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The dust in the atrium was slowly settling, coating the ruins of the Fountain of Magical Brethren in a layer of grey ash. Miraculously, despite the catastrophic structural damage, the casualty count was zero.
Buildings could be repaired with a flick of a wand. The dead, however, tended to stay dead.
The silence was broken by the voice of a young, wide-eyed Auror, shaking the dust from his hair. "By the way," he stammered, looking at the scorched walls, "Granger used Dark Magic in public. That was Fiendfyre. It's Class X, second only to the Unforgivable Curses. How should we punish her?"
Quiet.
Absolute, deathly silence descended on the group of Ministry officials.
Every senior Auror slowly turned their head to look at the rookie. They stared at him not with anger, but with the pity one reserves for the profoundly stupid.
"Dark magic?" an old veteran Auror exclaimed loudly, his voice cracking with feigned incredulity. "What dark magic? I didn't see any dark magic. Did anyone see dark magic?"
He looked around pointedly.
"Fiendfyre?" another Auror chimed in, dusting off his robes. "You must be mistaken, lad. That was clearly just… a vigorous Incendio. A regular fire spell. Perhaps a bit spicy, but standard."
"And also," a third added, glaring at the rookie, "is 'Granger' what you call her? Show some respect."
"Please call her Her Highness the Witch!"
The chorus of agreement was immediate and desperate.
"Yes, yes! Her Highness!"
"Exactly! Just a regular fire spell! Maybe she sneezed while casting!"
"Young man, if your eyesight is this poor, perhaps you shouldn't be an Auror!"
Cornelius Fudge, who had been trembling near a pile of rubble, snapped out of his daze. He marched over to the young Auror, his face purple.
"You confuse Fiendfyre with a Warming Charm? What kind of Auror are you?" Fudge barked, desperate to bury the truth that a thirteen-year-old had nearly dismantled his government. "Report to the Department of Magical Maintenance tomorrow. You're cleaning toilets."
The young Auror stood dumbstruck, watching his career flush away because he was the only one honest enough to admit the building had been eaten by a fire dragon.
Outside the Ministry of Magic.
The London air was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the oven-like heat of the atrium. Hermione stepped onto the pavement, stroking the Undetectable Extension Charm backpack strapped to her chest with a look of deep, predatory satisfaction.
There was no way around it. The Department of Mysteries had simply too many amazing things. Time turners, prophecy orbs, artifacts of death and thought… it was practically a mobile treasure trove. She had helped herself to a few souvenirs.
She tapped her chin, genuinely considering if she should come back to "stock up" on a quarterly basis.
Snape followed a few paces behind, his black cloak billowing in the wind. His dark eyes lingered on the bulging backpack, a flicker of envy flashing in their depths. He knew she had looted the place. He just didn't want to know what she had taken.
"I never expected," Snape said, his voice low and laced with his usual sarcasm, "that you actually managed not to kill anyone."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, glancing back at him. "Old Bat, the way you're talking makes it sound like I'm bloodthirsty. I'm a pacifist."
Snape scoffed.
"Headmaster Dumbledore specifically instructed me to handle this diplomatically," she continued, patting her bag. "I have to give the old man some face."
Of course, she wouldn't admit that mass murder was simply inefficient. If she had truly wanted them dead, the Ministry would be a crematorium. That Sectumsempra hadn't just been meant to rip Umbridge open; it was a warning shot.
Today's objective was strategic: elevate Tom "Ethan Hunt" Riddle and Lockhart within the Ministry hierarchy. When the time was right, she would kick Fudge out and install her puppets. As for Umbridge? Handing her to Lockhart was a fate worse than death. It was passing the buck to a shark in a turquoise suit.
They walked in silence for a moment before Snape stopped. His gaze pierced her.
"Sectumsempra," he said, the word heavy. "Where did you learn that spell?"
Hermione blinked, feigning innocence. "Oh? You noticed?"
Snape remained expressionless, but his jaw was tight. "I can still recognize my own magic, Miss Granger. It is a signature."
Hermione covered her mouth in mock surprise, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I found an old, tattered textbook in the Potions classroom cupboard. It belonged to someone called the 'Half-Blood Prince.' It was full of scribbles. Hey… Professor Snape, you're the Half-Blood Prince, aren't you?"
She grinned. "If you don't want people to learn your secret spells, you shouldn't leave your diary lying around like a brooding teenager."
