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One Week Later
Sunlight cut through the dormitory curtains in neat golden bars, landing warm across Hermione's face. She stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of well-rested muscles, and for the first time in eleven days, her mind didn't immediately summon images of spreading crimson.
Her cock stirred with typical morning insistence, but even that felt routine now, just another part of her body's daily rebellion. She dealt with it efficiently in the shower, thoughts drifting to Lavender's sleep-tousled hair rather than darker memories.
Luna was much better now. Three days ago, she left the Hospital Wing and was back on her feet. Everyone was happy, and her being well again had healed the gloomy feeling around Hogwarts, but there were many still who wondered where Goyle was. Hermione knew they would never learn the truth.
The Great Hall buzzed like a group of bees when she arrived for breakfast. Girls clustered in giggling groups, comparing outfit plans, while boys pretended not to care about their appearance despite obvious evidence of extra hair-styling charms. Hermione claimed her usual spot, spreading jam on toast with steady hands.
"Morning, Hermione," Ron mumbled through a mouthful of sausage. "You're looking disgustingly cheerful."
"It's called getting adequate sleep, Ronald. You should try it sometime." Hermione muttered, earning a chuckle from Harry and a look of annoyance from Ron.
McGonagall's classroom smelled of chalk dust. Today's topic—human-to-animal transfiguration—had half the class shifting nervously in their seats.
"The complete transformation of a human into an animal form," McGonagall began, her Scottish brogue sharp as always, "requires not merely the alteration of physical form but a fundamental understanding of the creature's essence. Mr. Finnegan, perhaps you could demonstrate what happens when one attempts such magic without proper preparation?"
Seamus went red. "I'd rather not blow anything up today, Professor."
"Five points to Gryffindor for unexpected wisdom." McGonagall's lips twitched—the closest she came to humor during lessons. "Now, you'll work in pairs. The goal is not full transformation but partial success—perhaps achieving fur or whiskers. To understand if you have potential to become an Animagus. Begin."
Hermione partnered with Neville, who gripped his wand like it might bite him. His first attempt produced nothing but sparks and the faint smell of singed eyebrows.
"It's the wrist motion," she said, demonstrating the precise flick required. "Think of it like you're trying to paint the animal in the air."
Neville tried again. This time, nothing happened at all—not even sparks. His shoulders slumped. "I knew it. I'll probably be one of those wizards who can never transform."
"Don't worry, Neville." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Even McGonagall probably turned herself into a hairball her first try."
The classroom went silent. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward her. McGonagall's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
Then Parvati giggled. Dean snorted. Within seconds, the entire class was laughing—even Neville, whose worried expression had transformed into surprised delight.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Miss Granger," McGonagall said. "Though I should clarify—this spell is merely to test your animagus potential, not achieve actual transformation. Becoming a true animagus takes months, sometimes years of dedication. Today we're simply discovering what form you might take, should you pursue it."
"And some of us might not have a form at all?" Lavender asked nervously.
"Correct. Not every witch or wizard has the capability. It's nothing to be ashamed of—it's simply how magic works." McGonagall's expression softened. "Miss Granger, perhaps you'd like to demonstrate?"
Hermione stood, wand steady. She closed her eyes.
"Revelius Animagus!"
Magic flowed through her like warm honey. When she opened her eyes and looked down, her nails had lengthened into delicate but sharp points, distinctly feline. A few whiskers tickled her cheeks.
"Excellent start, Miss Granger. A clear feline affinity." McGonagall nodded approvingly. "Ten points to Gryffindor."
"That's it?" Ron asked, staring at Hermione's cat-like nails. "I thought—"
"Mr. Weasley, if you'd been listening, you'd know this spell reveals potential, not transformation. Now, your turn."
Ron's attempt produced absolutely nothing. Not a whisker, not a scale, not even a change in hair texture. Dean managed to make his skin briefly take on a rough, bark-like texture before it faded. Seamus's fingers webbed slightly before returning to normal. Parvati achieved a momentary shimmer of scales along her forearm.
Then it was Harry's turn.
"Revelius Animagus!"
Bright scarlet feathers burst along his right arm. The entire class gasped.
