“Hold on, I’m almost there,” Hermione whispered to the frog, a tiny amphibian perched on her fingertip. It leaped with a sudden twitch as a strand of hair, escaping her control, tickled her cheek. She yelped softly and pushed the wayward curl behind her ear. Hermione was pleased with the change. Her once bushy brown hair now cascaded in gentle waves to her waist, a style she found elegant, and Ron had declared her “pretty” with the new cut.
She snapped back to attention. Where had the student’s frog gone? *Please* don't let it be lost. Or, if it *was*, she hoped it had sense enough to head straight to Professor McGonagall’s office. Hermione scanned the floor, her gaze blocked by robes and scuffed shoes. She wandered into an empty hallway, spotting the frog tucked under a bench. “There you are!” she breathed, relief washing over her.
As she scrambled to retrieve it, her foot caught on a loose stone, and she tumbled forward, her elbow slamming against the cold stone floor. A sharp pain shot up her arm. *Not today,* she thought with a pang of fear. It was Quidditch day. Ron had promised a little date – chocolate frogs and butterbeer while watching the players soar overhead. The thought had been a comforting beacon all morning.
Her wand remained secure within her robes. *Thank Merlin.*
“Oh, look! Someone’s fallen,” a shrill voice cut through the quiet. “It’s a pity it was Mudblood Granger, or perhaps I would have offered a hand. Poor girl.”
Pansy Parkinson’s voice dripped with saccharine malice. Hermione clenched her jaw, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. *Don't let yourself be baited,* she reminded herself. She was Head Girl now. She bent her knee, bracing herself against the fall. *Dramatic,* she thought, *utterly dramatic.* It was just a stumble. How could she even consider breaking a bone over it?
Pansy stood with Blaise Zabini and Goyle. No sign of Draco, though she knew he should be at the pitch. He'd been boasting about his seating arrangement all week.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever Parkinson,” Hermione said, scooping up the frog. But of course, it wasn't that simple. Pansy’s wand flashed, and a Stupefy spell hurtled toward Hermione.
Without even looking back, Hermione drew her own wand and countered with a shield charm, redirecting the spell back at Parkinson. Goyle shrieked as Zabini caught her before she went unconscious.
Hermione didn't linger. She whispered the password and climbed the stairs to the Headmaster’s office. “Professor McGonagall? I hope you’re still there. It’s Hermione.”
Silence stretched. Had McGonagall already left for the pitch? There were still forty minutes left before the match.
“Ms Granger!” McGonagall’s voice boomed as she swung the door open, beckoning Hermione inside. The frog croaked, its glossy eyes brimming with tears.
“Professor! I—I accidentally cast a spell on a first-year. I’m really sorry—”
“Nonsense, Ms Granger. Don’t you remember? I used to teach Transfiguration.” She winked, and Hermione felt a surge of gratitude. It was the same feeling Harry must get, having a powerful, experienced wizard watching over him.
“Ah, but it’s been recreated. It’s not original.” She hadn't told Ron. He wouldn’t know how to create a spell, after all. For years, she’d watched him try, sparks flying from his wand with every attempt.
McGonagall smiled and waved her wand in a complex series of movements. Hermione tried to copy it, but lost count. She’d research it later, after the Quidditch match. The frog croaked one last time, and with a flash of light, transformed back into a boy.
Hermione was startled to realize how late it was. “Professor! I have to go now. I’ve got things to do.”
“Well then, run along dear. Don’t miss it.”
Hermione thanked McGonagall and hurried down the corridors, finding the entrance to the Great Hall. It was nearly empty. She missed breakfast, but she had to get to the pitch. She squeezed through the Ravenclaws and a cluster of Hufflepuffs.
Harry must be somewhere. Everyone was chattering, reliving the war, and the Quidditch match was a welcome distraction. Hermione ran down the green slopes, searching for the robes room. Harry should be shouting instructions, as captain. He'd been seeker since his first year, defeated the Dark Lord, and then entered the Triwizard Tournament with a dragon chasing him on his broom. Honestly, if he wasn't captain, she suspected everyone would start another war.
“Granger!” someone called. “Harry?” Hermione turned, her brow furrowing as she saw Draco Malfoy standing before her.
He shook his head violently, choosing his words carefully. “Mudblood Granger! You wouldn’t expect me to actually call you by your last name now, right? Are you here to wish me luck? Because that would be nice.” Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Actually, I’m here to wish someone luck, but not you.”
“You mean Harry? Of course you would! But you see, you’ve done it so many times for him. Don’t I get some luck too?” Draco smirked, swinging his broomstick.
“Leave me alone.” Hermione growled, turning to storm off. But a hand yanked her backwards, nearly sending her tumbling. She was mortified she almost toppled on him.
He didn’t have that smirk now. He was smiling, but it was unsettling, almost evil. It reminded Hermione of his father, Lucius, recently deceased. That same predatory grin Lucius wore when threatening anyone.
“Say it,” he demanded, tightening his grip on her wrist. Hermione pulled her wand, pointing it at his nose like she was threatening an ant. “Let go of me, idiot.”
He released her hand, lowering her wand. “Wouldn’t want my nose broken before the match now. See you later, Mudblood.”
He walked back to the Slytherin tent, where the others were waiting. They weren’t so bad now. Only Pansy Parkinson and Malfoy remained truly unpleasant. Hermione realized she was the only Muggle-born left to be called “Mudblood.”
It was time for the match. Hermione pushed through the crowds and sat down, waiting for Ron.