapes me. Not a word. A laugh.
Ron doesn't have that sort of self-control and doubles over almost instantly, letting out a scandalous cackle.
"HA!" he says, pointing shamelessly. "Look at that!"
Dean laughs too. Seamus worse. Even Hannah lifts a hand to her mouth, trying to hide it. Susan makes no effort to hide hers at all. Neville looks trapped between horror and a very tiny, very real satisfaction. Parvati is openly laughing now. Even Padma looks away for a second, her mouth much too still to be innocent.
Justin, of course, doesn't point.
But a short laugh escapes him anyway. Very improper for someone with his posture.
Crabbe and Goyle take a second to understand what happened. Pansy lets out an indignant little noise and hurries to help him up, more concerned with the public humiliation than with him.
Malfoy jerks back to his feet, red to the ears, dust on his robe and an expression that's a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and murder.
Ron is still laughing.
"Oh, no," he says, without a shred of compassion. "What a tragedy. Is the floor Mudblood too?"
That gets Harry to drop his head completely, clearly to hide his laughter. Dean turns away slightly. Seamus is practically leaning against the wall. Susan sticks her tongue out again, this time with less subtlety and more conviction.
Malfoy looks at us like he wants to memorize our faces for a future public execution.
His eyes pass over everyone and stop for a second too long on Hadrien.
Hadrien, of course, is wearing the cleanest, most innocent face in the world.
The face of a boy who would never do anything wrong.
The face of a professional liar.
"You're awfully clumsy, Malfoy," he says, with a calm that ought to be illegal. "You really should watch where you're going. The castle doesn't forgive bad balance."
Seamus nearly chokes.
Pansy glares daggers at him.
"That was not an accident."
"Oh, was it not?" Hadrien asks, tilting his head slightly. "How curious. Then the floor must have grown tired of him before we did."
Justin clears his throat, his English dignity still hanging by a very thin thread.
"Well," he says, in a perfectly polite voice, "this really does seem like an excellent moment for all of us to go to class."
Very diplomatic.
Malfoy clenches his jaw.
He says nothing else. He just throws one final venomous look at us and turns away with all the dignity he can gather after kissing the floor in public.
Pansy sticks immediately to his side. Crabbe and Goyle follow him. The rest of his little court behind. Like miserable planets orbiting a very stupid star.
We watch them disappear down the corridor toward the classroom.
And when they're finally far enough away, I turn slowly back to Hadrien.
He doesn't look at me.
He looks straight ahead. Very serious. Very calm.
Far too calm.
"You…?" I begin.
"I have no idea what you mean," he says before I can finish.
I look at him.
I look at his hand.
I look back at him.
I laugh.
And once I stop, I breathe in deeply to recover and look at the others.
"What does Mudblood mean?" I ask. "It's obviously a horrible insult, judging by how everyone reacted."
The group goes quiet all at once.
The laughter drops away quickly, like someone just extinguished a light.
Ron stops smiling. Harry too. Hannah lowers her gaze slightly. Even Parvati and Padma go stiller.
Susan is the first to answer.
"That's what purists call people born to Muggle parents," she says, frowning. "People obsessed with blood, surnames, and all that rubbish."
I blink.
I feel something go cold inside me.
"Oh."
It isn't a brilliant answer.
Because the word suddenly clicks into place.
So does the reaction.
The way Malfoy looked at me before saying it.
The way Pansy had already mentally sorted me in with the rest.
Susan continues, more serious than usual.
"My aunt works at the Ministry. I've heard enough to know that people like that use words like that as if they mean something important, when really, they just want to make other people feel smaller."
"It isn't nonsense to them," Ernie says firmly. "It's prejudice. Which is worse."
"Thank you for the moral precision, Ernie," Hadrien mutters.
"You're welcome."
Ron huffs.
"And they also call anyone a blood traitor if they don't play along," he says. "Basically, if you don't think like they do, you've already done something wrong."
