Chapter Text
Peripety: (noun) A sudden and unexpected change of fortune or reverse of circumstances
The weather is positively awful today, Hermione thinks. Heavy raindrops are smacking relentlessly against the glass ceiling of King’s Cross Station, the sky beyond a turbulent mix of greys. She supposes it's almost fitting, considering.
She’s half glad she’s on the train, not out in the treacherous weather, half disappointed that the chilly September air isn’t whipping across her skin, grounding her like it had outside. If she could feel it again, right now, she thinks it might help her feel more composed, more in control .
Her fingers fiddle aimlessly with a piece of parchment in her lap. A schedule- her schedule, of each class she’ll be taking this year. It’ll be her eighth year at Hogwarts, sort of. She’s not sure she can really count her seventh as actually having been a studious year.
Eighth year isn’t compulsory, but Hogwarts has opened its doors to all who wish to formally complete their wizarding education, and Hermione’s decision was not an easily made one. She’d agonised over it- is still agonising over it.
Looking down at the piece of parchment in her grasp now, she feels an awful lurch in her stomach. From feeling anxious, stressed, out of control, all of it, she isn’t sure which emotion is the true cause.
Hermione has tried occlumency. Multiple times, in fact. She’s attempted to understand her feelings on the war, on her losses- the deaths, her parents - she finds herself taking a sharp inhale of air-, she’s tried to pull the feelings apart, investigate them. Pull them apart and sort them into little boxes within her mind. Store them away, get a better handle on them- and to bloody think clearly again. But she’d failed spectacularly, over and over , until she’d eventually given up.
Her fingers twitch, crumpling the parchment further. Hermione thinks she’d rather look outside, get lost in the landscape once they’re out of Kings Cross Station and on their way-
Something warm envelopes her hand then, the one that's crushing her timetable, both halting and startling her. It takes every shred of willpower not to jump- not to pull her wand hastily from her pocket. Feels the abrupt, electrified tingle of her magic, ready to strike.
Her eyes snap to her hand, then to the perpetrator. The person currently holding her hand, gently, reassuringly . Hermione releases an audible breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding. Ginny .
Another pang ripples through her stomach and she feels awful- guilty. She’d almost forgotten that Ginny is here, stuck in her own endless reverie of anxiety.
Ginny smiles at her now, sitting across from her in their compartment. The space feels small, much too small. Not at all like it used to.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice low, slightly cautious.
They both know she needn’t have asked, really.
“Nervous,” Hermione admits, but they both know this is always her answer. Simple. A half truth .
Ginny’s brown eyes roam over her face for a moment, as if searching for more, an admission of Hermione’s deeper, ever turbulent feelings. Ginny knows her too well. She isn’t just nervous, she’s positively distraught.
“You can do this, Hermione,” A sincere response, Hermione knows.
“We both can."
Hermione can’t bring herself to respond, so she half nods. The fingers of her other hand grasp Ginny’s, and she is thankful for the warmth. Thankful for Ginny.
After a long pause, Ginny squeezes Hermione’s hands softly, once, and pulls back. Getting comfortable in her seat again.
The train begins to move then, rolling forwards- beginning their long journey to Hogwarts.
Hermione tries to settle into her seat, but she feels uncomfortable no matter the position she sits in.
After a few minutes, she looks around the too small compartment again. Another pang.
Two empty seats next to herself and Ginny. Spaces that would have been saved for Harry, for Ron. The emptiness of the space is loud, deafening, even. Hermione feels the need to laugh. The compartment feels too, too small. Yet the empty seats feel entrenching. Massive. Like the hole in her heart where she misses them. Misses her friends.
“I wonder what they’re up to right now,” Hermione muses out loud.
Ginny smiles brightly.
“Harry said they’re starting training tomorrow,” the redhead replies, eyes glinting in the light of the compartment, “They have an introductory meeting today, though”.
Hermione smiles back at Ginny, although she is sure it doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
“I suppose they’ll be celebrating with copious amounts of firewhiskey tonight”.
Ginny laughs at that. The sound fills Hermione with warmth for a brief, yet tantalizing moment.
“Yes, most likely,” she agrees, then adds, “we’ll probably be able to floo them tomorrow night, though”.
