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Hermione learned very quickly what the world thought about girls like her.
Unattractive. Opinionated. Self-sufficient.
Unwanted.
Needed, yes. There was always a need for that one person to bear the singular weight of a group project or to make a school shine. The student trotted out when other parents were determining if a school was worthy enough. A wonderfully brilliant student while teachers claimed accolades that weren’t their own, and ignored whenever bullies decided to remind said student how unwanted they were.
Hermione shouldered her way through the pain throughout primary, comforted herself in books, in older ladies in libraries who liked chatting with such a “bright young lass”, in taking up hobbies like writing letters for Amnesty International and collecting donations for Oxfam. World changing things.
She didn’t need friends when she had goals and aspirations.
It was a lie every time she said it to herself, but if she repeated it enough, it might bear a veneer of truthfulness.
Then the Hogwarts letter came.
Hermione had allowed herself to hope. She had allowed herself to dream when McGonagall excitedly showed her about different kinds of magic and expressed an enthusiasm to see Hermione in class.
She had been so stupid to think things would be different.
Her tears in the bathroom that Halloween night weren’t for Ron. God—no wait, Merlin—help her if she ever cried over Ronald Weasley.
Her tears were for dreams once again discarded. For a painful reminder that she wasn’t wanted.
So, Hermione kept her head down. She ran study groups; girls who wouldn’t chat with her in the corridors or in the common room would slink toward her for assistance with Charms or Transfiguration. She attended a few gobstones club meetings. She cheered for Gryffindor and watched Quidditch.
She was a perfect student, top of the roster, and, yes, both McGonagall and Dumbledore trotted her out when they needed an exemplary student to model.
But Hermione remembered every slight. Every averted glance when Draco Malfoy called her a mudblood. Every sneer from Lavender or Parvati. Every person who ignored her when she greeted them, but crawled to her table because they couldn’t figure the relation between a wand movement and the words.
And if Lavender’s brush suddenly started keeping more of her hair or if Parvati’s dresses were mysteriously stained, or if Draco’s shoes kept attacking him in his sleep, no one was the wiser.
Ginny Weasley was often at Hermione’s table. Shy, pale, and confused. Her essay writing was atrocious, but her practical spellwork was good enough to prevent her from failing. Every other night, she sat in the library and struggled over subject-verb agreement.
“You’re the best, Hermione,” Ginny said as she shoved her books in her bag.
“You’re already doing better,” Hermione offered, rearranging the books on the table to focus on her own research.
Ginny bit her lip. “Don’t you want an escort to the dorms? With the heir of Slytherin about…”
“It’s been weeks since Halloween and nothing has happened. You just focus on your end of Michaelmas term exams.” Ginny hesitated and Hermione flapped her hand. “I’ll get a prefect. It’s only another hour.”
With a nod, Ginny scampered off. Unlike with Hermione, another student, a Hufflepuff, immediately ran up to Ginny and they chatted as they exited, earning a shush and a glare from Madam Pince. Hermione returned to her work for Lockhart’s class. She wanted to excel in Defense. A quick check revealed she had run out of notepaper and she bit her lip. There, on the table, sat the black notebook that Ginny habitually carried. She had forgotten it.
It wouldn’t be a problem if Hermione used a page or two, not after all the help she gave. She grunted as the page wouldn’t tear.
“Must have an impermeable charm,” she muttered. She’d just copy it, that was fine. She began recording her notes on werewolf charms, scribbling random thoughts about how to potentially help ward against werewolves in a less violent way. She got lost in re-reading a passage about Lockhart, returning to her notes when she noticed they were gone.
What in hell Merlin?
She flipped through the book, panic nearly blinding. She sat for a moment, racing through her memory of wizarding inventory, her quill pressed against the page, the ink spreading.
And then disappearing.
You don’t really believe those Lockhart lies, do you?
Hermione froze.
As far as she knew, wizarding items didn’t talk back.
What are you?
Who am I? I thought you knew.
The cursive flowed and swirled.
I take it, you’re not Ginny Weasley. She’s never filled my pages with such academic ponderings.
Was this some sort of new rememberall?
My name is Hermione Granger
Ah, yes, Miss Granger. Ginny studies with you.
How do you know?
I am her diary. I know many things.
The ink sank into the page and a moment later, new writing flowed, nothing like hers or the mysterious diary. The handwriting was similar to Ginny’s.
I’m going to study with Hermione again tonight. She’s a bit bossy and definitely terrorizes Ron, certainly deserves her reputation as a harridan, but she’s the cleverest girl in the school. And the only one who doesn’t look through me.
Hermione glared at the diary.
She took a breath.