"What a surprise," Hadrien mutters. "Idiots with idiot rules."
I look at him from the side.
He still has that calm of someone who, if left alone, would probably turn a social discussion into a crime scene.
"So…" I say, still processing it. "Do people really think like that? That being born to Muggle parents… makes you less?"
No one answers immediately.
And I like that little silence even less than I like the word.
Because it means yes.
Because it means this isn't just Malfoy being disgusting. It's something older. More widespread. More rotten.
Susan makes a face of disgust.
"Yes. And they usually think being born with a certain surname saves them the trouble of developing a personality."
That gets a brief laugh out of me. Without much real humor in it.
"My aunt hates them," Susan adds. "The people who talk like that, I mean."
"Reasonable," says Parvati.
"Healthy," Padma corrects.
I tighten my grip on the crumpled parchment.
"What a repulsive word."
"Yes," Hadrien says.
But he says it with a coldness that makes me look back at him.
"And if he says it again in front of me," he adds quietly, "the bit with the corridor floor is going to seem like a very generous warning."
Ron nods at once, still angry.
"On that, I'm with you."
Harry too. He doesn't say much, but the gesture is enough.
"Me too."
From behind us, Neville finally speaks, softly.
"You shouldn't listen to him."
We all look at him.
He shrinks a little under the attention, but keeps going.
"I mean… that. You shouldn't listen to him. He only wanted to hurt you."
"You're right that he only wants to hurt people and provoke them," Hadrien says. "But people like Malfoy don't get ignored. If you do that, they come back. They always come back. So you defend yourself however you can: with words, with actions, with whatever it takes if they cross the line."
He looks at Neville without softening it at all.
"Because he's a coward. And cowards always pick whoever they think won't hit back."
"I understand," Neville says, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced.
Ernie claps once, brief but sincere, as though he has just heard a surprisingly sensible statement in an important meeting.
"Well said," he declares.
Ron nods hard.
"Exactly."
Even Harry, quieter, nods too. He says nothing, but it's obvious he agrees.
I don't.
Or not entirely.
Not because I think Hadrien is wrong. On the contrary. I believe him precisely because he said it.
That's the problem.
I haven't had to deal with anything like that yet. Not really.
So I'm not sure I fully understand it.
But I am sure of something worse: Hadrien does.
And I don't understand how.
Did he learn it from those strange books he reads? I've never liked his philosophy books very much. Maybe he got it from those. Though, honestly, it would be deeply rude if someone could learn to sound that threatening just by reading too much.
I look at him from the side.
He keeps walking as if nothing happened. As if he didn't just speak with that ugly, dangerous coldness. As if he hadn't said all that with the ease of someone who isn't guessing how people like Malfoy work, but simply already knows.
I've never heard him talk like that before.
Serious, yes.
Annoying, sarcastic, irritating, also yes.
But not like that.
Not with that calm.
Not with that certainty.
Not with that kind of hardness.
And for the first time all day, Hadrien doesn't seem merely intelligent to me.
He seems dangerous. Not because he would hurt me. I know he wouldn't.
But because, if someone crosses a line in front of him, I get the very clear impression that something in him shifts.
And does not settle back into place.
I tighten my grip on the parchment.
I don't like thinking that.
But I like the alternative even less: that he's right.
That the magical world comes with the same sort of filth as the rest of the world, only with robes, castles, and older words to justify it.
I look at Neville again.
He's still quiet. A little hunched in on himself. As if he wants to convince himself to be brave simply because someone has just explained how he ought to act.
Poor thing.
Wanting to isn't always enough.
Even so, I move a little closer to Hadrien as we walk.
Almost without thinking.
He says nothing. He just lets me stay there.
And that, for some reason, calms me.
••
We've been in History of Magic for a while now.
Hadrien is sitting beside me. At first he was paying attention. Or it seemed like he was. But halfway through the class he decided to surrender in a much more elegant way than the rest: he opened the book and started reading on his own, as if Professor Binns were merely particularly depressing background noise.