As much as she’d wanted to stay with Harry and Ron, as desperate as she was to not be parted with either of them, she knew deep down that returning is what she needed to do. All of her educational plans had been thoroughly derailed since sixth year, before the war and horcruxes and pain- before all of the disastrous occurrences that have left her feeling out of control, the husk of a witch.
Her right hand fists at her other sleeve- over the disfigured flesh that lies underneath.
Hermione has to go back.
She feels somewhat broken, a mess, and the only thing she believes might help is going back to finish her studies, but to also face the losses constantly plaguing her.
Ginny stands abruptly then, and Hermione’s pulse quickens at the sudden movement, her head whipping up to look at her friend, fingers twitching over where her wand is once more.
“Sorry,” Ginny says quickly, pulling her Head Girls badge from her bag, “I need to go and round up the Prefects.”
Hermione lets out a small puff of air. McGonagall had offered Hermione the position- of Head Girl- but she wanted nothing more than to concentrate on her studies- so she’d declined.
“Of course,” she replies as Ginny pins the badge onto the front of her uniform, “don’t let me keep you.”
The redhead gives her a quick squeeze and a smile before departing through the carriage door, leaving Hermione to her own devices- alone.
She sits still for a few moments, debating on what she should do with her time. In the end she just goes for the easy option, one she can lose herself in and eat up as much of the train ride as she can. Fill up the silence and emptiness of the compartment around her.
She pulls open a textbook, one on advanced arithmancy, and begins to read.
It isn’t long before her reading session is interrupted.
The compartment door slides open abruptly, and she finds herself standing like a shot, her wand in her hand in one single movement. She holds it out in front of her defensively- a stance that is very much compulsive as it is muscle memory.
Her first thought as she comes face to face with a man- a wizard, is that he’s too mature to be a student. Her second is that he might be a new professor, an awfully young one at that. It’s rude to presume, to guess at a professor's age but Hermione thinks he looks at least thirty, maybe even younger.
Truthfully, such an observation matters very little- Witches and Wizards age inexplicably slowly once reaching adulthood. For all Hermione knows, he could be much, much older.
He’s plainly dressed, a buttoned white shirt, simple brown waistcoat, and fitted outer robes that flow outwards as they reach his ankles- so definitely not a student, she thinks. And if she were hard pressed to admit it, he is rather attractive- all sharp edges and dark eyes, with the kind of impeccably styled hair Hermione envies.
She is most certain that she’s never laid eyes on this wizard before, but Hermione is flooded with a sudden mass of recognition. It is rather curious, she thinks. Because she swears that she knows him from somewhere. It’s curious, because it is an odd kind of recognition, both familiar and yet entirely unknown at the same time.
Curious , because his eyes are as dark as the depths of the black lake. Bottomless, endless. As if no light could possibly reside in them. And those dark, dark eyes are on her- evaluating her as much as hers are of him.
His gaze unnerves Hermione in a way she can’t possibly fathom.
It has all been but a single moment, barely a few seconds, and he’s looking at her with an expression she can only describe as subtle amusement.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he says, and his voice is smooth, perfect in pronunciation, “this is the only compartment I’ve come across that isn’t full.”
There is a beat of silence, then, and Hermione blinks slowly, noticing his gaze flicker down to her wand, still drawn and aimed at his chest, a tug of amusement on his lips.
“It would be wise of you to lower your wand,” he says pointedly, nodding to where she’s clasping her wand tightly.
“ Oh , right, yes,” she says, flustered and slightly embarrassed at having drawn her wand on someone who is very likely one of her new professors, “sorry.”
She lowers her wand, but doesn’t pocket it just yet- she still feels the unnerved beat of her heart in her veins, still doesn’t know who this man- this wizard is for certain.
“I apologise if I startled you,” he says, voice a calm, low rumble, and then he gestures towards the seat directly to his right, “do you mind if I take a seat?”
Hermione nods once, hoping the small, polite smile she gives him is convincing. He steps further into the compartment then, his broad frame taking up quite a chunk of the space, and he stores away a simple brown briefcase on the storage railing above their heads.
