Chapter Text
June 18th, 1999. Hogwarts.
Fresh off her N.E.W.T.s (which had gone spectacularly, if she could say so herself — amazing what one can accomplish without the threat of imminent death overhead…), Hermione Granger was ready to take on the world. Exactly how, or doing what, was still to be determined, but she would figure it out. Eventually. Probably after a nap. And a few overly complicated lists. Not necessarily in that order.
It was turning summer at Hogwarts. The green foliage had all but exploded from every nook and cranny outside, like some exuberant charm had been cast over the grounds — one that encouraged life to burst forth in every shade of green imaginable. The lake shimmered in the sunlight like molten sapphire, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted lazily through the open windows. Every once in awhile the Giant Squid could be seen poking one long tentacle out of the water, as if waving at the passing students. Even the ever-damp, stone-cold dungeon floors were finally yielding to the persistent warmth in the air.
Yes, it was a beautiful day, and Hermione was determined to enjoy it. Do something fun. Adventurous. Possibly ill-advised. Maybe sneak down to the kitchens to swipe some extra sweets and a pumpkin juice, or, better yet, seek out some of the firewhisky that she knew Ginny Weasley had tucked away behind an intimidating wall of Quidditch gear in the Gryffindor changing room. Break a few final rules, for old times’ sake, before she went out into the wide, magical world and did… well, whatever it is that wizarding folk do with their 150-year-average lifespans.
She had no doubt she’d end up doing something “important,” as people often reminded her — some with awe, others with the weighty kind of expectation that made her feel a little itchy under the skin. She’d earned that, hadn’t she? Bravery, intelligence, and trauma, all neatly rolled into a very precocious nineteen-year-old. War hero. Scholar. Witch.
But she wasn’t thinking about all that now. Right now, there was sunshine, a light breeze rustling through the high towers, and the comforting background hum of students who were too close to the end of the term to worry about rules or deadlines. Life was temporarily simple, or as simple as it could be when one was a witch.
She just needed to get through her meeting with Professor McGonagall first — Headmistress McGonagall, really, though that was as hard to get used to as the woman’s request for Hermione to call her Minerva. Hermione wasn’t quite sure she could manage it without her tongue turning to lead in her mouth, or her cheeks turning redder than Ron’s ears after a scolding from Molly Weasley.
She’d been surprised to receive the summons earlier that day — surprised not only by the message itself, but by its timing. Professor McGonagall was nothing if not organized, precise to the second, and to summon Hermione with only a few hours’ notice, especially with the tone of urgency that the note had conveyed — well, it was nigh on unusual.
Hermione was curious. And she’d spent enough years at Hogwarts to know that curiosity, while it certainly did not “kill the cat” as the Muggles say — well, it had as a matter of fact once turned her into one. Good memories now, in a way. In hindsight. But at the time… rather uncomfortable.
No, something was definitely up. Trouble! Which, after an extremely calm, relaxing, non-eventful (boring!) year, actually did make her just a little bit excited. Unsettled, of course. But also, admittedly, tingly with anticipation.
Just as she was poised to rap her knuckles against the ornate wooden door to the Headmaster’s office, it swung open with a little too much force, and she found herself nose to nose with the rather harried face of her former professor.
“Hermione! Good, good, dear, come in, come in.” Professor McGonagall’s words tumbled out in a rush, her Scottish brogue thicker than usual. That in itself was telling. Hermione had seen Minerva McGonagall face down Death Eaters, Ministry inquisitors, and raging magical beasts with a tight-lipped calm that could have frozen fire. But now, now she looked… anxious?
McGonagall turned and gestured for Hermione to follow, striding across the room toward the vast, many-drawered desk that still seemed to carry the scent of lemon drops and tobacco from a former, twinkly-eyed occupant.
Hermione stepped inside, the thick rug muffling her footsteps, and felt the familiar hush of the office settle around her. The portraits on the walls were mostly dozing, Phineas Nigellus giving her a side-eye as he pretended not to listen, and Fawkes’ empty perch stood near the window like a quiet monument to something long past.
