Thursday morning in the Great Hall, the scent of toasted bread and warm milk filled the air.
Hermione sat on a bench, her eyes shadowed by dark circles that looked like they'd been conjured by dark magic.
Harry watched her exhausted face, concern tugging at him. "You can't keep using the Time-Turner like this, Hermione. You look like you're about to collapse."
Hermione stiffened, stubborn as ever. "I'm fine. I just stayed up a bit late last night."
"A bit?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "You fell asleep in History of Magic. I've never seen you doze off in class."
Hermione's shoulders slumped. She poked at her fried egg, voice softening. "Okay, maybe… I shouldn't have packed my schedule so full."
"Then drop Muggle Studies," Harry said quickly. "You know more about it than the professor."
"No way," Hermione shot back, lifting her head. "I want to drop Divination. Trelawney's no different from Lockhart—just a bunch of mystical nonsense."
"I checked the library," Harry countered. "The Trelawney family has produced famous Seers. That kind of talent can be inherited."
Hermione snorted. "If it's innate like Parseltongue, what's the point of taking her class? If you've got the gift, you don't need to learn it. If you don't, no amount of study helps."
"Dumbledore learned to understand Parseltongue through study," Harry argued. "Can't effort make up for talent?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You think Trelawney's 'tea leaf reading' and 'rambling nonsense' are skills you can master with effort?"
Before Harry could respond, she pulled a yellowed newspaper from her bulging bag.
It was centuries old, showing a Seer with rolled-back eyes and flailing arms, looking like a street charlatan.
"This is your so-called 'talent'?" she said.
Harry stared at the absurd image, sighing. He couldn't argue with that.
---
The Potions classroom was as dim as ever, the wall sconces casting flickering light that stretched the shadows of the cauldrons.
Harry slouched in his hard wooden chair, yawning widely, when he noticed someone in the seat beside him.
Hermione sat primly, as if she'd been there since before the bell.
"Caught up on sleep?" Harry teased, voice soft as cotton. "You look worse. Those circles under your eyes are practically blue."
Hermione flinched, swatting his arm and hissing, "Shh! Want the whole class to hear?"
She glanced around, ensuring the other students were busy with their scales, then leaned closer, her voice tinged with weary frustration. "I thought I could catch up… but flipping through time is more exhausting than staying up reading."
Before Harry could reply, the classroom's air seemed to freeze as Snape swept in, his black robes billowing.
His dark eyes locked onto Harry and Hermione without even scanning the room.
"It seems some students find the Potions cauldron too chilly," Snape said, his voice hissing like a snake. His robe brushed the lectern's edge. "Perhaps a trip to Hogsmeade's teahouse would suit you better, where butterbeer might be more fitting for… private discussions."
Hermione's cheeks flushed, but before she could protest, Harry jumped in. "Is there a barber in Hogsmeade? They could wash that grease out of your hair, Professor. Oh, wait—you might not know what a barber is, it's a Muggle—"
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said coldly.
Hermione grabbed Harry's arm, silencing him.
Snape's lips curled in satisfaction. He flicked his wand, tracing a silver arc in the air.
Crack!
Dust fell from the blackboard as dark green writing appeared—a recipe for Shrinking Solution. Below "chop daisy roots," extra notes read: Ensure uniform size to avoid unstable shrinking duration—details not in the textbook.
"Begin," Snape said, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Malfoy.
Harry noticed Malfoy's left arm was free of its cast, the skin smooth as if never injured.
Yet Malfoy lounged back, pointing at Ron with his uninjured hand and nodding toward the cauldron. "Weasley, chop my daisy roots. Thin slices. I don't want your clumsiness ruining the potion."
Ron's ears turned red-hot. "Why should I—?"
"Because Mr. Malfoy's arm is not fully healed," Snape cut in, his shadow looming over their desk. "Weasley, dawdling costs Gryffindor three points."
Ron's mouth opened, then shut. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a silver knife, chopping the daisy roots with loud thuds, each slice venting his anger.
Harry got it—this was Malfoy's revenge on the Weasleys, probably lumping Ron and Ginny together.
The classroom filled with the rustle of chopping plants, the gurgle of boiling potions, and the swish of Snape's robes as he paced.
The cauldron's white steam seemed to lull Hermione. Her eyelids drooped, her head bobbing like it was pulled by invisible strings.
She was beyond exhausted. The Time-Turner's toll was drowning her, turning even Snape's icy voice into a distant hum.
"Careful!"
Harry grabbed her collar just in time. Hermione jolted awake, her nose inches from the boiling cauldron, the scalding steam making her eyelashes tremble.
"Thanks…" she whispered, voice shaky.
"Stir the potion," Harry said quietly, pressing a silver spoon into her hand. "I'll handle the daisy roots and fig skin. Hurry."
Hermione didn't argue, her trembling hand stirring the pale purple liquid mechanically. Harry's knife sliced through the roots with crisp precision, steady and sure.
Snape, at the lectern, said nothing, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.
When grading, his quill paused, then scratched a glaring "P" next to both Harry and Hermione's names.