"Bloody hell, Harry!" Ron exclaimed.
McGonagall hurried over, examining the feathers with sharp interest. "Fascinating. Mr. Potter, can you feel any other changes?"
"My shoulder blades feel... odd?" Harry flexed experimentally. "Like something wants to grow there?"
"A flying animagus form." McGonagall's voice held genuine awe. "Extraordinarily rare. In my entire career, I've known perhaps three wizards with avian forms."
"What kind of bird?" Hermione asked, leaning close to study the brilliant feathers.
"Impossible to determine from a partial manifestation. Could be anything from an eagle to a hummingbird, though given the coloring..." McGonagall trailed off thoughtfully. "Well, should you choose to pursue full transformation, Mr. Potter, it would be a remarkable achievement."
The feathers faded slowly, leaving Harry's arm normal but tingling.
"So most of us just... failed?" Lavender asked, looking at her unchanged hands.
"You discovered your potential, or lack thereof. That's not failure—it's information." McGonagall returned to the front of the classroom. "For those who showed no change, it doesn't mean you're lesser wizards. Animagus transformation is one very specific type of magic. You may excel in areas where natural animagi struggle."
"Like what?" Neville asked hopefully.
"Herbology, for one. I've never met a plant animagus, yet some of our greatest herbologists had no transformation ability whatsoever. Magic is vast and varied, Mr. Longbottom."
As class ended, Hermione flexed her still-slightly-elongated nails thoughtfully. A cat. It made sense, really. Independent, curious, occasionally aloof...
"Reckon you'll go for it?" Harry asked, rubbing his still-tingling arm. "The full transformation?"
"Maybe after NEWTs," Hermione mused. "McGonagall said it takes months of holding a mandrake leaf in your mouth, among other things."
"A month with a leaf in your mouth?" Ron pulled a face. "I'll stick to being boring old human Ron, thanks."
"You're not boring," Hermione said automatically. "I mean—you might have an animagus form that just didn't manifest today."
"Nah, I'm like Neville. Totally transformation-proof." But Ron didn't seem particularly bothered. "Least I won't have to worry about hairballs."
Harry laughed, still occasionally glancing at his arm as if expecting more feathers to sprout. "D'you think Sirius knew? What I might become?"
"Probably not," Hermione said gently. "But he'd be proud. A flying animagus, Harry. That's incredible."
"Yeah, if I ever manage it. McGonagall made it sound nearly impossible."
"Since when has that stopped you?" She smiled. "Besides, you've got years to decide. It's not like we need more complications in our lives right now."
Ron snorted. "Right, because our lives are so simple and boring otherwise."
Two Days Later
The Great Hall had exploded into Christmas. Hermione paused in the entrance, taking in the transformation—twelve towering trees lined the walls, their branches heavy with fairy lights that cast everything in warm gold. Enchanted snow fell from the ceiling, disappearing just before it reached the tables. Someone had charmed the suits of armor to hum carols, though their timing was questionable at best.
"Bit much, innit?" Ron said beside her. "Mum'll go spare trying to top this."
They wove through the crowd to their usual spot at the Gryffindor table. Harry already sat there, absently stirring his soup while stealing glances at the door.
"Waiting for someone?" Hermione asked, sliding onto the bench.
"Luna said she'd join us for lunch." Harry's casual tone fooled no one.
"Oh, Luna said, did she?" Ron waggled his eyebrows. "And here I thought you were-"
Harry went red. "I was! I mean, I am. I just—"
"There she is," Hermione interrupted, spotting a flash of dirty-blonde hair. Luna drifted toward them with her usual disregard for conventional walking patterns, pausing to examine a floating candle.
The scar on her neck had faded to a thin silver line, barely visible unless you knew to look. Hermione's stomach clenched—not with guilt, exactly, but with a fierce protectiveness that made her fingers itch for her wand.
"Hello," Luna said dreamily, settling beside Hermione. "The mistletoe nargles are particularly active today. I suspect they're planning something for the Hogsmeade visit."
"Mistletoe nargles?" Ron asked through a mouthful of shepherd's pie.