It wasn't a surprise. She was used to it.
The sting settled into her skin, absorbed, a hardening of her heart, a rebuilding of the shell.
What else has she written?
New passages appeared. Various complaints about Hermione. A whine that Harry spent more time with her. A sly line about her buckteeth. A snide comment about her hair. And a vicious mention of her heritage.
That bitch.
Hermione straightened. She certainly wouldn’t be assisting Ginny with her work anymore.
The page with Ginny’s comment about Hermione’s muggle heritage tore itself off and floated in the air, resting beside Hermione.
A bit of evidence, should you require it.
Hermione startled.
Why would you help me?
I’ve had more enjoyment this past hour as your notepad than I’ve had for months as her diary. I can help you, you know. I contain all the knowledge of a sixth year Hogwarts perfect.
The page shimmered again, an explanation of a complicated charm. Hermione had struggled with the wand movements for a week with the fourth-year work. A diagram explaining when she was to flick the tip appeared.
Your idea to help ward again werewolves has merit. We could collaborate.
Hermione stared. Unease oiled through her chest.
“Ahem.”
She glanced up. Madam Pince knocked her knuckles on Hermione’s table and pointed at the timed candles. They were down to nubs. It was almost curfew.
Hermione hastily apologized and gathered her stuff, shoving everything, including the diary into her bag, as Madam Pince flicked her wand and sent the books back to their home.
"Do you want me to escort you to your dorm, Miss Granger?" Madam Pince's voice creaked as it rose above a whisper. Hermione shook her head. "Then hurry along, dear."
The walk upstairs felt as if it flew by, the diary's words growing around her thoughts like mold.
“Hermione!” Ginny darted through the crowd at her. “Did I leave a black diary at the table?”
Not a hello. Not a thank you. The memory of Ginny’s words stuck to Hermione, and she blinked back unexpected tears.
She didn’t cry over this, not anymore.
“No,” she lied with ease. “Madam Pince cleaned up the table. Perhaps she saw it?” Ginny nodded frantically and rushed past her, bumping her shoulder and sending her books to the ground. Hermione huffed, although a quick wave of her wand brought the books into a neat pile in her arms.
She noted Fred Weasley stopping his sister from escaping, but no one offered to help her. Not even Harry, watching her from near the fire.
She stomped to her bed and fell into an uneasy sleep.
She studied the diary in the morning. Thomas M. Riddle glittered in flaking faux gold lettering. The diary appeared well-used. She carried it in her bag throughout the day, his offer for collaboration a cobweb wrapped around her thoughts, attaching itself to every stray, including disgust at Ron’s shoveling of food in his mouth.
She ignored the diary for several days while she perfected her work on runes for werewolf warding. A new application of wolfsbane within a runic constellation, built on an old tome she found in the library. She turned it into Defense as an extra credit project.
Lockhart said nothing for a week. Hermione fumed.
She did not write in the diary.
The Daily Prophet arrived Monday the following week.
Gilderoy Lockhart pioneers werewolf protection! The headline screamed. It showed Lockhart shaking hands with Leroy Abbott, owner of Charms R Us, Charms for Every Home. Lockhart received ten thousand galleons for his work.
Her work.
Her bloody work.
She could remain silent.
Remaining silent was easy. It was what she always did. Partnering with Neville and shouldering most of the potion work so that he didn’t blow up the entire school. Helping Harry with his projects, Ron with his homework. Keeping her mouth shut when another student passed off Hermione's essay as his own back in primary school.
No more.
She said nothing that morning, noting Lockhart’s beaming smile up at the table. Dumbledore stared hard at the man, before sweeping his gaze over the student body. He lingered for a moment on Hermione before resting on Cedric Diggory, in Hufflepuff.
As if that idiot ever thought about anything other than Quidditch.
Her mother would tell her to swallow the insults. To accept them as part of living within a society.
Her mother insisted on believing a meritocratic lie.
Hermione no longer had that comfort.
She stared hard at Lockhart throughout the lesson. He blithely ignored her, acting out how he defeated a yeti. She didn’t bother to disguise her derisive snort. He blinked at her once and tittered before returning to the story.
A bloody lie.
She wondered whom he stole it from, anger whipping even further into rage, her nails digging into her palms.
“Are you alright?” Ron asked in a surprising moment of insight.
Hermione bent over to avoid answering. If she spoke, all the emotions dammed in her throat would spill out in a vicious, noxious spew.
The diary fell out of her bag. It seemed to hum as her hand brushed it when she picked it up.
How are you today, Hermione? Given any thought to my offer?
She tried not to. One shouldn’t trust an item where you couldn’t see where it kept its brain.