“I take it you’re one of the new professors this year?” she asks, if only to answer the immense curiosity she feels- she’s heard that several of the staff at Hogwarts had chosen to take a respite year or had left entirely- much like many students.
He takes a seat on the other side of the compartment, sitting with one fluid movement. He’s exuding confidence, she thinks, a charisma of the likes she’s hardly ever seen. The thought dissipates some of the edge she feels in his presence, but she remains on guard- it would be stupid of her not to be.
“Indeed I am,” he replies, giving her a curt smile- a charismatic one at that, but one that doesn’t meet his eyes, “I do believe I’ve neglected to introduce myself, which is terribly improper of me-”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, smile still broad and curt.
“I’m Professor Rydell, and who might you be?”
This is the part Hermione has grown to hate over the summer. Where she divulges her name, and the other person, or persons for that matter, are awed, immediately greeting her as if they know her, as if they are already great friends, commenting on her braveness, of her heroism during the war-
She really, truly hates it. Detests it and the spotlight that has been unnecessarily thrown onto her. Unlike Harry and Ron, she can’t bring herself to bask in it. It makes her uncomfortable.
And she’s uncomfortable now, as she too slowly takes her seat, on the very far left side of the carriage, keeping a somewhat safe distance.
“I’m Hermione Granger,” she says, keeping her voice as placid as she can, just waiting to see the sense of recognition to filter over his sharp features- “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor.”
The recognition doesn’t come. No change, no expression flickers across his face, aside from the return of his pleasant, polite smile. He doesn’t even comment, at least not on who she is.
“And the same to you, Miss Granger,” is his prompt reply.
She’s truly baffled for a moment, because she expected an exclamation of some kind, of “oh Hermione Granger! The Golden Girl! How wonderful!”. She’s baffled until she realises a great sense of relief has overcome her, the edge she’s been feeling dissipating some more.
Hermione thanks Merlin that this professor doesn’t seem to recognise her, that she might be able to avoid any bias, be a student, and just a student, nothing more, nothing less- in whatever class he’s set to teach. She almost smiles at the prospect, tugging her arithmancy book onto her lap. And actually, she’s curious now she’s thought about it-
“What subject will you be teaching, professor?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.
He pauses, a book he’s just pulled from the pocket of his robes firmly grasped in his left hand, and he meets her gaze across the space.
“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he replies, politely, and then the side of his lip is quirking, “I’ve heard it's both a coveted and cursed position at Hogwarts.”
“It’s true that they say the position is cursed- we’ve never had the same professor for longer than a year,” she says, adjusting the tome in her lap, “most befall some unfortunate end.”
She wonders if he’ll ask what those ends might have been, thinks it’s rather odd that he doesn’t know, really, but doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t ask about it, although the side of his lip quirks again, as if he’s amused.
“And what about you, Miss Granger?” he asks, with a sense of curiosity in his voice, “will you be taking my subject this year?”
In response, Hermione nods, “yes professor, I’ll be in your eighth year class.”
A brief flicker of recognition filters across his otherwise entirely polite expression, and Hermione can’t seem to think of any reason why.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, professor,” she says, “but why are you travelling with the students to Hogwarts- surely the other professors will already be there?”
Hermione is briefly reminded of the trio's first encounter with professor Lupin- and simultaneously both a small pang of loss and of unease pokes at her gut. Nothing good has ever come from a professor joining the students on the Hogwarts Express and she dearly misses Remus. Finds herself biting the inside of her cheek to ground herself, pulling away from the raw emotion she feels.
The professor- professor Rydell is watching her, studying her. She fights the urge to squirm under the attention, hopes to all hope that he can’t see the change in her demeanor, in her emotions, really hopes that if he has, he doesn’t ask about it.
“I had a few last minute errands to run in London,” he explains, eyes assessing, “hence my appearance on this train.”
She finds that she wants to ask what those errands were, but knows that it would definitely be prying, definitely a step over the line of academics and professionalism. So she keeps her curiosity at bay.
Instead, she goes back to her book, back to attempting to pass the time.
Only now, does she return her wand to her pocket.
Hermione can’t help herself.
Not long into the journey to Hogwarts, she briefly looks up from her book to observe the new professor. Mostly because she’s curious- about him , who he is, why on earth a professor could look so young, the book he’s currently engrossed in, but more so because of the familiarity he poses.
