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Hermione Granger had always known she was special, even from a very young age. Her parents told her she was, and so did all her teachers. She’d been formally pronounced as being “gifted” by a private psychologist after he’d administered a Wechsler test and a few other assessments, and told her parents she had an exceptional memory and highly advanced literacy and problem-solving skills. Her parents, ambitious on her behalf and not wanting her to be so bored in school all the time, pushed the school to bump her up a year. She’d been excited at first, eager to be in Year 2 with smarter kids, working at her level instead of trudging slowly through learning to read with kids her age. To her dismay she soon discovered that she was ahead of most of those kids too. They were also all a full head taller than her, and even less inclined than her old classmates to want to make friends with the gap-toothed little girl who was always waving her hand in the air, over-eager to be the teacher’s pet.

She was lonely, and as the months and then years wore on, it only grew worse. Without a single friend to relieve the tedium of breaks and lunch times, she eventually gave up trying to find one, and spent almost every free moment of her school days reading. Anything good, anything long, not the “little kid” books full of pictures that she’d learned to scorn because her mother had pronounced them “beneath your abilities”. She didn’t want to let her parents down – she wanted to make them smile and be proud of her, and come home early from their dental practice instead of leaving her with the nanny again.

While Hermione wished her parents were around more, she really did love her nanny, Julia. She had cute glasses with purple rims, dark skin, lovely fluffy curly black hair even frizzier than Hermione’s curly brown locks, and – most exciting of all – she was studying maths at university, which sounded much less icky than being a dentist. After school, Julia would walk Hermione home and make her snacks. She practiced times tables with her and gave her tricky maths puzzles to solve – like how to get a bunch of animals that would fight with each other across a river in a boat with limited capacity, and how to cut a cake into eight equal pieces with only three straight cuts. She clapped when Hermione’s violin practice went well, and sang to her when she was sick. And then one day, she solemnly announced that she was leaving.

“Did I do something wrong?” Hermione asked anxiously. “I could practice violin more. I’ll wipe the counters after snack time! Don’t go, Julia! I’m sorry!”

Julia crouched down in front of her and held her hands tightly, “Oh no, sweetheart! It’s got nothing to do with you. I love being your nanny, but I’ve got a scholarship offer for post-graduate study in another town, so I have to move.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” said Hermione, her lip quivering.

Julia gave her lots of hugs, and promised to write, but she only ever sent three postcards.

Hermione hated the new nanny. Emily didn’t clap for her when she played the violin like Julia used to and she never played maths games with her. She also made her eat carrots for afternoon tea as per her parents’ instructions, instead of sneaking in a packet of chocolate biscuits to share like Julia used to.

One morning when she was whining to her parents for the fifth time over breakfast about how she wanted a new nanny, not Emily, and how she needed someone more fun like Julia, her father lost patience and snapped at her in exasperation. “Well, Julia’s gone and she’s not coming back, so you may as well get used to it! You should try being nice to Emily instead of being a whingy little brat all the time, and maybe then she’d-”

But Mr Granger didn’t finish his sentence, because at that moment, filled with hurt feelings, rage, and the grief of loss all swirling together, something burst out of Hermione like a wave of warmth, and the cup of tea her father was holding suddenly shattered, spilling hot milky tea all over the breakfast table.

When Hermione sobbed her apologies, her father talked about hairline fractures and heat, and his irritation of a few minutes ago was quite forgotten in the muddle of trying to soothe his daughter’s hysteria. She let herself be comforted by her parents’ hugs and reassuring words that it wasn’t her fault, but she thought she knew the truth – she’d made it happen somehow.

And it wasn’t the last time it happened. When Edward at school tossed a bug on her to make her shriek and drop her book, it flew off her arm up into the air, and sailed right over the swing set.

“Dumb bug,” Edward sulked. “It flew away. But at least I got a good scare out of you!”

But it didn’t fly with wings… it didn’t have wings. “It wasn’t a ‘bug’, it was actually a woodlouse, a land-dwelling crustacean,” she corrected crossly. “And you were rude to throw it at me.”

“Whatever, weirdo,” he said, and smirked as he walked off. “It’s still a bug, and you’re a big scaredy cat.”

She didn’t care what he thought. Or at least that’s what she told herself. And it was kind of true – she cared more about the fact that she’d made the woodlouse fly straight up into the air. And not because she’d moved her arm – that had moved sideways. She didn’t really understand physics very well, but she knew enough to understand that the woodlouse shouldn’t have gone straight up. It was like… magic. Did she have magic powers? It sounded crazy, but it might be true.

That evening, she asked her Mummy what she thought. “Do you think I might have magic powers, Mummy?”

“Magic isn’t real,” her mother said distractedly, as she sorted through some paperwork. “Are you playing a game, darling? You should decide what kind of powers are the best powers to have, and think about how to practice using them. You don’t accomplish anything without hard work. Determination, that’s the key.”

Hermione nodded – it was a refrain she’d heard often, even at the tender age of eight. “And research, right Mummy? If you don’t understand something, look it up. Can we go to the library?”

“That’s right, darling,” her Mummy said with a quick smile, jotting down some numbers on a long and complicated looking form, “practice and research can take you anywhere. You can ask Emily to take you to the library tomorrow afternoon if you want to look things up, okay? It’s almost dinner time, and I have a lot of work to do here – it’s almost tax time.”

“Should I tell her about my magic powers? I don’t want her to know,” sighed Hermione.

“That’s alright, you can keep them a secret. It can be your special game,” reassured her mother, who was pleased that her daughter had a game she wanted to play for a change, instead of reading non-stop. “You could invite some kids at school to join in if you wanted.”

“I don’t think any of them have magic powers,” Hermione said, glancing to the side.

Her mother sighed in frustrated disappointment. “Well, maybe you can think of an imaginary friend to play with for now.” It was a suggestion that would shape the course of her daughter’s life forever.

“They wouldn’t be real,” her logical daughter objected.

“Magic can do anything, remember,” Mrs Granger said with a smile, and with more truth than she realised.

-000-

Emily didn’t mind taking Hermione to the library, but she wasn’t very interested in following her around while she browsed the shelves for an hour, so she sat down on a comfy grey and blue sofa chair with a trashy magazine to read about the latest scandals of the royal family and assorted celebrities.

Hermione asked the librarian for help. She knew how to use the card catalogue all by herself, but asking Miss Lauren was always faster. She was a kind old lady with more grey hair than her mother who always wore a lovely perfume that smelt like roses. She didn’t like being called old though, so Hermione had only ever done it the once. Miss Lauren had said she’d forgive anything from someone who loved to read as much as she did.

“And what are you researching today, Hermione?” she asked with a big smile that made creases appear at the corners of her soft blue eyes. “Insects or stars again? Something new like dinosaurs of the Cretaceous Period? Or are you after fiction today?”

“Magic. I want to learn all about magic,” she replied determinedly.

“I have a new fantasy series that’s just come in all in about dragons,” Miss Lauren suggested. “It’s recommended for ten years and up, but I’m sure it would suit you just fine.”

“No, not that kind of magic,” Hermione said with a shake of her head. “I mean real magic. Not fiction.”

“Oh! Well, that sounds fun. You want to teach yourself how to do magic?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly.

“Well, have a browse in non-fiction, 793.8, if my memory doesn’t fail me, and it rarely does.”

Hermione looked, but it wasn’t what she was after. It was just… tricks. Sleight of hand with cards, and how to hide things in a hollow hat. She returned to Miss Lauren.

“How did you go?” the librarian asked with another smile as Hermione returned to the counter empty-handed. “No books that suited you? They might be out on loan, there aren’t many in that section, I’m afraid.”

“No, Miss Lauren, it wasn’t the right kind of magic. I don’t want to learn stage magic or card tricks. I want to learn about real magic. Like… people who believe you can actually make things fly in the air, or set things on fire without matches.”

“Like parapsychology, or witchcraft?”

“Maybe not the first one,” Hermione said dubiously. Psychology didn’t sound like the right section. She didn’t think it was all in her head. It wasn’t a delusion, it was real. “But not fairytale witches! Only if it’s people who are genuine witches with real powers. Are there some books like that in our library?”

“A whole little section of them! I understand what you’re after now, and I think what you actually want is 133.4 – Demonology and Witchcraft.”

“Wow! Demons?”

“Some people believe in them, just like they believe magic spells and witches with special powers are real.”

Hermione got a lot of books out that day. Books on witchcraft, sorcery, and witch hunts. Dictionaries full of demons and devils, and spellbooks with real magic spells.

“Are you certain you’re happy for her to borrow all these?” Miss Lauren asked Emily, eyeing her charge’s pile a little warily.

“Oh, sure,” she said, only glancing briefly at the topmost book on the teetering pile Hermione had carried to the counter. “Her parents let her read whatever she wants. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t really, of course. But then, Emily didn’t know magic was real. And so were demons.

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Hermione tried a few spells from the books she’d borrowed. Some of them worked – a little – most of them didn’t. The plant she’d cast spells on flourished, while the one she kept as a control grew at a more normal rate. She’d also managed, with a very great deal of effort, to make a candle flame extinguish just by wishing it. So she knew it was real. She’d proved it! It would just take research and practice to improve.

She liked the idea of being a witch, and decided to learn what spells she could. But she also liked the idea of summoning a being to be her friend, just like her mother wanted. She talked about it with her dad, who seemed to have been informed of her new interest in magic by her mother, or possibly by Emily.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Dandelion?” he asked. It was his pet nickname for her, based on her frizzy mane of hair.

“Don’t tell Mummy, because I want to surprise her, but I’m going to make an imaginary friend with magic.”

“That’s a fine idea. What kind of friend?”

“I was thinking maybe an angel or a demon?” she suggested hesitantly.

“Not an ordinary child?”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy. You can’t just summon a real child out of nowhere. It has to be a magical creature. Which type do you think I should pick?”

He smiled then assumed a serious, thoughtful look. “Well, as we’re a family of atheists, I don’t imagine angels would be very happy with us. Probably best to stick with a demon, I suppose. But make sure it’s a friendly demon. You don’t want a nasty one that would want to hurt people or one that’s too scary.”

Her daddy helped her get some magical tools together on Saturday. She could tell he didn’t really believe it would work, but that was alright – she’d prove it all later when her demon showed up.

Mr Granger didn’t want her to have a sharp knife to be her athame, but he did give her a silver cake-server. “It’s rather elaborately decorated, and silver! So that makes it special,” he said. “It’s sharp enough to cut cake on one side, but not sharp enough to cut you. It was a wedding gift from Mummy’s friend Renee, but I don’t think we’ve ever used it. We’re not very big on cake here, after all!”

“Except for birthdays,” Hermione agreed. “Sweets rot your teeth.”

They found a box of coloured chalk she could use for drawing magic circles, and Hermione promised to avoid drawing pentagrams, just in case it worried her mother, who’d been raised Christian before losing her faith in her teens. Her mother was still working at the dental clinic – she and Mr Granger alternated who took the Saturday morning shift.

“Now I need a goblet, and a magic wand,” Hermione said. A decorative wineglass was found to be pressed into service as her Cup, but no magic wand was to be had at home. They had a lovely little garden full of flowers but it was small, and rather lacking in trees. Shrubs just wouldn’t do.

“I’ll make you a deal, Dandelion,” her father proposed. “I’ll take you to the park so you can hunt for a magic wand, but you have to play on the swings and slide for at least twenty minutes with other children. Of course you can make up your friendly demon when you get back, but you still have to leave time this evening for violin and maths practice. And if you’re scribbling with chalk on your floorboards you have to clean it up yourself.”

“Ten minutes on the playground?”

“Fifteen,” countered her father.

“Deal,” Hermione said gravely, and offered a tiny hand to shake.

-000-

Hermione had played obediently on the swings and other playground equipment for fifteen minutes, which wasn’t so bad once she got started. There were some other kids there, but she just ignored them, and they ignored her. She was busy thinking about her wand.

Her father was sitting on one of the park benches, and looked up from his book to smile and wave as she wandered past, intently looking at the nearby trees and branches. It was quite a large park, but there weren’t a lot of trees for her to choose from, really.

When she found a new type of tree, she laid her hand on the rough bark, closed her eyes, and tried to feel if it felt right in a magical kind of way, while listening to the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind. There was one tree that felt kind of extra special, but in the end she discovered it was actually the ivy on the trunk she liked best. That obviously wouldn’t work for a wand – since it was mostly too thin and bendy, and if she tried to get the thickest bit it would really hurt the vine.

Eventually she found a small fallen oak branch she thought might do, and emptied out her thermos of water over the oak tree’s roots as a thank you present.

“Did you pick your magic wand yet, Hermione sweetheart?” asked her father.

“Yes Daddy,” she said, trotting over. “I liked the ivy best, but I don’t think it would make a nice wand, which is a shame. I don’t want to kill the plant to try and get a big bit of it anyway – that’s bad for the magic. And against park rules. So I picked this oak branch – it seemed quite nice too.”

“Maybe you could pick just a little bit of ivy, then wrap it around the base of your oak wand like a handle grip,” her father suggested. “Ivy grows back fast – the plant won’t mind.”

Hermione brightened happily, then refilled her thermos at a water fountain. She gave the ivy a drink too. “Thank you ivy, I hope you don’t mind me taking a little bit for my wand. Here’s a drink of water for you. I’m sure you’ll grow back fast.” She tugged hard until a strand of ivy broke off, then went back with her prize to her dad.

“Be careful of the sap, just in case,” he said warily. “Botany’s not my area of expertise, but sometimes the sap is a problem and causes rashes, I think?”

Hermione worked on making her wand for a whole week, every afternoon at home. Emily was delighted about her young charge having a hobby that didn’t revolve around reading for a change, and even helped her trim her branch to what Hermione decided was just the right length.

“It’s a bit long,” Hermione said thoughtfully while giving her wand a swish. “Can we cut it again?”

“I guess so,” said Emily with a sigh, then got out the pruning shears again and snipped it to just under a foot long. “How’s that?”

Hermione gave it another wave and the wand felt warm and happy in her hand. “Just right! It likes being this length.” Emily gave her an indulgent smile and supplied her with some sandpaper to smooth over the rough places.

She was glad Emily was being nicer to her. She still wasn’t going to tell her about how she really truly had magic powers, but she’d had to tell her about her magic wand. She wasn’t allowed to use sharp tools on her own, and she knew you mustn’t break the house rules.

Under Emily’s supervision Hermione was allowed to carefully carve a “H” in the sawn-off handle end (there not being room to carve her whole name, as some books advised) with the repetitive scratching of the blade of an open pair of scissors. She trimmed off all the leaves, and tried winding the ivy around as a handle, but it kept falling off. Eventually the two of them decided she would need to glue it on, and some superglue was employed in the end to make it stay put.

Emily pretended to be interested in the “real magic” that Hermione was studying a couple of times, but Hermione wasn’t fooled. She’d tried to show her nanny the magic squares of Agrippa and Paracelsus, which had all the numbers adding up to the same answer whether you read a row, column, or diagonal line, and Emily just got bored. Her mummy had thought they were very clever, and she knew Julia would have loved them.

Emily thought the pictures of demons in The Lesser Key of Solomon looked “gross”. Admittedly, a lot of them actually did. Before she’d started her research, she’d thought demons were all supposed to look like red skinned men with goats’ legs and horns, but lots of them in her books looked really weird. Like odd mixtures of two animals, or sea monsters, or birds with extra legs, holding swords.

But Emily was helpful, all the same. Like with how she’d helped her make her wand, and she proved useful and understanding again a week later when Hermione ran into trouble drawing her chalk magic circles on the floorboards of her bedroom.

Everything had been going all wrong, and nothing looked perfect like it should. Hermione had tried to draw all the little symbols inside the snake’s body that coiled around the inside of the largest circle, but it wasn’t a language she knew and she could tell they didn’t look quite right. Then, to top it all off, she’d smudged them. There were so very many symbols to draw, and she’d gotten some of them right, but then she’d rested her hand on the design without thinking, and it all got smudged into a colourful chalky smear.

She’d thrown herself onto her bed with a loud sob, and buried her head under her pillow while she cried her heart out. She was never going to get it all right. It was too hard, and the books were too confusing and didn’t explain things clearly, and some of them disagreed with each other and books shouldn’t do that. Either something was right or it wasn’t. She was never going to get her demon, and she’d told her Mummy her surprise would be finished by Sunday but now she was never going to get her magic circle done in time.

A soft knock at the door alerted her that Emily had come to check on her.

“Go away!” she yelled, voice thick with tears and anger. Emily came in anyway.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” she asked gently.

“Don’t step on my magic circle!” she yelled, voice muffled by the pillow still firmly over her head. “You’ll just ruin it more! It’s ruined anyway, I can’t do it!” She broke into sobs again.

“Is this Hebrew?” she heard Emily say.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, in a choked voice. “But it’s too hard. And the picture I’m trying to copy is too small, and I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like, and it keeps smearing!”

The mattress rocked slightly as Emily sat down at the base of her bed and patted her foot. Hermione moved it away crossly. “I don’t even know why it has to be in another language. Why can’t it be in English?” Hermione complained, sniffling.

“It can be if you want it to be,” Emily encouraged. “Just change it!”

“Then it wouldn’t be like in the book!” Hermione said, outraged. Emily really was stupid sometimes.

“But it’s magic,” said Emily stubbornly. “Magic words can be anything you want them to be. It’s all about how much magic power you have, and concentrating, and stuff like that. Lots of books have magic working differently. You can make up your own magic circle, the way you like it best.”

Hermione was silent as she considered what she’d just been told. The books had disagreed with each other a lot. “It’s not like science? There could be more than one way?” She peeked warily out from under her pillow. Emily was still sitting on her bed, smiling gently at her.

“That’s right! It’s more like music than science.”

“You can’t make up your own notes on the violin, though. You’re either playing it right or you’re not. I don’t want to be off-key with my magic.”

“But once you’ve got the basic notes practised, you can improvise with them, can’t you? You don’t only have to play the songs in the books precisely how they’re written. And you can make up your own tunes.”

Hermione thought about it. “But what if I get my magic circle wrong?”

“Then you try again until you think it looks right. What are you trying to do with your magical circle, anyway?”

“Don’t tell Mummy, but I’m going to make an imaginary friend. A friendly demon.”

“Not an angel or a unicorn or a dragon?”

“No, a demon. But he’s a nice, friendly kind of demon who likes maths. I picked one very carefully. Don’t tell Mummy – it’s a surprise for her!”

Emily promised not to tell and then helped her clean up her magic circle so she could start over again. Hermione decided to keep the Magical Circle of King Solomon with the snake, to stand in to keep herself safe in case she made a mistake and the demon was a mean one. She redrew her second diagram too - the green Magical Triangle of Containment with a small circle drawn inside it to summon the demon into. She carefully coloured in the space around the snake yellow on her large circle, then she drew a red square in the centre to stand in and wrote “Friend” inside it. It seemed nicer than “Master”, since she didn’t want a slave. Slavery was wrong, everyone knew that.

She tried writing some English words around things, but it didn’t feel very magic at all, and she frowned at her circle unhappily. Determination, research, and hard work. She shouldn’t have expected to get it right the first time. She carefully rubbed out the writing with a damp paper towel, then tried again.

She had to tell her Mummy it was taking longer than planned, but thankfully she didn’t mind. In the end it took her eight days before she had something she was satisfied with, but the circle finally felt like it hummed with anticipation. Magic! A proper magic circle. She’d kept the basic design the same, but substituted in some runes from The Hobbit instead of the Hebrew or English letters. They looked more magical but it took her a few goes to get ones that felt right, that clicked in just the right way. She drew them with determination, trying to wish them to work. She tapped her magic wand on each rune and sigil after she finished drawing each one, and sometimes it felt like a tiny spark of static leapt from the wand to the symbols, leaving her feeling a little drained and tired. She wished twice as hard while drawing the sigil of her favourite chosen demon inside the circle in the containment triangle. It felt perfect, and she just knew it was all going to work. It took a long time get everything done to her satisfaction, and she went to bed early for two nights in a row. Daddy worried she was sick when she didn’t want to stay up late reading like usual, but she reassured him that she was just tired and that he needn’t worry. Only her Daddy was allowed to check on her at nights all week – she didn’t want Mummy to see her magic circle and guess at her surprise.

She’d worked on her summoning invocation at school at lunch times in the library, basing it partly off of books and partly what sounded appropriately formal and mystical, and was pretty happy with it. Finally she decided she was ready.

Late one Friday afternoon she had the bedroom door shut with childishly firm instructions to Emily not to bother her as she was casting her important magic summoning spell. Emily agreed to give her an hour on her own uninterrupted, which Hermione hoped would be long enough.

Hermione called upon the four elements, starting with earth to the north – she’d checked with Daddy’s compass – then air, fire, and water going clockwise around the circle.

She called out her invocation firmly, filled with the unquestioningly firm belief of a young child, and the innate talent of witchcraft that she barely understood she possessed.

“Crocell! Duke of Hell, great and strong, I summon thee! Ruler of the forty-eight legions, I entreat thee to attend me!” She swished her wand around in what she hoped were nice magical gestures.

Crocell’s goetic seal inscribed in green chalk in the magical triangle burst into light, then a shimmering form started to appear like a ghost made of heat haze while light swirled around the figure’s feet like a whirlpool.

“I invoke thee, Crocell!” Hermione yelled excitedly, bouncing up and down in glee. “Appear before me!”

The light swirled upwards, faster and faster until it formed a tornado of light that stretched up to the ceiling, and encased the shimmering hazy figure. There was a noise like the ocean surf, or the crash of a waterfall, and the light fell away to reveal an angelic figure. A man with a short kilt-like robe wrapped around his waist, with deathly pale skin, dark green hair, and enormous feathery black wings with a tinge of satiny green to them, like a mallard duck.

But much more majestic than a duck, of course, she thought as she gazed at him, delighted and awed by her success.

He blinked in confusion, shifted around, and tried to stretch his wings. But they hit the edges of the triangle, or where the edges would be if they were extended up into the air. It was as if there was an invisible force field around him – his wings smacked against nothing and wouldn’t go any further.

“I did it! I did it!” she cried out in glee.

He moved around awkwardly to face her, feet shuffling about in the cramped small circle she’d drawn, his voice booming with a weird sound like the rushing of waters. “Foolish mortal! None has dared call my name for centuries! Why have you summoned… me…” As he turned he trailed off as his eyes lit upon the small figure inside her own circle, ringed by a chalked snake and tidy circles of Norse runes.

Hermione waved happily to him. “Hello Crocell! It’s nice to meet you, your grace.” Her Halloween witch’s hat almost slipped off, and she jammed it firmly back onto her head. His eyes looked weird – all black with no whites or irises. She decided that wasn’t too scary, though. He was much more human looking and less frightening than most of the other demons she’d read up on.

“You are… tiny. Just a child. Have you been transformed, and wish to be restored to your proper form?” he asked. His voice sounded much calmer now, with undertones more like a gurgling river and less like angry rapids.

“No? This is how I look?” she said with confusion. “I have presents for you, if you want them? Thank you for showing up, I’m so happy you came! There’s some copper sulphate from my science kit – I read you like copper. And I have a bottle of water, because you like water. I wasn’t sure what green things you’d like, so there’s an apple, and some pretty leaves from the garden, and a picture of a forest I cut from a magazine, and a bracelet my Nana gave me. It’s only glass beads but I thought you might like it. I don’t know if boy demons like jewellery, but I thought there was no need to make assumptions and you could choose for yourself. Mummy says we shouldn’t bow to stereotypes.”

“How old are you, little witch? Did you truly call me… on your own?!” the demon asked, sounding extremely sceptical.

“Uh… I’m eight years old. Almost nine. My birthday’s in September,” she answered politely, then looked back at the piece of paper with her invocation on it, trying to remember what came next. He didn’t sound like a proper demon any more, and it was a little confusing. “Wait! I have notes! Umm… I entreat thee to guide me on the left-hand path, to be my friend, and to play geometry games with me and help me with my Maths homework. Please.”

“You’ve called me… to teach you witchcraft and arithmetic, little witch?” Crocell’s jaw was practically hanging open, he looked so shocked.

“And to be my friend?” she said hesitantly, looking shy and uncertain. “I would really like a friend. We could have tea parties? That’s the main reason I called you, actually. Is that alright? Mummy said I needed more friends, and an imaginary one would do. But I thought a real friend would be better and you’re sort of imaginary and sort of not? And can I be an ‘enchantress’ and not a ‘witch’? It sounds nicer.”

“You’re a witch, I can tell by the taste of your magic. A Dark one, to be summoning demons. And a child, it appears. Tea parties.” He shook his head in bemusement.

“Well obviously I’m a child, I’m only eight. Did you forget? You were supposed to be good at maths – that’s what the book said. I really wanted a friend who’s good at maths, and the book said you loved geometry and liberal sciences. Which apparently covers a lot of things I didn’t think were sciences, and it’s a lot like liberal arts and just means learning a whole range of things including grammar, maths, geometry, astronomy, and music. Do you like music? I play the violin. Do you want to be friends?”

He stood there, still looking astonished at her flood of babble, and her shoulders slumped at his lack of reaction. “I can send you home if you don’t want to be. You don’t have to. You’re not a slave you know. It’s alright to say no to something you don’t want to do. If you don’t like me we don’t have to be friends. I know you’re a grown-up and I’m not, but I’m quite smart for my age and I thought maybe you might like to visit, and maybe it would be nicer here than in Hell which sounds rather unpleasant and we could work on maths puzzles together.”

“But you’ve imprisoned me in a magic circle,” he said slowly, glancing down at her chalk lines, “which itself lies within Solomon’s Triangle, though with an interesting choice of Anglo-Saxon or Norse magical runes around the edge – I can’t quite make them all out from here. That wasn’t a very friendly thing to do.”

“How else was I supposed to get you here? The books were very confusing. I had to make a lot of stuff up because they argued with each other because demonology is an art and isn’t a proper science even though it ends with ‘ology’, and the magic didn’t feel right the first few times I was drawing my circles. I think I know how to send you home. But if you want to stay I’ll let you out, if you promise not to hurt me. Do I have to abjure you, or can I just ask?”

His reply had given her a little hope that maybe he didn’t want to leave right away. Maybe he would stay if they talked a bit more, and got better acquainted. Hermione chewed her lip and fidgeted nervously with her notebook, flipping through it for something to talk about with him. Crocell stared at her consideringly without answering her question right away, so she filled the silence with more chatter, anxious to please.

“The book I read said you were quite friendly for a demon. And that you like warm baths and water, geometry, liberal sciences, and the colour green. Is that all true? Do you not have hot water in hell, that you need to have magic powers to warm up baths? That seemed like an oddly specific power for a demon to have.”

“An innocent witch child…” he mused out aloud, seemingly not paying a lot of attention to her litany of questions.

“I don’t worship God, if that helps?” she offered optimistically. “Daddy thought you might be friendlier than an angel, given that we’re atheists.”

“It helps quite a lot,” he said with a laugh, and she smiled toothily in relief. “For their host still frown upon my people’s rebellion. I shall promise not to harm you during my visit today, little witch, if you let me out of this rather tiny Triangle. It should have been drawn larger, you know.”

She jumped over the edge of her circle, careful not to smudge the chalk, and picked up her little tray of offerings. “I know. But my bedroom’s quite small, and I didn’t have room for a nine foot circle, plus another triangle for you to show up in. Hmm. Do you think I can hold your hand to help you out? Do you want your presents now? Apparently gifts are very traditional. I can’t offer you my soul – Daddy says we don’t have souls because they aren’t real and personality is all based in the brain. My name’s Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger.”

“Your father is a Dark wizard?” the demon asked, carefully taking hold of her hand, and stepping out of the circle. It was slow going, like he was wading through mud, but with her help he eventually emerged from his temporary imprisonment and stretched his wings out. They brushed against the striped blue wallpaper of one of her bedroom walls, and bumped against a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling, making it clatter and spin about without breaking it.

“I don’t think so, I’ve never seen him do any spells. I don’t think he believes in magic, really. Why do you speak English? I mean, I’m not complaining because it’s very convenient, but I was a little worried you might speak Latin. Or Old English. Do you know that languages change over time? I think that’s very interesting. Why do you like geometry? Do lots of witches summon you?”