Not entirely sure what you get out of it
I’m bored. I’m waiting to be entertained.
Then do I have a story for you
Once she started, it was frightfully easy. Tom soothed and cajoled her. Pointed out an error in her runic structure that made it more complicated than it needed to be. Vicious joy was quickly subdued when he explained it could still work.
She had no idea how the rest of the hour passed as she scribbled with Tom. The bell rang, Harry yelped, and Lockhart fled the room.
Her lip curled.
Coward.
That’s alright. She’d make him pay.
The proper thing is to show your work to Abbott. Claim your authorship
I don’t have the essay. Only notes.
Oh, Hermione. You should trust no one with your work.
Not even you?
I’m insubstantial. The most I can do is provide some insults.
I’m certain someone with your cleverness
could find a way to manipulate me.
Why wouldn’t you?
Everyone else does.
Too much. Too revealing. She tried to scratch through it, a tear plopping off her nose and bleeding thru the page. She sucked in a breath, her gut twisting tight. The pages seemed to swallow both tear and ink and she slammed the diary shut. It warmed for a moment in her hand.
She didn’t need Tom to know this much. Every bit of herself that she gave was an increased potential for rejection.
Unwanted by an object.
That didn’t stop her from writing in the diary that night until well after midnight, well after Lavender’s snores rattled around their drafty room. He convinced her that she needed to show her notes to Lockhart, to confront him. It didn't stop her the next day or the day after that.
Tom offered only truth, reminders, lessons.
If you don’t now, this will continue repeatedly. He knows you’re an easy mark. And you must consider: what will he do to keep you silent?
The question irked her. Gnawed at her. Dug through her rib bones and burrowed around her heart, plaguing her as she picked lifelessly at her toast the next morning. Her stomach revolted, nausea crawling up her throat, and she had to flee the room, swallowing snot and tears until her throat was thick.
She ran into a bathroom and splashed water in her mouth. Her fingers shook, her vision blurry. She blinked a few times.
Trust me. I know what its like.
How could you?
The ink slithered up her arm. Terror gripped her, froze her scream. Images assaulted her: food being ripped from hands, being pushed to the ground, being mocked for dead parents. Slytherins sneering in their coldly fashionable cruelty, dripping disdain as they pointed out the fraying trouser hems and the secondhand robes. The need to do homework for less than idiotic classmates so they could return home to parents full of lies and stolen valor, all while tossing off galleons to him as if they didn’t matter.
Hermione came to herself lying on the cold tile floor. She shivered, heart heavy.
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered.
Her hands shook as she picked up a pen, an old ballpoint she had shoved in the bag.
They did that to you?
Yes. Until I took back my power.
She bit her lip, blood sliding between teeth and slipping down on the paper. The diary seemed to shiver.
The worst he can do is deny it. And then you can take that to someone else.
Like Dumbledore.
The diary was silent for a moment, pulsing beneath her fingertips, oddly warm.
Do you want to end up worse than me? A forgotten mudblood, only mentioned
to laugh at how obnoxious she was in class?
You can do this, Hermione.
I’ll be right beside you.
That dreaded insult had her flinching. Had her nearly retching. She wiped the blood off her lip and washed her face. She held the diary close to her chest, its warmth thumping in time with her heartbeat.
Lockhart was alone in the classroom, striking various poses before a mirror. What a ponce. Hermione took all of her frustrations and shoved them down. The diary thrummed.
“Professor Lockhart? May I speak with you for a moment?” She reached into her bag and extracted her notes, all neatly put together.
Lockhart faced her. The door slammed closed behind her and she froze.
“Sir?”
“Miss Gramblestample, of course.”
“Granger.”
“Gangrenous, of course,” Lockhart nodded. “How can I help you?”
She waved the notes in his face. “It’s about you giving my work to the Charms company.”
Lockhart smiled, showing all of his teeth. They sparkled in the early morning sun.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. That is my work, Miss Ganges.”
“Granger,” she seethed. “And its not. I have all my work here. And a copy of the essay.” A lie, but Tom had told her to lie. Lockhart paused for one moment.
“Let’s say you do. Who are they going to believe? A little muggleborn? Or me, winner of Witch Weekly’s best smile?”
She stared at him. He could not possibly be this stupid.
“Sir, if we don’t come to an agreement about this, perhaps shared credit, a copy of my essay will go to Professor McGonagall.”
Lockhart twitched. His wand flew toward her, the end point gleaming. She cried protego, dropped the diary, dove to the side. His curse bounced off a desk, wood chips shattering in the air. One dug into her leg and she screamed, pain shooting upward. Hermione jerked the wood out, blood pooling down her leg and on the ground.
