Evening in the library—this was Hermione Granger's domain.
The last rays of sunset sliced through the narrow Gothic windows, casting dappled light across the long tables.
Her small frame was nearly swallowed by the towering stacks of books around her. That signature wild bush of hair—untamed from neglect—stuck out even more wildly, bristling over her shoulders like a startled young lion refusing anyone near.
When Harry and Ron shuffled closer, Hermione didn't look up. The dying sunlight fell across her still slightly baby-round face, catching the gleam on her now-even front teeth.
Normally those teeth would tap restlessly against her lower lip while she lectured at length. Today they were clamped tight, leaving no gap.
"Hermione, um…" Harry started awkwardly, trying to break the suffocating silence. "We brought you some smoked-ham sandwiches. You skipped breakfast and lunch."
Madam Pince glanced over, clearly registering the disturbance—then turned away as though nothing had happened.
"Leave them there." Hermione's voice was flat, without inflection.
She reached out without looking, pulling two neatly rolled parchments from beneath the heavy legal tomes on her left.
One was a History of Magic revision outline; the other, corrected notes on moonstone-powder processing for Potions. She pushed them across the table.
"Oh—thanks, Hermione, you're…" Ron began, almost smiling in relief—then caught her expression and swallowed the rest.
Harry's hand—still holding the sandwiches—froze mid-air.
He glanced down at the notes. The handwriting was immaculate; every key point highlighted in different inks. His own draft essay on vampire defense had been savaged in red—every mistake dissected with surgical precision.
Hermione kept her head down, continuing to write.
Her face stayed buried in the pages. All Harry could see was the bloodless line of her tightly pressed lips and the faint tremble of her lashes with each stroke.
Harry set the sandwiches awkwardly on the edge of the book pile. The warm, greasy scent of food felt painfully out of place.
Hermione ignored them.
Her quill dipped into the inkwell. Her eyes returned to The 1709 Wizarding Convention and Its Amendments.
Harry caught the title on the parchment in front of her:
Legal Loopholes in High-Risk Magical Creature Keeping and Emergency Hearing Procedures.
"That's great, Hermione—if you've already sorted out the legal side…" Harry's voice dropped, hopeful and pleading. "We've contacted Charlie. We're planning to move the dragon Saturday night from the Astronomy Tower. Anyway—we need your help… we want you to come with us…"
"Don't misunderstand." Hermione finally set down her quill. She looked at Harry—her gaze sliding briefly over the scar on his forehead. "I organized these notes because I don't want Gryffindor labeled as ignorant and undisciplined because of certain people's stupidity. As for what you plan to do with that dragon, how you'll help Hagrid, how you'll get to the Astronomy Tower…"
She paused. Her smile was ugly.
"That's your business. Don't tell me. Don't involve me. Since rules are just something you and the Headmaster can twist at will, there's no reason for me to keep clinging to them. I'm not interested in playing your games anymore."
Her voice trembled, but every word was clear.
Harry felt his throat close. He understood: the Hermione who would scream in the common room about telling McGonagall whenever they tried to sneak out at night—that Hermione had died that night.
Silence fell.
The two boys stood in the choking quiet for a long moment before the distance defeated them. They picked up the notes and left the library.
Only when their footsteps had completely faded down the corridor did Hermione look up.
The quill she'd set down had already bled a dark blot onto the parchment.
She stared at the stain for a long time.
Then she turned the page and continued writing.
…
In the days that followed, Hogwarts appeared calm on the surface, but beneath it two powerful undercurrents had begun to pull violently.
Potter and Weasley ran themselves ragged keeping the secret. They juggled crushing homework while sneaking tons of fresh meat and dead rats to Hagrid, even using their own robes to hide scorch marks from dragon breath.
As for Hermione's cold distance—they had no energy left to address it.
…
London, Ministry of Magic, Level Two.
Dolores Umbridge stood in the corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, adjusting the pink bow at her throat.
Eight-thirty a.m. The air smelled of parchment, old ink, and faint owl droppings. Though Arthur Weasley swore paper aeroplanes had solved the hygiene issue, the decay had long since seeped into the walls.
She looked up. Hundreds of pale-purple interdepartmental memos swooped and dove beneath the ceiling, hunting their recipients.