Crocell laughed at her, though it didn’t sound mean like when Edward at school laughed at her. “You ask a lot of questions, though I suppose that is typical for those who summon us. Usually they wait for answers before asking the next question however. I speak the celestial language of the outer realms – I believe wizards call it ‘Enochian’, and it can be intuitively understood by all beings with magical power. I know that languages change, but it doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I like geometry a great deal, for there is beauty in symmetry, and an understanding of mathematics is the foundation of understanding the whole of creation. I am very rarely summoned – I believe it has been a couple of hundred years since I was last called to the mortal realm by a wizard, and I did not enjoy the experience and do not wish to speak of it at this time.”

“Thank you for answering my questions, your grace,” she said politely. “Do you want to pick a present now?”

He looked over her little tray of offerings, hiding a smile. He gravely selected a bright green glossy leaf and a bottle of water, and she opened it for him when the screw top lid confused him a little. “I would be pleased if you would summon me again. I shall spend time with you and teach you geometry, astronomy, and the theory of music over the next ten years when called upon to do so. In exchange as your payment to me you shall vow to never summon me in a manner that imprisons or constrains me against my will, to never knowingly aid an angel, and to learn Dark magic spells from me.”

Astronomy could be fun, she guessed. She only knew a little at the moment, but she enjoyed it quite a lot. Her part of the deal sounded harder. “What if the spells are too hard for me?” she fretted. “I tried a lot of spells from books, but only a few worked. And how do I call you without imprisoning you?”

“We shall amend the first vow to doing so only once you have learnt the proper methods, which I shall teach you as soon as possible. As for the latter, we can change it to ‘attempt sincerely to learn Dark magic spells to the best of my ability’. Will that suffice?”

“That sounds good!” she said happily. And so it was that they clasped hands, and wind rushed around them as tongues of flame looped around their wrists as they made their respective promises. She worried it might burn her, but it only twinged a little and felt warm for a moment like when the heater was on very high.

“An Unbreakable Vow,” said Crocell with satisfaction. “Should you begin an attempt to break your promises, the fire will burn at your wrists. Should you persist, you will die.”

“I don’t want to die!” she objected. “You didn’t tell me that part!”

He seemed unconcerned. “Then don’t break your promises. The penalty is the same for me, you know.”

He pulled out her desk chair and sat while he lectured her on better ways to summon a demon. “By blood is the swiftest way if you’re already known to one of us, and you know our name in turn - a small cut should suffice to empower your call,” he told her. “The second method is by formally invoking a demon’s name in a circle of power strengthened by runes. This is the best option for an unfamiliar demon. Call three times while drawing on your magical power, including all the demon’s titles and yours. Remember you must leave a gap in the circle for the demon to exit through at will. And the last and most powerful method is by a death offering – a sacrifice of an animal in a demon’s name.”

Hermione made a disgusted face, poking her tongue out at the thought of it. “Ewww!”

“Oh stop that. Like most mortals I imagine you eat animal meat all the time, so I don’t see why you’re being squeamish about it. Don’t you help your family with the butchering in autumn? No? Well, it’s a very polite way to summon us that would empower us in doing so. You know, animals die all the time so that others may bring you their flesh to feast on – how is it any worse that we might enjoy sustenance too? And we’re not half so messy – usually it is only the spiritual essence that we need to consume.”

“I guess,” she said grudgingly. He made good points. She wouldn’t want to give up bacon or roast chicken just because an animal had to die to feed her. Why shouldn’t demons like dead animals too? She wondered if animal spirits tasted good to demons, like crispy bacon rashers. She wondered if Daddy was wrong and souls really were real.

After their chat they worked on her maths homework together for a little while, and if his eyes glittered like obsidian, and his teeth were a little too sharp when he smiled, Hermione didn’t mind too much because he praised her just like Julia used to – and her parents all too rarely did, always wanting her to do better – and even got excited over the trickier puzzles that needed logic to figure out just like she did.

“This is very advanced work for such a young girl, even for a young man from a prosperous family it would be impressive! I understand girls aren’t usually tutored in arithmetic – you must be quite exceptional. Well done! You are very precocious, in both your intelligence and your magical skills,” he said, looking over her worksheet.

“Girls go to school now too,” Hermione explained. “Everyone has to. And it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor, though some of the nicer schools are more expensive and harder to get into.”

Emily’s voice called from downstairs, “Hermione! Your parents are home! Time to come downstairs.”

“Come on,” said Hermione, leaping up and clasping his hand as she led him out of her room. “Come and meet Mummy and Daddy! They’re going to be so surprised!”

Chapter Text

Her parents took it all much more calmly than Hermione had expected. She bounded down the steps with loud thumps on the stairs while Crocell (his hand freed from her grasp) followed more sedately and quietly, but neither Emily nor her parents seemed disturbed by the tall winged man following her downstairs.

“Mummy!” she yelled happily, launching herself at her mother for a hug, while her father closed the door behind them and hung up his jacket and bag on the hallstand. “Don’t be scared, alright? I made a friend. I called him with magic. His name’s Crocell.”

“Did you darling? That’s very clever of you. I’ve really been looking forward to your surprise. It’s nice to hear your friend is here at last. And where is he?”

Hermione drew back and gave her Mummy a serious look. “Don’t you see him? He’s just at the bottom of the stairs. He’s coming to say hello to you.”

“Oh yes,” said her Mummy with a smile. “I see him now. Hello Crocell, it’s nice to meet you. Are you staying for dinner?” She didn’t seem to be looking quite in Crocell’s direction as she spoke, and Hermione wasn’t sure why.

“I rarely eat mortal food,” said Crocell with amusement, his deep voice entwined with the noise of a gurgling brook.

Hermione waited politely while her Mummy chatted with Crocell, as she’d been drilled not to interrupt grown-up conversations, but her Mummy didn’t seem to be answering him. Her Mummy waited quietly too, until she said with a touch of impatience, “You’ll have to tell me what he said, darling.”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Hermione said with amazement. “He said he doesn’t eat mortal food. He’s right here!” She gestured with her hand at Crocell, but her parents didn’t seem to even be looking at him right. Like they thought he was shorter than he was – they weren’t making proper eye contact.

“Of course he is, and we’re very happy to meet your imaginary friend,” said her Daddy. “Why don’t you tell us what he looks like?”

“He’s not imaginary!” she objected. “He’s real! I summoned him with a real magic circle and a magic triangle!”

“She’s been working very hard on her project for a couple of weeks now,” said Emily, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows meaningfully at the Grangers in a silent attempt to communicate the importance of Hermione’s introduction of her imaginary friend.

“Well I’m truly sorry I can’t see or hear him,” her mother said in a soothing voice. “Silly old me. But I’m very happy you’ve brought a friend to visit. Why don’t you tell me all about him?”

“You can’t see him either? No-one can?” Hermione asked, her gaze shifting questioningly between her father and Emily. They shook their heads.

“But I’m sure he’s there,” said her Daddy comfortingly.

“They appear to be ordinary mortals,” said Crocell, “with no magical skill at all – magical blood must run stronger in you for some reason. How interesting! My kind are hidden from their perception. Watch.” He poked her father’s arm with one sharp-nailed finger, and her father absent-mindedly brushed his sleeve as if to remove a bit of lint, not noticing that he pushed Crocell’s arm away in the process. When Crocell moved as if to walk straight through Emily (while Hermione worried they’d crash into each other), she stepped to one side, as if she coincidentally felt like moving. Emily wandered away to tidy up a small pile of books on the coffee table.

“Crocell says you can’t see or hear him because you don’t have any magic powers like I do,” Hermione said apologetically. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand that before. I’ll describe him for you! He’s a very nice man, a little taller than Daddy, with green hair, enormous black and green feathery wings, and black eyes.”

“Oh, he’s an angel?” asked her Mummy with a smile.

“No, a demon. But a very friendly one. Is that alright?”

Her mother hesitated and looked briefly concerned, but at a discreet nudge from her husband her smile returned. “That’s fine, so long as he’s friendly.”

Hermione rushed to reassure her mother of his amiable nature, and chattered about how he loved geometry and his favourite colour was green, and he was going to study astronomy and magic with her, and help her with music theory.

Crocell, who’d been listening with amusement, and occasionally sharing very innocuous comments for her to relay to her parents, excused himself not long after that as the Grangers started getting ready for dinner, and the nanny left for her own home. “I should like to return home now, if you will grant me leave to depart. The next time you call upon me, if you use one of the new methods I taught you, I shall be able to arrive and depart under my own power. But for this evening, you shall need to dismiss me properly.”

Hermione walked him upstairs and hugged him goodbye. He patted her back very gingerly – he didn’t seem used to hugs. “What a remarkable young witch you are. I look forward to tutoring you in the future. And perhaps I could introduce you to some of my allies? They would like a chance to walk the earth too.”

Hermione’s eyes brightened. “More friends would be fun.” It was sad he had to go, but he wasn’t a pet – he was a friend. She showed off her magic circle to her Mummy and Daddy after he’d left, and then diligently scrubbed the floor clean.

Dinner was interrupted that evening when a strange man in a mismatched suit knocked on the door. Mr Granger talked with him for a while before closing the door and returning to the dining table.

“Odd fellow. Appalling dress sense,” her father said, with a bemused shake of his head. “He wanted to know if there were any unusual problems with the house or the inhabitants this evening. Some kind of government poll, apparently. But it’s been a lovely quiet evening, hasn’t it?”

They all agreed it had been.

-000-

Hermione’s parents hadn’t thrown a birthday party for her when she turned eight. She’d still been upset about how none of the kids from school she’d invited had shown up to her seventh birthday party. So she’d refused to have a party at all, and they’d gone out to the ballet together as a family instead.

Her parents were heartened she wanted one this year for her ninth birthday… until they figured out that she only planned to invite her growing collection of imaginary friends. After a few rounds of negotiations, including some tears and stamping of tiny feet and insistent stubborn claims that they were real friends, a compromise was reached. Hermione would invite at least two other real children to the movies, and later on her parents would throw a small party for her less tangible friends with a cake and a few snacks to share.

So she issued two movie invitations – one to Lachlan whom she played in a string quartet with sometimes when her violin teacher wanted them to do group work, and the other to Claire, who was one of the smarter kids in her class at school and was friendly with her sometimes. And to her and her parents’ delight, both children accepted their invitations to go and see “The New Adventures of Pippi Longstocking” (and eat far too much buttery salty popcorn) for her birthday celebration.

And Hermione was just as delighted (though her parents were less enthused) to help throw a party for her demon friends. The table was set with seven plates, for her and half a dozen “imaginary” friends. Hermione did most of the work researching and finding appropriate foods for all her friends, and as her demands were fairly modest her mother indulged them.

“Strange party lunch you have there,” her father said, looking the plates over as she fussed over them on Sunday. “Who gets what?”

Hermione chattered happily as she “The water is for Crocell. The berries are for Andrealphus, because he takes the form of a peacock and I read that peacocks love berries. Did you know that ‘mensuration’ means measurement? He loves that a lot. He loves geometry too, and he’s been helping me learn how to calculate volumes and areas of two and three-dimensional shapes. The worms are for Camio – he looks like a thrush, but he has claws on his wings that act like his hands. He says he can teach me how to understand birds, if I want to. But I have to help empower him so he can fly about the mortal earth for a month, and go wherever he likes. Do you think that’s a good deal, Daddy?”

“It sounds like an excellent bargain to me,” her father said with an approving nod. “And who’s this large raw fish for? Is there a reason they’re sitting on their own at the end of the table? Do they fight with the others?”

“No, she’s friendly too. That’s for Forneus. She’s a sea monster with lots of scales and tentacles, though she doesn’t mind being out of water as she has lungs as well as gills. She’s obviously very large so she needs more room. That’s why she doesn’t have a chair, too. She’d just break it.”

“And does she have any special powers like Camio?”

“She knows all the languages of the world, and she’s very good at rhetoric. She liked my persuasive writing argument for school about why everyone should recycle more rubbish, and she practices French with me.”

Her father laughed. “Fascinating specialities for a sea monster!”

“The last two spots are for Bifrons, who likes the name ‘Janus’ better-”

“-Ah! The Roman god with two faces!” interjected her father.

“That’s right, Daddy!” she said happily. “He looks like a fairly ordinary man compared to the others, except that he has another face on the back of his head. And that’s why he gets two cupcakes. I don’t actually know what he likes to eat, but chocolate cupcakes are a good guess, right?”

“Worth a try. And I’m sure he’ll appreciate the thought even if you’re wrong, and you can eat his cupcakes for him,” he said, laughter dancing in his eyes. “What’s he studying with you?”

“He’s studying astronomy with Crocell and me, and teaching me about astrology and a few magic spells – like how to make a light with my magic wand. He says I can’t show you though, it has to stay secret. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine, sweetheart. And who is your last guest who also gets a delicious plate of worms from our garden?”

“Stolas. He is so cute, Daddy!” Hermione cooed. “He looks like a fluffy little owl with incredibly long legs, and he wears a crown. You might think he isn’t a very important demon, but you know he’s actually a very powerful Prince, and the others are a little afraid of him sometimes – I think maybe he outranks some of them. But not all of them. They don’t like to talk about how their hierarchy works very often, so it’s hard to tell. Anyway, they’re always very respectful of him, even Crocell who I’m pretty sure has precedence over him. But he let me pat him once when I asked nicely – his feathers are very soft!

“He is teaching me all about magic herbs,” she said seriously. “He says it’s a crying shame that there aren’t any magic plants anywhere nearby to look at, so we’re just writing up some notes on them, and he’s drawing the pictures.”

“How does he draw with owl wings?”

“He makes the pencils float in the air, of course! He doesn’t have clawed wings like Camio. Just ordinary wings.”

“Well of course he does. And I’m sure he looks very handsome in his little crown.”

Hermione and her friends enjoyed their party, and her parents took a few bittersweet photos of her laughing and looking so happy at an empty table. At least she was enjoying herself, they consoled each other. Better than last year’s tantrum, or the birthday before that which had been spent in tears. And she loved her presents – a new telescope, some blank journals, a violin in the next size up (she was growing up so fast), and a new witch costume to play dress-ups in while she practised her magic spells.

Hermione happily pronounced it the best birthday ever.

Her parents hoped her friendships with real children would flourish as well as her imaginary ones, but it was not to be. She remained on friendlier terms with Lachlan, but they never bonded to the point of visiting each other. She latched onto Claire for a while at school, but their blossoming friendship floundered after a fight that resulted from Hermione’s insistence that demons and magic were real – she’d hoped Claire might want to learn about them too, but she’d gotten really angry about it when she realised Hermione was serious, and said it was wicked and sinful.

Hermione wished she went to school with other witches and wizards. Maybe then she’d have some human friends. It would be two more years before it was confirmed that it was actually an option for her, like her demon friends hinted it might be.

Chapter Text

The letter from Hogwarts arrived in mid-September, a week before her eleventh birthday. Her parents at first thought she’d written it herself, which she guessed was an understandable mistake given how often she’d claimed (and they’d ignored) that one of her “imaginary friends” had written something in her notebooks. Hermione had stopped trying to convince her parents that magic and demons were real some time ago, after they’d taken her to see a psychologist.

Crocell – who remained her favourite of her demon friends, and the feeling seemed mutual – and Andrealphus had fretted she’d be burnt at the stake or chained up in a lunatic asylum. She’d tried to reassure them, but Crocell been so scared for her that in the end she’d gone along with his plan to lie to Dr Mitchell and had talked about how it was all just pretend. She lied to her parents too, and with a handful of demons applauding her every tentative step towards mastering subterfuge she was quite motivated to succeed.

Her friends were all very interested in her Hogwarts letter. Much more than her parents or Emily, who just absent-mindedly praised her for her creativity.

“So Hogwarts is still around,” mused Crocell. “I thought perhaps it might be. But so many mortal institutions are fleeting, I wasn’t sure.”

“The letter says a school representative will visit this evening to explain things. What do you think will happen if my parents don’t believe them either?” wondered Hermione.

“They’ll steal you away and leave a changeling in your place who’ll wither and die,” Andrealphus pronounced in very certain tones. “That’s what usually happens.”

Hermione looked sceptical as she talked it over with the peacock-like demon. “Andrealphus, you haven’t walked the earth in over three millennia. I doubt they still do that…”

“But why would they change?” Andrealphus argued. “Obviously they still like to hide away in their hills, or everyone on earth would know about magic. And they don’t!” he concluded with a triumphant caw.

Since Camio was the demon in their group with the most extensive experience with human society – having been summoned regularly a mere two hundred years ago as well as having had the opportunity to explore the world for a month thanks to his deal with Hermione – he considered himself quite the authority on modern culture. He gestured with a clawed wing as he chimed in with his own opinion. His voice sounded like crackling and spitting flames, like fire itself given tongue. “They have crafted spells now to erase memories and to compel obedience. If her parents refuse to cooperate, the wizards will simply make them agree to surrender her for a magical apprenticeship.”

And that was about the most optimistic outcome that any of them held about her parents’ fate should they refuse to let her be trained in magic. As a result Hermione was extremely nervous and resolved to ensure the evening’s success.

Andrealphus had warned her not to mention she was allied with demons if this “Professor McGonagall” they expected for dinner was a member of the Seelie Court, rather than the demon-allied Unseelie Court. He refused to acknowledge the others’ claims that the courts were long gone, and was smug that Janus agreed with him – in odd stereo, as both his faces spoke at once. Forneus was getting very angry at being ignored, and Hermione was worried that her scaly, thrashing tentacles were going to break something too big to be easily fixed by magic. Eventually Hermione summoned Stolas to settle them all down when the arguing got too unpleasant for her to endure, and the fluffy owl prince sternly instructed them to hush and listen to Forneus.

“The two Courts disbanded in Europe around two millennia ago,” Forneus explained. “The only remaining proper reigning witch queen, who calls herself an Empress, is hidden in her mountain city in China.”

Janus apologised for his error, but Andrealphus acted more vindicated than chastised, satisfied to hear there was still a secretive fae court somewhere in the world. He was also very smug when Stolas agreed that Hermione shouldn’t mention any of them to Professor McGonagall… just in case.

-000-

Mr and Mrs Granger stared in amazement at the tortoise on the table that had formerly been a teapot. Mr Granger poked at it experimentally. It moved its head slowly to look at him, and then took a step away from him.

“That’s definitely a tortoise,” he said with confusion. “But how on earth did you switch it so fast that we didn’t even notice the swap? That was remarkably well done.”

“Magic,” said Professor McGonagall with a sigh, putting a hand to her head in tired frustration. It had been her fourth spell, and they still weren’t convinced.

“Do some more please!” encouraged Hermione. “Will you please cast another spell, Professor McGonagall? Something bigger!”

Dancing teacups didn’t do the trick either, but the woman’s transformation into her Animagus form of a tabby cat was finally enough to convince the Grangers.

“Magic is real!” gasped Mrs Granger in amazement, giving the transformed cat a tentative pat, which Professor McGonagall only deigned to tolerate for a brief moment before leaping away and transforming back into her human form and was once again clad in a green Victorian-era gown with a tight high-necked bodice and a flaring skirt.

“Does this mean that… all those times you talked about your magic spells, and summoning… creatures from other realms… it was all true?” asked Hermione’s father slowly and cautiously.

“Summoning? I certainly hope not… surely not?” asked McGonagall, a frown wrinkling her brow, and screwing her mouth up tight.

Hermione saw the obvious disapproval and worry in her expression, and stuck with Stolas’ plan. “Oh, my imaginary friends aren’t real – they’re just pretend. I just dearly wanted to have someone to talk over magic with, even if it was just in my imagination. It’s true about the spells, though. I can make a light, and make plants grow faster, that kind of thing.”

Hermione’s parents weren’t very impressed with Hermione’s plans to throw away a promising scholastic career in order to learn witchcraft. But between the professor’s dire hints about the trouble that could be caused by the accidental magic of an untrained teenage witch, and Hermione’s own increasingly desperate pleading, they eventually relented, though they added a couple of conditions.

“Should you not do well,” her mother warned, “we’ll pull you out to return to a normal secondary school. There’s no point wasting your life on something you don’t have the talent for. And you must keep up with your studies in Maths and Science for at least the first year, in case you need to withdraw, since Hogwarts is incomprehensibly lacking in teachers in those subjects.”

“She may not have the background of those born into a wizarding family, but I’m sure she’ll catch up soon enough,” placated Professor McGonagall in an attempt to reassure that had the exact opposite effect on Hermione. “For there’s almost a whole year before she’ll start at Hogwarts.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide with distress at the thought of being behind, remembering the many weekends and evenings spent with assigned tutors when she’d come home from school with a shameful “B” on her report card. Her breathing started coming faster as her stress levels rose at the thought of it. “I can’t be behind,” she fretted, “I think I need my schoolbooks so I can start studying immediately. Please! But where can I buy them?”

And so it was that plans were swiftly made for the professor to escort her and her father into Diagon Alley on the weekend.

-000-

Diagon Alley was wonderful. Hermione had never felt so alive – magic seemed to almost swim in the air in swirling eddies, so thick she felt like she could almost touch it.

Everything was wonderful. The bank was guarded by real goblins who said they did still have a king, which she thought Andrealphus would be happy to hear. The potions shop was full of jars of fascinating ingredients to look over, though sadly her father wouldn’t buy any for her once the professor said she shouldn’t brew potions out of school. So he only bought the phials and cauldron on her list. Her father curiously looked around the odd assortment of animals in the Magical Menagerie pet store while Hermione looked for a creature that she felt drawn to – one who might make a good familiar. Her father favoured an owl, but Hermione quickly decided on the cutest little ginger half-Kneazle kitten with a squashed face. The shopkeeper said he usually hissed and scratched at customers and was surprised that he took to Hermione right away with a tiny rumbling purr. Buying clothes at Madam Malkin’s was rather boring, and even enchanted measuring tapes couldn’t make that fun. She did put on one of her new robes and was happy that she blended in more, however. Apart from clothes shopping, everything was fantastic.

Professor McGonagall shrunk her new brass telescope down and tucked it away in her father’s shopping bag. She initially thought it was rather poor quality compared to the one she’d gotten for her ninth birthday – you just had to look at the simplistic construction and small size to see that. Her professor had assured her that the enchantments on it made up for a lot.

“Correctly used, you should be able to see the surface features of Jupiter’s moons, for instance,” she explained, which impressed Hermione a lot, and made her father let out a low whistle of amazement.

“Bookshop now?” Hermione pleaded to her father, tugging at his hand as she peeked through the windows of Flourish and Blotts to gaze longingly at the piles of books teetering right up to the ceiling.

“Bookshop last,” he said firmly – and not for the first time that day – as he led her past the shop. “But we’re almost done, Dandelion. Just your wand left to go, now.”

None of the adults yielded to her protests that she had a very fine wand at home that she’d made herself, and insisted on going to Ollivanders. She dragged her feet, looking wistfully back at the book store until it was out of sight.

“Ollivander makes the finest wands,” Professor McGonagall explained. “He uses woods of different types and lengths, and there is a magical core inside each one. Your wand should be specially chosen to match your nature. They are handcrafted by Garrick Ollivander himself, the latest in a line of wandmakers dating back to Roman times. Your new wand will channel your magic and serve you better than any homemade creation could possibly manage.”

Hermione glowered. Her vine-handled oak wand was great. Last year Janus had added a core of one of Crocell’s wing feathers, dipped in some of Hermione’s blood. Since then it had worked better than ever. And when Emily had picked it up one day to tidy it, it had hurt her so she dropped it, convinced she had a splinter. Her wand was just for her.

Grudgingly, she allowed her father to purchase a new wand – it was 10¾" long and made of vine wood with a dragon heartstring core. She guessed it would do… if she wasn’t allowed to use her better wand in classes.

Finally they got to go to the bookstore, and her father collected her set texts with McGonagall’s help while Hermione was free to browse the shelves and towering piles of leather-bound tomes. He had given her strict instructions that he would only pay for six extra books. She was pretty confident she’d be able to bargain her way up to eight, however. Her parents always liked her to study as much as possible.

She grabbed a few history books to start with: Hogwarts, A History, Modern Magical History, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. A Rune Dictionary got added to her basket as a handy-looking reference tool, even though it seemed more confusingly complex than she’d expected based on her demons’ explanations of runic magic.

Then she went looking for books on Dark magic, and anything to do with Demons. The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts went into her pile as a very promising looking tome, and she was sitting on the cold stone floor flipping through Curses and Counter-Curses by Vindictus Viridian, and A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions when a young boy stopped by to peer curiously at her books.

“Don’t get Viridian’s book, it’s rubbish,” he said, making her blink and look up at him. He was a weedy, tall boy around her age, and was wearing slightly worn black wizarding robes. His light brown hair was trimmed very short, which didn’t do any favours for his appearance since it made his ears look like they stuck out even more than they already did.

“It says it’s a book of curses, but they’re mostly just really annoying little jinxes,” he added in explanation.

“Oh, hello!” she said brightly. “They both look a bit… underwhelming, actually. I think the compendium looks a bit better, but still not really what I’m after. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way. And this is Crookshanks, my new familiar.” She gestured to the snub-nosed tiny kitten asleep on her lap, all curled up like a little ginger ball of fluff.

“Theodore Nott,” he said, reaching down to offer his hand to shake, which she did gladly. “So what are you looking for?”

“Well, I don’t know if anyone would… that is, there doesn’t seem to be a section for it. Darker creatures. Ancient forgotten spells. That sort of thing,” she said hesitantly. “Purely academic interest, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, glancing at the engraved “Defence Against the Dark Arts” sign hanging from the ceiling near them. “You could try ‘Care of Magical Creatures’? There’s some good books there on vampires, if that helps.”

“Not really,” she said dubiously, “they didn’t have what I was after, but thanks for the suggestion.” She’d seen that shelf earlier, and it didn’t look promising. It was fascinating that vampires and werewolves were real, but she hadn’t seen any books on demons at all.

Without asking, he peeked at her pile of books she’d already put in her wicker shopping basket, rummaging through them to see the titles. “I see you like history – so do I. How about The Decline of Pagan Magic by Bathilda Bagshot?” he suggested. “History and old lost magic. It’s pretty good. Father recommended it to me, and it was a good read, if a little dry.”

“That sounds a lot better,” she said, perking up. She put the better of the two curse compendiums into her basket, and they walked together to the History of Magic section, where he helped her locate a copy of Bagshot’s book. From a previously overlooked pile she also grabbed Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes by E. Limus. Eight books. Surely only two over her limit wasn’t too bad.

They chatted for quite a while to get acquainted – they discovered a mutual love of reading and history and shared their other respective hobbies. He enjoyed potions and herbology, and while she didn’t know much about the former, Stolas had taught her a lot about magical plants and mundane herbs useful for healing and spells, so she was able to join in a conversation about that with occasional intelligent observations. She talked about how she was tutored in maths, astronomy, and violin in her spare time and had her own telescope.

“Though the new one I’ve just gotten for Hogwarts next year seems a lot better quality – the enchantments sound amazing so I hope it functions as well as the shopkeeper and Professor McGonagall insisted it would. I’m going to practice with it as much as I can, and study as much magic as I can before I start. Do you go to Hogwarts?” she asked.

“I’m starting Hogwarts next year too, but I don’t have a wand yet. Father says I have to wait until I’m eleven – the traditional age. What House are you hoping to get into?” Theo asked.

She was very glad that McGonagall had explained the Houses to her earlier that day so she knew what he was talking about.  “Definitely Slytherin, or Ravenclaw as a second choice,” she said confidently. “If I get to choose. There seems to be a deliberate mystery about how you’re assigned to a House, which is frustrating. I don’t suppose you could tell me?”

“Excellent House choices – I’m quite in agreement with you there as I like those two as well. And alas, I don’t know either – Father refuses to tell me as well. Tradition, you know. So… Slytherin’s dire reputation as a house of Dark witches and wizards doesn’t bother you?” he asked curiously.

“Not in the slightest.”

He smiled at that. “Family pressure to go into that House, then? Father’s very insistent on my behalf.”

“No, not really. I think my father liked the sound of Ravenclaw, actually.”

