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Chapter 5: More Than Just History
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 18:15:41 +0000 UTCRon was paralyzed. The mouse, a living, breathing creature that had been a quill pen just seconds before, was now perched on his shoulder, its whiskers twitching against his cheek. His face had gone a pale, sickly green. He swallowed hard, a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach as he shot a desperate, pleading look at Harry.
Harry, for his part, immediately took two large steps back, holding his hands up as if to ward off any association with the bet. His expression was a perfect mask of blameless neutrality. Nope, his look clearly said. You're on your own, mate. The good ship Friendship has officially left the harbor.
The very thought of putting the tiny, squirming animal in his mouth made Ron's throat clench. It wasn't just the idea of eating something raw; he genuinely liked mice. He had one as a pet—Scabbers. A familiar, if rather useless, companion. To eat one felt like a grotesque betrayal.
Hermione watched his internal crisis with a glint of detached amusement. The point had been made, and dragging it out was inefficient. With a lazy, almost bored flick of her wand, she reversed the spell. The mouse shimmered, its form blurring, and in an instant, it was an eagle-feather quill once more, clattering softly onto the stone floor.
"Hah."
A single, soft chuckle escaped her lips. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her back straight and her pace unhurried.
Ron and Harry were left staring at each other, the same look of pure, unadulterated shock mirrored in their eyes. They both knew, with absolute certainty, that the spell she had just performed wasn't in any of the first-year textbooks. They'd scoured the lists at Flourish and Blotts. This meant she hadn't just studied ahead. She had seen Professor McGonagall perform a similar, far more advanced piece of magic once, and had somehow replicated a version of it minutes later.
It wasn't just genius. It was impossible.
"How…?" Harry breathed, finally breaking the silence.
"I don't know," Ron whispered back, still looking a little green. "My brothers are prefects, and they can't do stuff like that."
They looked down the corridor at Hermione's receding back and, as if moved by a single thought, broke into a jog to catch up.
Hermione heard their hurried footsteps behind her but didn't slow down. She had already dismissed them from her mind. The little demonstration had served its purpose: it had established a clear hierarchy. They wouldn't bother her with trivial challenges again. Now, her focus was turned inward, on the humming presence of her grimoire.
Two new entries were solidifying in her consciousness.
Transfiguration: Lv. 1 (2 / 1000) Spell Learned: Vera Verto (Object to Animal)
Animagus Transformation (Cat)
She analyzed the data with a cool, detached logic. The Vera Verto spell she had just used had added a single point to her core Transfiguration skill. At Level 1, the applications were clearly limited to small, non-sentient objects for short durations. It was a neat party trick, but hardly a game-changer. She theorized that leveling up the core skill would be necessary to unlock more powerful applications—larger objects, more complex animals, perhaps even human transfiguration. It was a skill tree, and she was on the very first branch.
The Animagus ability, however, was something else entirely. The book had listed it as a permanent state, with no proficiency bar to grind. This implied it was a toggle, an innate ability she now possessed. The implications of this were staggering. The transformation was famously difficult and dangerous, with only a handful of registered Animagi in the entire century. Yet, she had acquired it instantly, just by being in the presence of someone else performing it.
A thrilling thought sparked in her mind. If it works by copying, does that mean I can collect other forms? If she ever encountered Rita Skeeter or Sirius Black, could she copy their beetle and dog forms as well? The potential for a witch who could become any animal at will was limitless. It was the ultimate tool for infiltration, espionage, and escape in both this world and the far more dangerous one she'd left behind. Her mind raced with the strategic possibilities.
"Hermione, wait up!" Ron called out, finally catching up to her, with Harry right behind him.
She was pulled from her thoughts as they fell into step on either side of her, like a pair of confused, newly recruited bodyguards. They were descending now, leaving the bright, airy upper levels of the castle for the cold, damp chill of the dungeons. The air grew heavier, smelling of stone, mildew, and something faintly chemical. Their footsteps echoed ominously in the gloomy corridor. Their next battlefield awaited.
The Potions classroom was exactly as miserable as she had imagined. It was a cold, dark chamber, the only light coming from the flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls. Lining the walls were glass jars containing slimy, pickled creatures, their dead eyes staring out into the gloom. The air was thick with the bitter smell of herbs and the sharp tang of unknown potions. It was less a classroom and more a mad scientist's forgotten laboratory.
Hermione, true to form, had claimed the corner seat in the very back row, a piece of prime real estate for any student wishing to remain unnoticed. Today, however, her inconspicuous corner was the unwilling center of the entire class's attention.
Professor Snape had swept into the room moments before, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a bat, and had immediately begun his reign of terror. Now, he was looming over their table, his gaze fixed on Harry with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.
"Mr. Potter," Snape began, his voice a low, silky drawl that was somehow more menacing than a shout. "Our… new… celebrity. Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked, completely blindsided. "I… I don't know, Professor."
Ron, seated beside him, had slumped so low in his chair he looked like he was trying to melt into the floor.
Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Let's try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
"And what is the difference," Snape hissed, leaning closer, "between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I… I'm sorry, I don't know."
"Clearly," Snape said, straightening up with an air of triumphant disgust, "fame isn't everything."
The classroom was deathly silent. Harry, who already had a bad feeling about Snape, felt his temper flare at the public humiliation. "But Hermione knows," he retorted, his voice sharp with defiance. "It seems you're just asking me because you know I don't know the answer."
A collective, silent gasp went through the Gryffindors. The Slytherins, on the other hand, began to smirk. Arguing with Snape on the first day was a new level of Gryffindor recklessness.
Every eye in the room swiveled to the back corner, landing on Hermione.
A flash of pure, white-hot annoyance shot through her. Are you kidding me? She had carefully cultivated her persona as a quiet, unapproachable loner, and Harry had just shoved her directly into the spotlight in front of the most feared and vindictive professor in the entire school.
Snape's black eyes shifted slowly, locking onto her. "Ah, yes," he sneered. "Since Mr. Potter is so certain of his friend's encyclopedic knowledge, perhaps you would care to enlighten us, Miss Granger. Answer incorrectly, and Gryffindor will lose five points for… What," he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing at the book open on her desk, "are you reading?"
He glided over to her table, his presence sucking all the warmth from the air. He looked down, his lip curling in disbelief. "Hogwarts: A History?"
He was silent for two long, terrifying seconds. Then, he let out a short, sharp laugh devoid of all humor.
"Miss Granger. You are reading a history book in my Potions class," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me. Are my lessons so beneath you that you feel they are no longer worthy of your attention?"
He was right, of course. She had already copied every single potion from the first-year textbook into her grimoire. For her, potion-making was no longer a finicky art; it was a simple science of following instructions. This class was, quite literally, a waste of her time.
The Slytherins began to snicker, sensing blood in the water.
Hermione looked up from her book, her expression calm, and met Snape's furious glare. She didn't hesitate.
"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood make the Draught of Living Death, a sleeping potion so powerful it can mimic death," she said, her voice clear and steady. "A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it acts as an antidote to most poisons. And monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which is also known as aconite."
She paused, holding his gaze. "Am I correct, Professor?"
Her perfect, textbook answers, delivered with an air of bored indifference, hung in the dead-silent classroom. All of Snape's follow-up insults, all of his planned humiliations, were completely and utterly disarmed.
