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Lucky that only the building went down. No casualties.
Buildings, wizards can fix with a flick of the wand. The dead, unfortunately, don't come back so easily.
"By the way," a young Auror piped up, "Granger used Dark Magic in public. Fiendfyre, no less — second only to the Unforgivable Curses. What's the appropriate sentence?"
Silence.
Dead silence.
Every head turned toward him. Every face wore the same expression: the look reserved for someone spectacularly, irredeemably stupid.
"Dark Magic?" An older Auror was the first to speak. "What Dark Magic? Where? I didn't see any Dark Magic."
"Fiendfyre?" another chimed in. "That was clearly an ordinary Fire-Making Spell. You must have been mistaken."
"Also — 'Granger?' Is that how you address her?"
"Everyone will refer to her as the Witch!"
The room erupted in agreement.
"Absolutely. Lady Witch!"
"Fiendfyre? Nonsense. Standard Fire-Making Spell, nothing more."
"Son, if your eyesight's that poor, maybe Auror work isn't for you!"
Fudge recovered himself and added, "If you can confuse Fiendfyre with a Fire-Making Spell, I have to question your fitness for the department."
"Report to the administrative office tomorrow."
The young Auror looked like he'd been struck by lightning.
...
Leaving the Ministry behind, Hermione walked with one hand resting contentedly against the bag on her chest.
What could she say? The Ministry was a treasure trove on two legs. The sheer amount of good material in there was staggering.
She was already considering whether to make regular restocking trips.
Snape followed a few steps behind, expression dark, a flicker of envy moving through his eyes despite himself.
"I didn't think you'd actually refrain from killing anyone," he said at last, unable to help himself. The tone was the same as ever , sardonic, needling.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. Old bat. You say that like I've got some kind of bloodlust, she thought.
"Headmaster Dumbledore made a specific request. I could hardly refuse the old man."
She certainly wasn't going to admit she'd never planned on killing anyone.
If she'd actually wanted a body count, the Ministry would be a crematorium by now. That Sectumsempra wouldn't have simply gutted Umbridge , it would have taken her head clean off.
Today's real purpose wasn't to establish fear. That was secondary. The main goal was to raise Tony and Lockhart's standing within the Ministry, cement their weight in the right rooms.
When the moment came, she'd kick Fudge out of her Ministry.
As for Umbridge?
Handing her to Lockhart was the same as keeping her in her own hands. Just moving her from the left to the right.
They're all mine. What exactly are you planning to fight me with?
Snape was quiet for a moment. His gaze sharpened on Hermione. "Sectumsempra. Where did you learn it?"
Hermione blinked. "Oh — you noticed?"
His face gave nothing away, voice low. "I can still recognize my own spell."
Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth in exaggerated surprise, eyes bright. "I found an old textbook in the Potions classroom bookcase , belonged to someone called the Half-Blood Prince. It was all written in the margins." She tilted her head. "So Professor Snape, that's you, isn't it?"
"If you didn't want anyone learning it, you really should have kept track of your own books."
The corner of Snape's mouth twitched.
It felt exactly like watching some mortifying piece of teenage history get excavated and handed to one of the two people he would least want to see it. His edgiest, most embarrassing self, scratched into margins in a secondhand textbook, now in her hands.
Worse , she was casting his spell better than he did.
Where was he supposed to put his face?
His skin prickled, hot and stinging, as if Fiendfyre had kissed it.
He should have burned that wretched book.
They walked in silence for a stretch. Then Snape spoke again. "You probably don't know the counter-curse for Sectumsempra. Would you like to learn it?"
Hermione blinked. Easy, relaxed. "No need. I already know it."
Snape frowned. "When? Where did you learn it? I don't recall writing it in my notes."
The next second, something clicked. His pupils contracted. His voice came out slightly off-pitch. "Was it , back then?"
Hermione smiled and nodded. "It was."
She raised her wand in a light, unhurried motion. A flash of white.
"Vulnera Sanentur."
The magical signature was unmistakable. Authentic. Achingly familiar.
Snape went still.
He stared at her with undisguised disbelief.
The Sectumsempra counter-curse was no simple charm. Even he had needed years to develop it fully. The only time he had used it recently was just now, at the Ministry, mending Umbridge.
He had used it for all of a few minutes.
And she had been standing right there the whole time , fighting off a small army of Aurors , apparently glancing over once or twice in between , and just absorbed it?
Snape genuinely wanted to swear.
Is your magic just copy and paste?!
It was as absurd as walking down the street and having some random Auror sprint up to him and announce: "I'm Voldemort, actually not dead, currently working as Hermione's lackey, urgently need funds to reassemble the Death Eaters, send me fifty Galleons, and when I take over the wizarding world I'll make you Headmaster of Hogwarts."
That level of absurd.
After a long moment, Snape exhaled.
Fine. He was done trying to understand the peculiar humanoid creature walking beside him. The world had no shortage of unsolved mysteries. One more wouldn't tip the balance.
Still , small mercies , Hermione hadn't killed a single person today.
He supposed that was something.
...Huh.
He stopped.
Was his bar really that low now?
...
The next morning, Hermione walked into the Great Hall and felt immediately that something was wrong.
The hall had been noisy. The moment she stepped through the doors, the noise cut off like someone had thrown a switch. Every head turned. Everyone seemed to be sneaking looks at her.
A few of the bolder ones mouthed words to the person beside them, voices barely above a whisper.
Hermione blinked. ...What?
She'd gotten used to a certain level of this since the "Witch" name started spreading, but today felt different. Sharper. Stranger.
She walked straight to the Gryffindor table and dropped into the seat beside Harry and Ron.
"What's going on with you two?"
She asked it absently, glancing over the menu , the same as always, the same as it had probably been for a hundred years: chips and bread covering every inch of the table. Her face did something involuntary and unflattering.
She picked up a piece, spread some butter on it, raised it toward her mouth, then lowered it. Raised it again. Lowered it again.
Open. Close. Hesitate.
After a visible internal battle, she forced it in, chewed twice, and swallowed with the grim efficiency of someone taking medicine.
Harry watched her face go through its entire performance , the wince, the scrunched nose, the pained swallow , and looked deeply unimpressed.
Was it really that bad?
He thought it was fine.
He sighed. "You don't know?"
Hermione squinted. "Should I?"
Ron slid a newspaper across the table without a word. Read it yourself.
She picked it up with mild curiosity, took one look at the front page, and nearly choked on the bread she'd barely managed to get down.
It was the Daily Prophet.
Front page. Full headline. A photograph of the Ministry of Magic in ruins.
➤ Next: Tom, Someone Here Wants to Date You
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