Chapter 66: Hermione's Revenge
Hermione stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, a stack of books clutched to her chest, her eyes scanning the Gryffindor table. She'd been looking all morning. No Harry. No Ron. Not even a flash of red hair from the Weasley twins or Ginny. It was strange. Quidditch season was over. Where were they?
At lunch, she finally spotted a familiar figure. Elian Thorne, sitting alone, attacking a plate of shepherd's pie with single-minded focus. Her lips thinned. The memory of The Quibbler article, of his supposed Christmas plans with the Lovegoods, was still a fresh, irritating splinter in her mind.
He promised me first, she thought, a hot, illogical flare of betrayal warming her cheeks. She marched over and dropped her books onto the bench with a definitive thud.
Elian looked up, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. He blinked, a deer-in-lantern-light expression flashing across his face before he smoothed it into an awkward smile.
"Oh. Hermione. Come to eat?"
"What else would I do here?" she snapped, sliding onto the bench opposite him. "Have you seen Harry or Ron? Or any of the Weasleys? They've been missing all day."
Elian chewed slowly, swallowed. "Mr. Weasley was attacked. They all went to see him last night."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her own fork clattered onto the table. "What?!"
"Shh," Elian said, gesturing for calm as a few heads turned. "It happened on an Order mission. He's… he's being treated. They all went."
He gave no further details—nothing about astral forms or soul fragments. Some secrets were too heavy, too dangerous, even for Hermione, especially now. He was already changing too much, accelerating timelines best left slow. Professor Trelawney's prophecy echoed in his mind, cold and precise: He will change the world… The favoured child's path is disrupted… He was the disruption. Harry knowing about the Horcrux now, a full year early, was proof.
Hermione's face had drained of color. Arthur Weasley was kind, welcoming, one of the few adults who treated her and Harry with uncomplicated warmth. "Is he… will he be alright? Where is he? I have to—"
"He'll be fine," Elian said, his voice firm, hoping it was true. "Needs rest. Don't panic."
But panic had already been overridden by a fierce, protective concern. Hermione stood abruptly, abandoning her lunch. "I have to… I need to see Professor McGonagall. Get permission to visit."
She was already gathering her books, her earlier pique completely forgotten in the face of real worry. Elian felt a wave of relief. Crisis averted.
Or so he thought.
Just as she turned to leave, Hermione leaned over and whispered fiercely to Neville Longbottom, who was passing by with Luna Lovegood in tow. "Neville, Luna—listen. The D.A. meeting is still on for tomorrow. But he," she jabbed a thumb sharply in Elian's direction without looking at him, "is in charge of teaching this time. Spread the word."
Then she was gone, rushing from the Hall, a whirlwind of bushy hair and righteous worry.
Elian stared after her, his fork hanging limply in his hand. He slowly set it down.
He'd been outmaneuvered. Completely.
A grudging smile touched his lips. Hermione Granger, even in a crisis, was a force of nature. She hadn't forgotten her annoyance. She'd just found a far more cunning, and utterly Hermione-ish, way to express it: by dumping a room full of eager, magic-hungry students in his lap.
He sighed, a long, theatrical sound. Fine. He'd teach them something. Maybe a basic shielding charm from the Kama-Taj disciplines. Let her have her small revenge. It was, he supposed, a step down he could afford to give her.
(End of Chapter)
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