"Miss Granger contributed nothing to the potion," Snape said, voice like ice. "Clearly, she knows nothing of Shrinking Solution. Mr. Potter, your 'helpfulness' earns no extra credit here."
Harry glanced at Hermione's pale face and swallowed his retort. Arguing over grades was pointless—she needed rest, not a fight.
"Let's go," Harry said, practically dragging Hermione out, ignoring Malfoy's snicker behind them. Her steps were unsteady, like a rain-soaked otter too tired to resist.
"I'm fine…" Hermione mumbled, eyes half-closed.
"Shut it," Harry said, his tone unusually firm, pulling her to the Gryffindor girls' dormitory door. "Go sleep. No books, no Time-Turner. Got it?"
Laughter drifted from the common room, but Harry ignored it.
Hermione, head down, twisted her robe's hem, then nodded faintly. "Got it."
Once she disappeared inside, Harry leaned against the corridor's stone wall, exhaling. He glanced at the gray sky outside, thinking that getting Hermione to take care of herself was harder than winning a Quidditch match.
---
Sunlight streamed through the Gryffindor tower's windows, casting a warm patch on Hermione's bed.
When she woke, her body felt relaxed, her breathing light for the first time since using the Time-Turner. It was her deepest sleep yet.
Then she saw the bedside clock and bolted upright like she'd been hexed.
"Fifteen minutes left!"
She threw on her uniform, hair a mess, and raced downstairs.
In the common room, Harry was sprawled in an armchair, flipping through Serpentine Beasts of the Wizarding World. Seeing Hermione charge down, he closed the book and stood. "Awake?"
"Come on!" Hermione didn't stop to ask why he'd waited, grabbing his wrist and bolting.
They tore down the tower's spiral staircase, her canvas shoes clattering on the stone. "We'll get docked points for being late! The classroom's not close!"
Harry stumbled a few steps but didn't complain, matching her pace.
They whipped through the corridors like a gust of wind, startling a house-elf polishing armor so much it nearly dropped its rag into a helmet.
Gasping, they burst into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom just as Professor Lupin hadn't yet appeared.
Hermione collapsed into a chair, panting, her damp fringe sticking to her face. Harry pulled a wax-paper package from his robe and handed it to her.
"Here."
It was a ham sandwich, still warm.
Hermione realized she'd skipped lunch. Her stomach growled. Without hesitation, she took a huge bite, the bread's wheatiness and ham's saltiness reviving her. "Thanks…"
"No problem," Harry said, his lips twitching up as she devoured it. "Can't have my partner fainting in class."
Just then, the door opened, and Lupin entered with the roll sheet, a gentle smile on his face. "Good afternoon, everyone."
His gaze lingered on Harry and Hermione but said nothing.
Hermione finished the sandwich, stuffing the crumpled paper into her bag and sticking her tongue out at Harry.
After roll call, Lupin shook his head, chuckling, and shared stories about past professors. "…Honestly, Lockhart was a nobody in school. I was shocked he became an 'adventurer.' At first, I thought it was someone with the same name…"
His banter drew soft laughs from the class.
"Alright, put your books away," Lupin said, eyes warm. "Today's a practical lesson."
The room exploded with excitement.
Ron nearly knocked over his chair, Dean and Seamus whispered guesses about what dark creature they'd face, but Neville looked reluctant.
Harry leaned back, unfazed. He doubted Lupin would take third-years anywhere too dangerous.
Sure enough, Lupin led them through the corridors to the staff room. Ron grumbled, clearly unimpressed by the "boring" destination.
But when the door opened, Harry froze—Snape was inside.
Snape stood with his back to them, toying with a silver vial. Hearing the noise, he turned, his robe cutting a sharp arc.
Seeing Lupin, Snape's lips curled into a mocking sneer. "Well, well, our 'all-powerful' Professor Lupin. What childish game are you playing with the brats today? Teaching them to pop bubblegum with their wands or study slugs in pumpkin juice?"
His gaze didn't even flicker to the students, all his venom aimed at Lupin.
Lupin's smile faded slightly, but he just looked at him calmly, not rising to the bait. His refusal to argue made Snape's taunts fall flat.
Snape scoffed, pocketing the vial and brushing past the group, his robe sweeping the floor, slamming the door with a thud.
When Lupin drew a Boggart from a cabinet, the room's air tightened.
[Skipping the original text's descriptions of others facing the Boggart.]
When it was Harry's turn, the writhing shadow solidified into a suffocating scene: Hermione lay lifeless on a cold floor, a Runespoor snake beside her, cleaved in two, blood splattered everywhere.
Above this gruesome sight stood a noseless wizard, his black robe dragging, skeletal fingers curled, letting out a shrill, manic laugh that scraped at everyone's nerves.
"Riddikulus!"
Lupin's spell hit faster than Harry's fear. The silver magic struck the Boggart, which exploded into light and dissolved.
The silence that followed was heavier than when Neville had conjured Snape.
That terrifying noseless wizard branded itself into everyone's eyes. Someone whispered, barely audible, "Merlin's beard… was that… You-Know-Who?"
No one answered, but they all knew.
---