He doesn't seem to be listening.
Or maybe he is and simply has a dreadful face for showing interest. That's also possible.
The class is so silent —apart from Binns's voice floating through the air like some low-budget curse— that I don't even want to whisper.
And, honestly, I'm not sure it would be worth it anyway.
Binns's voice is so monotonous, so flat, and so utterly devoid of any trace of human enthusiasm —which, I suppose, makes sense, as he is not terribly human anymore— that he has already managed to put several people to sleep. Some have their heads tipped onto their desks. Others are staring at the ceiling with that empty expression of someone who gave up hope twenty minutes ago.
Ron is already nodding off.
Harry too, though his looks more like a very polite struggle not to faint with dignity.
Binns keeps talking about the Goblin Wars.
Or a Goblin War.
Or three of them.
I'm not entirely sure anymore.
He says names, dates, rebellions, treaties, uprisings, and territorial disputes with exactly the same emotion someone might use to list soup ingredients.
I'm starting to hear him only as background noise.
So in the end I find myself copying Hadrien and lowering my eyes to the book.
Not to read just anything. To at least follow the topic on my own. Because I'm not going to sleep. I am not going to fall asleep in class like the others. That would be wrong. Besides, if I do fall asleep, Hadrien will use it against me for the rest of my life.
I turn a page slowly.
I try to concentrate.
History of Magic isn't bad in theory. In fact, I ought to like it. It's history. It's information. It's context. It's facts. I like all of those things.
The problem is Binns.
I do not understand how someone can turn an armed goblin rebellion into something that sounds more boring than a shopping list.
I look up slightly.
Binns is still floating at the front of the room, drifting accidentally through the edge of the desk every time he turns too far. Even that only makes him interesting for about two seconds.
Susan is trying to pay attention. Or at least it looks like she is. Hannah is somewhere between listening and merely existing. Ernie is still sitting upright as if sleeping in class were an offence punishable by expulsion. Justin has one elbow on the table and exactly the expression of someone being polite through sheer force of will.
I glance sideways at Hadrien.
He's still reading.
He doesn't even look guilty.
Just calm.
I turn another page.
I jot down a few loose notes from the topic, more out of habit than necessity. Goblin. Uprising. Century. Treaty. Something about wands. Something about property disputes.
The quill scratches over the parchment and, for one second, that sound helps keep me from drifting off completely.
But Binns keeps talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Are all the classes really going to be like this?
No. They cannot be.
It would be inhuman.
Which, now that I think about it, doesn't entirely rule it out.
I lower my eyes to the book again and try to concentrate harder, as if stubbornness alone might defeat sleep.
I cannot not participate.
I cannot simply give up.
I cannot sleep like the others.
That would be wrong.
Besides, if everyone else stops listening, someone has to.
Even if only out of pride.
I tighten my grip on the quill and look up again just as Binns mentions another date in that same funeral voice.
Very well.
Perfect.
If he insists on murdering the subject, then I shall rescue it myself.
I straighten slightly in my chair, look back to the front, and force my brain to work.
If Binns has no intention of making this class bearable, then at least I'm leaving here knowing something.
The answer comes to me immediately.
Not because Binns explains it well. He doesn't. He drops it like he's throwing bricks out a window.
But I understand it anyway.
So when he asks the first question in that badly organized funeral voice, I raise my hand.
No one else does.
Binns doesn't even seem surprised.
"Miss Granger."
I answer.
Binns gives the smallest nod, as if he has just checked the time.
"Correct."
And he keeps talking.
…
That's all.
I blink once.
Fine. That's all right. I don't need a public celebration for knowing an answer. I'm not a savage.
A few minutes pass.
Another date. Another treaty. Another dispute. Another question.
I raise my hand again.
Again, no one else does.
Not Ron. Not Harry. Not Dean. Not Seamus. Not Justin. Not Ernie. No one.
I answer.