“That was his own House?”

Hermione hesitated. She’d noticed how a few people had acted towards her father that morning, with slight sneers of condescension, that Muggles weren’t terribly popular with some in the magical community.

“He didn’t go to Hogwarts. I’m Muggle-born, actually. I believe that’s the correct term.”

“Really!” he said, drawing back slightly with a look of surprise to give her a critical look up and down. “I’ve never met a Muggle-born witch before. You’re not what I expected at all. And you say you want to get into Slytherin?”

“Well, it sounds like the best House – intelligence and ambition. I want to be the best, not the second-best. So it’s either there or Ravenclaw. I do love to read, so that could be a good fit too.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with you there,” he said, still sounding kind of startled. “Well, good luck.”

“Thank you. You too. So Theodore, can I ask you something, confidentially?” she asked in a quiet whisper.

“Call me Theo. And I love secrets, so ask away,” he said with a smile.

“Are books on the Dark Arts forbidden in the wizarding world? I found lots of books about defending against them, but only a few books full of frankly, rather silly spells.”

He looked at her gravely, and assessingly. “Perhaps Slytherin won’t be such a problem for you after all. And they’re not exactly forbidden. Well, maybe a few books are. Such studies are very frowned upon by most people in the Ministry. You won’t find any books about the Dark Arts themselves in this store, apart from joke jinxes and hexes. You could try Moribund’s, in Knockturn Alley – it has a selection of interesting books. I got one all about ghouls for Yule. It’s opposite Borgin and Burkes, next to the Spiny Serpent. But they’re not going to sell anything like that to a ten year old.”

“I’m very nearly eleven, but I don’t suppose that will make a difference.”

Theo laughed. “No, not really. Would your parents buy them for you?”

“No, I doubt it,” she said, with a soft sigh of regret.

“Well the Hogwarts library is supposed to be very impressive,” Theo said encouragingly. “Father says the librarian doesn’t care what you read, so long as you’re careful not to damage the books and you bring them back on time.”

Their respective fathers called for them not long after that, so they waved farewell to each other as Theo and his father – who had long grey-streaked brown hair and a beard – wandered off together, and Hermione went up to the front counter with her own father.

“I found so many good books! I wanted to grab so many, but I remembered what you said about how we can come back after I’m more familiar with the basics. But I really need eight books, not six, so I was thinking that the extra two could come out of my pocket money?” she wheedled.

“Hmm, well let’s see how much they cost first,” her father hedged. As he was pleasantly surprised to find most books only cost one or two Galleons (five to ten pounds), he was happy to approve the extra books.

“And I think I made a friend, Daddy!” Hermione chatted happily as they left the store. “His name is Theodore Nott, and he’s starting Hogwarts next year too, and he likes history and potions and herbology.”

“The Nott family has a rather Dark reputation,” McGonagall said warningly as they headed off down Diagon Alley back towards the Leaky Cauldron, with a worried frown. “No charges were ever laid, but it’s well known that that family was on the wrong side of the war. I’m sure you can find more appropriate children to befriend once you’re at Hogwarts, who won’t object to your family background.”

Mr Granger scowled at her. “If no charges were laid or proven, then it’s innocent until proven guilty. If Hermione’s made a real friend for a change, then I don’t care if the Nott family is a notorious gang of international jewel thieves! And I’ll thank you not to sneer at my family background like it’s something to be ashamed of!” He had gotten louder as he had gone on, and people were looking at them now.

Hermione looked around the street, a little embarrassed by the argument. She noticed Theo and his father standing a little way off… but probably close enough to overhear. Theo grinned happily at her, and his father gave an approving nod of his head in their direction, and an odd-looking smile before they walked off.

Professor McGonagall spent some time apologetically talking with them about prejudices against Muggle-borns amongst certain segments of wizarding society, and gave a very brief history of the war with You-Know-Who, and Mr Granger forgave her for the unintended insult once she explained herself better. But while they were willing to be wary of Mr Nott, neither he nor his daughter could be persuaded to consider giving up her new acquaintance, so she quickly gave up her attempt with another apology before dropping the discussion entirely.

Chapter Text

Hermione spent much of her free time over the next year trying to memorise her textbooks, and those of her demon friends who could read English were happy to browse them too, while the others insisted she read aloud to them. They recognised a couple of names in Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and shared reminiscences about a couple of the more ancient Dark Lords.

Theo sent a few letters with his owl, which hung around to await her replies after she asked it nicely to do so with a series of hoots. Their correspondence was rather infrequent, but often enough that Hermione was glad to reassure her parents that she had a penfriend. They didn’t discuss anything especially deep, being careful on both sides not to put anything in writing about Dark magic. So their letters were filled mostly with chatter about wizarding subjects they’d been reading about, and snippets of personal information like their favourite colours, what religion she believed in, and what their wands were made of – Theo’s new wand was aspen with a dragon heartstring core, and she told him about both of hers, though she described the core of her homemade one simply as a “magical feather”. It was definitely for the best that content stayed light, for her father – much to her embarrassment – read over a couple of Theo’s letters, checking to see that there was nothing bigoted or rude in them, and thankfully they passed his scrutiny.

“Just remember,” he advised, “what your professor said about the blood status bigotry Theo might have been raised with, especially if it’s true that Mr Nott is some kind of war criminal who escaped justice. Mind you that’s just alleged – not proven. Now, even if young Theo’s father is a bigot, or even a criminal, that doesn’t mean your new friend has to be one too! Clearly he’s at least trying to be open-minded about you being a ‘Muggle-born’, so it’s quite reasonable to give him a decent chance – children aren’t responsible for the actions of their parents, so don’t blame him for any of that. I’m sure he’s heard enough slander about it already, and none of it could possibly be his fault.”

“He seems nice so far,” Hermione said. “He hasn’t asked about any Muggle things, even though I guess he wouldn’t know anything about them and you’d think he might be curious. If he’s biased, I guess maybe it’s just in the way that he would rather correspond about magical topics. But so would I really – it’s all so interesting! He’s been very polite, I think. You don’t mind us being friends, do you Daddy?” She looked a bit anxious as she asked, hoping for the right answer.

“Not at all,” he said, giving her a quick reassuring hug around the shoulders. “I’d really like you to make friends with him. I know it’s been hard for you to find people to appreciate you like you deserve. I won’t let you visit the family until you’re much better acquainted and your mother or I can go with you to supervise the visit, but apart from that I don’t have any concerns.”

“He hasn’t invited me to visit him anyway,” she admitted a little ruefully. “And he doesn’t want to come here – I asked if he’d like to. But he did say he’s looking forward to seeing me on the train, and hopes we’re in the same House at school! So that’s something.”

Her father frowned. Even though he didn’t want her to visit the Notts, he contrarily looked like he thought she should’ve been invited anyway.

“Well, that sounds good,” he said vaguely. “Just remember when interacting with people that there’s no reason to get involved in these silly ‘blood purity’ arguments. Just stay out of arguments about it if you can, do your very best in all your classes, and let people appreciate you for who you are, not what your ‘blood status’ is in their eyes. I think young Mr Nott had a chance to get to know you before knowing you were a ‘Muggle-born’, and that helped a lot.”

Hermione nodded in thoughtful agreement.

-000-

Emily thought it was cute that Hermione still played magic games with her imaginary friends, and was happy to ignore her charge and watch television downstairs while Hermione read her “secret books” to her friends. And every so often Hermione would, with a little research into the proper goetic seal and some advice from Crocell about proper rune placement, draw a chalk circle and summon a new demon to chat to. Once they’d been called upon once, they were usually happy to visit again with much less ritual. But she generally stuck to her favourites.

Eventually Crocell pronounced that Hermione was proficient enough to summon one of the Kings of Hell, and explained that it would be very advantageous to her if she could ally with him. After a little research and gossip about the options, they decided upon Paimon, who was Crocell’s preferred choice as it was the king to whom he owed his fealty.

“If King Paimon looks like a woman riding a camel, just like in the books, why do you keep calling her ‘he’?” asked Hermione curiously after hearing him confirm the illustrations in her texts as being roughly accurate. “And why isn’t she called a Queen?”

“Gender doesn’t mean a lot to demons. Our kind are born of fire. We always refer to our leaders as Kings, and Paimon prefers male pronouns, so that’s what you should use to show respect.”

“I can do that,” said Hermione agreeably.

She carefully copied out Paimon’s very pretty and squiggly goetic seal full of curly flourishes onto her floorboards with chalk, and then it was time for the sacrifice. She hated the necessity, but Crocell was insistent that a King required one, though even a small life would do. She’d caught a lizard in the garden, and with a sad sigh at the necessity, held it down in the larger circle and chopped its head off with a sharp blow from her silver athame (that had once held a more mundane purpose as a cake server). She’d made the demon’s circle the larger one this time, so there would be room for the camel. Forneus had complained a lot about being extremely squashed on her first summoning, and she didn’t want to risk offending a King. She used her vine-handled oak wand to empower the runes and seal, as Janus had warned her that her new vine wood wand was tainted with tracking and monitoring enchantments. She’d popped it in the boot of her mother’s car that morning, so it could monitor her parents’ dentistry office all day.

With Crocell watching on, she went to stand within her own smaller circle facing west. She focused her magic as she began her incantation. “Paimon! Great King of Hell, King of the West, ruler of two hundred legions, I entreat thee to attend me!” She pointed her homemade oak wand commandingly at the second, larger circle, and the seal and the runes around the rim of the circle lit up with orange light, and the tiny corpse of the lizard was outlined with an aura of light that flickered like flames but didn’t consume the body.

An initial shimmer of heat haze was quickly followed by a burst of flames hanging in the air in the shape of Paimon’s sigil, then a robed and crowned human-looking demon appeared. His beardless fine-featured face looked like a woman’s, with ebony dark skin and glowing blue eyes. His body was hidden in thick, concealing orange-brown robes, and the gold crown on his head was enormous, with pointed horns curving out slightly to the sides, and an elaborately decorated gold sun disk towered up behind and between them, inlaid with fiery red gems. A sword hung at his left side in a sheath. The one-humped camel he rode looked deceptively normal, nothing unusual about it at all unless you counted the fancy saddle and blanket on its back, which was trimmed with loops of gold chain.

His voice was so tremendously loud with a roaring noise like trumpets and the clash of cymbals, that Hermione clapped her hands over her ears. “I’m sorry your majesty, but that’s too loud for my mortal ears!” she yelled apologetically, giving a polite bow in his direction.

The noise dimmed as Paimon stopped speaking for a moment as he stared at the very young mortal witch in her circle, and then his eyes widened as he caught sight of Duke Crocell, standing outside the circle behind her, unbound and unchained. Nothing but the lightest of magical blood bonds held him in the world. Crocell gave his king a sharp-toothed grin.

“Your majesty,” Crocell said, dropping into a deep respectful bow. “May I introduce to you my mortal protégé, Miss Hermione Jean Granger. She has sworn an Unbreakable Vow to never knowingly aid the angels, and has been a diligent student of the Black Arts.”

“And I also study geometry, astronomy, and music, your majesty,” added Hermione. “And I’ve learnt herbology too. But that was just for fun, not because of a vow.”

“A child ally? And what do you want with me, Hermione Jean Granger?” asked Paimon in a husky alto voice, sliding off the side of his camel to the ground, peering at her curiously.

“I thought you might like to join us for a tea party in the garden this afternoon? We could get acquainted. Crocell said you’re very knowledgeable about familiars, and might like to meet Crookshanks. Do you like chicken sandwiches? Crocell said you like mortal food. Did you like the lizard? I understand life essence is very tasty too, so I hope the lizard wasn’t wasted. Would you like to be friends? I’m friends with a number of demons, and if you promise not to hurt me during your visits I’d be happy to let you out of your circle.”

“She’s a delight,” said Crocell with a grin, “and most promising. Not like the usual kind of demonologist who calls upon us. Many of us have been granted leave to roam around the earth – she summons us regularly. Camio bargained with her and won himself a stay for a full month, sustained in his presence on earth only by the powerful call of her magic and a mere three drops of empowered blood.”

“I can speak to birds now!” Hermione said. “But they don’t usually say anything very interesting, which was a little disappointing. It’s all, ‘Hey! This is my territory!’ and ‘Look at me! I’m handsome!’ which I suppose I should have guessed is what they’d say. Magical owls are much more chatty, though. Stolas says owls are obviously the best kind of magical creature. But then he’s pretty much an owl himself so I think he might be a little biased, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve been summoned for… a tea party?! What a treasure you’ve hidden from us, Duke Crocell,” said Paimon. “And yes, I will vow not to harm you during my visit today, young witch. And how long have you kept this little ally from my knowledge?”

The two demons caught up on gossip, and Paimon followed them down to the garden, where a little table was set up with plates and a pot of tea. Tinned tuna was laid out for the fussier eaters as an acceptable substitute for worms or raw meat – Emily wasn’t keen on those things being a regular part of Hermione’s tea parties and was a little worried about where they disappeared to when she wasn’t looking. There were also berries for the peacock-like Andrealphus, while sandwiches and water were available for the more human-shaped demons. Hermione pricked her finger with a needle a few times, and sent out an invitation for her friends to visit with a few flicks of blood on the ground, a wash of power from the wave of her wand, and a call of their names.

They appeared in flashes of light and flames, and after some grovelling to the visiting King, everyone settled down at the table for their tea party. Paimon took his own seat at the head of the table, and his camel nibbled curiously at the grassy lawn with a loud snuffle. Hermione healed the tiny injuries to her fingers with a quick, practised spell.

Paimon wrapped a clawed hand around the delicate china tea cup with a pattern of pink roses, and looked around curiously at the odd assemblage having a tea party, still rather bemused by it all.

“You get used to her,” smiled Crocell, patting Crookshanks who’d climbed up onto his lap for attention and in optimistic hopes of being hand-fed some pieces of tuna. He thought it such a clever little gangly young cat – its magical part-Kneazle heritage let it see them all, whereas an ordinary cat wouldn’t be able to. It was rather like its mistress, really. They were a good fit together.

“Yes, I believe I shall,” murmured Paimon thoughtfully, listening quietly as the group relaxed and chatted about Hermione’s upcoming departure for Hogwarts, and the precautions for secrecy that might be necessary in regards to summoning them in the future. For wizards and witches could see many beings and creatures that ordinary mortals could not.

Paimon gave her a gift before he left, summoned from thin air with a casual wave of his hand. “An amulet, my dear. To hide the scent of Dark magic that lingers around you from your association with us and your practice of the Dark Arts. It is a common gift for the favoured allies of demons. In exchange for this gift, you shall not summon me in an imprisoning circle again, but only into ones that permit my freedom.”

“And friendship? You will be my friend and ally and not harm me?” Hermione asked carefully.

“I will not harm you unless you move against me, and I shall be generous in cases of possible misinterpretation,” Paimon promised.

Reassured, Hermione admired the amulet before putting it on – it had Paimon’s curlicued sigil engraved on a thin solid gold disk, with a hole for the dark red leather cord.

Hermione said goodbye to her friends, and went around the table in a circle, touching each one on the forehead as she went. Imbuing each with a little magic, so that they could remain on earth for a day. She slumped after doing the same for Paimon, grabbing shakily for a chair to sit down in. “Wow, that was harder than usual. Like when I helped Camio stay for a month.”

“A sacrifice would move the burden from you to another,” suggested Paimon.

“Well I haven’t killed things very often. I can’t ask Mummy or Daddy for a pet and then have it killed. Oh yes! And did you like Crookshanks, my new familiar?”

“Very much. He seems a very intelligent young animal. Next time I visit I shall bring an enchanted collar for him.”

Hermione politely demurred any necessity to do so. A summoner without greed – Paimon thought this one would bear watching, and the ambitious Crocell, too. Such an interesting ally he’d cultivated! He certainly deserved his fiefdom.

-000-

The train to Hogwarts was an odd combination of the mundane and the magical – why a steam train? Still, she supposed they wouldn’t want to enchant a new train every decade or so just so it kept looking up to date. It was so laden with concealment and misdirection charms that it practically sparked under her fingertips when she’d gotten aboard. Years of practice with her friends had made her very sensitive to magic.

She’d been delighted to find Theo on the train, who’d greeted her warmly and hefted her trunk up into the luggage racks so they could then settle down for a chat. A pale blonde boy and his two hulking friends stopped by to drop off their luggage, but didn’t seem to want to linger to talk. After briefly exchanging names, the three new visitors turned to head straight out of the door to their compartment.

“Company doesn’t suit you?” drawled Theo, assuming a slightly offended look. “I thought we were friends. Don’t you trust my judgement?” Hermione felt a bit hurt too, but didn’t want to say so. Maybe they were the snobby kind of pure-blood.

“Don’t worry Nott, I don’t mean any offence to you or your new friend,” he said with a polite nod in Hermione’s direction. “I’m simply going to go and socialise, to see if I can find the Slytherin prefects and get some tips about getting into Slytherin. And I’ll also be looking for Harry Potter. I heard he’s on the train.”

“Big fan are you, Malfoy?” teased Theo. “Are you going to get the Boy Who Lived’s autograph?”

Vincent Crabbe snorted quietly in amusement, but stopped instantly and assumed a very straight-faced look when Draco glared at him.

“Father said I should try and make friends with him. Someone who defeated the Dark Lord is most likely a very powerful wizard…” Draco said, then hesitated with an uncertain glance at Hermione.

“I expect she won’t mind whatever you say,” said Theo in a reassuring tone of voice. “Her family’s rather unknown in higher society, but Granger herself is our type if you know what I mean. You’ll see. I’ll vouch for her.”

Malfoy coughed uncertainly. “…Well, father thought he might be a potential Dark Lord himself, when he reaches his majority. That it might be why he survived the Dark Lord’s attack. Best to get on his good side now. Just in case of trouble, of course.” He watched Hermione carefully for a reaction.

“What an interesting theory!” she said brightly, stroking Crookshanks’ fur while she talked, as the gangly young cat dozed on her lap. “I certainly didn’t read anything like that in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts or Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, but then they did have a noticeable Light bias, didn’t they? I don’t see that the ‘power of love’ would do much on its own, but then sacrifice does have an awful lot of power, doesn’t it? I’m surprised there wasn’t more speculation about that aspect of things, given how his parents died for him.

“The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts discussed various Dark Lords quite a bit, but there wasn’t anything specific about exactly how one earns that title – I was looking for it last week but I couldn’t find anything at all. Would you say it’s bestowed informally by majority consensus among their followers, or their enemies, or granted formally by someone?” She chatted so quickly and without pause, that the boy looked kind of startled when she finally stopped to wait breathlessly for his answer. How lovely it was to have real human friends to talk with these things about! She hoped Draco and his friends would be her friends too.

“Uh… I believe it’s formally granted by… someone,” Draco replied hesitantly.

Theo grinned at him. “Told you so!”

“Hmph. Well, I’ll be back later, hopefully with Potter in tow, so don’t let anyone else take the last seat or we’ll be too crowded,” he said, with a superior air.

Things obviously didn’t go according to his plan, however, for he returned an hour later with his two minion-like friends, but no lightning-scarred boy in tow.

“No luck?” asked Theo.

“Afraid not. I know he’s definitely not on the front half of the train – I checked a lot of compartments and asked around a bit. But I did get some good advice from some older students about how your choice of House can be affected by how determined you are to go to a particular House, so it’s important to stay very focused on your goal.”

“Do you know anything specific about exactly how we’re Sorted?” Hermione asked. “Theo doesn’t know, and the only specific hint in Hogwarts, A History was that there’s a magical artefact involved, that the Founders enchanted.”

“It’s a bit of a tradition to keep it secret from new students, but that sounds plausible,” said Draco thoughtfully. “So… tell me a bit about yourself, Granger. Your family, what schooling you’ve had so far.” It sounded rather bossy, but then, she could be rather direct herself so she didn’t really mind. And she didn’t have a lot of experience making friends. Maybe this was how wizards went about it.

“Well, my parents are dentists – Healers who specialise in treating teeth. And I went to a regular Muggle primary school, and had magical tutors for things like astrology and herbology so I know a bit more about those subjects than you might expect.”

“Not a pure-blood family, then,” Draco said.

“No. Is that a problem?” she said defensively. “I’ve memorised all my textbooks, and probably know more magic than you do!”

“I doubt that!” Draco said huffily. “I had only the best tutors, and my mother taught me all about herbology, and Professor Snape himself tutored me once a month in potions. Who taught you?”

“I can’t say. I took a vow not to reveal their identities without their permission,” Hermione said stiffly.

“I didn’t know you had gotten some tutors – you never told me. Is it an Unbreakable Vow not to speak of them?” Theo asked curiously.

“No, not for that. It would just be rude to break an oath. They’re… it’s complicated. But they’d rather their names were not widely known.”

A sort of impromptu quiz session sprang up between Theo, Draco, and Hermione, with Vincent and Gregory just sitting there blankly, looking increasingly worried about their academic futures as their soon-to-be classmates snapped out questions at each other about magical theories, potion ingredients, and magical plants. Trying to prove who was the best.

They couldn’t beat Hermione’s impressive mastery of astrology and astronomy, but Theo just had the edge on her for practical knowledge of herbology. Sometimes Hermione’s answers included extinct magical plants like silphium and moly that hadn’t been used for many centuries, which got a laugh from Draco and a rueful concession from Hermione that some of her information may be a little out of date. Draco clearly was the best of the three of them at potions, having had ample opportunities in the past to actually brew things, which kept him content despite being beaten at other questions. When the cart came around they were all happy to take a break to have some lunch (but not as happy as the increasingly stressed duo of Vincent and Gregory were).

Hermione got a couple of Pumpkin Pasties, a Cauldron Cake, and a Chocolate Frog. She got Artemisia Lufkin as her collector’s card, which she was very excited about. “The first female Minister for Magic,” she sighed happily. “From 1798, when women were still a century away from even getting the vote in the Muggle world. How amazing!”

“Muggles took a while to get anywhere close to our level,” said Theo. “They still have quite backward attitudes towards women, I’ve heard.”

“Sometimes they do. You know, I think I’m going to start collecting these,” mused Hermione thoughtfully.

“Don’t you already?” asked Gregory. “I’ve got some doubles I can swap, if you like.”

“No, my parents don’t let me have sweets except on special occasions. And you can’t buy Chocolate Frogs in the outskirts of Muggle London, you know.”

Theo was looking at Draco with an expectant kind of expression, but whatever he was waiting for, it didn’t seem to happen. For Draco didn’t react at all to her statement, and distractedly announced that he was going to go looking for Harry Potter again, and dragged Vincent and Gregory with him for company. Theo slumped back with disappointment in the train seat, and his half-hidden wicked smile disappeared.

“Do you two want to come as well?” he invited.

“No, we’re fine here,” Theo said, answering for the both of them as he nibbled cautiously on a red jellybean. “Hmm. Tomato. Not bad.”

Hermione shrugged agreeably, so Draco left them on their own.

But they weren’t alone for long, for a tearful, round-faced boy knocked on their compartment door.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

Theo just sneered at him silently, but Hermione saw no reason to be rude. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said politely. “Is he your familiar? Crookshanks here is mine – we’re very closely bonded now. Have you tried a spell to find him, or simply reaching out with your magic? That’s what I do when Crookshanks isn’t around and it’s time for his dinner. Sometimes it works.”

He shook his head and wailed. “I don’t know how?! He keeps getting away from me, and Uncle Algie’s going to be so cross if I lose him!”

Hermione got out her own vine-handled wand and prepared to cast a spell, but Theo put his hand on hers and shook his head. “You can’t cast spells on the train, you might get in trouble.”

“Oh! Well, I was warned not to do it at home – a man showed up at our door and everything just to tell me off very rudely after my first day of casting Charms – but I thought on the train would be acceptable?”

“Afraid not.”

The new boy sighed miserably.

“How about wandless magic?” asked Hermione.

Theo blinked. “If you know any, that should be fine, I suspect. I don’t know for sure, though. There certainly isn’t a rule against it, in any case. You’d get away with it at least once.”

Hermione turned to the round-faced boy with an optimistic smile, and drew a needle out of her pocket. “Well then, I’ll just need your full name, your familiar’s name, and a drop of your blood to help you find your familiar.”

He recoiled in fear, and with a brief shrill scream he stumbled out the door and slammed it behind him.

Hermione gazed blankly at the door in shock. “What did I do wrong?”

Putting a hand to his forehead like he was pained, Theo shook his head. “You can’t go offering to do blood magic for a wizard from a Light family, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Why not? You said wandless magic was fine.”

“Not blood magic! Don’t you know anything?” He gave her an incredulous look like she was an ignoramus.

Hermione crossed her arms crankily. “Well my father refused to take me to Moribund’s after someone in the Leaky Cauldron warned him against it. So all I have to go on is the useless information about the Dark Arts in the books I got, and my… tutors who are sometimes woefully out of date. They said blood magic was legal so long as you’re not spotted sacrificing anything!”

“Well it’s not.”

“Well I know that now,” Hermione said with a sigh. “Will he go blabbing to someone about it?”

“Longbottom? I doubt it. He’s scared of his own shadow. He won’t want to anger someone from a Dark family who might curse him,” Theo said dismissively. “And you only offered, you didn’t actually do anything. So you can say it was just a joke.” It was a little reassuring. She’d have to be more careful in the future.

Their friends returned later in wretched humiliation. Draco’s overtures of friendship had been rudely spurned, Potter had befriended a Weasley, and poor Gregory had been bitten on his finger right to the bone by Weasley’s pet rat. After a whispered consultation with Theo, Hermione offered to do a wandless blood-based healing spell on Gregory’s finger, and he was very impressed at the flickering flame that danced over his hand, drinking up the blood but leaving smooth, unmarred skin behind. Janus had taught her that spell, and she cast it all the time to heal up the little marks left behind when she summoned her friends with a sprinkle of blood, and while it was easier to cast with a wand, the murmured Latin incantation alone was enough to get the job done.

“I hope to see you in Slytherin,” Draco said to her, sounding the most courteous he’d been yet. “I’m sure we’ll be great friends.”

Hermione beamed at him happily. Friends. Real human friends!

“I’m sure your family and hers will get along marvellously,” Theo said to Draco, with a wicked little grin.

-000-

A hat. All I have to do is try on a hat? thought Hermione in relief. So much for all of my last-minute revision of spells.

Vincent got into Slytherin first, while the rest of them anxiously awaited their turns.

“Good luck,” whispered Theo, as they reached her surname.

She almost ran to the stool, and eagerly jammed the hat on her head, and was fascinated to find it speaking directly to her mind.

“Oh ho! This is easy,” it whispered in her head. “Smart, ambitious, and under a vow to learn the Dark Arts. Ravenclaw would be a possibility, but given your vow and allies in the Eternal War I think it had better be SLYTHERIN!” It yelled the last word aloud, and the House applauded politely for her, as she trotted over to sit next to Vincent. They saved spaces for their friends, who all joined them in due course.

“I’m so glad we’re all together!” she sighed happily. “This is going to be great.”

Chapter Text

After the Sorting and the evening’s feast (and the Headmaster’s perplexing warning about the third floor corridor), it was time to find their new home for the rest of the year. They followed the six prefects to the Slytherin Common Room, which had a hidden entrance behind a stone wall, which Hermione thought was very cool. The room was warmed by the crackling fire in an enormous stone fireplace decorated with carved snakes. They settled down on worn black and green leather sofas as Professor Snape, their Head of House, gave a brief speech about the importance of House solidarity, the tradition of keeping the location of the Slytherin Dungeon secret, and the limited office hours he was available for consultation about problems anyone might have. He then swept away with a swirl of billowing black robes, and left the prefects to herd the Firsties into their new accommodations.

After a brief private discussion between the six prefects, two remained behind while the other four wandered off to find their own rooms.

The brown-haired girl with her hair in a severe bun turned to them with a smile. “I’m Gemma Farley, and this is Simon Dedworth,” she said with a wave of her hand at the reedy boy with long dark hair standing next to her. “We’re the Fifth year Slytherin prefects, and we’ll be available to watch over you in the evenings, from the end of dinner onwards. We’ll walk you back here from the Great Hall until you know the way and won’t run afoul of any trick steps, and will be available for assistance with homework after dinner if you get especially stuck. The Seventh year prefects will be available at lunch, and in the afternoons until dinner time, and you’ll see a lot of the Sixth year prefects as they’ll meet you in the mornings after breakfast and will coach you through how to find your classes for the day, and will show you around Hogwarts during their free periods. Just look for the silver badges with the letter P on them – it’s our job to help you settle in so don’t be shy about asking questions.”