She can’t put her finger on why he’s so absurdly familiar, and it’s all the more perplexing.
And so she observes him, as carefully and nonchalantly as she can. He’s sitting with perfect posture, almost entirely rigid. The book- ‘ Tewix Tragron’s Tinctures of Tragic Natures’ - one of Hermione’s recent reads, is propped open between his hands over his lap.
His face is controlled, placid but with a single, dark eyebrow raised as if in intense thought. Hermione wonders what he’s thinking, if perhaps he’s enjoying the book- wonders actually, at which tincture he’s on, because some of the concoctions included in it are immensely useful and she rather wants to know which is so far his favourite, as a professor in the dark arts.
He brings his thumb up to his mouth then, lips Hermione knows the other girls in her year will likely be swooning over soon- lips that part in order for his thumb to press against his tongue, a delicate wet and pink in order to catch the corner of the page he’s on and turn it.
Before a flush can even begin to blossom across her cheeks, he’s tilting his head, his dark, dark eyes latching onto her- she’s caught, caught staring. Oh bugger .
“Your book,” she says, dipping her chin towards the book held in his immaculately groomed hands, “how far along are you?”
She hopes to Merlin that her cover-up is good enough, that the young professor will see her staring as being simply curious over his reading material- oh, who is she trying to fool? He’s an attractive man, he likely gets attention from all manner of people on a daily basis. No, he probably thinks she’s gawping like a foolish schoolgirl.
He hasn’t said anything, she realises- he’s just sitting there, his gaze unwavering as he assesses her- his gaze is polite, she thinks, but somehow it still manages to unnerve her in that same way she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s almost as if he’s putting it on, the pleasantness, but she can’t be sure why. She shifts in her seat, offering him a small pleasant smile.
“Only, I’ve already read this one- Tragron’s latest in the series and I wondered if you found any of the potions to be interesting,” Hermione has an awful habit of babbling when she’s nervous, which makes it incredibly difficult to lie- but that’s besides the point, “from a dark arts perspective, of course- some of the tinctures he included are rather dark, but I can see how a few could be useful and I don’t want to ruin your reading so-”
“You’ve read this?” he asks, indicating towards the book in his hand, and if she isn’t looking at him, babbling away like she is, she might not have noticed the slight tick in his jaw, the minute upturn of his lips- he’s amused, perhaps.
“Oh, yes,” she replies, shifting to turn towards him, closing her own book in her lap, “I’ve read all of Tragron’s works, I find potions to be very interesting.”
“You’re reading a series that is highly advanced- far beyond NEWTs level?” he asks, and it amuses her, the surprise in his voice. She nods quickly in response.
“ Interesting ,” and the word is inflected with something , what Hermione might call praise. She’d be a liar if she’d said it doesn’t fill her with some dizzying sense of pride. That a new professor already appears to be impressed with her academic skill- one that isn’t offering her praise based on the war, just simply on the present.
“Much less interesting than some of the tinctures referenced in Tragron’s book, I assure you,” she responds, a half genuine smile tugging at her lips, “my personal favourite is the indevconfuto- the draught of immobility.”
“How so?”
Hermione is most pleased to be given an opportunity to discuss it further.
“I rather think it’s interesting that whilst the two main ingredients, foxglove and toadfish liver are both fatal poisons on their own, when combined in the draught of immobility, the poisonous attributes are brewed out, leaving only the characteristics that attribute to halting the bodies muscle functions, rendering the user unable to move- it’s quite fascinating isn’t it? And rather useful.”
“Both fascinating and of an incredibly dark nature,” he replies, an eyebrow raised in her direction, questioning, “tell me, should I be concerned about your reading habits, Miss Granger?”
His words give Hermione pause. And then she feels a rather large spike of indignation rise inside of her, because really - the draught of immobility is the least dark tincture featured in that book, and she thinks it’s rather rude of him to suggest that she , a student- one that fought a dark wizard- would be interested in the potion because it’s of a dark nature, and actually she really thinks she should give him a piece of her mind-
The door to the compartment opens, then.
