The week settled into a predictable rhythm. The Slytherin student body gave her a wide berth, a silent, mobile bubble of space that followed her through the corridors. Her fellow Slytherins, having witnessed her power firsthand or heard the terrified whispers, treated her with fear, and surprisingly, a wary, grudging respect. They did not speak to her, but they no longer sneered.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall's lectures were crisp and heavily theoretical, front-loaded with standard, dire warnings about the dangers of the branch. Hermione didn't bother furiously transcribing what she had already read. Instead she waited for the occasional kernels of knowledge that seemed to slip over the heads of every other students, the kind of nuances that came only with decades of mastery.
Wednesday night's ascent to the Astronomy Tower, by contrast, was almost entirely trivial. Astronomy had been a passionate childhood hobby of his, a lifetime ago, making the introductory Hogwarts star charts feel like remedial preschool. While the other first-years shivered in the biting night air and fumbled blindly with their new brass telescopes, she didn't waste time after casually mapping the assigned constellations. Instead, she simply adjusted her lenses toward the deepest, clearest pockets of the cosmos, passing the class time in peaceful silence as she lost herself in the quiet, breathtaking beauty of the unfiltered night sky.
The first true test came during their double Potions period on Friday, shared with the Gryffindors. The air in the dungeon was cold and smelled of bitter herbs. Snape swept into the room, his presence a wave of absolute authority that silenced all chatter. His gaze flickered over the students, lingering on Harry with open contempt before settling on Hermione for a few moments, but with a look of cold, analytical curiosity.
He began the class with his iconic, terrifying speech about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making, his voice a low, menacing drawl. Then came the interrogation. He targeted Harry, firing off questions about bezoars and wolfsbane. Harry, predictably, was left stammering and humiliated.
"Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything," Snape sneered, before his eyes swept the room. "You will be brewing a simple Cure for Boils. The instructions are on the blackboard. You will work in pairs."
A low groan went through the class. Immediately, a wave of social maneuvering began as students scrambled to find partners. Hermione remained still, an untouchable island in the quiet chaos. Most students paired off quickly, leaving a few stragglers looking around nervously.
Before Snape could begin assigning the remaining students, Daphne Greengrass, who had been standing near her own cauldron, made a decision. With a quiet, decisive grace that drew a few curious looks, she picked up her bag of ingredients and walked directly over to Hermione's desk, setting them down with a soft click.
Hermione rose an eyebrow at that, looking at her supplies, then at Daphne. Daphne responded in kind, raising an eyebrow of her own, as if saying, *You got a problem?* Hermione just shrugged, and they both got to work.
They worked in a state of unnerving, silent synchronicity. There was no need for discussion. When Hermione reached for the dried nettles, Daphne had already set the mortar and pestle on the desk. As Daphne measured out the horned slugs, Hermione was already adjusting the flame beneath their cauldron to the precise temperature. Hermione found Daphne to be a good partner, by her standards. No nonsense talk which some people start, when is awkward as hell, especially when they are practically strangers, and more importantly, actually following the instructions properly, a rare skill indeed.
Hermione also found a quiet satisfaction in the process. This was chemistry. The reactions, the precise measurements, the careful application of heat—it was the science she had loved in her first life, just with more interesting ingredients and properties. For the first time, she felt genuinely engaged in a class, actually having fun.
At the end of the class, Snape swept through the dungeon, his black robes billowing. He sneered at a melted cauldron on the Gryffindor side, berated Harry even more, vanished a foul-smelling potion, and finally stopped before their desk.
He dipped a glass phial into their cauldron, drawing out a sample of the perfectly smooth, turquoise potion. He held it to the light, his black eyes searching for any flaw. He found none.
"Acceptable," he said, the word clipped. Then, to the shock of the entire class, he added, "Five points to Slytherin." His gaze settled on Hermione, and in his eyes, she saw a strange, unnerving glint. It wasn't the probing attack of Legilimency; her mental shields registered no impact, at least she didn't detect any. It was something else.
Their final class of the week was Defence Against the Dark Arts. The classroom reeked of garlic, a smell that seemed to emanate directly from their nervous, stuttering teacher, Professor Quirrell. His purple turban, she noted, gave off an even fouler odour, a faint, almost imperceptible stench of decay and corruption that clung to him like a shroud. It was the smell of Voldemort.
Throughout the lesson, a tedious lecture on warding against vampire bites, she could feel Quirrell's eyes on her. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw him glancing at her repeatedly, his nervous twitch intensifying whenever his gaze fell upon the Muggle-born in Slytherin.
She acted her part perfectly, feigning a mild, studious interest, never meeting his gaze directly. Her mind, however, was running a cold, hard calculation. Knowing her luck from a previous lifetime, a direct confrontation felt almost inevitable at some point. She ran the numbers.
Voldemort's current form is weak and unstable. I could likely overwhelm him, especially in a longer confrontation. Probability of success: 60-70%.
The odds were acceptable, if not ideal. Still, she would try to maintain a low profile around him for as long as possible. She kept her head down, a model of non-threatening compliance. The time to deal with him would come, but she would choose that time, not let fate or bad luck choose it for her.
Finally, Friday afternoon arrived. The last bell rang, and the week was over. The weekend was here, and that brought time. Now, the real work could begin.