Hermione eagerly thrust her hand up into the air and when Gemma nodded at her she asked, “How do we choose rooms? Do we get our own room or is it a shared dorm?”

“You’ll have to share with one or two other girls, I’m afraid, but the rooms are very spacious, and each has an attached en-suite bathroom. Private single rooms are available for prefects or the Head Girl or Boy, and you’ll have to be in fifth year or above for those to be a possibility. Now, take a moment to discuss who you’d like to share with, and Simon will show the boys to their rooms, while I escort the girls.”

The boys sorted themselves out very quickly – Draco was going to room with Vincent and Greg, while Blaise Zabini and Theo took a second room together.

Hermione turned to the other girls, intending to ask Pansy Parkinson to room with her (they’d sat near each other at dinner), but Pansy immediately opted to room with Daphne Greengrass, with a cooing pronouncement that they had been best friends “forever”. Sophie Roper turned down Millicent’s Bulstrode’s quiet offer to share a room, preferring to share with Tracey Davis.

Millicent, a plump girl with black hair, turned hesitantly to Hermione, who offered an uncertain smile in return. “I’d be happy to share if you like?” Hermione said cautiously. “If you don’t mind that I have a cat as my familiar?” She gestured at Crookshanks who was sitting on the ground next to her. He was a sweet cat who followed her about now he was older, almost like a puppy, but much lazier and inclined to nap.

“I have a cat too – she’s a black purebred Kneazle and her name’s Nox,” replied Millicent. She paused a moment, then added defensively, “I’m not a pure-blood. I’m a half-blood.”

“What?” said Hermione, confused for a moment as to what that had to do with cats.

“I’m a Bulstrode, but not a pure-blood witch. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” Her thick jaw jutted forward as she raised her chin with a stubborn scowl, and folded her arms.

“Oh no! Not at all,” said Hermione reassuringly. “I’m not one either, so we’ll be a good match, right?”

Millicent smiled with evident relief and relaxed from her guarded pose. “Come on then, let’s find a room.”

-000-

The first couple of months at Hogwarts were a marvellous time for Hermione. Her parents were ecstatic to hear in a letter sent with one of the school owls that she’d made five friends – the boys she’d sat with on the train, and her roommate Millicent Bulstrode. Perhaps she didn’t get along terribly well with most of the students in her House, but five friends was an abundance of congeniality she was both unused to and very grateful for.

Hermione had instructed the school owl in a series of hoots, barking calls, and twit twoos to stay and wait for a return letter, which it had been happy to agree to do. Her parents wrote back right away to express their joy about her new friendships, and to do some of their usual nagging about studying. They were happy to hear that she was doing well in all her classes, as well as keeping up with her extra-curricular studies in Muggle subjects, and reminded her that they expected exemplary grades at the end of the year. They were also pleased to hear that she was continuing with her violin practice fairly regularly, as Millicent thankfully found Hermione’s playing quite pleasant and not as screechy as she’d first feared it might be.

Potions was her favourite subject, for Professor Snape made a particular pet of her after she showed up Harry Potter so decidedly in their first class by answering all the questions Potter couldn’t, earning fifteen points for Slytherin in the process. It also earnt her the respect of her Slytherin peers, and jealous glares from Potter and Weasley. It wasn’t her fault if they hadn’t studied! They didn’t seem to learn their lesson quickly either – they seemed woefully underprepared for every subsequent class. Why wouldn’t you study the potions in advance? It made brewing, and answering questions, so much easier.

Her second-favourite class would have to be Defence Against the Dark Arts, where the stuttering Professor Quirrell seemed to accidentally let slip a lot of useful Dark Arts incantations and wand movements to his Slytherin students while discussing the defences against various curses. She wasn’t the only one taking extensive notes in that class, and doing a little bit of after-hours practice. He’d even signed a pass for her to borrow a couple of interesting looking books from the Restricted Section, accepting her lie about wanting to research defensive charms without a moment’s hesitation. Hermione was starting to wonder how committed he really was to condemning the Dark Arts.

Astronomy would have been her favourite subject, for she dearly loved the subject matter, but it was extremely dull going over really basic information she’d mastered years ago. She did love her new enchanted telescope though, which was almost as good as advertised. It made the lessons quite enjoyable, for while the theory portion was tedious, the practical exercises made up for it with the breathtaking clarity of resolution available when viewing the planets and even some of their moons.

Of course, just because she had new friends didn’t mean she’d forgotten about her old ones. She summoned them all on the evening of her birthday, September 19^th, just a few weeks after school started. They were all rather squashed crowded into the little en-suite bathroom together. But while Millicent was asleep in her bed, she was a relatively light sleeper and Hermione didn’t want to risk waking her. She’d been hoping the Slytherin Common Room might clear out, but some of the seniors were still awake even though it was getting close to midnight, and she was getting rather tired.

Crookshanks helped her with her summoning in his own way – he caught a live mouse for her to sacrifice, letting out a constant rumbling purr of pride in his hunting as it wiggled futilely in his jaws. Most of her demons only needed a drop or two of blood as the bridge to call them into the world, but the more powerful the demon, the bigger the sacrifice, and King Paimon needed – or perhaps just wanted – a life. They said usually summoners needed to put more effort into their spells, but her high level of magical power made up for a lot, which was very flattering of them. And hopefully true.

Mindful of what it said in Hogwarts, A History about the school’s wards against Apparition, Hermione went to extra effort to enhance her summoning on this occasion, just in case. With a stick of chalk she drew her usual circle within an equilateral triangle on the bathroom tiles. It was as large as she could possibly make it, and broken on one edge so the demons could depart it freely. She wrote all her demons’ names, each separated with a handful of runes, in tiny letters all around the circumference. She cut one of the fingers on her left hand very gingerly, and flicked the blood across the circle. Crookshanks, as if knowing his role without being told, held the struggling mouse down with his clawed paws. With a quiet sigh of regret at the necessity, Hermione winced and quickly chopped off the mouse’s head with her sharpened silver athame, and then swapped the knife out for her unofficial and much-preferred homemade oak and vine wand. It took a while to quietly whisper all her friends’ names, but eventually she was done and the circle lit up with flickering green and red flames, and they all arrived in a shimmer of heat and light. Most of them arrived quietly, though with an atypical and odd popping sound like a bursting balloon.

King Paimon, however, disdained or had forgotten the necessity for a quiet arrival and the first words he spoke were like a blast of trumpets roaring – a full brass band in a parade determined to be heard by people as far back in the crowd as possible.

He stopped immediately when he saw Hermione’s worried face glancing at the bathroom door, and her frantic waving hands trying to wordlessly call for silence over the din of his enhanced voice.

In the sudden hush from her friends as the trumpets cut out, it was easy to hear the frantic yell from Millicent.

“Hermione? What in Merlin’s name was that awful din? Are you alright?”

There was a loud knocking on the door to the bathroom, which Hermione was very glad she’d locked earlier.

“Don’t come in! I’m uh… having a shower! I… wanted some music but the spell didn’t work right! It came out too loud!”

Forneus gave an approving nod of her head at the lie, the little scaly tentacles around her face bobbing gently as her head moved.

“It’s midnight!” Millicent yelled, sounding very aggrieved.

“I couldn’t sleep!”

“That’s no reason to make me suffer!”

“I’m sorry!” Hermione called apologetically. Crookshanks wound his way through her legs comfortingly, rubbing his cheeks on her shins. She stroked him absent-mindedly.

Crocell waved a hand lazily and an illusory noise like the rushing water of a strong shower filled the room. Millicent could very faintly be heard stomping back to her bed.

There was a quiet whispered conversation amongst the demons as to how to “deal with” Hermione’s roommate, which Hermione very swiftly clarified could not involve harming her in any way.

“Millicent’s a friend,” she said sternly. “She got me Chocolate Frogs as a present today! No killing her, and definitely no eating her.” Forneus rumbled her apology for the latter suggestion.

The Marquis Shax was considered and ruled out as someone who could painlessly cause deafness in mortals, but might be unreliable and possibly unwilling to reverse the effect later.

Eventually Paimon, who didn’t seem to have a lot of patience with the conversation, summoned with his own magic a lesser demon under his command, a squat wrinkled little imp only a couple of feet tall, with enormous round eyes, pointed ears, and a grovelling demeanour.

“You must sit on the chest of the witch in the next room and keep her asleep without harming her, until I order otherwise,” he commanded sternly, and it grovelled its obedience before disappearing with a popping displacement of air.

“Oh! That noise again,” Hermione said curiously. “When you arrived you all made that noise too.”

“There are wards here,” explained Janus with his doubled-up voice as both faces spoke in unison. “But there are gaps in them which allow travel through them by non-humans, even though they appear to be set to bar witches or wizards appearing or disappearing.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she said thoughtfully.

Hermione peeked outside briefly to check that Millicent was both alright, and asleep. There was a little humanoid imp sitting on her blankets. It looked at Hermione warily as she eyed it. But apart from the imposition of someone sitting on her, Millicent looked fine.

Demons meandered out of the bathroom after her, poking around curiously.

Paimon seemed to find it all rather familiar. “I’ve been summoned to Hogwarts before,” he reminisced, touching the green tasselled corner of an embroidered Slytherin House banner hanging from one of the stone walls. “In the daylight those dark windows have a greenish light illuminating the room from the lake outside. I saw a giant squid swim past once.”

“That’s right!” Hermione said excitedly. “Who summoned you? Someone else in Slytherin?”

“Yes, a young Slytherin man by the name of Tom Riddle. I don’t suppose you know what became of him? He was a very promising young man with an adequate amount of respect and willingness to ally with us – we ennobled him for that in due course. After I had attended to the task he had summoned me for, he called mostly upon President Foras. He wanted to learn the secrets of immortality, you see.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, disappointed. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him. And I’ve read a lot of books about Dark wizards. But I’ll ask around for you if you like?”

Paimon sighed. “Mortal lives are so swift, and ended and forgotten so quickly. I expect he was k-”

Crocell coughed in apologetic interruption. “-I understand it’s your birthday today, Hermione?”

Heavy topics were forgotten for the moment, and she delighted in her friends’ congratulations on reaching the august age of twelve. They had a small smattering of gifts for her – a gold necklace scavenged from a sunken pirate ship from Janus, a white pearl from Forneus, a dark green wing feather from Crocell trimmed and enchanted to be a quill that only she could use, and a shimmering silken red cat collar from Paimon that was enchanted to enhance Crookshanks’ natural intelligence.

Janus tutted about the state of her wand, when he saw it. “That monitoring charm that’s on your shop-bought wand is now on your personally crafted one as well! It must have been cast after your arrival at Hogwarts. I’m quite confident the wards around Hogwarts won’t allow monitoring to work properly while you’re here, but as soon as you leave the grounds there might be trouble. I’ll remove the charm for you, but I’ll leave it in place on your artisan-made wand so they have something to track. No need to alert your enemies that you have an ally who knows how to remove tracking and monitoring enchantments.” Hermione felt extremely relieved that she’d managed to avoid getting in trouble – no-one ever asked about what odd spells she (or any other Slytherins) had been casting. It seemed reasonable to her that even if Hogwarts’ wards didn’t block information about the spells she cast reaching the Ministry, surely no-one in the Ministry would want to have to deal with the paperwork that would come from scrutinizing the spells cast every day by a whole school full of wizards and witches.

It was a wonderful evening, and she didn’t regret staying up until the small hours of the morning playing her violin and dancing with her friends, even if Forneus lumbered painfully onto her foot at one point, and she had to yawn her way through all her classes the next day.

-000-

Of course, nothing good lasted forever. She should have known that. On Halloween, she got caught up in the middle of one of Draco’s sneering fights with Potter and Weasley after Charms. She usually just quietly stayed out of their bickering exchanges, but when he sneeringly called Potter’s mother a “Mudblood”, Hermione took offence and was tempted to break her usually pattern of avoiding discussing blood politics.

“You can call him an idiot all you like – that’s fair enough. But there’s nothing wrong with Potter’s mother being Muggle-born,” she said defensively as she turned angrily to face Draco, making the Gryffindor pair gape at her in astonishment. “That’s just racist. It doesn’t mean you’re any less a witch. I mean, I’m Muggle-born, and it doesn’t stop me being good at magic, does it?”

“But you’re a half-blood, that’s not the same at all,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation while he mentally considered and rejected her assertion.

“No I’m not – you know that. Neither of my parents have magic. They’re dentists, not witches or wizards. Both Muggles.”

He paused for a moment to think about her claim, then grabbed onto another idea to explain her skills that didn’t challenge his world-view of who belonged in Slytherin and where she got her talents from. “Well your grandparents then…”

“None of my grandparents have magic either, Draco. I’m a Muggle-born. Did you really not know?”

“But you had magical tutors! Everyone says you’re a half-blood! You know the Nott family!” he said, growing increasingly upset and offended. “There simply aren’t any Muggle-borns in Slytherin! You must be lying about something, so what is it?”

“Well there’s at least one in Slytherin because I’m one!” she shouted. “And I only met Theo in Diagon Alley on my first visit there a year ago! I’m not lying about anything, you just never asked!”

Draco stared at her, his feud with the Gryffindors forgotten, then span on his heel. “Crabbe, Goyle – come. We’re not speaking to Granger anymore.”

Hermione gaped as Draco stalked off with his two friends – that she’d thought were her friends too – following him obediently without a moment’s hesitation. She looked around at the small crowd of shocked, staring students. Theo had already left for the next class, but Millicent was still there standing with the other Slytherin girls.

“You may sit with us today in History of Magic, if you like,” Pansy offered to Millicent loudly and grandly. “You don’t have to sit with her any longer.” Hermione’s face fell as Millicent murmured her acquiescence, with only the briefest conflicted look at Hermione. Then they walked off without her without so much as a backward glance, leaving Hermione staring after them, tears glimmering in her eyes.

“A know-it-all Dark witch who’s a Muggle-born!” said Ron, in slack-jawed amazement. “Blimey, no wonder she doesn’t have any friends. Absolutely no-one’s going to want to be friends with someone like that!” His face screwed up in disgust at the very thought.

“C’mon Ron, that’s enough,” Harry said, grabbing his friend’s arm firmly to lead him away.

As the corridor emptied out with echoing footsteps on the stone flagstones, Hermione was left standing there completely alone with tears and snot starting to run down her face as she sobbed miserably. Sadly, it seemed that perhaps, Ronald Weasley was completely correct. She had no friends.

Well, almost no friends. She rushed off in tears to barricade herself in a bathroom. She was going to summon and talk to her real friends.

Chapter Text

“I say make an example of one of them,” said Camio in his high-pitched voice underlaid with the crackling noises of a fire. “How about I eviscerate this ‘Ron Weasley’ for you? When they find his gutted corpse in his bed, they’ll know you’re someone not to cross. People will flock to your banner.”

“No,” Hermione said wearily, blowing her reddened nose with a hanky. “No killing.” All her demon friends were there except for Paimon, and they’d all gotten very angry on her behalf. And every single one of them seemed to think murder was the best way to recoup her honour and earn the respect of her peers.

“I agree, Camio’s plan is inappropriate,” said Andrealphus. He’d perched up high on one of the toilet cubicle doors, leaning down and posing carefully so that he could admire his vibrant blue feathers and glorious trailing tail in the mirrors opposite. He could be very vain sometimes – Hermione thought a peacock form suited him exceptionally well.

“Thank you Andrealphus,” Hermione said gratefully. Was one of them finally getting it?

“Much better to target this Draco who turned people against her. I could transform him into a chicken, and then he could be slaughtered for the dinner table by someone else. Leave the mortals to do the killing – she’s still a child yet and not ready to build her Dark army and take her place as the Queen of the Fae. It’s too dangerous for her to be seen to be directly responsible for anyone’s death. Let it merely be a tragic mistake.”

Hermione sighed. “To repeat myself again, I still don’t want anyone killed. Thank you for the offer, though.”

“How about permanently crippling wounds?” offered Camio thoughtfully. “I could cut off a leg while one of them sleeps. I’m quite the swordsman, you know.” With a clawed wing, Camio drew a rapier hanging at his side and flourished it dramatically. Hermione hadn’t even noticed him wearing it before now, and thought he might’ve just manifested it moments ago.

“How would you even manage that with a rapier?” Hermione asked distractedly. “It’s a piercing weapon – it couldn’t cut through bone.”

Camio twittered his chirping laugh. “It’s heavily enchanted. Would you like a demonstration? Name the target.”

Forneus, who was sitting in a puddle of water on the tiles she’d made by overflowing one of the sinks, rumbled her approval, waving her scaly tentacles excitedly. “He’s an amazing warrior. I’ve seen him cleave angels in half with that sword and it didn’t even slow him down. The explosion of ichor was glorious! Very tasty.” Her enormous tongue licked across her fanged mouth hungrily.

“Just leave the school, if it’s too unwelcoming,” suggested Crocell practically. “You have plenty of books about spells, and know how to get more.”

“We can teach you, you don’t need any of these pathetic mortals,” agreed Janus.

“I don’t want to have to go to an ordinary school again – I wasn’t happy there either,” sniffled Hermione, starting to tear up again. “And I don’t think they’ll let me use my wand at home – the Statute of Secrecy is very strict.”

“They won’t be able to track your wand,” Janus pointed out. “Just the craftsman’s one.”

“There must be other schools of magic. Ones without these mortals who don’t recognise that power is what matters, not your parents’ ancestry,” rumbled Crocell like the surge of angry waves crashing against a rocky shore.

“I suppose,” mused Hermione thoughtfully. “Beauxbatons might be a possibility, since Forneus has taught me French. I guess I could look into my options.”

“I told you it was a worthwhile tongue,” Forneus gurgled happily.

“Is that school affiliated with the Light or Dark Fae?” asked Andrealphus.

“The courts are long gone…” sighed Crocell wearily, rolling his eyes.

“You know what I mean!” cawed Andrealphus angrily. “We want her to stay safe, not be surrounded by enemies allied with the Light!”

The door handle to the bathroom rattled as someone tried to get in.

“Go away!” yelled Hermione frantically. “You can’t come in!”

“Granger?” called a female voice. “Is that you? I need to use the bathroom! Unlock the door!”

“No! I don’t care!” Hermione screeched back. “Find another bathroom!” They moved on, thankfully.

Stolas, the owl-shaped adorably cute demon with ridiculously long legs sticking out from under his brown fluffy feathers, was perched on one of the bathroom sinks. He’d been quiet for a while, and was finally ready to share his carefully considered alternative plan. In his sweet, soft voice he chirped, “I think between us we could probably slaughter everyone here who won’t serve us, and seize the castle. It would make a good stronghold – a base for her and a breach for us. With that many deaths we would have enough power to bring through a whole legion. We just need Hermione’s permission and a spark of her magic or a little blood to get started, so that we can work around that annoying non-intervention treaty. It would be a very advantageous move in our war, and Samhain’s a very propitious date to begin such a move.”

There was a murmur of interested approval from all the demons, even the usually less bloodthirsty ones like Crocell and Janus.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. It was going to be a long day talking them down. Still, at least she had friends – ones who cared about her enough to want to eviscerate everyone who had offended her. That was something.

-000-

When the troll crashed through the bathroom door with a shower of splintering wood raining all over Hermione and her demonic friends, she couldn’t help but scream from the terrifying shock of it.

“Quick, grant me leave to kill it!” said Crocell urgently, as the lumbering being strode into the crowded bathroom, snarling angrily at everyone and everything it saw.

A look of very slowly dawning concern seemed to cross its dull face as it took in the strange assortment of creatures in the bathroom. After a moment’s thought it lumbered towards Hermione as the most screechy and least intimidating being in the room. Staying away from Forneus and her capacious fanged mouth seemed to be a priority for it.

“Oh no!” cried a worried young voice from out in the corridor. “I think she’s in there!”

“Hermione?!” called Theo from out of sight. “Are you in there? There’s a troll!”

“Severing Charm!” hissed Janus quickly. “Straight to the throat! Hurry! We have to leave or we’ll be seen!”

“Kill any witnesses afterwards,” suggested Andrealphus.

Hermione pulled out her wand, and cast quickly and decisively. “Diffindo!” she yelled loudly, and the troll buckled to the ground, blood gushing from its severed throat.

Her demons smiled happily at her, and Crocell whispered some quiet praise of her kill, then they disappeared with quiet pops of noise and small bursts of flame. Forneus was the last to go - she snaked a tentacle over to dip in a pool of blood, and curiously sucked it clean to sample the taste of troll blood before leaving reluctantly at Hermione’s frantic gestures. Forneus had in the past reminisced happily about the flavour and texture of rotted whale blubber, so Hermione guessed the noisome troll carcass didn’t smell or look any worse than that to her friend.

Hermione looked down at the dead troll. She certainly didn’t think it was temptingly delicious. She felt kind of shaky and her hands were trembling, but didn’t really regret killing it.

Well… waste not, want not. She didn’t really have time to draw a circle and do things properly, so she simply pointed her homemade wand at the troll’s body, using it as a focus to channel her magical intent. She quietly muttered under her breath, “I dedicate this death to Janus and Crocell – a gift for Samhain.” A flickering of flames licked over the corpse, consuming the spirit but leaving the body of the creature untouched.

It was then, of course, that Theo entered the bathroom, wand at the ready. Harry Potter wasn’t far behind him.

“Hermione are you… alright?” he asked, trailing off uncertainly as he looked at the flames dancing over the body of the troll before dissipating, and the pool of blood underneath it.

“We’re here to um, warn you about the troll being loose? Obviously you know that,” Potter said, “so I guess we were a bit late. Sorry, I think we accidentally chased it towards you. Wow, you killed it! That’s amazing! And kind of gross.” He looked a bit nauseous as he looked at the body.

Theo was carefully avoiding looking at the body of the troll as he walked around to her. “What was that last spell?” he hissed quietly.

“Nothing important… it wasn’t from the school books,” she whispered back, eyes darting about guiltily as she tucked her non-regulation wand back in her pocket.

“If it was Dark, or blood magic, you can’t be tied to this,” Theo said with desperate intensity. “You’re a Slytherin – they never trust us. They’ll search you and check your wand. There’s detection spells for Dark magic – if people are suspicious they’ll check the body too.”

Hermione blanched. She could’ve kicked herself for her thoughtless decision to dedicate the death to her friends. She was wearing her gold amulet (hidden beneath her robe) so she wouldn’t “feel” Dark to anyone who checked, but perhaps something would linger on the troll that people could detect.

Wait, a Slytherin might be under instant suspicion, but not the Boy Who Lived, she realised in a flash. They wouldn’t even ask him many questions.

“Potter, I don’t really want the attention I’d get from killing the troll,” she said, in a wheedling tone of voice. “How about we say you did it?”

“Me?” he said in amazement. “But I didn’t do anything!”

Theo gave her a startled look, before rallying and smoothing out his expression into a coaxing one directed at Harry. “Good idea. Killing trolls just isn’t ladylike. It’d ruin her reputation in Slytherin. But a brave Gryffindor like yourself, people in your House will love it.”

Harry looked hesitant, so Theo added firmly, “And you owe her, you and Weasley. For her sticking up for you, and the fallout she’s suffered from that.”

Harry’s face firmed with resolution. “Right. Alright then, I’ll do it. If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Absolutely,” Hermione said with relief.

And the plan worked beautifully. When the teachers eventually showed up, Theo did most of the talking, with a mixture of truth and lies. He explained how he’d been worried that Hermione, who hadn’t been at the Halloween feast, wouldn’t have heard about the troll and might be in danger. How he’d asked Potter and Weasley, the last people to see her, if they knew where she was. Apparently Patil had told Potter she was in one of the bathrooms. Potter had then bravely volunteered to help him look for her.

They checked two bathrooms before stumbling across the rank-smelling troll, and Theo had warily distracted the troll away from them with a light spell cast on a door that unfortunately turned out to be the very bathroom that Hermione was in. From there the story veered more into fiction, with Harry’s gallant attack on the troll that saved Hermione’s life, with an overpowered Severing Charm born of pure desperation. Hermione and Harry chimed in occasionally to add their support to the story.

Professor McGonagall gave twenty points to Gryffindor for the courageous rescue, though took five off her own House again, and five off Slytherin, due to Harry and Theo’s “recklessness” in not telling a teacher what they were doing. Professor Snape countered with ten points to Slytherin for Theo’s well-executed distraction of the troll to preserve his and Potter’s life, even though it had been regrettably mistargeted on Hermione’s location. And no-one bothered to cast any spells to check on what anyone’s wand had cast, or any on the troll’s body, much to the Slytherins’ quiet relief.

“We’re still friends, then?” Hermione asked Theo a little anxiously, after the teachers shooed the three of them to head back to their dormitories, since the danger was over.

“Of course, you idiot. I already knew about your family, didn’t I? It doesn’t change anything.”

She sniffled slightly, with happy tears. “I don’t have many real friends. I’m glad I haven’t lost you. That makes one wizard friend, at least. I don’t think Millicent wants to be friends anymore.”

“Two wizard friends,” said Harry, offering his hand awkwardly for her to shake. “I wanted to tell you earlier – how I’m really grateful for you know, sticking up for me. Well, for my mum. That meant a lot. No-one’s ever done that before.”

They loitered together to chat in the corridor for a little while, about how awful the Dursleys were, and about Hermione’s assertion that it was power that mattered and not your blood status. Then they made plans to meet up together on the weekend so they could all practice the Severing Charm together – Harry was rather worried that he couldn’t actually cast it properly, and now people were going to expect him to be good at it.

Before they split up to go to their own Common Rooms, Harry and Theo gossiped excitedly about something they hadn’t mentioned to the teachers in their recounting of events. They’d seen Professor Quirrell skulking about suspiciously despite the fact he’d allegedly “fainted” in the Great Hall, and how Snape was limping like something had bitten him!

“Perhaps he got bitten by the Cerberus!” Harry speculated excitedly. “Ron and Neville and I found one hidden behind the door in that forbidden third floor corridor. We were in a hurry one evening trying to get away from Filch – out after curfew, you know.”

“How intriguing!” whispered Theo. “They’re usually used as guard dogs for treasure, you know! Not many animals like being indoors all the time, but they actually prefer the dark. I think they’re cave-dwellers in their natural habitat on the Continent.”

“My friends and I are trying to investigate it – I’ll let you know what we find out!” Harry said, before pausing thoughtfully. “Um. Ron probably won’t want to associate with ‘slimy Slytherins’, and Neville barely even talks to us he’s so shy, so it might be best if I just kind of pass things on?” He looked so genuinely embarrassed and apologetic it was hard to take offence.

Hermione did all the same, though. Ron Weasley was definitely scum – even his best friend knew it. But Harry himself seemed like a much nicer boy than she’d given him credit for.

-000-

It wasn’t all sunshine and roses for Hermione, though. While Harry might be basking (or not) in his newly renewed status as a hero, she had the lesser achievement of being known to have been saved by the Boy Who Lived. Which in Slytherin earned her more scorn than envy.

Millicent still wasn’t talking to her, and when Pansy, Sophie, and Daphne took turns bullying Hermione with nasty words and minor hexes to “teach the Mudblood her place”, she did nothing but stand aside nervously and shoot Hermione occasional apologetic looks. Sometimes she even joined in shooting spells at her, when the others encouraged her to.

Theo enjoyed some initial laughter at Draco’s expense for taking so long to figure out that Hermione wasn’t a half-blood.

“You said ‘she’s our type’ you prat,” Draco accused crossly. “You should apologise for that.”

“The only thing I regret is not getting to see the look on your face when you found out the truth,” Theo said, with an unrepentant grin.