"Oh yes. They're dreadfully romantic creatures. They feed on awkward first kisses and nervous hand-holding." Luna helped herself to pudding, eating it before the main course with perfect serenity. "Much like wrackspurts, but with better intentions."
Ginny arrived then, hair windswept from Quidditch practice. She dropped onto the bench beside Harry, who immediately sat straighter.
"Successful practice?" Hermione asked, determinedly not noticing how Ginny's flying leathers clung to her curves.
"Brilliant. We're going to flatten Hufflepuff next term." Ginny grabbed a roll, tearing into it with enthusiasm. "So, Hogsmeade plans? Please tell me someone's doing something more interesting than Madam Puddifoot's."
"Actually," Harry said, voice cracking slightly, "I was wondering if you'd want to go? With me? To Hogsmeade?"
The table went quiet. Ron's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Luna continued eating pudding, but her eyes had sharpened with interest.
Ginny turned to face Harry fully, brown eyes bright. "Harry Potter, are you asking me on a date?"
"I—yes?" Harry's adam's apple bobbed. "If you want. We could get butterbeer, or look at the Shrieking Shack, or—"
"Yes," Ginny interrupted. "Merlin, yes. I thought you'd never ask."
Something sharp twisted in Hermione's chest. She grabbed her goblet, taking a large gulp of pumpkin juice to hide her expression. The logical part of her brain noted this was inevitable—Ginny had harbored feelings for Harry since first year. The rest of her remembered Ginny's hands in her hair, the way she'd gasped Hermione's name, Ginny had been there for her when she had broken down in the shower, yet, all of that, did that mean nothing at all for Ginny?
"Would you like to explore Hogsmeade with me, Hermione?" Luna's voice cut through her spiral. "Susan mentioned wanting to join us too. We could investigate the Shrieking Shack for moon frogs."
"Moon frogs?" Hermione asked, grateful for the distraction.
"They only appear during certain lunar phases. Their croaking can predict relationship troubles." Luna's protuberant eyes seemed to see straight through her. "Very useful creatures."
"I'd love to," Hermione said, meaning it. Luna's company was uncomplicated in the best way—no expectations, no jealousy, just gentle acceptance and surprising wisdom.
"Well, since everyone's pairing off," Ron announced, puffing out his chest, "I'll have you know that Lavender Brown agreed to go with me."
"Lavender?" Ginny's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron's ears went red. "She's fit, isn't she? Especially her—" He made a gesture at chest height that required no interpretation.
Ginny's roll hit him squarely in the forehead. "You're disgusting."
"What? I'm just saying she's got great—"
"Personality?" Harry quickly added as if trying to save him from saying something stupid in front of the other girls.
"Yeah, two big round personalities," Ron grinned, seemingly oblivious to the disgusted looks from every female in vicinity.
"Charming, Ron." Hermione set down her fork. "With that silver tongue, I'm sure she'll be swept off her feet. Right into the lake, if she has any sense."
"You're just jealous because you're going with Loony—I mean, Luna," Ron said, then immediately looked guilty. "Sorry, Luna. Old habit."
"That's alright," Luna said serenely. "I'd rather be loony than have the emotional range of a flobberworm."
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice. Ginny high-fived Luna across the table. Even Hermione couldn't suppress a snort of laughter.
"The emotional range of a flobberworm?" Ron sputtered. "I'll have you know I'm very emotional! I have loads of emotions!"
"Name three that aren't hunger, confusion, or horniness," Ginny challenged.
Ron opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Shut up," he finally muttered, returning to his shepherd's pie with wounded dignity.
"Don't worry, Ronald," Luna patted his shoulder. "Flobberworms are very useful creatures. They produce excellent mucus."
"Thanks. That's... really helpful, Luna."
The conversation drifted to other topics—holiday plans, speculation about whether Slughorn would actually throw his promised Christmas party, debates over the new Firebolt model. Hermione let it wash over her, occasionally contributing but mostly observing.
Harry kept sneaking glances at Ginny, who pretended not to notice while doing the same thing. Their hands rested on the table mere inches apart, neither quite brave enough to bridge the gap. Ron continued eating with single-minded determination, occasionally muttering about personalities. Luna had moved on to her main course (soup, eaten with a fork for reasons she didn't explain).
