The hospital wing smelled of bitter Skele-Gro and sharp disinfectant.
Madam Pomfrey had just shooed out everyone who didn't belong, leaving only the injured students for overnight observation.
Hermione lay on her side in the farthest bed, curled under the blankets. Her brown eyes—once so bright—were swollen and dull, staring blankly at nothing.
Across the partition, Harry and Ron breathed in soft, even snores. Pomfrey's potions had knocked them out cold after the earlier brawl.
Hermione wasn't sleeping.
She was trembling—because of the image that wouldn't leave her mind.
That corner. Empty one second. Then suddenly a blood-soaked figure. And the positioning… too perfect for a victim.
A soft rustle of fabric.
Hermione's breath hitched. She hesitated, then slowly pulled the blanket down.
First came the wild brown curls—mussed from being trapped under covers too long, making her look like a disheveled baby squirrel poking out of a tree hollow.
Then her eyes appeared—only up to the nose—half her face still hidden behind soft white cotton, carrying that childish instinct to hide for safety.
The figure who had haunted her thoughts stepped inside.
Lucian hadn't changed into hospital robes. He still wore the bloodstained Ravenclaw uniform; the bandage on his shoulder stood out starkly under the dim lamps.
"Lovely night, isn't it? Perfect for showcasing Gryffindor courage."
His voice was quiet, yet it sucked the warmth from the room. He leaned casually against the foot of her bed rail, watching her.
Hermione stared at the still-weeping shoulder. No polite greeting this time. Her voice came out hoarse, thick with suppressed accusation:
"That corner… it was empty."
Lucian's face didn't change. "Your observational skills have always been excellent, Granger."
"Go on."
"I was shoved against the wall. My line of sight passed right over it." She locked eyes with him, searching for any crack. "It was empty. But the moment the explosion happened—you appeared. And… Harry's spells were flying everywhere, but I don't remember him ever casting a blasting curse toward that dead angle."
She drew a shaky breath and voiced the suspicion that made her stomach lurch:
"Did you do it to yourself? Or did you guide the curse? Did you use the chaos… to frame Harry?"
Lucian actually laughed—soft, appreciative.
"Brilliant deduction. Clear logic. Sharp observation."
He tilted his head; the admiration in his gaze only made her shrink further.
"But it doesn't change anything, does it?"
"You admit it?" Hermione's eyes widened.
"I'm complimenting your intelligence. I haven't admitted to your accusation."
He spread his good hand in a small, reasonable gesture.
"But let's assume you're right. Let's say the corner was empty. Let's say the curse trajectory was… suspicious. So what?"
He pointed toward the snoring beds next door.
"Who drew their wand first in the corridor? Who lost all reason the second they heard a taunt? Who fired area-effect magic without hesitation in a narrow space?"
Hermione opened her mouth—and found nothing.
"You saw Snape's reaction. You saw McGonagall's disappointment." Lucian's tone turned softly seductive. "If Potter and Weasley had controlled their tempers—if they had tried to solve it with reason or rules the way you did—then none of this would have happened. Corner or no corner. Conspiracy or not."
"Flies don't land on seamless eggs, Granger. Traps only work on people who charge in blind."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut in pain. "But… Malfoy called me mudblood. Harry and Ron were defending me—"
"Defending you?"
The two words dripped contempt.
Lucian leaned down until his face was close to hers. Those black eyes reflected her own pale, tear-streaked one.
"Very touching. But do you really believe it?"
"Look at the aftermath. Malfoy's face is swollen—superficial. He lost fifty points, which Snape will almost certainly reclaim with interest during Potions. And you—"
His gaze drifted to her still-swollen cheeks.
"—besides the beaver teeth that made you the laughingstock of the school, now carry the guilt of Gryffindor losing one hundred and sixty points. Every late night you studied, every point you earned in class… all gone in their moment of righteous fury."
"Is that how they defend you? Turn you into an excuse for violence? Make you the fuse for their pent-up energy?"
"Shut up!" Hermione growled, fresh tears spilling. "You're not welcome here! You did this on purpose… you wanted Gryffindor to suffer!"
Lucian straightened. He looked down at her the way one might regard a wounded animal—pitying, almost gentle.
"I don't hate Gryffindor. I hate stupidity."
"I came to offer you advice, Hermione."
"Lions are pack animals. They roar and tear to solve problems. But you are not a lion."
His voice dropped, low and intimate, stating a brutal fact.
"You're too intelligent. Too orderly. Too desperate to earn approval the right way. Among these instinct-driven brutes, you will only ever feel pain. Because every time you try to build something, they will destroy it in a fit of impulse."
"Just like tonight."
Hermione stared at him, trembling harder.
She wanted to argue—wanted to say Harry and Ron were her best friends, that their impulsiveness was a kind of courage. But in the face of one hundred and sixty lost points, in the echoing memory of that word, the words felt hollow.
She was exhausted. She had always been the one dragging them forward—checking their homework, researching for them, cleaning up their messes.
Tonight she hadn't stopped them. She'd ended up the protected victim—humiliated and broken.
"Think about it. You still have that Galleon, don't you?"
Lucian turned toward the door, black robes swirling—reminding her, for a terrible second, of Snape.
At the threshold he paused.
"Rules bind the weak. They are tools for the strong to exploit. You're clever enough to have already glimpsed a certain truth, yet powerless to change the outcome. What does that tell you?"
"It tells you that as long as you stand on the side of right and rules… you will always watch yourself be sacrificed."
The curtain fell. Footsteps faded.
Hermione Granger sat alone in the dark.
Next bed over, Ron rolled and muttered in his sleep: "Good hit… Harry…"
That sleepy mumble was the final straw.
She reached up, trembling, and wiped her eyes with the blanket corner. Then her hand slipped into her pocket and closed around the ouroboros-engraved Galleon.
She stared at the moonlight spilling across the floor.
She should have felt anger. Grief.
Instead, a terrible clarity settled over her—colder and sharper than anything before.
She knew Harry and Ron were her friends.
She knew Lucian was manipulating her.
She knew the Ravenclaw meant no good.
But the most terrifying part—
was that he might be right.
Some wars in this world weren't won by shouting and sparks.
And trailing behind them, forever cleaning up, was slowly draining every drop of strength she had.
Hermione dried her tears.
But the light in her eyes—once so bright—dimmed. Or perhaps it deepened.
She pressed the coin tighter in her fist.
And for the first time, the rules no longer felt like armor.
They felt like chains.