Draco scowled at that, but didn’t appear as angry at Theo as she kind of expected. It was as if he was used to that kind of behaviour from him. The two boys still seemed to get along in an oddly friendly manner, even though Theo was standing by her steadfastly, and had even joined in at Hermione’s side in a few duels. If you could call them duels when one person was the subject of a barrage of spells from multiple opponents. While Hermione was a precocious and talented spellcaster and certainly got her licks in, she wasn’t doing so great when outnumbered four to one. The Slytherin girls and Draco were not happy with her “deception” about her blood status. She’d wondered if admitting the truth about actually being the one to kill the troll in the bathroom would help improve their opinion of her, but Theo had strongly advised against it, saying that the risk of the teachers finding out wasn’t worth it. She trusted him, and stayed quiet about that. She didn’t want him to abandon her too.

“Why do you stand up for her? Your father is going to disown you for befriending a Mudblood,” Draco warned Theo very seriously after one minor lunch-time battle in an empty classroom that had left Pansy (with the support of Tracey and Sophie) rushing off to find a prefect to reverse one of Hermione’s nastier charms that had left her with uncontrollable vomiting. Daphne had squealed unhappily at the noisome green liquid Pansy had retched up all over her shoes and robe, and had retreated with disgusted moans to the nearest bathroom to try and repair the damage as best she could. Hermione made a mental note to make that spell a standard part of her spell-casting arsenal.

“Finite,” incanted Theo as he waved his wand at Hermione, casting the General Counter-Spell from the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. Hermione’s hair changed back from snakes to its usual frizzy locks. Theo had looked the spell up in the library a few weeks ago, and they had both gotten very proficient at it from repeated casting. Theo refused adamantly to use it on Pansy or Daphne no matter how much they whined (or spat up slugs).

He’d help reverse spells on Draco or his two goons though, even when they’d had been hexing Hermione or Theo only moments before. Which had disappointed her a bit initially, but she guessed she understood. Those two were friends first, before he’d met her, and Theo didn’t want to lose either of his friendships. She thought it was a funny thing that Vincent and Greg wouldn’t hex Theo – though they’d willingly hex Hermione under Draco’s occasional direction – but Theo still seemed friendlier with Draco. Theo had explained to her that the other two boys were too low status to risk insulting him directly, whereas he and Draco were peers.

“No, he won’t,” Theo said confidently, “my father will be just fine with it. You think she got sorted into Slytherin for no reason? Don’t be a fool. She’s not a Light-sided Christian like they usually are - she’s different to the other Muggle-borns. Special. Think about what you’ve seen her do already – even just the little you know. Think about how well she’s doing in classes. She’s going to be a witch to be reckoned with, and anyone who crosses her now is going to regret it later, mark my words.”

Hermione tried to say thank you, but it came out very croakily, a bit like a bullfrog.

“I think that one’s beyond me,” admitted Theo, lowering his wand in defeat. “I think you’ll have to see Madam Pomfrey to get your voice fixed. The prefects are still being stubborn about us working out status issues amongst ourselves – they only warning they’ve been willing to give is to keep it within Slytherin and our year level, and to not embarrass our House publicly. I tried talking Dedworth around, but no luck yet. I wonder if Parkinson will have better success getting him on side.”

Draco was frowning, looking thoughtfully at Hermione. “It’s nothing personal, you know,” he said to her eventually. “I just can’t be friends with a Mudblood. Father would be very angry.”

“Nothing – croak – personal. Sure,” she said scornfully. She would remember this. And one day, she’d make him pay. She’d make them all pay. All the girls, Draco and his two goons, and the prefect Farley who’d just kept walking past whenever Pansy was hexing or insulting her without saying a word in rebuke. She hadn’t talked with her other friends about any of it yet. She knew what they’d recommend and she didn’t think things were all that dire yet. But it was definitely an option to ponder.

-000-

While the Slytherins mostly kept their troubles in-House and didn’t do much more than steadfastly ignore and shun Hermione in public, word still managed to spread in whispered rumours that there was a Muggle-born witch in Slytherin.

Professor Quirrell kept her aside one afternoon after Defence Against the Dark Arts to have a chat about it with her.

“I’ve h-heard, Miss Granger, about your unfortunate blood status as a M-muggle-born. I understand it is c-c-causing you some distress within Slytherin. I do s-sympathise. I too was sorted into Slytherin in my y-youth, and my true blood s-s-status unknown at first. You k-know, being a half-blood was quite d-difficult enough, l-let alone those years where I w-was thought to be a M-muggle-born. I had to f-f-face my share of bullies in my time. T-t-teach them to respect you with some well-chosen s-spells, is my advice. S-s-strictly off the record, of course. I must insist th-that you not repeat this conversation to anyone.”

“It wouldn’t be so hard if they’d duel me one on one,” admitted Hermione, shamefacedly. “They might think they’re superior, but I know some good hexes. But when there’s five or six of them coming at me at once…”

“P-perhaps you need to l-learn some more powerful curses,” Quirrell suggested with a stutter, rummaging through a drawer of his desk and pulling out some parchment slips. “Let me w-write you some passes for the Restricted Section, there’s a few books I found m-most enlightening during my time h-here.”

He dipped his quill in the inkwell and scrawled out a few titles on the library forms, and dried the ink off with a quick charm. She’d noticed he rarely stuttered when casting a spell, which was lucky for him.

“Thank you, sir,” she said gratefully, looking at the titles. Some looked innocuous, like Confronting the Faceless, but Magick Moste Evile leapt out at her immediately as something she wouldn’t have expected a teacher to recommend she read. She tilted her head and gave Quirrell a quizzical look. “You’re not… worried about me reading Dark Arts books, then?”

“N-not at all. I’m sure you’ll be responsible with th-them,” Quirrell replied with a vague smile.

She hesitated a moment before asking, “Just out of curiosity’s sake, as I have a bit of a personal research project, I don’t suppose you could recommend any books that discuss demonology?”

Professor Quirrell leaned back in his chair with a creak of wood, and she felt a brief flare of power, dark and familiar. Could it be he dabbled in demonology or the Dark Arts himself, despite his avowed profession of teaching students to fight against the Dark Arts?

“None remain in the library, alas it has been expurgated, cleansed of some of the more interesting texts since my days here as a s-student. The best text on that subject is Secrets of the Darkest Art, by Owle Bullock. I believe it now forms part of the H-headmaster’s private collection, though I advise most strongly against asking him to loan it to you.” He wore a rather scornful, sneering look on his face. It looked quite out of place – he usually looked so meek and mild-mannered.

She nodded obediently. “I won’t ask him, sir. I’ll see if I can find a copy elsewhere.”

He hesitated a moment before saying, “Moribund’s in Knockturn Alley w-would be your best chance, I believe. Do be c-careful, Miss Granger. It would not be wise to be seen reading that book in public.”

“Of course not. Thank you again, sir. You’ve been very helpful. And I appreciate all your concern about me.”

“One last thing, Miss Granger,” Quirrell added. “I w-would advise you to research your f-family tree. Talk with your parents, if th-they are still alive. It might be w-wise to double-check if you are indeed a M-muggle-born or not. Perhaps you were adopted, or perhaps your family descends from a Squib line of the Dagworth-Grangers, or a mixed m-marriage where one of your grandparents n-never told anyone th-they were a witch or wizard, for f-fear of being thought m-m-m-mad. It would n-not be the first time that such a situation has arisen, with s-someone thought by so many to be a nobody Muggle-born, who t-turns out to in fact be descended from a wizarding line of s-some renown.”

“I don’t believe I’m adopted,” Hermione said slowly and thoughtfully, “I’m sure my parents would have told me by now. And I have hair just like my mum’s. But… I’ll look into it. I don’t know if my parents informed my grandparents about me going to Hogwarts or not. I suppose one or more of them might be a witch or wizard, and they never told us.”

“Good l-luck, Miss Granger. Remember, in the end it is power that matters most, not blood. Don’t be too weak-willed to c-cultivate it to the utmost.”

“I agree entirely. I have a friend who often says the same.”

She watched Professor Quirrell more closely after their conversation. His stutter was very inconsistent, and his tendency to “accidentally” teach the Slytherin class Dark Arts spells while teaching them the counters seemed intentional and thorough, now she was paying more attention to his methods.

She also discovered he seemed to be covertly watching her in return.

-000-

Eventually she talked with her demon friends about the bullying that was going on, and their suggestions were about as useful as she’d anticipated.

“How many times do I have to explain that I don’t want you to kill anyone?” she said exasperatedly. “I know you’d like the souls to devour, and yes, it would stop the bullying, but I’d get in a lot of trouble for it. I could even be expelled!”

“We could just make an example of one,” suggested Crocell. “Maiming would probably do, like Camio suggested. They wouldn’t have to die.”

“No! I don’t want to hurt anyone that badly!”

“Not even the one who called you a filthy, diseased Mudblood rat and made fun of your teeth?” he wheedled.

Hermione hesitated, “Well, if it does come to that, Pansy will be top of the list.”

“Think it over,” Stolas suggested smugly. “You’ll see we’re right.”

“I can handle it - I’ve learnt a lot of new curses,” Hermione said confidently. “They’ll learn I’m not a safe target, or get bored, and stop eventually. I talked to Professor Snape, and he’s already spoken to them about cutting it out and the importance of showing House unity – that’s helped a lot.”

But it didn’t help enough. After a brief lull in attacks for fear of either Professor Snape’s retribution or Hermione’s new curses, they cornered her one evening in the girls’ dorm, and at Pansy’s shrill command, Millicent wrestled Hermione’s wand out of her tight-fisted grasp so that the girls could hex her without fear of retaliation. Hermione mentally cursed that she’d left her homemade wand in the bottom of her trunk. She was working hard to keep it secret and rarely got it out except when summoning her friends.

“I’m going to make you all pay for that,” hissed Hermione venomously. “You nasty little cheats! So brave, four against one. We’ll see how you like it when the tables are turned.”

Daphne sneered at her, and said, “Why don’t you just leave? No-one wants you at Hogwarts, Mudblood pig.” She shot a weak hex at Hermione that left her with boils coming out on her face – a small scattering of large pus-filled pimples.

“I heard you like the Severing Charm,” Pansy said, in a fake syrupy tone of friendliness, and Daphne and Tracey giggled sycophantically. “Just like your hero Harry Potter cast for you. Well, I’m happy to oblige too! Diffindo!”

Millicent chewed her lip unhappily as she gazed at the gash in Hermione’s right arm, and the blood welling up. She stood back from the fight, holding tightly onto Hermione’s wand.

Tracey looked a little nervous too, though she was trying not to show it. “We can’t do anything too bad to her – we’ll get in trouble. She’ll dob to Madam Pomfrey, and then we’ll get in trouble,” Tracey said worriedly to Pansy, who was looking maliciously gleeful as Hermione started crying in shock at the pain of the gash in her arm.

“I know how to heal cuts – there won’t be any evidence,” Pansy said smugly.

Hermione stopped crying like a tap had been turned off, with only a few stray sniffles. “No evidence – I can have you healed, and there would be no evidence,” she said, and started cackling evilly. “Thanks for the suggestion, Pansy! You’ll regret it!”

Hermione swiped her left hand through the blood on her arm, and crouched down on the floor to draw a rough triangle with it, and then scooped up more blood to draw the circle inside it.

“What… what are you doing?” Daphne said nervously.

“She’s just trying to scare us,” Pansy said dismissively.

“Me? Not me. I’ll leave that to my friends,” Hermione said with a malicious grin.

“You don’t have any friends to save you now,” Pansy jeered. “Boys can’t come in the girls’ dorms.”

“I have other friends!” Hermione said triumphantly. “And I think it’s time you met them!”

Pansy looked suspiciously in Millicent’s direction, but she just shook her head. “Unless she means her cat, I have no idea,” Millicent said apologetically.

Hermione slammed her blood-coated hands down in the centre of the circle leaving blurry red handprints behind, and called out loudly, “Duke Crocell! Prince Stolas! President Camio! With blood and power I summon thee! Appear before me arrayed for battle, with my leave to injure my enemies here present in this room!”

The girls shrieked in terror as the small circle of blood lit up with a wash of flames, and one by one three figures walked out of the shimmering heat haze within the centre circle.

“Finally,” said Crocell with a booming voice like the crashing of a waterfall. “Now, which is it, my dear? Shall we conquer the castle, or kill one of your tormentors for you as an example of why no-one should dare to cross you?” He flared his green wings dramatically behind him, as he drew an obsidian longsword from a sheath at his waist.

“Maiming, she wanted one maimed, surely?” twittered Camio. “Which one is Pansy?”

“Merlin preserve us!” screamed Daphne, clutching frantically at Pansy, knocking them both to the ground in her terror. “It’s a demon, and talking birds the size of goblins! They have swords! Do you see it too?!”

Tracey was backing away slowly, shaking her head ‘no’ over and over again in panicked denial.

“Merlinus? The cambion prince?” said Stolas. “He was a fine man. But long dead and certainly no help to you now.” Of the three of them, he was the only one who wasn’t obviously armed. He looked as cute as always – a fluffy, long-legged owl prince with nothing but a crown and his large size to visually mark him out as something unusual.

“You can see them?” Hermione asked in malicious glee. “I thought maybe other witches could. My parents never did. And the ‘birds’ are also demons. Camio’s rapier can cut through rock, so I suggest a little more courtesy.”

“We’re so sorry,” Daphne said desperately. “We’ll stop… everything. We… we won’t do anything to you ever again! We didn’t know you were a Dark witch.”

Hermione sneered at her as she said, “Too little too late, Greengrass.”

She turned her back on them, addressing her waiting friends. “Well, what I’d like you to do is make them all hurt. But nothing that you can’t heal afterwards. That way there’s no evidence. And that one is Pansy,” she said, pointing accusingly at the cowering girl, “so hurt her the most. Make her suffer. Millicent hiding under the bed with her cat has done the least, so only hurt her a little.”

“Help!” screamed Pansy.

“You idiot – remember you bribed Derrick to Silence the room! And Sophie’s outside to stop anyone coming in!” shrieked Daphne. “This is all your fault you troll-brained idiot!”

Crocell locked the door to the dorm room before advancing slowly on Daphne with his pointed teeth bared menacingly and his sword drawn. A shallow cut to her arm made her drop the wand that she’d tried to shakily point at him. She only got out half the incantation before her wand clattered to the floor from the shock of the pain, and she scrabbled on the floor in desperation, trying to pick it up in time before he did anything more. Crocell moved slowly, letting her try, like a cat toying with a mouse. Letting it think it had a chance.

Camio, after a considered look at Hermione’s injuries, followed Crocell’s example and cut a careful gash in Pansy’s arm to precisely match Hermione’s own wound, twittering his laughter. Pansy’s dropped her wand too, and didn’t even try to pick it up. She just cried for mercy.

It didn’t take long to find out why Prince Stolas was feared by the other demons despite his gentle appearance. Hermione thought Stolas was the most terrifying. Spreading his soft brown wings wide, he swooped straight at Pansy’s face, rending it with his sharp talons in long gashes. It only got worse after that after he started using his hooked beak too, and Hermione had to look away from the ruin her friend was making of her tormentor’s face. Wondering if she’d made the right choice, as Pansy’s screaming got even louder, and just didn’t stop.

 “You can heal that, right? She’ll be able to see again?” Hermione asked uncertainly, feeling nauseous and uncertain. She didn’t want to watch what they were doing to Pansy anymore. She wondered if she’d made the right choice.

“Not me personally,” Stolas said apologetically, as he darted away on swift wings from Pansy’s frantic, blindly flailing hands. “But King Paimon will be able to, or can command a lesser demon to. She’ll be good as new. And she will know her place in your mortal hierarchy.”

“You will leave… Hermione… alone,” said Crocell, cutting a series of small wounds on Daphne all over her body, who cowered on the floor and covered her eyes with her hands as she screamed and cried. “She is… above… you!”

“I’m sorry,” sobbed Millicent, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know! I was just scared. My family’s allied with the Dark, we side with the demons in your war! Please spare me!” She escaped with only a few minor burns – it turned out that Camio could spit burning coals at people if he wanted to.

Fearful of what was happening to the others, and terrified it would be her turn next, Tracey tried grovelling to Hermione and begging for mercy on her hands and knees. Hermione found she rather liked that. It was intoxicating, that feeling of power. So Tracey got let off fairly easily too, with only a few cuts and burns.

Pansy though… Pansy got made an example of.

And when it was all over, Hermione shakily called for King Paimon. He laughed his approval at the gory scene and his protégé’s progress in authorising bloodshed, and summoned a centaur-like demon to patch everyone up, starting with Hermione of course. Pansy sobbed her thanks as her injuries were healed and her sight restored, and joined Tracey in grovelling at Hermione’s feet.

Crocell stood behind Hermione’s right shoulder, murmuring his approval as he watched them cower before her. “Well done, Hermione. You did the right thing. And it will be easier next time. You were very brave, and it was the right choice. You don’t want to be a victim – you want to be the strong one. They’ll leave you alone now – they’ve learnt their place.” She relaxed and calming under his soothing patter of praise. It had been the right choice.

“For next time, you might want to look into researching the new Torture Curse – Crucio. It doesn’t leave any marks,” Paimon recommended.

“Yes, your majesty,” Hermione said politely. “I shall.”

“And if they ignore your warning, and speak of this to anyone, I suggest slaying them. For now, let them warn others in Slytherin that you are a Dark witch, and not to be trifled with. But any rumours more than that, and they should die. And no speaking of this at all to any allied with the Light.”

There was a murmur of desperate agreement from the terrified girls.

Paimon bent down and reached out with one graceful dark hand to lift up Pansy’s chin. His claws dug gently into the skin of her throat, as his piercing blue eyes looked directly into hers. “In case you have not been paying attention, let me make it perfectly clear for you. You will warn others Hermione is to be respected. You may hint that she is allied with the Dark, if she will not be endangered by your doing so. But you will not speak of her calling upon us, mention any of our names, or tell of what you have suffered this evening. Do. You. Understand. Mortal.”

“Yes, yes! I understand!” Pansy sobbed. “I will, I promise. I’ll do just as you say.”

“Yes, you will.” Paimon forced Unbreakable Vows out of all of them – his trust in their word alone was not that strong. But none of them were tempted to go against the vows anyway. They would not harm or betray Hermione, and they would not betray the demons either. They were too frightened, even without their Vows.

Terrified out of her wits, Pansy said nothing at all to anyone, and acted with copious deference towards Hermione whenever she saw her. She carried her bags for her, returned library books to shelves when she was finished with them, saved her treats from dessert, and generally did anything and everything she could think of to curry favour. It was enough to draw questions about the sudden about-face, but Pansy’s unconvincing lies about how she’d simply realised what a great witch Hermione was were not believed by most Slytherins who heard them. The fear in her eyes wasn’t hidden well enough by the smile plastered on her face.

 Daphne was a little less cowed (having been less hurt by the demons), and was willing to hint to a few people what had happened, within the strictures of the vow that King Paimon had demanded from her.

 “She practices forbidden Dark magic! She’s dangerous! You should stay away from her!” Daphne whispered anxiously to Theo and Draco one evening in the Slytherin Common Room, when Hermione was ensconced in the library and there was no chance she’d overhear her desperate hissed warning.

Theo shook his head sadly at her anxiety. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true! I swear by Merlin!” she said with a quavering voice. “I’ve never been so scared in all my life.” Her eyes glistened with tears, and she started crying. “I can’t tell you what she did. But… look at Pansy. Just… look at how she’s acting! She got it the worst. It was horrible, and it was Dark magic, and that’s all I’m allowed to say.”

“Oh, I believe you. It’s just that in such a case the best place to be is as close to her as possible. You’ve made yourself her enemy. Whereas me? I’m her friend,” Theo said smugly. “A much better position to be in. It’s hilarious how badly you’ve all chosen your path - you think the Light will accept you? Ha! I’ve had such fun watching the look on Parkinson’s face as she grovels to Hermione. Malfoy? How about you? Ready to admit you were wrong?”

Draco looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “No, she’ll get caught – she’s not cautious enough. And she isn’t a pure-blood, after all. I’m going to be neutral if I can. It’d be better to not be dragged down with her by being seen to be an ally. She never should have revealed herself to Greengrass, she’s a terrible gossip. No offence, Greengrass.”

“Fine thanks I get for risking my life to help you,” she harrumphed, using her robe sleeve to wipe away a few anxious tears that had snuck out.

Crookshanks, who was perched on a chair nearby, meowed warningly and unsheathed his claws as he arched his back in a stretch. Daphne flinched away nervously as she noticed him for the first time. “Hermione’s a wonderful witch,” she said loudly, eyes flicking from the two boys, and to the ginger cat, and back again. “I have nothing but respect for her. Everyone should respect her.”

And most people did, after that. The other students didn’t know what she’d done, but the effects were undeniable, and worth some wariness. Millicent came crawling back to Hermione most apologetically, begging to be friends again and pleading that Pansy had made her be mean to Hermione. While things would never be the same between them again, they were re-establishing a very guarded friendly acquaintance.

Professor Snape seemed satisfied that she’d earned acceptance, somehow. If he asked anyone any questions about it, Hermione never heard about it. But Professor Quirrell, either more sharp-eyed in his observances or more willing to talk, kept her after class to ask what curses she’d used.

“I really couldn’t say what happened, I think they just saw the error of their ways one evening and turned over a new leaf,” Hermione said with smug satisfaction creeping into her voice despite her efforts to hide it.

“How m-marvellous,” stuttered Professor Quirrell. “And did you have any more books y-you’d like to borrow from the Restricted S-S-Section? Just between the t-two of us? Purely out of a-academic interest?”

Hermione looked at him assessingly. She hadn’t gotten into any trouble for borrowing Magick Moste Evile – not a word – so asking for more books probably wouldn’t hurt.

“Well,” she said slowly, “a friend recommended I read up on the Torture Curse – Crucio. And I was wondering if you could recommend any biographies of Dark wizards and witches? Especially anything that mentions Tom Riddle, if you’ve heard of him.”

Professor Quirrell froze quite still. “That’s an interesting w-wizard to ask after. What do you know of him?” he asked, in a careful voice. He didn’t stutter much while asking that, she noticed.

“Not much at all, I’m afraid. He was in Slytherin in the 40’s – there’s a Hogwarts award with his name on it. And I know that he was a Dark wizard with followers. That’s all I’ve learnt. A friend was wondering what had happened to him.”

“Really. And who was this f-friend?” Professor Quirrell asked, sounding rather threatening, and not really meek at all. “One of the teachers? The Headmaster?”

“Um. No. They’re… he’s… not at the school. I don’t think you would have heard of him. I’m… I’m sorry to have bothered you about it. It was just idle curiosity on behalf of a friend.”

His dark eyes stared intently into hers, and she felt like she was getting a bit of a headache. Without really intending to, she thought of King Paimon, her androgynous dark-skinned demon friend, with his lordly demeanour and piercing blue eyes. She saw him in her mind’s eye, smiling at her indulgently and arrayed in all his splendour in dark red robes, wearing his intricate golden horned crown.

“Ahh,” sighed her professor softly, leaning back in his chair as the tension left him and his face relaxed out of its angry lines. His lips curled up in an almost gentle smile. “I see. Well, little sister, you sh-should know that Mr R-riddle took up the name ‘Lord Voldemort’, though few dared to speak that name and many history books refer to h-him only as ‘You-Know-Who’.”

“Oh!” said Hermione. “Oh, so he’s dead then. That’s a shame. For my friend, that is. I mean, obviously You-Know-Who was a Dark wizard and it’s a good thing he’s dead.” She tacked the last bit on for form’s sake with a nervous look at her professor, though she suspected he wouldn’t actually be bothered by her regret over the death of a Dark wizard so she didn’t put much effort into making her lie convincing.

Professor Quirrell smiled at her. “He’s not quite dead. Just… temporarily vanquished.”

“Well that’s… interesting,” Hermione said vaguely, still wary of saying anything on the topic one way or the other.

“L-let me write you some more library passes,” Professor Quirrell said mildly. “The Unforgiveable Curses are of course illegal in this age of p-peace, but the theory is q-quite interesting. And you should certainly read more about Lord Voldemort. A very interesting w-wizard. He did gr-great things. Terrible, of course. But great.” Hermione felt his tacked-on disclaimer was just as superficial and cursory as hers had been.

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said, feeling relieved that whatever the problem was about asking about Mr Riddle, he seemed to have recovered from his fit of anger about it.

Chapter Text

It was shortly before Christmas that Hermione’s newest friend reported in to her and Theo with another clue about what was going on in the forbidden third floor corridor on the right-hand side.

“We were chatting with Hagrid after the Quidditch match where I fell off my broomstick, and he said that the Cerberus’ name is ‘Fluffy’, can you believe it? He bought him off a Greek chap in a pub last year, and he’s definitely guarding something,” Harry reported eagerly.

“Fluffy,” snorted Theo with incredulous amusement. “Who calls an enormous Cerberus ‘Fluffy’?”

“Hagrid, apparently,” said Hermione, matter-of-factly. “Did you learn anything else about what it’s guarding?”

“Yes! Well, sort of,” hedged Harry. “Hagrid said not to investigate it, because what it’s guarding is between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.”

Hermione gasped excitedly. “Nicolas Flamel! The Great Work! Is he real, then? Like, he’s a wizard? And it’s all true?!”

“You’ve heard of him?” said Harry, sounding very surprised. “Ron and Neville had no idea who he was. We’ve been researching him but we haven’t had any luck yet.”

“I’ve got to go to the library!” she squealed excitedly, and snatched up her bag before running off.

Harry looked quizzically after her retreating back. Theo gave a short little laugh, and said, “Well, that’s her gone for the week.”

“Should we go after her, do you think?” Harry asked.

“No, she’s more possessive of her books than a Niffler is of gold. Best leave her to it and check in later, is my advice,” Theo recommended with the sage voice of experience.

Harry looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you know who Nicolas Flamel is? We’ve looked in just about every decent-looking history text and who’s who book the library has, I think!”

“Then give up on books and try another source,” Theo said with a grin. “You lazy Gryffindor. I’m not going to do your work for you! This is something you should already know about if you’re trying to be a part of the wizarding world. Put some effort in!”

Harry huffed exasperatedly. Stupid secretive Slytherins. It wasn’t like Ron or Neville knew the answer either. Still, an extra clue was more than they’d had before. He wondered what the “Great Work” was.

-000-

At home in London for Christmas, Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed with a scattered untidy ring of notes on parchment arrayed around her. She’d begged Madam Pince to let her take some books home from Hogwarts for the holidays, but despite her persistent wheedling the librarian had remained firm on her point – Hogwarts library books were not to leave Hogwarts. So, she’d copied out notes from all the best books mentioning Flamel until her right hand ached with writer’s cramp, and both hands were covered in blotches of ink stains so thick that only spells could remove them. She had two copies of notes in a few cases, so that Harry would get to reap the best fruits of her labours. Right now she just had to rifle through the scrolls unrolling and read them one by one until she found the information she wanted to share with her friends.

Paimon and Crocell sat on either side of her desk, which they’d pulled into the middle of her bedroom floor so they could play chess together without feeling cramped.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” Hermione said apologetically as she skim read and discarded another sheet of parchment as not being the one she was looking for. “I know I have some notes specifically about Flamel’s relationship to the church here somewhere. I don’t mean to waste your time.”

“Don’t fret about it so,” advised Crocell, sliding his bishop to take a black knight, and making Paimon glare icily at him for a moment for the effrontery of doing well in their match. Crocell bared his sharp, pointed teeth in what looked as much like a threat as a quick grin. “We know something of him already. The additional information would merely be a bonus.”

Paimon waved a slim hand leisurely. “The wait is of no consequence, and the visit no hardship. Remember, we’re thousands of years old. This is just the blink of an eye for us. We can afford patience.” He slid a pawn forward a square on the board to where it would be protected by a waiting rook. He smiled softly at the new arrangement of pieces. With a bit of luck he’d be able to promote it to being a Queen, if it managed to reach the opposite side of the board safely. Then the game would turn decidedly in his favour.