"I should mention," Hermione said during a lull, "I'll only be at the Burrow for part of the holiday. My parents want me home for a few days first."
"Everything alright?" Harry asked, immediately concerned.
"Fine. They just... miss me. I'll join you all on the twenty-third."
"Mum'll save your bedroom," Ginny said, and was that a promise or just information? "She's already knitting everyone jumpers. Fair warning—yours is purple this year."
"Better than maroon," Ron grumbled. "Every bloody year..."
"You'll miss my parents' attempts at Christmas pudding," Hermione told him. "Last year's could've been used as a bludger."
"I am sure your mother is a lovely woman," Ron said loyally. "Even if she can't cook."
"She's a dentist, Ronald. Her skills lie elsewhere."
"Teeth are very important," Luna added. "Did you know that directed tooth growth is how nargles navigate? They use them like divining rods."
"That's... actually disturbing," Harry said.
"Most truth is," Luna replied cheerfully.
The bells chimed, signaling the end of lunch. Students began dispersing to afternoon classes, the noise level rising as everyone tried to finish conversations.
"Charms," Hermione said, gathering her things. "Anyone else?"
"Divination," Ron groaned. "Kill me now."
"That can be arranged," Ginny offered sweetly. "I've got a free period and nothing to do."
"Actually," Harry said quickly, "I was hoping we could talk? About tomorrow? If you're free?"
Ginny's smile could have powered Hogwarts for a week. "I suppose I could spare some time for the Chosen One."
"Don't call me that," Harry muttered, but he was smiling too.
Hermione turned away, adjusting her bag with unnecessary force. Luna's hand touched her elbow, light as a butterfly.
"The moon frogs will be very interesting tomorrow," she said softly. "They sing different songs for different kinds of heartache."
Sometimes, Hermione reflected, Luna saw entirely too much.
The Three Broomsticks smelled of wet wool and butterbeer foam, a combination that immediately transported Hermione back to third year—simpler times when her biggest concern was time-turner schedules.
"The wood grains form a perfect spiral here," Luna announced without looking up. "Very suspicious. Trees don't normally grow in perfect mathematical sequences unless they're trying to communicate."
Susan Bones arrived moments later, cheeks pink from the cold, her Hufflepuff scarf wrapped twice around her neck. The memory of those same cheeks flushed for entirely different reasons made Hermione shift in her seat, grateful for the heavy wool of her robes.
"Sorry I'm late," Susan said, unwinding her scarf. "Hannah wanted to borrow my good gloves, then Ernie started some debate about whether Pepper Imps violate the International Statute of Secrecy if Muggles see the smoke."
"Do they?" Hermione asked, mostly to have something safe to focus on.
"Oh, definitely," Luna said serenely. "But only if the Muggles are actually undercover wizards pretending to be surprised. Real Muggles just assume it's a particularly spicy sweet."
They ventured out into the crowded street, Susan linking arms with both of them in a way that made Hermione hyperaware of every point of contact. The village buzzed with couples—she counted three pairs holding hands in the first minute alone, their happiness as visible as the puffs of breath in the cold air.
Honeydukes was their first stop, the warmth hitting them like a solid wall of sugar. Hermione watched Luna bypass the traditional chocolates entirely, making a beeline for the Pepper Imps display.
"For warming the soul," Luna explained, filling a bag with the tiny red candies. "Also excellent for detecting invisible creatures. They sneeze."
"Everything sneezes around Pepper Imps," Susan pointed out, examining a display of Licorice Wands. "That's hardly scientific proof."
"That's what makes it so clever," Luna said. "Hidden in plain sight."
Hermione found herself relaxing into their easy banter, adding her own observations about the new Sugar Quill flavors ("Whoever thought 'essence of homework' would be appealing clearly never wrote a Transfiguration essay"). Susan bought enough Chocolate Frogs to supply a small army, claiming they were for her younger cousins but immediately opening one to check the card.
Scrivenshaft's proved more challenging—Susan needed specific quills for her Ancient Runes coursework, which led to a lengthy debate with the shopkeeper about feather quality.
"Eagle feathers are traditional," he insisted, while Susan held up a brilliant peacock quill.