“Please, sit. Would you like some tea? Biscuits? There’s still a veritable treasure trove of sweets in here somewhere from Albus…”
Hermione shook her head politely. “No, thank you. I’m alright.”
McGonagall paused mid-reach, her hand hovering near a tea tin as if it had acted of its own accord. She seemed disappointed, or maybe just unsettled — as if she’d wanted a few more moments to gather herself before diving in.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I… I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here today.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving McGonagall’s face.
“The truth is,” the Headmistress said, walking around the desk and opening a lower drawer, “I have something for you. Some things, actually.”
Hermione leaned forward as McGonagall pulled out three scrolls: intricately wrapped in ribbons of silver, gold, and a black that shimmered as if threaded with starlight. Each scroll pulsed faintly with magic, laid reverently side-by-side on the oak desk.
The professor examined them for a moment, her expression clouded with something unreadable. Awe, trepidation. She looked from one scroll to the next, lips pursed, brow drawn.
Hermione reached out instinctively, curiosity overriding decorum, but McGonagall’s hand shot out, fingers grasping her wrist gently but firmly.
“Careful,” she said, voice low and serious. “These are war stakes. For you, yes — but only if you accept them. You are not obliged. You may accept only one.”
Hermione paused. The words pinged in her memory, sparking a flicker of recognition that darted maddeningly just out of reach. War stakes. Where had she read about those before? An old law book, perhaps. Or one of those dusty, restricted section tomes she wasn’t supposed to have access to but had read anyway.
She was about to ask when something distracted her — a tendril of magic, strong and alive, curling out from the first scroll. It reached toward her wrist, brushing against her skin like a curious whisper. It tugged, gently, insistently, pulling her hand closer.
She gasped softly. The scroll vibrated beneath her fingers, not quite humming but thrumming, as if it had a heartbeat of its own. It felt… familiar?
She let her own magic rise to meet it, fingers trembling slightly. The magic that flowed from the scroll tangled with her own in a slow, spiraling dance, setting goosebumps racing up her arm and down her spine. She knew this magic. Not exactly, but almost. It reminded her of—
“Well, do consider the others, too.”
McGonagall’s voice broke the trance. Hermione blinked, shaken from her reverie, and realized her fingers were already halfway around the scroll, though not yet touching. She forced herself to pull back.
Her hand hovered now over the second scroll. Its magic was softer, warmer. It greeted her like a woolen jumper on a cold day. Familiar. Comforting. But not thrilling. It didn’t stir her blood. It didn’t call to something deep inside her.
The third scroll was… different. As her hand neared it, she felt a sharp crackle, like static electricity. The magic was more shielded, more dangerous. Not malevolent, but unpredictable. Wild. It felt like a cliff edge: exhilarating and terrifying all at once. She withdrew her hand instinctively.
Her eyes went back to the first scroll. That pull, that recognition, hadn’t faded. In fact, it felt stronger now, as if her hesitation had made it more determined. She knew whose magic this was, not in the sense of a name or identity, but in the core of her bones. In her magic.
She didn’t know what it contained. Or why it was for her. But she trusted it in that strange way one trusts a familiar song heard in a dream. She wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.
Best to grab the dragon by its scales — both literally and figuratively (especially if one was breaking out from Gringotts, but that was neither here nor there).
Hermione reached out, this time without hesitation, and grasped the first scroll.
The magic ignited at once, winding up her arm in bands of light so bright they seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. She gasped as the sensation intensified — dizzying, overwhelming, like being caught in a storm of memory and power. Her knees buckled slightly, but she remained standing, rooted to the spot by sheer force of will.
Just as the black spots started to gather at the edges of her vision, she heard them.
Voices.
Three distinct ones — familiar in that way dreams are familiar, impossibly real.
“Yes! I told you so.”
“Only because you cheated!”
“Shh… both of you!”