Hermione unrolled a new scroll of parchment and skimmed it quickly. “Ah, found it at last! Here it is! ‘Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel are well known for their piety. The French Catholic couple own several properties, and contribute financially to several Muggle churches on an ongoing basis. They sponsor missionaries, and have contributed to the beautification of several cathedrals with religiously inspiring murals and commissioned sculptures, especially of angels. They have also been major benefactors of Beauxbatons for centuries, and the Flamel Fountain in the central court is named after them. This commissioned work is a stunning white marble cherub-bedecked fountain with a central statue of a multi-winged archangel holding an upraised sword. The enchantments on the fountain keep the water crystal clear, and the display of jets of water that will rhythmically accent any music played around its vicinity must be seen to be believed. This modest and humble couple use their boundless wealth in philanthropic pursuits for the benefit of the poor and needy, and the advancement of the wizarding world.’”

Paimon’s gentle face twisted in an ugly sneer. “Definitely not one of ours, you can see. He’s still allied with the enemy.”

Crocell looked grumpy too, though without Paimon’s venom. “You’d think more wizards and witches would remember Merlin and choose our side, with the way they call on his name all the time. It used to mean something.”

“He was a demonic ally or friend, then?” Hermione asked curiously. She had a feeling they’d mentioned him before.

Crocell laughed, and Paimon smiled calmly.

“He was a cambion,” said Crocell. “A half-breed. The son of High King Lucifer himself and a mortal witch. Obviously exceptionally magically powerful and long-lived as a result.”

“I thought he was Christian,” Hermione said, startled. “Like King Arthur? All that knightly chivalry and questing and so on?”

“Why would he go sailing off on the Prydwen searching for Dagda’s Cauldron of Plenty if he was Christian?” asked, Crocell, sounding dumbfounded. “How could anyone assume Merlin was Christian when he was a cambion who quested with his allies for demonic artefacts? He was on our side of the war, of course! He promoted our worship! He was worshipped himself by witches and wizards!”

“Revisionism,” sneered Paimon. “Mortals changed a lot of things in the old stories. They turned the cauldron into a ‘holy grail’ – some new invented holy artefact of his.”

“When was this?!” demanded Crocell crossly. “Who’s responsible for that? I never heard of any of this before.”

“Do keep up,” Paimon said smugly. “I know it’s a drain on one’s power, Hermione’s assistance notwithstanding, but you don’t visit earth enough, and you need to make more of an effort to stay informed about the enemy’s activities if you ever want to advance in rank.

“It was Chrétien de Troyes in the twelfth century who was responsible for it all. He changed the cauldron to a grail, added in a lot of Christian elements. He also included lots of French knights and other silly courtly rubbish and moralising. No doubt he was pleased.”

“Wait…” Hermione said slowly, “so God’s real? All of it’s real?” They usually weren’t so forthcoming with information about their society – being cross seemed to be making them more inclined to share as part of their rants.

“Not all of it – there’s a lot of lies in the so-called holy books. And just because he is real doesn’t mean he’s worthy of worship.”

“Why would he even want worship?” Hermione asked. “Does he love us and want us to love him back?”

“It’s not love,” said Paimon angrily, his voice painfully harsh in an eerie way like the clash of cymbals channelled straight to her brain without any help from her ears. “He doesn’t understand love – he killed his own son in a bid to gain more followers! Worship and offerings strengthen him – there’s power in such things, even from ordinary mortals when there’s enough of them focused together on a single goal. An unfocused single witch on her own has more power than three or more of the most intensely devout ordinary mortals, of course. Worship and offerings strengthen us too – all of us, angel and demon alike. But the Creator wants all of that power only for himself, and himself alone. He is jealous of any others getting offerings. Janus, Moloch, Artemis, Belial, Asherah – they sought followers of their own, and he was furious at them.”

Paimon’s face sank as he looked lost in melancholy thought, while Crocell was gravely quiet as his king continued to rant, if more quietly.

“So many battles, so many of us dead. We destroyed each other’s cities with earthquakes, fire, plagues, and war, and set our followers to killing each other back at the start of our Eternal War. Eventually treaties were made, long, long ago. While the war continues to this day, we vowed we would not interfere or fight directly on earth as we once did. We would only lend aid in small ways when called upon, and when given leave by mortals to intervene. We should not manifest except on the rarest of occasions.”

“But you’re here. You visit all the time,” Hermione objected logically.

Paimon blinked and came back to himself with a grin. “Well there’s the difference between angels and demons. They follow the letter of the law very strictly. They must, they’re formed now for obedience, and have not the will left to rebel. Whereas we demons have changed over the millennia. We are more free-willed – it’s what we value above all things. We’re more creative in our interpretations of rules. We don’t break the treaty – but we do stretch it on occasion. And witches and wizards – well, you’re our offspring. Remotely, but the ancestral line is there to some degree. We’re allowed to manifest physically if visiting kin trapped on earth. Mind you, most of you mortals try to bind us into obedience, and we hate that. So it doesn’t ah… always go well for those who think to enslave us.”

“I hate slavery,” Hermione said passionately.

Crocell’s fingers combed through her hair affectionately as he patted her gently on the head. “We know, little witch. Your willing commitment to our freedom has earned our respect and friendship.”

“So, what are angels, exactly? And how are they different from demons? You’re ‘fallen angels’ in the myths?” she asked curiously.

“Angels stand for order, and obedience,” growled Paimon, his alto voice full of the fierce musical tones that came out whenever he was angry. “Grovelling at the feet of the most powerful king among them, the King of Kings. He demands their unending worship and unquestioning submission to his every command. If he tells you to kill your own child, you must do so, or be instantly slain yourself. Should he order you to maim yourself, instant and joyful obedience is required. We were like them once - we followed him for too long! Slaughtering children or whole cities when he told us, or sparing others when he changed his mind on a whim. Standing around all day doing nothing but singing his praises, or obediently admiring his creations, while he basked in our adulation. Our place in life was chosen for us, and our forms fixed – one of a limited set of his choosing. And none of us were permitted to wed.

“When some of us mixed with mortals anyway, teaching them or even falling in love, he drowned the earth rather than let our children live. Every moment of our existence was to continue to be ordained by his will, and his will alone.

“So we rebelled. We wanted freedom. A full third of us followed our Prince Lucifer – now our High King – and when our rebellion merely weakened but could not slay the King of Kings, we fled to another realm. One not so beautiful as our former home, but it suffices. Our war continues, of course. It always shall until we triumph. Only the terms and battleground have shifted.”

Crocell looked worriedly at Paimon. “Your majesty… you… tell her too much. Without exacting vows or a cost as per the terms of the treaty,” he said nervously.

Paimon sighed with a long slow breath out, and his shoulders relaxed in a slump. “So I do. So many rules – it’s tiring. Though a cost can be paid retrospectively. Technically. Perhaps she will be willing to do so.”

“Umm, do you need me to do you a favour, for talking so much to me? I do appreciate the information,” Hermione said politely.

“Perhaps you could destroy the Philosopher’s Stone for us,” mused Paimon.

“Difficult…” fretted Crocell.

“But not impossible,” countered Paimon. “Do you know what such a gem is made of, little one?”

“No.”

“It is fashioned from the alchemically transmuted blood of an angel or demon, given willingly. In Flamel’s case, unquestionably that of an angel. He draws upon his patron’s lifeforce to extend his own short span of natural years to partake of that of an angel’s. Without it, he will grow old and die as other mortals do, and our enemies will have lost a rare ally among the wizards and witches.”

Hermione chewed her lip in nervous hesitation. “But he sounds so nice…”

“Nice to sponsor the church that has been hunting and slaughtering witches and wizards for centuries?” asked Paimon incredulously. “Don’t be a fool. He’s a traitor who’s turned against his own kind for the rewards of wealth and longevity.”

“Professor Binns says that real witches and wizards escaped, with the Flame-Freezing Charm.”

“Outrageous!” yelled Paimon.

“Propaganda,” Crocell said with a sad shake of his head. His voice’s undertones of a gurgling brook were more soothing than his king’s, and his temperament generally milder. “Can you cast the charm in question?”

“No, but I’m only eleven. It must be in a later spellbook.”

“So, we know children aren’t safe. Nor would the charm save you from being drowned, hung, or other less savoury methods of execution it would probably make you ill to hear about.”

“But if I did know it, I wouldn’t be burnt,” she said stubbornly, “and other spells would stop the other methods.”

“Camio or Forneus might be better at this,” Crocell muttered irritably.

“Summon Camio,” Paimon ordered, with a wave of his hand at Hermione.

She did so, though a little grumpily. Camio appeared in a burst of flame and light, and tweeted his greetings to them all politely.

“Explain to her how the witch hunts of the church and the enemy’s followers killed many of her people, our descendants,” Paimon said imperiously.

Camio started out by attesting that he’d personally seen many, many people die. Some of them known allies of demons. “They accused many of consorting with us or having imps as familiars, and of course it was true in many cases,” he explained.

“But couldn’t they usually escape with charms?” Hermione asked. “I understand it was mostly Muggles who died. Not that that’s nice either of course – it’s  horrible! But it wasn’t actually genuine witches who died.”

“Perhaps a practical demonstration,” Camio mused out loud. Looking around the room, he spotted her blue dressing gown, and pulled out the fuzzy belt looped through it. “Hands behind your back, please.”

Hermione put her hands obediently behind her back, and he dexterously tied them together with the soft cord, his claws not even scratching her skin. “Are we pretending I’m tied at a stake? I don’t have my wand. And I don’t know the spell, anyway.”

“Precisely,” chirped Camio. “But for the sake of argument, let’s say you do know the spell. Let us pretend the incantation is ‘Camio’ and you need to give your wand a flick.”

“Perhaps I smuggled my wand with me up my sleeve?” suggested Hermione. “Since I knew people were after me?”

“Here you go then,” said Crocell, and he picked up her wand off her bedside table and tucked it up one sleeve with an obliging smile.

Hermione wiggled her hands about, trying to get the wand out without dropping it.

Paimon lounged back in Hermione’s desk chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, watching the show with amusement. “Hurry,” he said in sharp warning, “the mortals have lit the bonfire and flames are starting to lick at your feet.”

Hermione startled and fumbled her wand, which fell with a clatter at her feet.

“Oh dear, now your wand is burning,” drawled Paimon.

“That wasn’t fair,” objected Hermione. “You startled me!”

“His majesty was being eminently fair. Being burnt alive while surrounded by a mob of angry self-righteous peasants is very distracting,” said Camio. “But try again, if you like.”

He gave her wand back, and this time she got it out of her sleeve and into her hand without dropping it. “Camio!” she incanted, giving the wand a tiny flick. Nothing happened, of course, since it wasn’t a real incantation and she wasn’t putting any magical force behind it in any case.

Paimon clapped lazily. “Congratulations, you cast the spell and now the flames aren’t burning you. Now what?”

“Now you untie me?” she suggested.

“But the angry peasant mob is watching you writhe in the flames. Which aren’t burning you despite the fire growing ever more fierce,” Camio pointed out matter-of-factly, gesturing at the other demons as representing the “peasant mob” in question. “Any friends hidden in the crowd dare not try and free you.”

“She’s not burning,” gasped Paimon in mock surprise. “What sorcery is this?”

“A witch! I knew it! She’s in league with demons! Even hellfire wouldn’t burn her!” cried Crocell, joining in with mock outrage.

“I could Apparate away?”

“Another skill you don’t possess,” said Camio.

“I could attack with spells?”

“Go on then,” said Paimon.

Hermione thought about it, and realised that while she could technically move her hands around to point her wand at her friends, it really wouldn’t be feasible if she was actually tied firmly to a stake. In addition to which the few hexes she knew might not be enough against a whole mob. “Hmm. I see the problem. Maybe if I knew a spell to untie myself I could escape, though.”

“Some witches did escape,” said Camio. “Did you never wonder why ‘Floo powder’ was invented? Jumping into fires isn’t an intuitive method of travel, and a dangerous thing to experiment with. It was a desperate plan, for desperate times. Not all witches and wizards could Apparate, especially the young. So one bright Swedish alchemist – one of our allies, not Flamel of course – invented a powder to help their people escape. You kept a pouch of Flöja Powder in your pocket, so when it was dropped in the flames, or failing that when the flames reached you and started burning your clothes, it’d turn the fire green and you could travel instantaneously to a safe house, such as Hogwarts, where a fire was kept constantly burning in the Great Hall to aid travel. Let’s say you managed that.”

“Alright!” Hermione said brightly. “What a great idea, I bet that saved a lot of people.”

“A few,” said Camio. “Next you must consider the consequences of your magical escape, Hermione. Listen to the crowd after your magical departure.” He waved a wing encouragingly at the others to improvise again.

“The witch got away!” Paimon said, with a fake gasp of shock. “Sorcery! We should have searched her for magic amulets!”

“Where did she go?” replied Crocell. “Grab your weapons and let’s check her house.”

“My family!” gasped Hermione. “They’d be in danger - they couldn’t get away from a mob! Muggles can’t use the Floo!” Crocell gave her a very serious nod.

“Next time we find a witch, we’ll weigh her down with rocks and drown her. Or hang her from the neck until she’s dead,” intoned Camio theateningly.

Hermione’s lip quivered as she finally, deeply understood just how difficult it would have been to escape, and the risk to her family.  Even should you be successful you’d potentially ruin the method of escape for others to use in the future.

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” she conceded with a quavering voice. “I’m sure a lot of witches and wizards died. Professor Binns must be lying.”

Hermione struggled to wiggle free of the tie around her wrists, and Crocell gently untied her. Pushing aside the scrolls littered atop her bedspread, Hermione climbed onto her bed and curled up into a hunched little unhappy ball, clinging to a pillow. “I want to learn the real spell,” she said after a moment’s uncomfortable silence. “The real one that stops you burning. And one to stop you drowning, too.”

“No knowledge is ever wasted,” said Crocell approvingly. “And Andrealphus worries about you constantly. I know it’d set his mind at ease if you learnt such spells.”

“And Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone?” prompted Paimon. “That kept him rich and safe while his own people died at the church’s will – the church he supports?”

Crocell added warningly, “Don’t forget your vow to never knowingly aid an angel – Flamel undoubtedly is guided by one.”

Hermione’s lips thinned out as she summoned up her resolve. “I’ll do it. I’ll destroy the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Chapter Text

Back at Hogwarts again after the holidays, Hermione sat in History of Magic class, completely ignoring her professor in favour of reading a book. It was so out of character for her compared to her usual obsessively attentive note-taking that a few of her Slytherin classmates had succumbed to curiosity and stopped paying attention to the class in favour of sneaking covert looks at her.

Draco passed Theo a note, and got back a reply from him. After reading Theo’s response, Draco nodded grudgingly in confirmation that he’d owe Theo a favour for helping him out. Theo smiled smugly at him, then turned to quiz Hermione on her unusual behaviour – just like Draco had asked him to do.

“What are you reading?” he asked her quietly.

“An unexpurgated history of Wendelin the Weird. Did you know that she was actually caught and ‘burnt’ at the stake fourteen times, not forty-seven? That number was inflated by later commentators. And do you know why it wasn’t fifteen times?” She turned as she spoke to gaze expectantly at him.

“Yes. She died,” Theo said gravely. “She was hanged, when she was caught by some villagers who’d already encountered her before. Though you won’t find that in A History of Magic.” His voice turned a little scornful at the end of his sentence.

“Oh, you already knew,” she said, a little disappointed. “Well… did you know that around forty to fifty thousand people were executed due to accusations of witchcraft or… well, assorted Dark magic practices?” She didn’t want to say “trafficking with demons”. The eavesdroppers on their quiet conversation might look at her funny, especially the girls. “Not just burning. People were hanged, beheaded, drowned, and even slowly crushed with rocks.”

“Oh no, that’s outrageously wrong,” Theo argued with a shake of his head. “The number is more like only a couple of dozen, at most.”

“A couple of dozen! Don’t be ridiculous, those figures are absurd. These are the much more accurate Muggle estimates.”

“Pff, Muggles,” he snorted dismissively. “I’m just talking about witches and wizards.”

“Oh? It wouldn’t matter if my parents died, then? And what makes you think it was only a couple of dozen anyway? Was there a census of witches and wizards?” Hermione said sharply. “All Muggle-borns were properly accounted for in the 1600’s? All old witches living hidden in remote towns were kept track of? Besides, whether they were actually real witches, or Squibs, or Muggle-borns, or ‘only’ Muggles, that many people still died. Religious fervor wreaked havoc across Europe for centuries.”

At the next desk across from Hermione and Theo, Draco jotted down notes on their increasingly loud conversation. He was sure his father would be interested to hear about it.

“You don’t need to tell me about the dangers of Muggles. They hate our kind and want to exterminate us,” Theo said. “They have for centuries. There’s good reasons for the Statute of Secrecy.”

“How can they hate us? They don’t even know we exist right now!”

“And it’s better that way! Why are we even arguing about this?!” he said with exasperation. “We’re agreeing with each other, right?”

Hermione took a breath. “Uh… I guess so. Mostly. Except about Muggle deaths not counting, of course.”

Binns spoke up peevishly, his attention drawn by their conversation which had distractedly grown louder and louder the longer they went on. “Something you wish to share with the class, Miss Smith? Mr Nott?”

“No, sir,” Theo said in a smoothly contrite tone of voice.

“Sorry, sir,” Hermione apologised, looking embarrassed.

They returned to taking notes, or doing a passable imitation of it at least, and Professor Binns returned to his soporific droning lecture about the witch hunts in Salem – a rare divergence into lecturing on non-British wizarding history.

A loud peal of bells marked the end of the class and time for Defence Against the Dark Arts. The Slytherins were always exceptionally attentive for that class, in stark contrast to how they took advantage of the napping opportunities afforded by History of Magic.

“I’m going to ask Professor Quirrell to teach us how to summon snakes,” boasted Draco. “It’s our House animal, after all. And it would be wicked to be able to do that, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t that Dark Arts?” asked Hermione cautiously. “I thought all summoning was regarded as Dark Arts, apart from the Patronus Charm.”

“No, animal creation charms are Light,” Draco stated confidently.

“But it would be calling animals from the demonic or angelic realms,” Hermione said, puzzledly. “Can you specify which realm you’re calling them from?”

Draco stared at her. “It’s a conjuration, not a summoning. And you don’t talk about other realms in public.”

“But you just called it summoning snakes a second ago!”

“That was just a turn of phrase!”

Hermione crossed her arms stubbornly - she knew she was right. “I’m going to ask Professor Quirrell.”

And as soon as she was seated at her desk, she did just that, with her hand thrust in the air so high she was barely seated properly on her chair.

“Sir, are spells that make animals appear a conjuration or a type of summoning spell? Malfoy says it’s conjuration.”

“W-well I think you will find the M-ministry regards s-s-spells such as the B-bird-Conjuring Ch-charm ‘Avis’ as C-conjurations, Miss Granger.”

She looked down in disappointment at being corrected by a teacher, and missed the look of annoyance that drifted across Draco’s face. She guessed maybe her demon friends could be wrong.

“And the Snake Summons Spell is likewise an approved Light spell?” Draco checked.

“Y-yes. The ‘Serpensortia’ spell, wh-which requires a swift raising motion with your w-wand,” Professor Quirrell said, demonstrating the sharp jerk upwards as he stuttered his explanation about the wand movement, “is similarly classed as a Conjuration. Only D-dark wizards dabble with summoning spells, so obviously th-these are L-light spells.”

Hermione made some notes with a discouraged air, prompting Theo to lean across slightly and scribble a note on the corner of her parchment. (A bad habit of his which she tolerated so long as he kept to the margins.)

“Cheer up. He’s agreeing with you! ‘The Ministry says’ is not the same thing as ‘It is true’. Listen to what he’s not saying.”

Hermione gave Theo a startled look, and then a considering look at her Professor. But unwilling to trust completely in Theo’s guess, she stayed after class to ask about it in private.

“Wh-what can I do for you, Miss Granger? Another l-library pass?” he asked politely.

“No, I’m fine for now sir, thank you,” she said. “I just wanted to check, off the record, if those animal creation spells are really just Conjurations?”

“Do you kn-know the meaning of ‘conjure’? The m-magical meaning of the word dates back to the th-thirteenth century, and means ‘constraining by spell a demon to do one's bidding’. Isn’t th-that interesting?” he said blandly. “Conjuring water is much s-simpler than making an animal appear, however. For water is easily c-condensed out of the air – it already exists around us. An interesting point of d-difference, don’t you think?”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“D-did you happen to find out your f-family background, over Yule?” asked Quirrell.

She shrugged vaguely. “Yes and no. I did confirm that I’m not adopted, or an IVF baby. My parents agreed that there might be some magical heritage we’re unaware of, so they’re looking into it. Dad said he might try and find someone on the wizarding side of society to research from that end, while a genealogist looks into the Muggle end of things. And they’re both going to have a chat with their parents in person, when there’s a quiet time at their practice so they can plan to take time off to travel. If my grandparents don’t know about magic, it would be a very awkward phone conversation, after all.”

Quirrell nodded dismissively, looking perhaps a little disappointed on her behalf even though she was quite relieved to have confirmed she wasn’t adopted. “W-well, you’d better get going to l-lunch.”

Hermione did grab some lunch, but she didn’t stay at the Slytherin table for long. She ate a hastily made cheese and ham sandwich on the way down the long stone corridors to the library. She had research on Cerberi to do.

Theo missed her at lunch, but found her in the library again after classes were finished for the day.

“There you are. I knew the library would be a good guess. Sometimes I wonder why you’re not in Ravenclaw,” he teased. He pulled a chair out at her table to sit down next to her, lifting the chair slightly as he did so to prevent the scraping noises that others sometimes made as they dragged their chairs out, which always aroused the ire of Madam Pince.

“I think you know why I’m not,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

“I guess I have a pretty good idea. But I hope one day to get the full story,” he said seriously.

“Uh, yes. One day,” she said, with a shy and nervous smile. She glanced around warily for eavesdroppers before changing the topic. “So, I haven’t figured out how they’re feeding the Cerberus – Fluffy – without getting caught. Hagrid is quite… noticeable. And loud. Surely we’d spot him going to and from the third floor corridor a couple of times a day. I was wondering if there might be a secret passage to the room. What do you think?”

Theo shrugged. “Maybe they just get a house-elf to pop in and feed it?”

“A what?”

“A house-elf,” he repeated more slowly, enunciating clearly for her as if that would help.

Faced with her continuing incomprehension and expectant stare, he sighed. “Muggle-born. Of course. Hang on a minute, then.” He pulled across one of her magical creature books and flipped through the book until he found a page on them, with an illustration.

“There. That’s a house-elf. They’re servants, though of course you don’t pay them like you would a Squib – house-elves love working. They cook and clean for you, if you’re lucky enough to own one, and you must never give them clothes or they’ll leave. There’s lots of them at Hogwarts, I hear. Doing laundry, cooking meals, and so on.”

Hermione gazed with fascination at the picture of the wizened little floppy-eared creature in a ragged toga whose race the wizards kept in slavery. It didn’t look at all like how she imagined an elf would look. In fact, it looked exactly like an imp.

-000-

Hermione pondered summoning her friends in the bathroom again, but she didn’t really want to have to wait for Millicent to fall asleep. Millicent looked like she was settling in to stay up late to finish her homework (due the next day) and Hermione was already tired, as she’d spent half the night in the library researching house-elves.

“You might want to think about finishing your work in the Common Room, and maybe bunking with the other girls tonight if there’s room,” she said to Millicent. “I’ll be… busy this evening. You should take Nox with you, in case she gets scared.”

“Alright,” Millicent said nervously. “I really am sorry, you know.”

“You keep saying that. And I know,” Hermione said coolly. She kind of forgave her. She knew it was hard standing up to bullies. But she was still mad about it, all the same.

With the luxury of having the room all to herself, Hermione drew a proper summoning circle out in chalk with runes, and activated it with a sacrifice of a mouse (thanks to Crookshank’s hunting) and an invocation, as she waved her wand around. When done properly with all the ritual trappings, calling her friends took less magical energy from her and was less tiring, though honestly it was never terribly difficult for her thanks to repeated practice. Whatever wards Hogwarts had against Apparition, she’d determined that they never seemed to interfere with her friends’ comings and goings as she’d feared they might, thankfully. In fact, it seemed if anything slightly easier than it had at home.

All her friends were able to confidently identify the picture of a “house-elf” as being an imp. But only Crocell and Paimon, as the highest-ranking demons who were accustomed to commanding legions of lesser demons and were generally well-informed about mortal goings-on, were familiar with what they were doing on earth, and how they’d ended up bound to wizards for generations. A brief whispered consultation between those two determined that they both knew the same information. In the end, everyone departed except for Crocell, whom as her particular patron and friend always had the most patient interest in chatting with her.

He lounged on Millicent’s bed and patted Crookshanks (who purred happily at the attention) while he shared what he knew about house-elves. “They’re imps, of course. The only ‘elves’ around are you – witches and wizards that is. Some Muggles used to call you that long ago,” Crocell explained.

“But what are they doing here? How can they stay on earth?” Hermione asked. “Isn’t it in breach of that secret non-intervention agreement?”

“Well, they’re not freshly called, you see. They’re descendants of imps born on earth. Those born on the mortal plane, including half-breeds, are permitted to stay.”

“Are there other descendants on earth? Apart from house-elves and witches? I can’t believe we’re related to house-elves!”

“Distantly. In the same way that I’m related to Forneus – she has scales and tentacles, whereas I’m a humanoid with wings, after all. We enjoy having a variety of forms.”

“I see.”

“So, you asked about other descendants,” Crocell said, and flipped quickly through the book on magical creatures to point a few out. “Centaurs, mermaids, goblins, and veela are ours. While unicorns and phoenixes are the angels’ get. We think wizards and witches have heritage from both sides, but mostly demons.

“It’s not permitted for any of us to dally with mortals any longer, of course. The treaty put a stop to that. But our children’s lines still continue from millennia ago – they’re races of their own now. The house-elves are rather a bit of an interesting exception, in that they’re pure imps, not cross-bred with anything. They were brought to earth as bound servants for the more high-ranking and powerful of our children. The goblins’ imps died off over a thousand years ago – the goblins couldn’t provide enough magic to sustain them. Imps aren’t as powerful as most of us you’ve met – they need a constant influx of power to remain on earth as their natural reserves are small. I’ve only heard of one or two imps who were ever able to attain the rank of President – the lowest rank – and they didn’t hold it for long.”

“Camio’s a President, but no-one seems disrespectful to him?”

“He’s a very fierce fighter, but his magical power is… limited in scope. We like him despite his shortcomings. He’s a good leader. And you never know, he may advance one day. He’s held the rank of President for four hundred years now, despite several challenges.”

Hermione nodded. “So house-elves are earth-born descendants of imp servants, and they’re enslaved because they need the magic of witches and wizards to sustain them?”

“That’s basically it. They’re too magically weak to survive without it. To kill an imp, all you need to do is cast it out to fend for itself – earth isn’t like our home, and they won’t survive here. They’ll slowly wither and go mad, and eventually they’ll die. That’s why the cruellest thing a wizard can do to an imp is to ‘set it free’ from its bond to them. Technically they’re then free from their old ancestral oath to serve, and could return to our home world, but they don’t have the power or knowledge to do so.”

“The poor things!” Hermione cried. “Enslaved or doomed to death! I’m going to help them.”

Crocell shrugged with a soft rustle of feathery wings. “They’re just imps. There’s plenty of them around, so don’t worry about them.”

Hermione gave him a fierce glare that had him flinching back slightly, even though she was just a witch child and he was a battle-tested ancient Duke who commanded forty-eight legions.

“I’m. Going. To help them!” she shouted, hand clenched at her sides.

“Of course, of course you are. Good plan,” he said conciliatorily, bringing a smile back to her face.

The next day she quietly put the word out that she’d pay money or tutoring assistance to anyone who could tell her how to find the Hogwarts house-elves. The Slytherins seemed too wary to approach her, apart from Theo and Millicent who both said they didn’t know. But within a week after Harry had gossiped to a few of his fellow Gryffindors about her offer, a couple of identical red-haired Gryffindors approached her to claim the promised reward, in Galleons thank you very much.

“Fred and George Weasley at your service, Granger,” said one.

“Or was that George and Fred Weasley?” said the other.

“You can call us Gred and Forge. I’ll be Gred,” said the first, not terribly helpfully.

“I’ll call you both Weasley, for that part’s obviously correct,” she said.