"But these are prettier," Susan argued. "And if I'm going to spend three hours translating Viking shopping lists, I want to use something colorful."
"Viking shopping lists?" Hermione asked.
"Oh yes," Susan said, finally selecting three peacock quills. "Apparently they were very concerned about the price of goat cheese. There's a whole saga about it."
Gladrags was Luna's suggestion, though she seemed more interested in the mannequins than the actual clothes. Hermione found herself trying on increasingly ridiculous hats at Susan's insistence—a towering purple creation with live butterflies, a flat cap that changed colors based on the wearer's mood (it turned interesting shades when Susan adjusted it on Hermione's head), and finally a witch's hat with such an extreme point it scraped the ceiling.
"You look like McGonagall's rebellious phase," Susan laughed, then blushed at her own boldness.
"McGonagall had a rebellious phase?" Hermione asked, adjusting the hat to an even more ridiculous angle.
"Oh, definitely," Luna said, now wearing what appeared to be a tea cozy. "How else do you explain her ability to turn into a cat? That's not standard curriculum. She clearly experimented."
They collapsed into giggles, earning disapproving looks from the shopkeeper. Hermione bought a sensible winter hat in deep blue, though she caught herself wondering if Lavender would like the color.
"I need sustenance after all that shopping," Susan declared. "Somewhere that isn't Madam Puddifoot's."
They paused outside the tea shop in question, taking in the violently pink exterior and the couples visible through lace-curtained windows.
"It looks like a doily exploded," Hermione observed.
"And then reproduced," Susan added. "Aggressively."
"I think it's romantic," Luna said dreamily. "In the way that food poisoning is memorable."
They were still laughing when movement in the alley beside the shop caught Hermione's attention. Red hair—Ron's particular shade of catastrophe—and blonde curls that could only belong to...
The crack of palm meeting cheek echoed off the narrow walls.
"Behind here," Susan hissed, pulling them behind a stack of empty barrels. They crouched low, Hermione acutely aware of Luna's knee pressing against her thigh.
Lavender emerged from the alley like an avenging angel, robes billowing dramatically. Even from their hiding spot, Hermione could see the fury in her stride. Ron stumbled out after her, hand pressed to his face, saying something that the wind carried away.
"What did that idiot do?" Susan whispered, voicing Hermione's exact thought.
"Perhaps he insulted her aura," Luna suggested. "Some people are very sensitive about their spiritual emanations."
Lavender paused at the main street, turning back to deliver what looked like a scathing final word before disappearing into the crowd. Ron stood frozen for a moment, then trudged in the opposite direction, shoulders hunched.
"Well," Susan said after a suitable pause. "That was educational."
"Poor Lavender," Luna said. "Though I suppose poor Ron too. Getting slapped hurts."
"So does whatever he did to deserve it," Hermione pointed out, though her mind was already spinning through possibilities. Ron's emotional range might be limited, but he wasn't usually actively offensive. Just clumsy and thoughtless.
They emerged from their hiding spot, brushing off their robes. The rest of their afternoon took on a slightly subdued quality, though Luna's running commentary on architectural choices ("This doorway is clearly designed to discourage vampires—see how it forces them to duck?") kept them entertained.
The carriage back to Hogwarts was quiet, and Hermione could see the Thestrals pulling it. Harry and Ginny had claimed one side, sitting close enough that their thighs touched from hip to knee. The satisfied glow on both their faces made something twist beneath Hermione's ribs.
She squeezed in opposite with Luna and Susan, the three of them pressed together like books on an overfull shelf. Ron sulked in the corner, still pressing his hand to his cheek though the red mark had faded.
The silence stretched like treacle. Harry kept opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again. Ginny traced patterns on the fogged window. Susan shifted, her hip pressing more firmly against Hermione's.
"Do Thestrals have preference in their food?" Luna asked suddenly. "I've always wondered if they're strictly carnivorous or if they enjoy the occasional apple."
"They eat meat," Harry said, grateful for the opening. "Raw, usually. We saw it last year."
"Fascinating," Luna said. "Do you think they can taste? Or is it more about texture?"
The absurdity of the conversation finally broke through Ron's sulk. "Who cares what death horses like to eat?"