Back in office 34B, Dolores settled into her chair—three layers of cushioning. Towers of parchment already waited.
A purple paper aeroplane sailed through the open door and thumped beside her teacup, unfolding itself.
From: Auror Office Administration Unit
To: Improper Use of Magic Office Director Dolores Umbridge
Re: Response to complaint of delayed investigation into Birmingham magical disturbance
Director Umbridge: Regarding your complaint of arrogant and uncooperative behavior by Aurors at the Birmingham site—verified: key evidence has been transferred to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office per standard cross-departmental protocol. Requests for access must first obtain divisional head signature. Kindly note.
Dolores slowly uncapped her red ink bottle.
"Evasion. Arrogance. Classic old-guard rot," she murmured.
Scrimgeour's Aurors always sneered at administrative types like her. But they didn't understand: in this system, narrative always trumped fact.
She wrote her reply on the back, deliberately stamping it URGENT:
Reply:
Received.
Your refusal to provide key evidence on procedural grounds severely impedes this office's assessment of potential underage wizard risk. Reasonable suspicion now exists of serious administrative obstruction and dereliction.
Recommendation: Submit detailed written explanation within three hours, or this office will have no choice but to request intervention by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement for audit.
cc: Head of Magical Law Enforcement Office, Minister's Secretariat.
—D.J.U.
She flicked her wand. The parchment refolded into a purple aeroplane and flew off toward the Minister's office.
Ten o'clock. Cross-departmental coordination meeting.
In the meeting room beside Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, the air was thick with tobacco and fireplace ash.
"Director Umbridge,"
Arthur Weasley—the blood-traitor who delighted in exploiting Muggle loopholes—was trying to explain his proposal. "I merely think we need a clearer definition of 'non-combat magical detectors'…"
Dolores didn't look up. She stirred her tea—three sugar cubes floating in milk.
"Mr. Weasley," she interrupted gently, "your intentions are admirable. But the Ministry's priority now is efficiency and order—not wasting valuable clerical time on a few Muggle toasters that might bite."
She set the spoon down.
"This proposal should be sent back to Legal for reconsideration. Follow procedure."
She watched Weasley's face flush and felt a quiet satisfaction.
This was the beauty of bureaucracy:
Master the endless procedures, and you could drown anyone you wanted—slowly, legally, inescapably.
A purple aeroplane landed beside her teacup.
The Minister's reply.
Dolores opened it eagerly. One line in Fudge's characteristic shaky hand:
Most insightful. Two o'clock. —C.F.
She smiled thinly.
In the Ministry, paperwork was a weapon. She never expected a letter to solve anything—she wanted control of the narrative.
Every hostile reply she sent she carefully cc'd to the Minister's office—knowing Fudge's paranoid nerves would twitch at the implication that the world was deceiving him and only Dolores told the truth.
She picked up another report: a mixed-blood wizard in Kent had used Scourgify in front of Muggle neighbors.
Decision:
"Evidence insufficient," she wrote, drawing a large red X. "Recommend Misuse of Muggle Artefacts erase memories first, then this office investigate family background for instability factors."
—D.J.U.
Instability factors usually meant anyone too close to Dumbledore—or too poor to matter.
Next she began the day's most important document:
Report to Minister Cornelius Fudge.
Fudge—barely a year in office—was desperate for someone to whisper that everything was under control.
Dolores straightened her posture, selected a fresh quill, and let her handwriting turn round and deferential.
For Minister Cornelius Fudge's Eyes Only
From: Director, Improper Use of Magic Office — Dolores Jane Umbridge
Subject: Recommendations on Recent Northern Dark Magic Fluctuations and Public Sentiment Management
"Most Honorable Minister,"
her quill scratched softly across the parchment,
"Regarding recent rumors in the Daily Prophet of northern Dark magic disturbances, this office has completed a full screening. The undersigned believes these are merely anxiety-inducing fabrications spread by reactionary elements seeking to undermine current order. Attached are three draft emergency control ordinances…"
She finished, tapped her wand.
The parchment folded into a purple aeroplane and glided out—toward Fudge's office.
Everything was proceeding exactly as intended.