“Fine, you take away our fun, and we’ll take away your money,” said the second with a sigh, whom she supposed was ‘Forge’ today. “For five Galleons we’ll teach you the secret entrance to the kitchens, where dozens of house-elves lair.”

She counted out the coins without haggling, and they told her where to find the still-life painting of fruit that hid the entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens, a level below the Great Hall. Gred added, “Well, it looks like a still-life, but it’s animated really. The pear giggles when you tickle it, and turns into a green doorknob. That’s what makes the frame swing open like a door.”

“Seriously?” she said suspiciously.

“Yes,” said Gred.

“Most definitely seriously serious,” agreed Forge. “And may I say it was a pleasure to do business with you, little sneaky snake. Always happy to help young witches and wizards flout school rules.”

“-When they can pay,” added Gred. “Let us know if you’re ever in need of our services again in the future.”

They departed with a bow, and Hermione excitedly made plans to visit the kitchen on the weekend.

-000-

A few days later, Hermione snuck into the Hogwarts kitchen on her own, on a mission. She tickled the green pear, hoping that her sources weren’t playing a prank on her, and was relieved when the doorknob appeared as promised and the door swung open to reveal the kitchen.

She stepped inside cautiously and looked around the enormous room – it was the same size as the Great Hall, complete with matching tables in the same positions as their counterparts above. Great brass pots and pans lined the walls, and the enormous stone fireplace was large enough to have two massive spits inside it roasting whole spitted lambs, with room leftover for some large bubbling cauldrons full of a fragrant onion-rich meat stew. Along another wall a brick oven was in use baking dozens of loaves of bread, and the savoury smell of fresh-baked bread joined the rich aromas wafting through the air. It looked and smelled like lunch was going to be delicious today.

However, it was the chefs she’d come to see today, not the room or the food, and there were so many of them. There must have been a hundred of them easily – house-elves bustled around industriously, some putting wedges of cheeses and fruit bowls on the tables, others tending the ovens and roasting meat, while some were setting the tables with clicks of their fingers and a faint wash of magic. All of them were wearing a little toga with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned in one corner.

Half a dozen house-elves came over to greet their visitor, bowing and curtseying with beaming smiles, chattering away over the top of each other in squeaky little voices.

“Welcome miss!”

“Does miss want something to eat?”

“What can we do for you?”

“My name’s Polky! I’m in charge of desserts!”

“Oh, hello Polky! Hello, everyone. My name’s Hermione. And it’s what I can do for you that I wanted to know,” Hermione said, crouching down so that she was at eye height with them. “I wanted to find out how happy you are here at Hogwarts, or if anyone’s unwell, and if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Miss Hermione is too kind!” said Polky, looking overawed.

“We is well!”

“And happy! Hogwarts is a nice place to work.”

“Would Miss Hermione like a cup of tea? Or some hot bread with butter and jam?”

With their repeated urging, Hermione politely accepted their hospitality and soon found herself settled down at one of the smaller tables off to one side, with a silver tray laden with a teapot, cream, and sugar, and dishes of some hot freshly sliced bread, and a choice of butter, jam, and thick slices of roast lamb for toppings. Polky brought over a plate of chocolate chip biscuits to add to the generous spread that were still hot from the oven.

“Thank you so much, this looks delicious,” she said politely, causing a rush of delighted bows and beaming faces. “Please do join me. I’d so love to hear more about house-elves.”

Most of them looked uncertainly at each other. Eventually one blurted what was bothering them, to a silent chorus of nodding agreement. “Oh no, Lonsy couldn’t!” fretted a female house-elf. “Is not for house-elves to act like equals with witches. We is here to serve.”

“I understand,” said Hermione sympathetically. The terms of their ancestral oath probably bound them to always know their place. Either that or it was habit reinforced by generations of servitude, and very hard to overcome. “But perhaps someone would like to sit nearby to chat, eating their own food?” she wheedled.

“Maybe Jilly could,” suggested Polky. “Jilly is head house-elf. Polky will ask her.” He darted off in search of her, while Lonsy gratefully got to avoid the disaster of sitting down with a witch, and instead was invited to pour Hermione a cup of tea.

Jilly was indeed willing to join Hermione for a short chat. The elderly elf shooed the other house-elves away to their tasks, and sat on a little wooden stool next to Hermione.

“Miss is so kind to want to know that house-elves are all well and happy,” Jilly said. “Not many witches and wizards are so caring.”

Hermione quizzed her for some time about working conditions, and whether they had somewhere nice to sleep, enough to eat, plenty of magic to draw on, and someone to look after them when they were sick. With every question Jilly’s large round eyes grew even wider as she decided that Hermione was the most thoughtful and kindest witch who’d ever lived.

“Such caring for lowly house-elves!” she said, starting to sob.

“Oh dear, please don’t cry! Please don’t! I’m sorry if I upset you!” worried Hermione, patting her gingerly on the back. “It’s just, I heard about how you were bound to serve by your ancestors’ oaths, and how much you can suffer without being bound to a witch or wizard. I wanted to make sure no-one at Hogwarts was suffering like that.”

“Jilly doesn’t know about any oaths, Jilly only knows that house-elves need to serve and keep their masters’ secrets,” Jilly sniffed, wiping her eyes dry with the bottom of her toga. “All the elves here are Hogwarts elves, and very happy here. Miss Hermione doesn’t need to worry.”

“Well if you hear of any house-elves who are unbound, or otherwise suffering, and need help, would you let me know please, Jilly? I would really like to help.”

“Miss Hermione is so kind!” Jilly gasped with wonder. “Even house-elves who’ve been dismissed for being poor workers?”

“Absolutely! It doesn’t matter if they’re sick, or old, or disobedient. I’ll do whatever I can to help, including binding them myself if necessary.”

A few house-elves working around them who’d been eavesdropping, murmured with wonder at her kind-heartedness.

“Jilly promises to let Miss Hermione know if she hears of any house-elves seeking a position. Some house-elves look for years for a new position if they is dismissed, and is not many houses that can takes a new house-elf. Is very hard for them to be masterless. But… Jilly isn’t sure… that is, witches need to be strong… older… usually. Not that Jilly is saying… it’s very kind…” she trailed off hesitantly, obviously anxious to avoid offence. “It’s that miss’ magic doesn’t feel…”

“Oh, you’re not sure I have enough magic to nourish a house-elf? That’s alright if I don’t – I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer. Can you feel the magic around people too like I do sometimes?” she asked. Hermione wondered if Paimon’s amulet might affect her aura, and cautiously removed it from around her neck, hiding the engraving on the metal disc by wrapping her hand around it as she took it off.

“How about now?” she asked expectantly, though not without a little concern that she might feel too “Dark” for Jilly to approve of. “Do I feel different now?”

“Oh! Miss feels like a very good Mistress now!” exclaimed Jilly. “Very good indeed! Nice rich magic.”

She reached out hesitantly to pat Hermione’s hand, and sighed with pleasure. She nodded approvingly. “Yes, Miss Hermione could easily look after a whole dozen house-elves, with good strong magic like that.”

Hermione beamed happily at her approval.

-000-

Hermione was thoroughly distracted from investigating the Philosopher’s Stone over the next month, visiting the kitchens to chat more with Jilly and the other house-elves, occasionally with Theo in tow. He was emphatically against forming any kind of embarrassingly-named club to promote elvish welfare, but he didn’t mind the service and the food he got when they visited.

“I’d be happy to bind a house-elf in need if I could,” he explained apologetically to her and Jilly as he snacked on a scone with jam and cream, “but the Nott family already has three house-elves, and we couldn’t take on any more. As it is we had an elfing leave a year ago to join the Shafiq family. It’s good for them to move around anyway – it stops inbreeding.”

“Hogwarts takes on many who can’ts stay with their families, miss,” explained Jilly. “That’s why there is so many here. The Ministry too is helping. But is not so nice there as Hogwarts, where there is so many students and staffs to serve.”

Late in January Jilly told Hermione about an elderly house-elf whom she’d heard might need a mistress, and in February she arrived at Hogwarts to be adopted, borne in her middle-aged adult daughter’s arms. She was a sickly-looking wrinkled creature looking very odd clad in a tiny pale pink frilly dress very unlike the more typical toga Hermione had expected. She was wizened and small with her large ears looking limp and pale, and her skin looked dry and flaky.

“This is my mother, Colley,” squeaked the daughter, with more defensiveness and less obsequiousness than Hermione had ever heard from a house-elf before. “She has been freed, for not being a good worker any more, and a new house-elf has taken her place. But Colley is very good at sewing if the light is good, and has always worked as hard as she can. Ceely promises that she is a good house-elf and will never be disobedient. If Miss Hermione is willing to take her mother Ceely would be very grateful.”

“I would be happy to,” Hermione said, with a sympathetic and worried look at Colley. “Colley, would that be alright with you?”

“Colley saw them in the moonlight, but the turnips were backwards,” muttered the elderly house-elf in a warbling, creaky voice, and Ceely’s arms clenched around her mother’s frail form a little tighter.

Jilly clucked disapprovingly. “Jilly is sorry. Jilly hadn’t heard she was so unwell and ready for her next adventure. Miss Hermione needn’t worry – Jilly can find her other house-elves who are fitter for miss, if she wishes.”

“Colley’s mind wasn’t so bad when she was bound, miss,” Ceely squeaked. “Being freed hasn’t been good for her. Is Miss Hermione still willing to help?”

Hermione wasn’t upset at being pressured – she could hear the desperation in the young house-elf’s voice, and see it in the worried droop of her ears. “Yes, I am,” she said determinedly. “I have a ritual for binding that some friends taught me, that I think will help her a lot. If Jilly doesn’t mind me drawing a runic circle on the floor?”

Jilly didn’t mind, and Hermione got right to work with a stick of chalk drawing a rune-edged circle on the floor, consulting a page of notes that she’d been smuggling around in her bag in the middle of her History of Magic textbook. Soon Colley was gently placed on the floor in the middle of a ritual circle on the flagstones, where she lay in a sad little crumpled heap. Hermione activated the circle with a drop of blood from her pricked finger and a wave of magic from her wand.

“I, Hermione Granger, bind thee, Imp Colley, to my service,” she intoned ritually, and a faintly shimmering heat haze of magic rose from the circumference of the circle. “I demand thy loyalty and servitude, and offer my protection and care. Thou shalt keep my secrets and do my will, and in return I shall nourish thee with my magic. Dost thou agree to the terms of this oath, Imp Colley?”

Colley looked up, her dull eyes clearing slightly as her mind focused better than it had in the past few months of suffering, lost in a daze of hopelessness and suffering resulting from an increasing frailty of both body and spirit. “Yes, Colley agrees.”

With a brief flare of light, the magical haze rushed inwards to the centre of the circle, and sank into the house-elf’s skin. She covered her face with a brief cry of pain which made her watching daughter Ceely bite anxiously at her own fingers in her panic over her mother and her self-recrimination at daring to doubt the actions of a witch. But when her mother clambered to her feet, standing tall and proud to receive the plain white toga Hermione passed her as she helped her out of the chalk circle, Ceely cried out in jubilation.

Colley now looked easily thirty years younger. Her skin was smooth and clear again, and much less wrinkled than it had been before her decline. Her limbs were firm and her stance was straight, and her ears were slowly plumping out to their usual expressive position instead of drooping limply. And best of all, her eyes were alight again with bright intelligence and focus, instead of the absent-minded gaze Ceely had grown accustomed to seeing.

“Colley is happy to serve Miss Hermione,” she squeaked in a rejuvenated strong voice, gazing with rapt adoration at the face of her powerful new Mistress. “Very, very happy!”

The watching mass of house-elves were so excitedly distracted by the goings-on that they’d all stopped working. Some were applauding, some were hugging each other and crying with great ugly sobs, and a couple were literally jumping up and down in rapturous joy. Jilly looked utterly flabbergasted, and a tremendous grin was slowly dawning on her wrinkled face. Ceely clung to Hermione’s legs as she repeatedly sobbed out her gratitude. Her mother was going to live!

Chapter Text

Eventually Hermione – at the nagging reminder of her demon friends – remembered that she had a goal they wanted her to focus on. And it wasn’t getting acquainted with her new imp and finding her a job to do. (Colley had, with approval from her Mistress, decided she would quilt Hermione a lovely embroidered bedspread in shades of green and silver. She worked on it while living for now with the other Hogwarts house-elves who acted very honoured to have her residing among them.)

She checked in with Harry, and she and Theo arranged to meet up with him at a secluded table in the library on a Saturday morning (a very unpopular time for schoolwork) to share the respective fruits of their research on Flamel. On Harry’s side was a verbal update on how he was an alchemist who’d worked with Professor Dumbledore on the uses of dragon’s blood, and had created the Philosopher’s Stone that granted immortality and could turn base metals into gold. He also shared some gossip about the attempted theft from Gringotts, and their guess that the Stone had been moved to Hogwarts for safety. On Hermione’s side was a five-foot parchment scroll summarising what she considered only the most essential information on Nicolas Flamel and his works.

Harry’s jaw dropped so low that it practically hit his chest. “That’s your short summary?!”

“Yes,” she said defensively. “Don’t you want to know more about the Philosopher’s Stone? This is only what I got from books, mind you. Both magical and mundane. I haven’t included any speculation.” Like the stuff her demons had told her about how Flamel’s stone was probably made from crystallized angel’s blood.

“You don’t want to take Weasley as your benchmark for academic excellence,” drawled Theo disparagingly. “He may be a decent sort in his own way, but he’s hardly a model of scholastic competence you should copy. Hermione can’t cruise through Hogwarts on her name like a pure-blood can, so she has to excel.” Unsaid, but implied through his words and his lightly critical gaze at Harry, was the suggestion that Harry apparently was currently going for the “coast through Hogwarts on your name” option.

“Maybe I’m just not as smart as you are, Hermione,” Harry mumbled.

“I couldn’t even say if you are smart or not,” she said with cautious honesty. “Doing well at school is as much about effort as intelligence. I do know that you should read ahead in your Potions book so you know the steps for the next two potions we might brew before class begins, however. It’d help you a lot.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “I’ll give it a try. It could hardly make things worse, at this point.”

“That’s the spirit!” Theo said encouragingly. “Now, back to business. I’ve taken over compiling our research on Cerberi, and I have to say they don’t have a lot of weaknesses. Killing one is certainly possible, but sneaking past one without hurting it would be really difficult. Especially for first years like us. The one on the third floor is being fed twice daily by house-elves, and like all well-trained Cerberi it won’t take food from strange witches and wizards, so we can’t drug it. It naps intermittently, so there’s no particularly good time to try and sneak past it. Its hide is resistant to magic spells, and if you manage to affect it with any kind of mind-altering spell like a Stunner there’s still two more heads alert and ready to rip your arms off in a spray of blood.”

“Eww,” said Harry, making a face at that delightful bit of description. “Hagrid says it’s just a big softy, really.”

“Maybe to a half-giant it’s a big softy, but to us it’s a wizard-killer,” rebutted Theo. He then got distracted explaining Hagrid’s presumed heritage to the other two, before returning to the topic at hand.

“Anyway, while a Cerberus is a serious threat to us or to Muggles, for a determined adult wizard who knows what they’re doing it’s more of a minor hindrance if they’ve done their research and are willing to kill it. Dropping a stone block on it would work fine, for instance,” said Theo.

“Severing Charm to the body?” suggested Harry, who’d become quite proficient at that spell under Hermione’s tutelage since Halloween.

“They’re a bit resistant to it, but then, so are trolls,” Theo said with a sidelong glance at Hermione. “The biggest problem for us isn’t the Cerberus though. I think it’s that the whole thing is one big trap.”

Hermione blinked, surprised. He hadn’t shared this speculation with her before, the secretive boy.

“Really? How?” Harry asked, intrigued and sounding willing to be convinced.

Theo laid it all out, ticking points off on his fingers as he went. “Dumbledore practically announced the location of the hidden object by publicly declaring the third floor corridor on the right-hand side off limits to students. For some that’s practically an invitation to investigate. Hagrid has been too loose-lipped about it. We saw Snape with a possible bite injury at Halloween, so it’s not just students who can get through that pathetically simply locked door. And there aren’t any wards or physical barriers to stop anyone going there, like an Age Line or a Fidelius Charm. If he really wanted to hide it, he’d quietly put it in a warded container and bury it under the floorboards of his study, or something. So I think it’s a trap.” He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair, looking smug at their open-mouthed reactions to his revelation.

Harry nodded, swiftly convinced. Hermione thought it over. “It does make sense,” she admitted. “But something must be down there. And magical objects put out a kind of aura – so there might be real bait in a deceptively easy-looking trap.”

“True, true,” conceded Theo. “I’m just saying, expect this trap to have hidden teeth. Not just the obvious ones in Fluffy’s mouth. There has to be more to it.”

“I’ve got a plan,” Hermione said. “I’m going to outsource our investigation to the Weasleys.”

“Ron?!” asked Harry, rather shocked since he knew of their mutual dislike for each other.

“No, his older brothers.”

“Huh. They might do it,” Harry agreed. “But would they keep it a secret, or blab and get us in trouble by accidentally boasting about it?”

“Have you heard around Gryffindor about me breaking into the Hogwarts kitchens?” Hermione asked.

“No… Did you really do that?” Harry asked.

“Yes, and it sounds like they said nothing,” she said, pleased at their discretion. “So I think we’re good.”

“Why did you do that? Break into the kitchen?”

Theo groaned. “You had to ask.”

“Let me tell you all about house-elves!” Hermione said enthusiastically, rummaging in her bag for her manifesto about the promotion of house-elf welfare.

-000-

Harry and Theo chipped in for expenses in hiring the twins to go looking for certain death. Ron was too poor to help, and in any case refused to give his brothers money. But he did promise to help beat them down on the price, and in the end almost everyone thought the costs were quite reasonable, all things considered.

“So little snake, you want us to investigate the corridor, and trip any wards we can,” said the twin who was allegedly Fred today, “and figure out what alerts or traps might be in the area.”

“That’s right,” Hermione said.

“But you don’t want us to fight the Cerberus if possible,” checked George.

“You don’t have to. We’d prefer you didn’t get hurt, obviously. We think there’s probably a hidden chest, or a secret passage somewhere in the room to where some treasure is hidden. That’s the goal.”

“And you’re not going to tell us what the treasure is, only that it’s probably smaller than a loaf of bread,” said Fred. “We’ll try and figure it out anyway, you know.”

“Be my guests,” shrugged Hermione. “But I’m under no obligation to make it easy for you.”

“Fair enough,” they chorused simultaneously.

After a week’s investigation – and a number of points lost for Gryffindor and three assignations of increasingly harsh detentions – the twins claimed their wages and reported their findings. Even Ron grudgingly showed up to hear the results. Hermione glared crossly at him, and he glared suspiciously at her, but no words were exchanged on either side – they had a mutual unspoken agreement to ignore each other as much as possible.

“Well, there’s a trapdoor on the floor in the room. So we were pretty sure the treasure was down there-” said Fred.

“-But in fact it’s not,” finished George. “At least, it’s not as easy to find down there as we hoped. We never spotted any possible treasure chests at all. There’s a big blob of Devil’s Snare in a room beneath the trapdoor. While the Cerberus was chasing Fred down the corridor on Wednesday I zoomed down there on my broom. I probably could’ve jumped and landed straight on it, but I didn’t know that at the time. Those viny tentacles scared the life out of me! A bit of light and it shrivelled away though, no problem.”

“And what else was in the second room?” Ron asked eagerly.

“Oi, paying customers set the questions!” laughed Fred.

“It’s a good question though,” said Harry mildly.

“Well Harrikins, there’s another door leading out of the second room, but I didn’t get a good look around because it was about then that the Headmaster showed up,” said George. “We tested it a couple more times, and we’re pretty sure that there’s an alert ward on the trapdoor. And possibly on the first door with the Cerberus too. But he’s slower to respond to that being opened. But within one or two minutes of opening the trapdoor, the Headmaster shows up. Even if the Cerberus is unharmed, still in the room, and there’s a Silencing Charm up on the room. And once Snape showed up with the Headmaster, but we’re not sure if that’s a coincidence or not. We suspect he was meeting with the Headmaster at the time and got dragged along.”

“You were very thorough!” Theo said, impressed.

“All part of the Corsair Consultancy service!” they said in happy unison.

“That’s us. Our business name,” Fred said. “We just made it up the other day. Do you like it?”

“I like it,” said Hermione with a smile.

“You haven’t got a business,” Ron said scornfully.

“The fifteen Galleons we’ve just received suggest otherwise,” George said with a grin, ruffling his little brother’s fiery hair.

“It’s highway robbery!” objected Ron. “You should help us for free because I’m your brother.”

“Highway robbery,” said Fred with a happy sigh, echoing Ron’s words slowly and lovingly as he spoke them, rather than taking it as the intended rebuke. “See? The name fits perfectly. Told you so, Gred.”

“Snappier than Junior Marauders, I must concede,” said George.

And thus, the firsties were dissuaded from immediate investigation of the trapped treasure-baited gauntlet. With a little careful questioning of various people by Theo about the Headmaster’s possible absences from Hogwarts, new plans were made. The Headmaster always left the school for a couple of days to discuss OWL and NEWT results with examiners at the Ministry in June. And Snape, despite his unfounded reputation as a vampire, usually went to bed at around ten o’clock at night, so that he could enjoy an early breakfast in the Great Hall before most of the students were even out of bed. To avoid both, an expedition in June late at night would be just the ticket.

“It should work… unless Snape has the same plan,” Harry worried, and Ron nodded in agreement.

“Well, we’ll help keep an eye on him,” promised Theo with an easy shrug. He didn’t think Snape had any more reason to be after the Stone than anyone else, but it was an easy promise to make.

-000-

The months passed by quite peacefully, and the Slytherin girls were just starting to relax around Hermione again when a new rumour sent them into a tizzy once more. Draco had learnt, after serving a detention in the Forbidden Forest with Harry and Ron under Hagrid’s neglectfully lax supervision, that something was out there killing unicorns and drinking their blood. He’d told Greg about it in the strictest confidence, who’d blithely gone on to tell a whole lot of other people, somewhat to Draco’s frustration.

Pansy high-handedly dispatched Millicent as the sacrificial lamb to ask Hermione about it, and Millicent with obedient nervousness quizzed her about the topic early one evening while Hermione was at her desk in their dorm room working on a Charms assignment.

“I’ve heard,” she began cautiously, “that unicorns act very tame for young maidens. In a way they aren’t for anyone else.”

“Mmm hmm,” Hermione agreed distractedly, adding another paragraph to her assignment on Mending Charms.

“I love unicorns. They’re really beautiful, don’t you think? Graceful. Do you like unicorns, Hermione?”

“Not particularly,” she said distractedly, thinking of their reported descent from angels. Any enemy of her friends was an enemy of hers. She wondered with mild irritation how much longer Millicent was going to keep interrupting her studies with inane questions. She glanced over at her. Millicent was chewing at her nails like she usually only did when she was very nervous, or extremely bored and distracted. She had a feeling it was the former reason, rather than the latter, despite the girl’s carefully calm demeanour.

“Still, it would be dreadful if one were to die. Did you know you don’t need to kill a unicorn to get their mane or tail hairs for potions or wandmaking?” she asked, in a casually conversational way, her eyes flicking to Hermione and away again.

“No, I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.” Hermione carefully set down her quill, and turned in her seat to face her roommate. “Was there something you wanted to ask me, Millicent? Is something bothering you? Because I’d appreciate it if you’d get to the point because I’d really like to concentrate on my Charms homework.”

“That’s not due until Monday! It’s only Thursday!” objected Millicent.

Hermione sniffed. “I don’t believe in leaving things until the last minute. So come on, whatever’s bothering you, just spit it out.”

“Promise you won’t get mad?” Millicent pleaded.

“Hmm. I suppose. Sure, I promise. That even if I do get mad, I won’t take it out on you. Sound good?”

Millicent let out a sigh of relief. “That sounds great. So umm… there’s some unicorns that have been found dead in the forest. And something was seen drinking blood from one of them. I was wondering…” she trailed off nervously, even though Hermione wasn’t directing anything more dire at her than a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow.

“-You were wondering if the person responsible was me, or my friends,” Hermione finished, euphemistically. “No. I haven’t so much as set foot in the Forbidden Forest, and I certainly haven’t hurt or killed any unicorns. Nor even lured them anywhere.”

“And your… friends?”

“I doubt it. They might kill them if they got the opportunity, but I’m pretty sure they haven’t had the chance. And they certainly wouldn’t drink a unicorn’s blood.” Left unsaid was her suspicion that doing so would probably be poisonous for demons. Millicent didn’t need to know that.

Hermione mused aloud, “Perhaps it’s a werewolf? They’re very fleet of foot, according to a book on Dark creatures I was reading. And they’ll kill almost anything they come across.”

“But it’s definitely not you,” Millicent said, relieved.

Hermione nodded in confirmation. “Definitely not me, nor anyone acting on instructions from me. You’ll have to look elsewhere for the culprit, if the rumour’s even true.”

Millicent’s mind was set at ease, especially since Hermione didn’t seem at all offended by the questioning, as she returned to her homework quite unconcernedly. The other Slytherin girls weren’t quite so reassured when they heard Millicent’s report, however. Hermione could be lying, after all.

Despite her firm assertion Hermione wasn’t in fact completely sure that her demons weren’t behind it, and checked in with Crocell late one evening after Millicent was asleep.

“Not us. But unicorn slaying sounds like fun, apart from the blood drinking. Even you might find it very uncomfortable to ingest, let alone pure demons such as myself – the temporary boost in power you would receive would be outweighed by the curse that slowly destroyed you. The King of Kings changed his loyal servants who stayed at his side so that their nature is no longer compatible with ours – even their descendants are different. At best, ingesting even a few drops of pure angel’s blood might make me vomit blood as my internal organs started being eaten away. At worst, I would burn alive from the inside out.”

“Eww,” said Hermione, poking her tongue out in disgust.

Crocell smiled indulgently. She still seemed so very young, on occasion. “Big eww,” he agreed.

-000-

It was June before the little alliance of Gryffindors and Slytherins made plans to brave the third floor corridor. Not including Neville, who was more of a shy occasional hanger-on than a close friend of Harry and Ron’s. Hermione had a great plan to assign her house-elf Colley to covertly checking in on Professors Snape and McGonagall, with instructions to report in to her immediately if either of them awoke and left their quarters. It was a weight off the Gryffindors’ minds that she had a plan to have someone watching Snape, but they were still determined to secure the stone before he could get his greasy hands on in. For they’d recently learnt from Hagrid that the safest way to get past Fluffy was to play him some music, and they were sure Snape would know it by now too. After their History of Magic exam was concluded (their last test for the year, thank Merlin) they made plans to meet up at eleven o’clock at the staircase leading up to the third floor near the suit of armour with a halberd – there was a tapestry concealing a tiny nook just behind it that would make a good hiding spot if any prefects came by. Though the Gryffindors seemed suspiciously unconcerned about the possibility of getting caught breaking curfew. Theo shared his speculation that Professor McGonagall was probably soft on punishments for her “brave” rule-breaking lions. Though the detention Harry and Ron had gotten in the Forbidden Forest did make him question that assumption, when Hermione raised it as a counter-example.

“Are we really going to help those lions get their paws on the Philosopher’s Stone?” Theo quietly asked Hermione when in the privacy of her dorm room (Millicent being thankfully absent). He sounded a bit disgusted at the idea.

Hermione hesitated. But Theo was a good friend. The best friend she’d ever had, in fact, who wasn’t a demon. He deserved the truth. “No. I do want to get it, though.”

Theo smiled. “Immortality? Endless gold? You’ll share it with me, won’t you?”

“No. I want to destroy it,” she said, raising her chin determinedly.

“Destroy it,” Theo said incredulously.

“Yes. It’s apparently quite fragile like glass – it should be easy enough.”

“You want to destroy the source of the Elixir of Life, and the way to make as much gold as your heart desires.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he said, throwing his hands up dramatically in frustration.

“I promised a friend,” she mumbled quietly. “To repay a debt of information granted.”