"Correct," says Binns.
And moves on.
Nothing else.
Not a point.
Not a "well reasoned."
Not an "excellent."
Not even the smallest shift in tone to suggest he has noticed there is a student carrying this class by force.
Just correct.
I grip my quill a little harder.
Fine.
That's fine.
I didn't come here for prizes. I came to learn.
Five minutes later he asks another question.
I raise my hand.
I answer.
"Correct."
Another one.
"Correct."
Another.
"Correct."
Another.
"Correct."
I begin to hate that word.
Not because of what it means.
Because of how little it costs him.
Because there isn't a single molecule of life in it.
He could be saying it to a chair.
At this point the chair would probably be attempting suicide too.
My eyelids start to twitch.
Not from tiredness.
From rage.
A small, ridiculous, silent, entirely justified sort of rage.
Because I am right.
Because I am answering correctly.
Because no one else is making the effort.
Because Binns could, I don't know, pretend for three seconds that teaching matters enough to him to distinguish between a classroom full of the living dead and one girl who's been carrying the whole thing for half an hour.
Another question.
I raise my hand with a speed that is beginning to look aggressive.
I answer again.
"Correct."
Nothing else.
Nothing.
Not a single point.
Not a single extra phrase.
Not a gesture.
My right eye twitches.
Only a little.
Just enough for me to notice and be even more irritated by it.
I glance sideways at Hadrien.
He still has the book open in front of him. But he isn't reading anymore.
He's watching me.
Or worse, trying not to laugh.
The smile keeps growing bit by bit, second by second, with that silent meanness of his I hate when it's aimed at me.
He doesn't make a sound. Not one.
He just looks at me sideways, winks, and makes a tiny, almost invisible gesture with his hand.
Still not giving up?
I glare at him with all the moral outrage a person can concentrate without interrupting a class.
Of course I'm not giving up.
I am Hermione Granger.
I have been the best student for as long as I can remember.
I turn back to the front with the dignity of someone who, if necessary, will answer every last question this wretched ghost asks purely on principle.
Binns asks another one.
I raise my hand.
I answer.
"Correct."
I want to set something on fire.
Not the classroom. Yet.
But something.
The lesson drags on like an ancient sentence. Binns floats, recites, asks, accepts answers, and continues as if he were taking inventory of coffins.
When it finally ends, there is no relief. Only a strange tiredness. Not physical. Moral.
I put my things away with precise and completely empty movements.
I don't remember standing up.
I only remember that, at some point, Hadrien drags me out of the classroom with the others.
Literally.
Not violently. Just inevitably.
He's pulling me along by the wrist while we move down the corridor with the group, and I walk letting my legs function by administrative delegation.
I stare fixedly at the ceiling.
Not on purpose. I simply do not have the life left in me to look at anything else.
I hear voices around me. Ron saying something. Seamus laughing. Parvati commenting on something. Justin still far too well-mannered to exist. It all reaches me from very far away.
I just keep walking.
Dragged along by Hadrien like a soulless body with excellent handwriting.
"Not one point," I murmur into the void, my voice dead.
Hadrien tightens his hand around mine a little and looks at me sideways, clearly two seconds away from laughing again.
"I know."
"Not one."
"I know."
"I answered everything correctly."
"I also know."
I keep staring at the ceiling.
"I hate him."
"Yes," Hadrien says, with a sympathy that is of no use to me because he is also enjoying himself. "But you didn't give up."
That gives me back a little life.
Very little.
Just enough to lower my gaze from the ceiling and shoot him a deathly look.
"Obviously not."
Hadrien smiles. Just enough.
"I know."
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
8883 Words.
HEY! I managed to finish this right at midnight. It's already Sunday. EXPRESS CHAPTER, so if it doesn't have the same quality as the others, now you know why.
This chapter is a little shorter and quite a bit lighter. I went back to Hermione's POV, so you all can tell me whether I'm writing her well or whether she slipped out of my hands at some point.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.