The next day in the Gryffindor common room,
the fire roared high in the hearth, throwing warm light across excited faces. The gloom from the point deductions had miraculously evaporated amid the smuggled butterbeer foam Fred and George had somehow snuck in.
"Too bad you didn't get a photo for the mantelpiece."
Ron sprawled across a sofa, clutching a pilfered roast chicken leg. Grease dripped down his chin as he tore off a bite and spoke through a full mouth, gesturing wildly:
"Malfoy's face… Merlin's beard, it was like a toad that swallowed a whole vial of Shrinking Solution—everything just puckered up!"
"Wow!" The lower-years around him gave the obligatory cheers.
Harry sat perched on an armchair, cradling a mug of hot pumpkin juice, unable to keep the grin off his face. Even with his arm still bandaged, even with McGonagall's roar still echoing in his ears, being surrounded like this made everything feel worth it.
"It wasn't that big a deal," Harry said, scratching his messy hair in fake modesty—secretly basking in it. "If Snape hadn't played favorites, I'd have made Malfoy eat those filthy words."
"Exactly!" Seamus bellowed. "One hundred and sixty points? Screw the House Cup! As long as those Slytherin tongues tasted a little blood, I'd let the hourglass run emptier than Filch's brain!"
"That's Gryffindor!"
"Weasley is our king!" Fred and George grinned like they were hoping for round two.
"Even if it missed!" George added.
"That's intimidation, George. Pure intimidation."
The twins raised imaginary goblets; even the first-years who barely knew a handful of spells flushed with excitement.
In this warm red-and-gold bubble, Harry felt like a proper hero. He'd protected his friends. He'd struck back at a bully. He'd done the right thing. As for the pointless hourglass? Even if every last jewel fell out, it couldn't measure the weight of real justice.
But in the corner, Hermione didn't fit.
She sat behind a fortress of open textbooks, quill motionless for ages.
Those usually bright, eager eyes stared blankly at the pages—seeing nothing.
"Hey, Hermione!" Ron finally noticed her and shouted, still riding the high. "Stop moping! Malfoy had it coming! Even with the points and detention, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Right?"
Harry turned too, hopeful. He wanted her to drop the perfect-student act—just once—and admit they'd done something brilliant.
Hermione slowly lifted her head.
There was no approval in her eyes. No scolding either. Just silence—and bone-deep exhaustion.
"…Yeah. Worth it."
She echoed softly, forcing the corners of her mouth into a brittle smile. "Points are just numbers, right? All that hard work… definitely not as satisfying as punching someone in the face."
Ron blinked, missing the sarcasm completely. He grinned wide. "See? I knew you'd come around! The git deserved it!"
Hermione looked at her two friends—so proud, so utterly unrepentant.
Lucian's words rang in her skull again: Lions are pack animals. They roar and tear to solve problems.
Helplessness crashed over her like a wave.
"I… I don't feel well."
She snapped her books shut, shoved the parchment mess into her bag with uncharacteristic roughness, and stood.
"I'm going to bed."
"What? It's barely—" Harry started, surprised.
But Hermione didn't answer. Head down, bag heavy on her shoulder, she wove through the cheering crowd and disappeared up the girls' dormitory staircase.
The door slammed shut behind her, cutting off every sound.
"What's wrong with her?" Harry muttered, the heroic glow inside him cooling just a fraction.
"Don't worry about her, mate." Ron tore off another bite. "Give her a couple days. Once she calms down and realizes we did it for her, she'll thank us. You know—if we hadn't shown Malfoy some color, every Slytherin would think they can walk all over Gryffindor. Some people just don't get it: sometimes you have to use your fists to earn respect."
Harry nodded, pushing down the tiny unease.
Yeah. Just points. Hermione cared too much about rules. She'd come around. She'd see some things mattered more than rules.
…
The next day's classes passed for Harry in a strange haze.
Hermione still sat between him and Ron. She still corrected their wand movements during Charms practice. She still took perfect notes.
But something felt off.
In Flitwick's class, the professor—still cool after yesterday—didn't award her extra points for a flawless Levitation Charm. Normally she'd have her hand up again, pushing for recognition even if ignored.
Today she simply lowered her wand and stared at the wood grain on her desk.
At lunch Harry tried a Filch joke to lighten the mood. Ron sprayed pumpkin juice laughing. Hermione smiled too.
Her eyes stayed empty.
"You sure you're okay, Hermione?" Harry asked quietly. "You seem… distracted."
"I'm fine, Harry."
She kept the smile in place.
"I'm just thinking about the second section of the Transfiguration essay. It's tricky."
"Oh. Right. Good." Harry relaxed. Study stuff. That was classic Hermione.
He didn't notice her hand under the table—clenched around the cold Galleon so hard her knuckles bleached white.
He didn't see the way her face collapsed the instant he turned back to Ron to talk Quidditch—pure sorrow and distance.
Blinded by righteous self-satisfaction, he never realized that in this ordinary daylight, the girl who always trailed behind nagging him was quietly drifting away.
…
Evening. Castle shadows stretched long.
While everyone headed to dinner, Harry left the warm Great Hall and descended toward the dungeons.
The moment he stepped into that familiar, dank corridor, the earlier fire in his blood cooled. In its place came a bone-chilling draft.
Snape's office door stood ajar.
Harry pushed it open—and immediately gagged at the stench of rot.
Shelves of animal specimens floated in cloudy formalin jars; candlelight threw their twisted shadows across the walls.
"Come in, Potter."
Snape's voice oozed disdain. "If you've finished basking in the cheap hero-worship of your common room."
Harry clenched his jaw and shut the door. "I only did what I thought was right."
Snape lifted his head from a parchment covered in vicious red slashes.
"'Right.'" He savored the word. "How touching. Just like your arrogant father—always convinced he was justice incarnate."
"Don't talk about my father!"
"Because of your stupidity, Gryffindor lost any hope of the House Cup. Because of your recklessness, my student suffered unnecessary terror and injury."
Snape rose and crossed to a massive wooden vat.
The rotting smell thickened.
"Tonight's task is simple, Potter." He pointed. "Five thousand horned toad innards. Pick out the rotten bits. No magic. No gloves."
Harry stared at the slimy, green-brown mess. His stomach lurched.
"Begin," Snape returned to his desk. "Perhaps this will clear some of the heroic fog from that swollen brain of yours. Every time you wave a wand, there is a price."
He picked up his quill without another glance.
Harry rolled up his sleeves.
The cold dungeon air pressed in.
And somewhere far above, in a quiet dormitory, a girl sat alone with a single coin in her hand—turning it over and over in the moonlight, listening to the silence where certainty used to be.