"They're not death horses," Hermione corrected automatically. "They're simply associated with death due to the visibility requirement. The actual creatures are quite gentle."
"Gentle death horses, then," Ron muttered.
Harry finally cracked. "What happened, mate?"
Ron's shoulders hunched further. "I might have been a bit... hasty."
"Hasty?" Ginny's voice dripped sarcasm. "What did you do, propose marriage over butterbeer?"
"No!" Ron's ears went scarlet. "I just... thought she liked me! She kept laughing at my jokes!"
"Were they actual jokes or did she think you were being unintentionally funny?" The question slipped out before Hermione could stop it.
Ron glared at her. "They were jokes! Good ones! I told her the one about the troll, the hag, and the leprechaun."
"Oh, Ron," Susan sighed. "That joke's older than Hogwarts."
"It's a classic!" Ron defended. "And she laughed!"
"The kind of laugh where her eyes crinkled?" Luna asked. "Or the kind where her mouth moves but nothing reaches her face?"
Ron's silence was answer enough.
"You tried to kiss her," Harry said. Not a question.
"She was laughing! And leaning close! And her... she smelled nice," Ron finished lamely.
"Smelling nice isn't consent, Ronald," Ginny said.
"I know that! I just... misread things." He slumped further. "Then she started lecturing me about boundaries and appropriate behavior and how she thought I was different from other boys but clearly I was just another grabby octopus."
"Octopus?" Susan asked.
"Her words," Ron said miserably. "Apparently I have 'wandering tentacles instead of hands.'"
Despite everything, Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy. Ron's emotional intelligence might be questionable, but he wasn't malicious. Just painfully, catastrophically awkward.
The castle gates loomed through the mist. Ron was out of the carriage before it fully stopped, disappearing into the crowd of returning students. Harry and Ginny followed more slowly, hands still linked.
"Well," Susan said as they climbed out. "That was illuminating."
"The moon frogs sang interesting songs today," Luna observed, which made no sense unless you were Hermione, who heard it for what it was—acknowledgment that hearts were complicated things, prone to wanting what they shouldn't.
Goyle Sr.
The Manor's dining room echoed with absence. Nineteen days since Gregory was gone, and the single place setting at the vast table mocked Goyle Sr. with its solitude. He cut his meat, imagining it was Potter's flesh beneath his knife.
The other Death Eaters had stopped asking about Gregory after the first week. Their condolences had been perfunctory, their interest already shifting to who would claim Gregory's future position in the ranks. As if his son was just another casualty, noteworthy only for the inconvenience of restructuring hierarchies.
"The Potter boy grows more interesting," the Dark Lord had mused just yesterday, red eyes gleaming with something that might have been approval. "To kill so young, so decisively... perhaps I underestimated him."
The words had burned worse than any Cruciatus. His master found amusement in Gregory's death. Found it promising that Potter had murdered a sixteen-year-old boy. The other Death Eaters had nodded along, already calculating how to use this development, how to turn Potter's darkness to their advantage.
None of them mentioned Gregory's name. None of them cared that he'd been someone's son.
The knife scraped against china, the sound sharp in the empty room. Nineteen days. He'd taught Gregory to count when he was four, using training hexes as incentive. The boy had been slow but steady, eventually mastering numbers through sheer determination and appropriate motivation.
Now Potter had reduced him to just another number. Another body. Another joke for the Dark Lord to chuckle over while discussing the irony of the Boy Who Lived becoming a killer.
Goyle Sr. set down his utensils with careful control. Let the Dark Lord be amused. Let him see opportunity where a father saw only blood demanding blood. Even if it meant defying direct orders. Even if it meant facing the Cruciatus until his mind shattered.
Potter would die by his hand. The boy would learn what it meant to take a father's son. And unlike Gregory's death—quick, in the dark, unmourned—Potter's end would be slow enough for him to understand exactly why.
The empty chair across from him seemed to nod in agreement. Or perhaps that was just the shadows dancing in the candlelight, playing tricks on a grieving man's eyes. Either way, the vow was made.
I'll kill him for you, Gregory. Even if the Dark Lord tortures me to death for it.
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