Snape's lips twitched violently.
It felt as though his embarrassing teenage past had been stripped naked and paraded down Diagon Alley. The angst. The scribbles. The secret nicknames. All discovered by the one student he least wanted to impress.
And what burned him even more—what made his face feel like it was under the influence of a Scalding Hex—was that Hermione was actually better at using his own spells than he was. Her casting was cleaner. Stronger.
I should have burned that book, he thought bitterly. I should have cast it into the fires of Mount Doom.
They walked a bit further. Snape, unable to help his morbid curiosity, asked, "You probably don't know the counter-curse to Sectumsempra yet. Do you want to learn it? It is… complex."
Hermione blinked, looking relaxed. "No need. I've already learned it."
Snape frowned, his brow furrowing. "When? Where? The counter-curse isn't written in the book."
The realization hit him a second later. His pupils contracted sharply. "Could it be… back there?"
Hermione nodded with a bright smile. "Just now. While you were healing the Toad."
She raised her wand casually. "Vulnera Sanentur."
A flash of song-like white light spiraled from her wand tip, weaving the air with healing energy.
Snape froze. He stared at her, his world tilting on its axis.
The counter-curse to Sectumsempra was an incantation he had spent years perfecting. It required a specific rhythm, a precise wand movement, and a modulation of intent. He had performed it once in front of her, under extreme duress, while sweating and panicking over a dying woman.
And she had been busy fighting a dozen Aurors with a giant fire snake at the time.
She had glanced at him—just a glance—and copied his life's work.
This is… Snape couldn't even find the profanity. It was beyond insulting. It was a violation of the laws of learning.
It felt as absurd as walking down the street and having a stranger run up to him and say, "I am Voldemort. I am not dead. I am now Hermione's underling. I urgently need 50 Galleons to recall the Death Eaters. Transfer 50 to me, and I will rule the world and make you Headmaster."
It was a scam. She was a scam. She had to be.
After the wave of absurdity passed, Snape sighed, his shoulders slumping.
Forget it, he told himself. I am no longer going to try to understand this humanoid creature. The world has many mysteries. One more won't kill me.
Besides, he reasoned, grasping for a silver lining, she didn't kill a single person today. That is a cause for celebration.
...Huh?
Snape paused mid-step.
Wait. Since when did 'not committing mass murder' become my standard for a good student?
The Next Morning. The Great Hall.
The smell of oatmeal and pumpkin juice hung heavy in the air. Hermione walked into the Great Hall and immediately sensed the shift in the atmosphere.
The usual roar of chatter and clattering cutlery died down the moment she stepped through the doors. It was like someone had hit a mute button. Hundreds of eyes tracked her movement.
Hermione: ?
She was used to the stares. Since the "Witch of New York" rumors started, she was a celebrity. But this silence wasn't awe; it was weirdly heavy.
She ignored them, walking straight to the Gryffindor table and sitting down next to Harry and Ron.
"What's wrong with you two?" Hermione asked casually.
She glanced down at the breakfast spread. The same unchanging, dreary British recipe: greasy fried bread, heavy sausages, and weak tea. She gave the food a look of profound disgust.
She picked up a slice of toast. It was cold. She spread some butter on it. She brought it to her mouth. She stopped. She looked at it. She brought it to her mouth again. She stopped again.
To eat, or not to eat?
It was a battle of wills. Her hunger versus her palate.
Finally, after a struggle with her conscience, she reluctantly stuffed the bread into her mouth. She chewed it with a grimace, swallowing it like it was a potion made of flobberworm mucus.
Harry watched her eat toast with the expression of a martyr facing the guillotine. He was speechless.
Is it really that bad? Harry thought, munching on his own toast. I think it's pretty good.
Harry sighed, looking at her with a strange expression. "Hermione… you didn't know?"
Hermione squinted at him, swallowing the dry lump of bread. "…Should I know?"
Ron didn't say anything. He simply slid a copy of the Daily Prophet across the table.
Hermione looked down. She almost spat out the bread she had just managed to swallow.
The front page headline screamed in massive, moving bold letters. Below it was a photograph of the Ministry of Magic's Atrium, reduced to a smoking ruin of twisted metal and shattered stone.
MINISTRY BOMBED! TERROR AT THE HEART OF GOVERNMENT!