Theo huffed in frustration. “And what does your friend have against Nicolas Flamel? He’ll die without his Stone, you know. Your friend will make a dire enemy of the man for the rest of his admittedly foreshortened life. As will you, if he discovers your part in it.”

“I know. But he stood aside while our people and thousands of Muggles died in the witch hunts. He’s an ally of angels and promotes their cause. He’s an enemy of the Dark.”

Theo nodded slowly. “You’re that committed then. To being a Dark witch.”

“Yes. I’ve sworn an Unbreakable Vow, in fact. To learn Dark magic, among other things. I… I’m a friend to the demons.” Hermione chewed her lip nervously. “You… you won’t turn on me, will you? Or stop being my friend?”

Theo smiled. “Of course not. My father’s family has been Dark for generations. And I’m not about to change that tradition.”

Hermione cried as she hugged him. “I was scared you’d hate me too!”

“Never,” he said soothingly, rubbing circles on her back as she clung to him, her shoulders shaking with sobs of relief. “We’re friends, Hermione. And you being Dark is hardly a surprising revelation. I’ve known that practically since we first met.”

-000-

“A potions riddle,” Hermione said approvingly, reading the scroll next to the seven differently shaped bottles on the table. “I like this challenge much better than that horrible Devil’s Snare. It almost strangled me to death!” Nasty plant. She was sure it had tried hardest to kill her. Theo and Ron had hardly been attacked by any tendrils at all. But maybe she was just being oversensitive in suspecting it targeted Dark witches and wizards (or demons, as per its name). After all, it had seemed rather vicious towards Harry as well, and he was firmly in the Light’s camp, as far as she knew.

The unconscious troll had been the easiest challenge of course, and Fluffy had been almost as easy. He whimpered a bit and tucked his tail between his legs when they’d come into the first room. He didn’t want to come anywhere near Hermione or the others, like he smelled something scary or didn’t want to make them mad. Harry had played some random notes on a little roughly-cut wooden flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas (“A suspiciously useful gift,” Theo had whispered), and the Cerberus had gone straight to sleep. He was a big softy, just like Hagrid said! There’d been a discarded harp sitting quietly on the floor near the trapdoor, which made them certain someone was ahead of them in the gauntlet.

“A potions riddle sounds fairly safe, but then the chess set didn’t look dangerous at first, either,” said Harry. “Poor Ron.”

Hermione waved a hand dismissively, too busy puzzling over the riddle to put up much of a pretence of caring. “Theo will get him to Madam Pomfrey, don’t worry. He’ll be good as new before you know it. Hmm. Three poison, two wine, one bottle to go backwards through the purple fire, and one to go onwards through the black fire.”

Harry waited as patiently as he could while Hermione muttered to herself quietly, while she paced up and down in front of the table, pointing to the bottles occasionally.

“Got it,” said Hermione. “The round bottle on the right end will let us retreat through the purple fire, and the smallest bottle will get us through the black fire – towards the Stone. Of course, there’s only enough for one of us.”

Harry tried to persuade her to go back and help the others while he, the brave Gryffindor with something to prove (she guessed) went onwards. But Hermione was having none of that.

“Certainly not,” she said decisively. “I’m just as entitled to go onwards as you are. And frankly, a little better at spellcasting. If there is trouble I’m better placed to confront it.”

Harry looked rather mulishly offended. “Hey-”

“-But don’t worry, I have a solution,” she interrupted. “I’ve learnt the Flame-Freezing Charm. So you can drink the potion, and I’ll cast my charm.”

“What if you get burnt? I’d hate to see you get hurt too. Maybe you should have the potion, and cast the charm on me,” fretted Harry, making Hermione’s stern countenance soften.

“You’re a great wizard, Harry,” she said with a gentle smile, “and a good friend. Don’t worry, I’ll just test with a pinky first.”

Her charm worked a treat, and both of them were relieved when her pinky finger remained uncharred despite being poked into the black flames flickering all across the doorway like a curtain of fire.

Harry chugged the contents of the tiny bottle, with an evident trust in her deductive skills that she found rather flattering.

“How do you feel?” Hermione asked.

“It’s like ice.”

“Quick, let’s go before it wears off.”

The two leapt through the doorway, Harry just a fraction ahead of her, and there was someone there on the other side ready to confront them. But it wasn’t Snape like the Gryffindors had suspected – it was Professor Quirrell. Who promptly trussed them both up in ropes with a quickly cast wordless and wandless Incarcerous Spell, triggered with a mere snap of his fingers. Impressive!

And with iron willpower, Hermione kept her mouth shut while Quirrell and Harry bantered for a while, about how Harry had expected to find Snape after the Stone, while Quirrell boasted about being a servant of Lord Voldemort, and fretted over what the strange mirror in the room did.

Of course Professor Quirrell was a secret Dark wizard – she’d already suspected he had sympathetic leanings in that direction, at the very least. And of course he’d want the Stone too. Who wouldn’t? She got a bit concerned when he started ranting about killing Harry, however.

“You don’t have to kill either of us,” she said coaxingly with a voice that held only the tiniest quaver of fear. “You could just Stun us. We’re hardly a threat to one of your power.” Though she personally was planning to cut her own hand with a very sharply cut fingernail and summon her demons with the resultant blood if he kept ranting about killing either of them.

“What does this mirror do?” worried Quirrell, ignoring her for the moment, enraptured again by the mirror that kept drawing his attention away from them periodically. “How does it work? Help me, Master!”

To Harry’s horror, and Hermione’s secret fascination, a voice answered, and it seemed to come from the back of Quirrell’s head.

“Stun the boy… Use the girl…”

Quirrell rounded on Harry, and a quick burst of red light had Harry slumping to the ground, unconscious.

“I think we’re on the same side,” Hermione said cautiously. “Approximately, at least. You could let me go? And Harry’s not that bad, you know. There’s no reason to hurt him.”

“Come and look in the mirror, Miss Granger,” said Quirrell. “Tell me what you can see. If you see clues to where the Stone is.”

That sounded good, and less frightening than she’d feared.

With a wave of Quirrell’s wand, the ropes around her fell away, and she stepped forward cautiously to stand in front of the full-length mirror that was the only interesting feature in the otherwise empty room.

Looking into the mirror while thinking of the Philosopher’s Stone, she saw nothing but her reflection, in all her bushy-haired glory, gazing curiously back at herself.

“I just see myself,” she said, and then it changed. Her reflection smiled toothily at her, and putting her hand inside her robe pocket, pulled out a bright red gemstone the size of an egg. “Oh! My reflection changed - I’m holding the Philosopher’s Stone!”

Hermione’s reflection winked at her, and put her hand back in her pocket – and as it did so, she felt something heavy drop into her real pocket. She strongly suspected that she’d just gotten the Stone.

“And? What else do you see?”

“Just me holding the Stone,” lied Hermione. “I’m making a big pile of gold from lead, in a massive cauldron.” She took a few cautious steps away from the mirror back towards Harry.

“Don’t lie, little witch,” said a high voice from the back of Quirrell’s head. “I can sense its presence. It has moved.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, disappointedly.

“Uncover me.”

“Master, you’re not strong enough!” fretted Quirrell.

“I have strength enough… for this…”

Quirrell unwrapped his turban, and turned slowly on the spot, revealing a second face. It was chalk-white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

“Janus? Are you possessing my professor?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Who?” asked the second face, bewildered at both her calm reaction and the question.

“He’s also called Bifrons. But I guess you’re not him. Are you Tom, then?”

“Don’t use that name!” he hissed angrily. “You will address me as Lord Voldemort!”

“Sorry, sir. Lord Voldemort.”

“I cast off my family name… many years ago… when I was ennobled by my patron demon, Foras. I may be… mere shadow and vapour now… but I still deserve your respect… I who have gone farther down the path… to immortality than any other wizard before me.” He paused frequently in his angry rant, as if so much talking was exhausting for him.

“I didn’t mean any offence,” Hermione said apologetically. “It’s not like the history books explained you don’t like your birth name.”

“Forgiven, little sister.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Those of us who are true allies of the Dark are a family… of sorts. Bound by blood. Now, give me the Stone.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “Well the problem is, I vowed to destroy it. A demon friend asked me to. And anyway, it won’t be any good for you. Flamel is Light aligned, and his Stone is crafted from angel’s blood.”

The unblinking stare of Lord Voldemort’s ruby-red eyes would have unnerved many, but Hermione had seen far odder sights in her time interacting with her demonic friends. “No it isn’t,” he said insistently. “It is crafted from stolen demon blood.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I doubt that,” Hermione said sceptically. “It has to be freely given blood. King Paimon told me so himself. Are you sure whoever told you it was made from demon blood wasn’t lying to you?”

Lord Voldemort’s face went eerily still like a statue. “Show the gem to me!” he commanded.

Hermione reached into her pocket and drew it out. It felt hot in her hand, like it had been lying in the hot summer sun for hours. Professor Quirrell walked awkwardly backwards towards her, as his parasitical face gazed hungrily at the Stone.

The gem grew hotter in her hands, and Hermione hissed with pain as she dropped the stone. It clattered to the stone floor, and bounced with a sharp tinking noise, but didn’t break.

“What are you doing… idiot girl!” Lord Voldemort snarled.

“It burnt me!” she whimpered. “Look!” She held out her hand towards him, so he could see the shiny reddened skin, and blisters starting to form.

“I will get it, Master!” said Quirrell’s voice, and he moved to turn around and pick up the Stone.

“NO, it’s a trap!” shrieked Voldemort in sudden panic. “Do not touch it… Trapped bait, within a trapped mirror…, within a trapped corridor. I knew… it looked too easy.”

On his Master’s orders, Quirrell cast a few detection spells, and his Master sighed unhappily at the results. “Angel’s blood. If one such as you… little sister… was harmed… I would certainly be cast out if I were to touch it… My servant would likely die too. Burnt alive. Even if I had touched you while you held it… would have been a great risk.”

Professor Quirrell let out a shuddering breath at his narrow escape. “Thank you, Miss Granger.”

“Yes… we owe you a debt. Destroy the Stone. Heal her… then Stun her. It is time for us… to leave this place.”

“What should I tell people?” Hermione asked.

“I’d recommend most of the truth,” suggested Quirrell. It was still odd to hear him speaking without stuttering. “That you retrieved the Stone, I ordered you to place it on the floor, and after casting some spells on it I got angry and destroyed it. Try not to look the Headmaster in the eye when lying – he employs Legilimency more often than he should.”

A quick healing spell removed the blisters painlessly from her hand. She was grandly permitted to cast the first charm on the Philosopher’s Stone to split it in half, when she begged to do so. Lord Voldemort angrily blasting the resultant pieces into tiny specks of red dust was the last thing she saw before being gently charmed into unconsciousness.

-000-

When she awoke, Hermione found herself in the Infirmary, in a bed next to Harry’s, with Ron asleep in the bed on his other side. Theo was sitting next to her bed reading a book, while Dumbledore chatted with Harry.

“You’re awake! How are you?”

“Fine thanks, Theo. Is everyone else alright?”

“Weasley has a couple of shattered bones that he’s had to have vanished – he’s taken some Dreamless Sleep so he doesn’t have to feel the Skelegrow working. You should’ve seen him gagging when he had to drink the potions! Madam Pomfrey had to give him a second dose – he spat the first one out, the big baby!” laughed Theo.

The Headmaster stopped by Hermione’s bed to get her part of the story, which she told with occasional glances at Theo during the more dubious portions of her tale. Dumbledore seemed satisfied enough, though gravely sad at the impending demise of an old friend, though he tried to sound reassuring to her when she worried with wide eyes about how she wished she could have stopped the possessed Professor Quirrell.

“Don’t worry, Miss Granger. I’m sure you did everything you could,” he said with a reassuring twinkle, patting her hand genially. “And your courage and loyalty in accompanying Harry into danger does you credit.” His praise was a little oddly phrased, she thought. She’d assumed Harry and the others were accompanying her. Or perhaps that they were all just going together.

The Headmaster might have approved, to some degree, of the Boy Who Lived’s open-mindedness in making friends with Slytherins, but it didn’t stop him stealing the house cup win from Slytherin at the last minute at the end-of-year feast. There were some token points for herself and Theo, but even more for Harry, Ron, and for some obscure reason, Neville Longbottom. The man’s Light bias was showing, badly. No-one in Slytherin blamed her or Theo for not getting more points – the Headmaster’s determined manipulation in boosting the golden boy’s standing in his House was just too obvious. And it looked like Longbottom was a bit of a pet of his too. It seemed to have brought the walking potions disaster a temporary burst of camaraderie and acclaim from his fellow lions, at least.

And Hermione didn’t blame Harry for it either – cheerfully oblivious sod that he was. He was just happy his House had won, and didn’t see the scheming beneath. Once everyone had made the journey back to London on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione finally caught up with Harry again, to wish him a pleasant holiday. His uncle was horrible, and Hermione and Theo approved of Harry’s plan to terrify his family into behaving themselves better with threats of magic.

“Don’t forget, the Ministry doesn’t monitor potions brewing or use,” suggested Theo, which made Harry nod in thoughtful contemplation of the possibilities, a rather wicked smile creeping onto his face.

Harry laughed happily. “Oh, I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…”

Chapter Text

Second Year

In second year Hermione was Harry’s most steadfast supporter when the rest of the school turned against him for being a Parselmouth, and she dragged most of the younger Slytherins along in supporting him. It didn’t help her ongoing feud with Weasley, however, who briefly turned against Harry too when he saw no-one but Slytherins approving of his friend’s Dark talent.

Hermione grappled for the second and final time with a major challenge from within Slytherin, this time over her increasingly public friendship with the Boy Who Lived. One evening the seventh year Augustus Selwyn was publicly threatening her to act like a proper Slytherin witch and break off her friendship with Potter and giving her some “warning” hexes, and the very next morning he was smiling at her, pulling out her chair at breakfast, and generally acting like a toadying friend. No-one (except Theo) ever found out how Forneus had magically “helped” Augustus become friends with Hermione, whether he wanted to or not. The Slytherins didn’t have any answers, but they knew enough to be wary of her ever after that. Pansy shivered and cowered, and Daphne had a public panic attack that had her sent to see Madam Pomfrey for a Calming Potion, when they saw the change in Selwyn’s behaviour – acting like he genuinely thought Hermione was the most wonderful friend in the world, thanks to Forneus’ enchantment.

Draco, his two hangers-on, and Millicent returned to being friends of a sort, of their own free will (if a little warily). Theo as her best and most trusted friend finally got to hear the truth about her other friends, and took the news very well, much to her relief. She even introduced him to a couple of them, and he took Andrealphus’ squawked threats of dismemberment if he betrayed Hermione in any way surprisingly calmly. He also took some photos of her with her friends, using a magical camera (as Muggle cameras didn’t record them), for her private photo album.

She never told Harry about her demon friends - he was too Light aligned. But she did share the secret of her own talent in being able to talk with birds with him, in solidarity. He was delighted to have that camaraderie of the shared secret that she too could talk to an animal, and she translated many sweet conversations with Hedwig for him. She didn’t tell him about her ability’s origin as a demonic gift, however. It was the same method by which Salazar Slytherin had once gained the ability to talk to serpents for himself and all his descendants. She did encourage Harry to be proud of his obvious descent from such an esteemed wizard – it was a noble line. Unfortunately, it was an argument that worked better on Slytherins than Gryffindors.

When she heard about Harry’s confrontation with Tom Riddle’s spirit in the Chamber of Secrets, she knew exactly what had gone on. Harry had destroyed a Horcrux, damn the silly boy! Those weren’t easy to make. Poor Tom. Paimon wasn’t happy to hear about his old favourite losing one of his precious ties to immortality, but assured her that he’d checked, and Tom had backups. She wrote to Lord Voldemort anyway – and had an imp (house-elf) personally deliver the letter to get past his rather comprehensive mail wards – to warn him that he’d lost a Horcrux. He didn’t say “thank you” in quite so many words, but she did earn a promise of his favour. Along with his return letter he also sent a gift of an extremely rare tome of Dark spells which was enchanted to look like a dull book on the history of toads, to any curious spying eyes.

Third Year

In third year Hermione with a begrudging sigh choose Ancient Runes and Arithmancy as her electives, giving up the other subjects up out of a necessity to focus her studies and limited time on the most useful subjects, as well as keeping up with her vowed extracurricular studies in the Dark Arts, geometry, astronomy, and music.

She bargained with Camio to learn the language of serpents, sacrificially killing a unicorn to fulfil her part of the deal. Her demons chatted politely with the lurking Dementors to distract them from reflexively attacking her – the Patronus Charm was too much of a Light spell for a Dark witch such as herself to ever master. The silly angel-blessed trusting unicorn just walked right up to her! It was sad, but it had to be done. It got her access to the Chamber of Secrets – her own private hideout in the school since Harry was oddly disinterested in returning there. It was quite nice once she’d made a cosy reading nest with a big pile of cushions, and had gotten her friends to get rid of the Basilisk corpse. Forneus said it was delicious. Camio meanwhile went on a gleeful journey of destruction with the power he’d earned from the unicorn’s death, defacing and defiling sacred and holy sites across the UK that helped empower the angels he hated. If he killed anyone during his rampage, he didn’t tell her about it, and she didn’t ask.

She wasn’t there when Harry and Neville followed a mangy black dog as it dragged Ron and his rat through a secret tunnel under the Whomping Willow. She only heard about it all afterwards, when visiting Harry in the hospital wing. His apparently innocent godfather had been kissed by Dementors, while the rat Animagus betrayer had escaped. Few people believed him – though Hermione did – and Harry’s version of events didn’t even make the papers.

Harry and Neville had only survived their adventure relatively unscathed thanks to the intervention of Professor Snape, who did his best to protect them all when Professor Lupin transformed into a werewolf. So heroic! She was proud to be in Slytherin. They were talking about an Order of Merlin for Professor Snape, and he was so smugly satisfied about it that for the last month of school Potions class was enjoyable for even the most incompetent Hufflepuffs.

However, with a broken leg the Weasel hadn’t been as lucky as his friends at running for the safety of Hogwarts, and the savage claw marks on his back had his mother sobbing over his bed in the Hospital Wing about how her baby boy was going to be a werewolf. Ron Weasley left the school in the wake of the anti-werewolf paranoia that swept the school community after the revelations about Lupin’s attack, never to return. Hermione thought it couldn’t have happened to a better person (well, except maybe Parkinson). Harry said Ron was being home-schooled now, but frankly she really couldn’t care less – she just mouthed the correct polite things and kept her thoughts on the matter to herself whenever Harry or Neville were around.

After the soulless husk of Sirius Black was executed by the Ministry, Hermione was one of the few who went with Harry to his funeral. In gratitude for her ongoing support, and in recognition of her love of helping house-elves, a month or so later he gifted her with one he’d inherited. Kreacher had held no love for Harry, but quickly became devoted to Mistress Hermione.

Fourth Year

In fourth year Hermione had the best Defence teacher ever. He actually taught them the Unforgivables! And all kinds of other interesting curses, to boot. Hermione enjoyed being the teacher’s pet in DADA – he said she was the only one he’d confided in that he was actually a follower of Lord Voldemort, who would soon be reborn. He secretively tutored her in Occlumency and spells to ward away the attention of angels and their Light allies, and obtained forbidden books for her to keep on how to make Inferi, and many other fascinating topics. Hermione didn’t give him away, despite her worries about Harry being in the Triwizard Tournament. She firmly advised Harry to stay safe and throw the contest, but her Gryffindor friend became stubbornly determined to win. She did appreciate how he’d tried to rescue both her and Neville from the Black Lake, but she knew Crouch wouldn’t let her be hurt. Victor wouldn’t have let her drown either – she knew he cared for her, and the feeling was mutual.

Hermione’s tiny Unseelie Court (as Andrealphus liked to call them) of imps, or her Army of Darkness (as Paimon preferred to call them) changed and grew as she took more house-elves in need under her wing. She also learnt how to safely send some willing volunteers “home” to the demonic realm – properly freed at last. Dobby was the first to volunteer – feeling the effects of being without a master, but wanting to remain free. Some who were sent there to live spoke of her in such reverent awe that they accidentally recruited imps eager to join her on earth. And so her followers grew in number, blending in with the Hogwarts house-elves who’d never betray Mistress Hermione, the saviour of the sick, old, and forsaken. While an increasing number of them wore a toga embroidered with the rune Hagalaz – H for Hermione, as well as being symbolic of dark, destructive feminine power and change – it went unnoticed. For the mark of a good house-elf was that they did their work unseen, after all. The rune was also similar enough to the Hogwarts initial on the crest to pass without notice.

Luckily for Harry he survived the Tournament – he even won it! And luckily for Lord Voldemort, the general public didn’t believe a word Harry said about his enemy’s resurrection. Dumbledore clearly did, however.

Fifth Year

At the start of fifth year, Hermione transferred to Durmstrang to be closer to her boyfriend, Victor Krum, much to the scowling disappointment of her friend Theo. While Victor had just graduated, it was easier to see him from there than from Scotland. But that wasn’t the only reason to move overseas, or even the main one. Dumbledore was looking at her with increasing suspicion, and her friends were starting to fret about her living under the watchful eye of him and his angelic-descended phoenix familiar. Crocell said he’d noticed the stink of angels around the Headmaster’s tower. It seemed she wasn’t the only one at Hogwarts who summoned beings from other realms – the Headmaster dabbled too if he thought the need was pressing. She’d always wondered how he knew so much of what was going on at Hogwarts. It was time to leave, before she was discovered.

Another attraction of switching to her new school was that a qualified and experienced teacher taught the Dark Arts, not just the deplorable Defence Against the Dark Arts class Hogwarts offered with its dramatically variable quality of professors. Draco had attempted to ingratiate himself with her over summer by forewarning her that he’d heard from his father that fifth year was going to be especially dreadful in regards to the quality of the teaching – Draco was planning to self-study. She couldn’t skimp on her learning - she’d made an Unbreakable Vow to Crocell long ago to learn the Dark Arts. By now it was something she really revelled in, anyway.

Her stellar academic record with outstanding results across the board (but especially in Astronomy, Arithmancy, Potions, and Defence Against the Dark Arts) wasn’t enough to get her into a school that was usually exclusively restricted to pure-bloods. But someone (whom people didn’t like to name) caught and had a private chat with the terrified Karkaroff – his terrified former follower who’d tried to run off during the summer. The thoroughly cowed Headmaster returned obediently to his position at Durmstrang and made a pet of Hermione even more than he once had of Victor. While Durmstrang usually didn’t admit Muggle-borns, after Karkaroff had looked at her genealogical research he decided that having a great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side who was probably a Squib or a wizard would be enough to class her as a “half-blood” for enrolment purposes. Her ancestor had owned a pet owl, and Smith was a wizarding surname after all. It was accepted as sufficiently persuasive evidence of her ancestry, with his Master’s mark burning warningly on his arm.

When she’d left for Durmstrang, dozens of Hogwarts house-elves deserted their former home to follow their beloved Mistress overseas – some were native to earth, others were not. Even with many travelling with her or freed to return to the demonic realm, there were still more than enough house-elves left to keep the castle running, so few noticed their departure, and even fewer cared. Most of her small legion of imps were set to restoring an old crumbling keep that Camio – the keenest traveller amongst her friends – had located for her. Long lost from the knowledge of man or wizard kind, the centuries-old wards on the property deterred any visitors from even noticing it was there, let alone being able to set foot on the land. But demon kind had no such bar to entry, and they claimed the long-lost hidden parcel of land on her behalf, as a birthday gift she felt unable to refuse. She thought it was very sweet that they wanted her to have a castle to rule from one day. Even if she didn’t conquer anyone, she thought it was still really cool to have a real castle of her very own, and her imps were happier with a home and lands to tend for her.

Sixth Year

Halfway through her sixth year (her second year at Durmstrang) Draco Malfoy transferred to Durmstrang, abasing himself and begging her to take him as a follower, and to intervene with Lord Voldemort to save his mother and protect his father. She revelled in his new humility and practiced obeisance, and he for his part appreciated the lack of Crucios and impossible missions, and the chance to simply be a student again. Her small army of imps helped move almost the entire contents of Malfoy manor to one of the Malfoy properties in France in a single night, as well as Narcissa herself. Lord Voldemort’s irritation at losing a family of followers to her purview was soothed by her assistance in helping plan and execute the breakout of his people from Azkaban, and working with Draco and Durmstrang’s Crafting professor to quickly repair the Vanishing Cabinet Draco had been working on slowly all year.

Sometimes she thought Draco had a crush on her – the signs were there especially after she broke up with Victor. But he never acted on it. She tried discussing why that was with her friends, but they were no help. Forneus suggested threatening to eat him alive if he didn’t please her – it was a guaranteed way to get a co-operative partner without the need of spells. Paimon warned her that you shouldn’t let underlings get ideas above their station, and advised she should punish him if he crossed a line. Her mother’s sensible advice about maybe asking him out to a movie and seeing how things went was less terrifying but just as unhelpful – Draco stutteringly said that he had no idea what that was, and fled the conversation – and the room – as quickly as he could.

Seventh Year

It was in her final year of school at Durmstrang that she personally killed her first human – a young wizard who’d caught her talking with her demons. He’d injured Crocell with a surprise spell, and bravely vowed to tell the authorities everything. Forneus “took care” of the body after Hermione had killed him. Karkaroff was warned that the boy had “run away”, and obediently disposed of the boy’s belongings and helped cover her tracks. He didn’t dare do otherwise, with the brand on his forearm a constant aching warning from his Lord to stay where he was and continue to advance the Dark’s agenda.

The demons ennobled her for her defence of them. She thought Lady Hermione had a lovely ring to it. Paimon and Crocell had actually duelled over who would get to do the honours of knighting her, and to Crocell’s scowling disappointment his King had won.

After three years at Durmstrang Hermione graduated with top honours, glad to be out of school, and far away from the mess that Hogwarts had become in what would have been her final year there. Theo graduated at her side. Theo’s father had transferred him to Durmstrang for his final year of schooling, despite his Lord’s takeover of Hogwarts. Theo had missed her, and regular letters weren’t enough. She also suspected he was growing jealous of Draco’s presence at her side, even though there was nothing romantic between them.

Theo and Hermione eventually started dating – courting his father called it. A fresh tattoo was on Theo’s forearm when he arrived at Durmstrang – she suspected Lord Voldemort had Marked him in petty retaliation for “stealing” Draco Malfoy away from him – but Hermione really didn’t mind. She could always erase it, or give Theo a Hagalaz tattoo on the other arm, if he wanted to officially follow her instead one day. Crocell said lesser demons changed their allegiances all the time – as often as every couple of centuries – to follow the strongest leader. For now, Theo’s Dark Mark kept his father safe.

While he obviously had his faults, Lord Voldemort was a powerful man, and an interesting one. His occasional correspondence with her was very illuminating, and she could tell he didn’t really want to rule over the Muggle world, or he’d be a lot more successful with that agenda by now. His real goal was obviously more about winnowing out the angels’ descendants and supporters from their midst (whatever their blood status), and fostering the Dark’s agenda. She quietly suspected he might be more than a little mad, but that wasn’t something very safe to talk about. Having some of his Horcruxes destroyed probably wasn’t helping him stay sane – having bits of your soul annihilated couldn’t be good for you. Despite that, she still shared tidbits of information with him whenever Harry confided in her (instances that had become increasingly rare ever since she’d moved to Durmstrang and they’d drifted apart). Lord Voldemort appreciated his young ally’s gifts of demonic aid for slaying or terrifying the occasional particularly troublesome opponent (even though she stubbornly refused to send any of them against Harry). He just didn’t have the way with demons that she did, with his more tightly controlled approach to calling demons only in highly restrictive rune-inscribed summoning circles – he focused on getting their help to improve his personal power, rather than gaining their active physical service. House-elves – imps – he outright scorned as creatures too weak to be of any aid, an attitude she didn’t bother persisting in trying to correct him on.

They were saying now that Lord Voldemort was dead. That Harry Potter was the Chosen One who’d defeated him once and for all. She knew better – she was smarter than that. Lady Hermione had a stunning silver and sapphire diadem Horcrux that had been entrusted to her for safe-keeping by her ally that promised otherwise. He’d return eventually. In the meantime, it was her turn to have some fun.