Hermione’s pulse quickens at the sharp sound, and she finds herself moving defensively, her eyes shifting to look from the young professor towards the door. Her fingers, having slid from her book, are twitching over her pocket again. Feels the static between her fingertips and her wand.
“Anything from the trolley, dears?”
Hermione lets out a puff of air.
She really should be getting over this. Over her skittish and jumpy behaviour at the slightest sound- it makes her feel broken, wrong. Everyone else is over the war, almost entirely back to normal, and yet- yet she feels like a constant mess , out of control. Hermione shakes her head quickly, her stomach once again in knots. She’s suddenly lost any appetite she may have had.
The Trolley witch smiles brightly at them both, and Hermione gives her one in return, hoping it looks convincing.
The professor- professor Rydell asks about what sweets she has, and the Trolley witch begins to list off the various sweets and snacks she has available.
A shock of white blonde hair appears behind the trolley, then. Hermione feels frozen in place as she meets the slate grey eyes of Draco Malfoy over the witches shoulder. The grey in them reminds Hermione briefly of the stormy skies outside of the train, and she notes the dark skin under his eyes, the sullen look of his face. He looks tired, she thinks. Tired and broken - almost as broken as Hermione feels.
The thought has an awfully strange effect on Hermione. She feels suddenly grounded, half relieved, half confused. Because she thinks she may have found someone else that’s broken, someone else, perhaps, who hasn’t fully moved on from the war. The notion, it feels- intense, to say the least.
She hasn’t seen him since his trial, months ago. If he’s surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it. Instead, as usual, Malfoy has a careful mask of indifference plastered on his face. In fact, even though they’re locking eyes, his directly on her own, it’s as if he hasn’t even seen her. As if he’s looking right through her. Right into her soul. Hermione knows she’s likely the opposite, feels her face contort into something that might not be perceived as pleasant.
The skin of her scar itches under her jumper. She ignores it.
It’s only a moment, half a second perhaps, and then his eyes are gone, and he’s stalking off down the corridor, out of sight. Behind him follows another Slytherin. Dark hair and dark eyes- Nott, Hermione thinks briefly, but unlike Malfoy, he’s appraising her with his eyes as he passes.
Her face is likely still twisted into an unpleasant grimace as she looks at him. Being under his gaze like this makes her feel uncomfortable, as if he is picking her apart physically.
Again, this interaction is nothing more than a second at most, and he is gone, too.
But Hermione feels breathless, her pulse reverberating under her skin and the weight on her feels more intense, if anything, more brutal than before. Hermione wonders how she’ll make it through this year, she’s already exhausted- already a ruddy mess from a fleeting look held with two slytherins, for Godric's sake. She focuses on keeping her breathing even and hopes that the professor hasn’t noticed.
It would seem the professor has decided against any of the sweets the Trolley witch has on offer, and he’s sliding back into his seat. He seems to be observing her again, and she wonders how much he may have witnessed, just then. Decides that even if he asks, it’s none of his business, either way.
The compartment feels smaller than before, and she feels rather like she’s drowning in the tension. She needs to get out, get some air- calm herself before the turmoil becomes obvious.
She clears her throat.
“I’m going to find my friends,” she says, hoping her lie is convincing.
She doesn’t linger to find out, to see the professor’s face- she grabs her bag, and immediately slips out of the cabin.
She doesn’t know where she’s going.
Maybe she’ll find Ginny- maybe even Luna or Neville, and hopefully get a hold of herself before she does.
Hermione keeps moving, through cabin after cabin, quickly peering into each compartment as she does so. In one cabin, she thinks she sees Luna, long blonde hair in her peripheral-
She finds herself colliding with someone instead. A pair of large hands come up to her arms to steady her.
“Sorry Hermione, I didn’t see you there.”
And she knows the voice, knows she’ll see the wiry hair of Cormac McLaggen before she even lays eyes on him.
Cormac is broad and tall, and Hermione finds she has to take a step back in order to peer up at him. He’s wearing a wry smile- his hands are still on her arms, an entirely unnecessary act, she thinks. But she’s dealt with him before, knows he’s the furthest from gentlemanly any wizard can possibly be.
He’s appraising her with his eyes now, doing so with very little covertness. Appraising her for longer than is particularly necessary.
