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The rain had reduced to a drizzle, but the mud on the Quidditch pitch was thick and cold. Hermione landed her broom beside the recovering boys, her eyes still flashing with residual combat magic.
"Hey, Malfoy," she said, looking him up and down with a critical eye. "You've always hated Harry more than you hate shampoo. Why did you save him?"
Malfoy, sitting in the mud with his expensive robes ruined, glanced at the unconscious Harry. He wiped a streak of grime from his pale face and snorted derisively.
"Don't misunderstand, Granger. I didn't do this to save him," Malfoy sneered, trying to maintain his dignity. "He testified for me. He cleared my name regarding the Chamber of Secrets. I am merely balancing the ledger. I, Draco Malfoy, never owe anyone anything."
The students gathering around blinked in surprise. They had expected a racial slur or a boast; instead, they got a code of honor. Suddenly, the Slytherin Prince didn't seem quite so villainous.
Of course, Hermione thought, he doesn't realize that Harry is only nicer to him because I threatened to turn Harry into a toad if he wasn't.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Dull, muffled explosions echoed from the perimeter of the grounds.
One by one, the dazzling, silver Patronuses returned. The dragon, the tiger, the phoenix—they swooped back toward the stadium, their glowing forms swirling with dense, trapped black mist. Inside their translucent bodies, the mangled, dissolving remnants of Dementors could be seen struggling in vain before fading into nothingness.
It was a beautiful, terrifying harvest.
Hermione nodded in satisfaction. She waved her wand, and the "Zoo Army" dissipated into motes of silver light, the job finished.
At that moment, Madam Pomfrey rushed onto the field, followed by a team of floating stretchers. She gasped when she saw the scene.
"Quickly! Get Potter and Malfoy to the Hospital Wing!" she ordered.
"And us! We need to be checked too!"
Three weak, trembling voices cried out in unison.
Madam Pomfrey turned. Her eyes widened.
Ron, Neville, and Seamus limped forward. They looked like they had been in a muggle bar fight. Their faces were bruised, their robes torn, and they were weighed down by a ridiculous assortment of heavy alchemical equipment—wrenches, enchanted pliers, hammers, and bags of spare parts.
"Merlin's beard!" Pomfrey exclaimed. "How did you three get like this? Did the Dementors attack you with construction equipment?"
Ron, Neville, and Seamus exchanged a haunted glance. They looked at Hermione, then back at the nurse.
"Don't ask," they said in unison. Asking brings divine retribution.
The Headmaster's Office.
The fire in the grate crackled softly, but it did little to warm the room. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his usual twinkle gone, replaced by a cold, hard gravity. Snape stood by the window, looking like a ominous shadow.
"I will report this to the Ministry immediately," Dumbledore said, his voice low and dangerous. "The Dementors entered the school grounds and attacked students. They must be removed. Permanently."
Hermione sat in the chair opposite him, picking a piece of lint off her robe. She knew Dumbledore was truly angry. The Dementors had crossed his line.
She shook her head, her tone bored. "No need, Headmaster. Let them keep sending them. I'll kill as many as they come. I'm actually curious to see how many Dementors the Ministry has in stock."
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Once the Dementors are extinct, and Azkaban is an open-concept resort, let's see how Fudge keeps his prisoners. That will teach them to cost Gryffindor the match."
Snape glanced at her sideways, his lip twitching. She's not mad about the attempted murder of Potter. She's mad about the Quidditch points.
Dumbledore rubbed his temples. "Actually, Miss Granger, besides the Dementors, there is another matter. The Ministry of Magic will likely summon you in the next few days. They want to inquire about the prophecy you made in Trelawney's class."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "It's just a prediction that Voldemort is going to be resurrected. What's so interesting about that? It's not like not predicting it would stop it from happening."
"The Ministry does not share your logic," Dumbledore sighed. "Cornelius Fudge desires stability above all else. He views anything that threatens his administration—or his denial—as an enemy to be silenced."
Hermione scoffed. "So, logically, he should be trying to silence you, not me."
Dumbledore and Snape both choked slightly. They exchanged a look of helpless agreement. She's not wrong. Dumbledore was the only wizard Fudge truly feared.
"Fudge is an idiot," Hermione continued, ranting. "If Voldemort returns, does he think he can keep his job by ignoring it? The rebels are at the gates, and he's worried about his approval ratings? What is he, the King of Ashes?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Many men prefer to live in comfortable lies than face hard truths, Hermione."
Hermione threw her hands up. "Fine! What do you want me to say to them? If the truth doesn't work, I'll just tell them I'm a transmigrator from another dimension who possessed Hermione Granger's body, and this whole world is a fictional construct created by an author, and I saw the resurrection scene in a movie."
She looked at them expectantly. "How does that sound?"
Dumbledore: "…" Snape: "…"
This girl is really good at talking nonsense, they both thought. She says it with such conviction.
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said gently, "while that story certainly wouldn't lead to Azkaban, it would almost certainly result in a permanent residency at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. In the Janus Thickey Ward. For the permanently insane."
"Actually," Dumbledore continued, clearing his throat, "you can say whatever you wish to the Minister. However, I ask that you refrain from starting a war. The Ministry, corrupt as it is, maintains order. If you kill all the Aurors, the dark wizards will run rampant before Voldemort even returns."
Hermione slumped in her chair. "You make me sound like a monster. Am I really that bad-tempered?"
Snape stared at the ceiling. She mobilized a spectral zoo because she lost a game. She has no self-awareness.
"Because of the sensitivity of the situation," Dumbledore concluded, "I have assigned Professor Snape to accompany you to the Ministry. He will ensure… diplomatic relations are maintained."
Hermione nodded. Ah, the peacemaker. Or rather, the leash.
The Corridor.
Hermione and Snape walked side by side down the stone hallway, their footsteps echoing. The tension was palpable. Snape looked like he was marching to his own execution.
Hermione suddenly stopped and turned to look at the Potions Master, a sly, knowing grin spreading across her face.
"Professor," she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "Be honest. Does Headmaster Dumbledore have some kind of blackmail leverage over you? Why else would you agree to babysit me?"
Snape's body went rigid. His face turned the color of a cauldron bottom. He pressed his thin lips together until they were white, holding back a torrent of venomous words.
He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at her.
"Ask less," he squeezed out through gritted teeth.