Into the diary.
Lockhart snarled. He tossed off another curse and she deflected. Another curse and she rolled away, smoke curling off the stones. She desperately cast an incanerous, the spell brushing him. He flicked his wand and the ropes fell apart.
“Obliviate,” he snapped. She darted behind a column.
Oblivate! He planned on making her forget! Horror faded into furious vengeance. How dare he! That monster!
“You will not escape here,” Lockhart said calmly. “All the doors are locked. You should have kept your mouth shut.”
“You stole from me!”
“And you should have been honored. I hoped your little crush would have kept you pleased, but alas. Girls like you rely far too much on your brain. I would have given you a nice Christmas gift.”
She seethed, knuckles whitening around the wand. A Christmas gift? That prick! She darted out, a quick bombarda. He blocked and tossed a freezing spell. She waved it off and called forth a mist. He blew it away and snapped a spell at her feet. She fell to the ground with a cry, ropes binding her.
Lockhart smiled. “Thank you for the work, Miss Green. I will replace today's fight with some lovely memories to remind you how much you enjoy my class and me. And I, of course, encourage you to bring more of your ideas to my attention.”
He lowed the wand, its tip glowing. Hermione screwed her eyes shut. Oh Merlin, not her mind!
The room exploded. White light encompassed her. Hermione screamed. Her hair was burning. Her skin crackled and smoke rose around her. A bellow cut through the fog and then darkness.
When she awoke, she was in a different room. Her mind felt strangely empty and it took her a moment to recognize the windows.
The hospital room.
She tried to sit and her body didn’t obey. Panic sliced through the silence and she started panting. She struggled to rise. Her body was covered in white bandages.
What the hell had happened?
“Now, now, Miss Granger!” Madam Pomfrey ran over, her white nurse’s cap flapping behind her. “You need to rest. Your skin needs to heal.”
“My skin?” She didn’t wince at how high her voice rose.
“Your skin was nearly burnt off. And you lost most of your hair.” She shook her head. “Just what were you and Professor Lockhart up to?”
Hermione blinked up at Pomfrey. A memory of the white light, the embracing, and the fire. A baptism by flame. She remembered the wand pointed at her.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Pomfrey said.
“Lockhart stole my work. I confronted him on it. He threatened to oblivate me.” Most of the story spilled out.
“Why didn’t you tell Dumbledore or McGonagall? You foolish girl!”
“Because T---” The name wouldn’t come out. “Because I had a d—“. She paused and licked her lips. “I was using a di..d…jou…note taking. And I thought that was my evidence.”
She couldn’t speak about the diary or Tom. She tried to whisper his name under her breath and found that nothing happened. The same stuttering silence.
Pomfrey sighed and offered a nasty looking potion to Hermione. “You need your rest. Your friends want to see you, but I assume you’d rather have some skin and hair before?” Hermione nodded frantically and accepted the potion. Sleep dragged on her eyelids and she slumped back onto the bed. Pomfrey drew the curtains around her and Hermione stared at the strange patterns the moonlight made on the ceiling.
What had happened?
And why couldn’t she speak about Tom?
The next morning, Hermione had developed her first and second layer of epidermis. Pomfrey covered her a nasty smelling salve and wrapped her again. Hermione’s head itched. Nothing she could do about it because she lost all of her fingernails.
“I advise sleeping through it,” Pomfrey said.
Hermione refused to fall behind on her classwork. Still, she could barely hold a pen, but she tried. She tried to write about her experiences.
She couldn’t even write Tom’s name.
She put down the quill and stared at the blotted paper.
Someone cursed her. Put a spell on her.
“Did anyone find a black book nearby?”
“That classroom exploded, Miss Granger. It’s quite frankly a miracle that you are alive. We’re still collecting pieces of Professor Lockhart.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open and she had to swallow the yelp from the sudden movement. Her jaw smarted with the pain of a freshly healed wound, threatening to split again. She blinked after the matron.
Lockhart dead? Vaporized?
She racked her memory for anything. His wand at her. A sudden flash. Flames licking along her skin. A protection…a bubble? Had she cast a bubble to protect herself? Had he?
How could a simple obliviate cause so much damage?
A question that an exhausted Professor Dumbledore put to her the next morning. Hermione’s body ached less and her hair was now a soft fuzzy layer. It still itched.
“Lockhart was popular. His fans may blame you for your survival,” he said bleakly. Irritation flared, a welcome feeling after a day of helplessness and numbness. She gathered it, stuck to it, hoping it made her feel more alive.
“He attacked me, sir.”