“Cormac, I hope you’re doing well?” she says, removing herself from his sticky grasp, ensuring there is a decent sized gap between them.
He offers her a smug smile in return, and it’s only now she realises she’s given him an open opportunity to talk about himself -
“Indeed, Hermione, I’ve been rather well actually, been offered loads of positions as keeper-”
And so it begins, she thinks. McLaggen continues his tirade of nonsense about all of the amazing opportunities he’s been given for showing such braveness and initiative during the battle at Hogwarts, all manner of self-obsessed assertions.
Hermione finds herself gritting her teeth, much like she did when she’d taken him to Slughorn’s club a few years ago. She also finds that Cormac’s lack of consideration, his absolutely annoying monologue about his summer has her thoroughly grounded once more, and she’s only ever so thankful for it. Feeling slightly more in control, she nods quickly at whatever it is he’s saying now and begins to slink away from him.
“Terribly sorry, Cormac- I was looking for Ginny,” she says quickly, assertively. He looks slightly affronted, but doesn’t move to follow her, “I’ll be seeing you!”
She turns abruptly on her heel and briskly begins making her way back the way she’d come, back down the carriage.
“-but Ginny is at the front of the train- you’re going the wrong way-”
Hermione finds that she really rather dislikes McLaggen.
She doesn’t stop walking.
Ginny’s hand is in hers, gripping tightly as they fumble through the horde of students on the platform at Hogsmeade. Her redheaded friend gives her a brief smile, one of encouragement and reassurance, she’s sure.
She must be feeling the sudden hesitation in Hermione’s pace, the drawback between their held hands, as they approach the carriages that signal Ginny’s departure with the new first years.
“I’ve got to go,” her redheaded friend says, gesturing towards the gaggle of tiny first years still on the platform, looking even smaller in comparison to the towering figure of Hagrid, who's trying to keep them all together- and doing a rather terrible job of it, she might add.
Hermione feels herself nodding, letting go of Ginny’s hand. She’d only just managed to locate the redhead before they’d gotten off the train. So far she’s seen very little of her fellow Gryffindor’s, and she’s feeling all the more anxious for it.
Ginny departs then with a lingering glance, and Hermione quickly scans the crowd for someone she can join, someone to endure the ride to Hogwarts with. Feels a pang as her stomach ties itself into knots when she sees no one she recognises enough to join. She thinks briefly of Ron and Harry, and how dearly she misses them at this moment.
She fiddles with the strap on her bag as she makes her way towards the carriages. And then she spots a taller, slightly looming frame in the throng of students, with a dark mass of immaculately styled hair, a set of long, dark- definitely not student uniform- robes billowing in the wind.
“Professor Rydell,” she says, as she manages to reach his side.
He hadn’t been in the compartment when she’d returned, leaving the space entirely empty and uninviting. She wonders where he’d gone and why -
“Miss Granger, I believe I’ve got something of yours ,” he says, withdrawing her arithmancy book- the one she now realises she’d left behind when she’d fled earlier.
“Oh, thank you, Sir,” she replies, a soft blush of embarrassment tinging her cheeks. She mentally berates herself- both the forgotten book and blush entirely uncharacteristic of her.
She really is broken, she thinks.
Taking her book from the professor, she stores it away in her bag. She wonders if he’s going to take the carriages like the students, and if so perhaps they might be able to share-
“Hermione!” comes Neville’s voice, and she’s both pleasantly surprised and relieved to see his bulky frame appearing through the throng of students.
She’s enveloped in a large, immensely warm hug when he reaches her, a smile plastered on his face. Hermione can’t help but return it, even if she doesn’t truly feel it reaching her eyes.
“Do you want to join our carriage?” he asks, gesturing behind him- where Luna, and another girl. Susan Bones- are seated.
“Oh yes, please,” she replies, and then finds herself turning, to both introduce Neville to Professor Rydell and ask if he’d like to join-
But the professor has already left, retreating through the gaggle of students, his robes billowing out around his ankles. As she follows Neville towards the carriage, she can’t help but think about him again- about the strange recognition she’s felt, the odd manner in which he’s arrived at Hogwarts, the dark, emotionless wells of his eyes. She’s left with one distinct notion:
There’s something not quite right about professor Rydell.