“Perception is more powerful than fact, something you should well understand, Miss Granger.” He sighed. “Perhaps we will say you lived because he protected you.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Is it? How else did you survive?” He leaned toward her. “Was there anything else? Or anyone else there that day?”
He knew about Tom. Or knew something.
Hermione stubbornly shook her head. She missed her curls. She missed the way they hid her face when she didn’t want the world to see.
“It was just us. I confronted him,” she stressed. The twinkle in his eye was absent.
“Professor?” Harry’s sweet voice, cracking just once, broke through the stalemate. Dumbledore softened and Hermione frowned. Harry shuffled in, a sheepish grin on his face. His lips crooked up as he saw her head.
“I gotta say, Hermione, I prefer you with curls,” he said before offering a box of Honeydukes chocolates. Dumbledore took his leave, and Harry caught Hermione up on the gossip, with some vague notes from Potions class.
The last week was end of semester review exams and Hermione was grateful for her choice to always read ahead. She wasn’t too far behind. Lavender made a few snide comments about Hermione’s shorn look, her hair stubbornly growing back at a snail like pace, and Hermione didn’t bother hiding the curse she sent that had Lavender’s own curls turn a shade of puce that didn’t fade for a day.
The Weasleys asked her for the spell.
She desperately scoured the castle for the diary. The walls still shimmered with the faint threats about the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny appeared lighter, happier, and attracted more people. She didn’t ask Hermione for as much help.
The classroom was an empty husk, wrapped in a deep spell. The wall had been blown out.
What had happened?
The same question Mrs. Ganger asked when she saw Hermione’s short hair.
“A new style, mum.” Her mother tsked and suggested making an appointment at the stylist to do something about the wayward curls that were beginning to appear. Her parents fussed over her, her mum marveling over how smooth her skin was and how empty it appeared of freckles.
“Magic.”
“Right, darling.”
The next morning, her parents went to work and she reclined on the couch with a book. She hadn’t read for pleasure in months, it seemed. She was just settled in, blanket along her lap, when the doorbell rang.
Not a sales rep.
She dug deeper into the couch and vowed to ignore it.
The doorbell rang again.
She flung off the blanket and stomped toward the door, throwing it open. A tall, lanky young man with curling dark hair and bottomless dark eyes, dressed entirely too formally, disarmed her with a smile.
“Hello, Hermione.”
She blinked at him, gathered her jaw from the floor. “Who are you?”
“I’m here to continue our bargain.” He gestured inside. “It’s about to rain. Do invite me in.”
“I don’t know you.”
He leaned forward. “I know everything about you. About Lockhart. You poured everything into me.”
Hermione always imagined revelation, akin to illumination, would be a glorious feeling. Instead, it felt as if she were on a too fast roller coaster, hurtling through hills and dips, her feet floating off the floor. Gravity had no claim on her.
“Tom.”
“In the flesh.” He slid inside, brushing close to her, lingering. He pressed a newspaper into her hand. The Daily Prophet, an article proclaiming that Lockhart’s partner, one Marvolo Gaunt, had appeared and claimed that they both had help from a student. An editorial proclaimed her brilliance and wondered what else she had in store for the wizarding world.
An odd buzz of pleasure clogged her throat.
“I told you I keep my promises,” Tom closed the distance between them. He waved his hand and the door shut.
“It was you. You protected me.”
“Yes.”
“And you killed Lockhart?” She tried to take a step back, spine meeting banister. He moved closer. He was dizzyingly tall, dizzyingly handsome, and his knuckles were gliding down her cheek.
“A baptism through fire, Hermione. I always take care of what is mine.”
“Did you kill Lockhart?” She couldn’t seem to get her feet to move.
“No. He killed himself, using magic he shouldn’t have.” He leaned closer, his breath skating along her lips. “Now its your turn to keep up your end of the bargain.”
Her heart hammered fruitlessly, a barreling of blood through veins that left her dizzy. For once in her life, she felt like swooning. Her palms were sticky. She tried to swallow and couldn’t.
“Are you ready to be my student?”
His kiss was a flame, a tender form of devouring. She felt her own soul flicker. She felt the weight of his arm as he curled around her, a smoky smell like fire and ash.
Hermione Granger was thirteen years old and never imagined that one day she'd be kissed. Not until after Hogwarts, at least.
The kiss shattered every pubescent fantasy she had indulged in. His palm climbed up her back and cradled her closer. His tongue savored the seam of her lips.
"I see what you've done, Hermione. I cannot wait to see more." His grip around her face was nearly painful, his teeth digging into her lip, his body smashing her into the knobby edges of the banister.
There was no other answer than yes.