Chapter Text
The Hogsmeade platform was chaos: Hagrid yelling for the first years, students shrieking as they were reunited with their friends, thestrals stamping their hooves as students clambered into waiting carriages.
Hermione stopped beside one of the skeletal creatures, reaching up to scratch its bony neck. The thestral turned her head and nuzzled at Hermione's sleeve, milky white eyes blinking slowly.
"Hello, pretty girl," Hermione murmured.
“Did you know that only people who have watched someone die can see them?” Luna Lovegood’s dreamy voice drifted from behind her. She’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as she tended to do. “The thestrals, I mean. You won’t be able to see them if you’ve only seen a body.”
Hermione sighed. “Hello, Luna.”
“Luna!” Ginny Weasley pulled her into a hug. “Would you like to ride with us?”
"That would be lovely,” Luna said brightly. She pressed her lips together and stared at Hermione and Ginny with wide, gray eyes for a moment. “It’s so nice to have friends.”
“Isn’t it just?” Ginny said before turning to Hermione and adding, “Enough petting the death horse.” She wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and steered her toward the coach. “This is our fun year, yeah? No Dark Lord, no cursed artifacts to hunt down. Just quidditch, and maybe a tiny, itty bit of partying, and a bit more snogging.”
“We’re here to study,” Hermione said. She hauled herself inside the coach, setting her bookbag on the lumpy seat next to her. The door swung shut on its own; a moment later, the carriage lurched into motion, wheels crunching on gravel as it started up the familiar path toward the castle.
Luna sat beside Ginny and immediately buried her nose in the latest copy of The Quibbler, whose cover blared WRACKSPURT INFESTATION AT THE MINISTRY??? “All’s well!” claims Minister Shacklebolt. Ginny sprawled as usual, her legs splayed into the middle of the coach.
“So,” Ginny said, squinting at Hermione. “Are you still studying for that test? The… geese?”
“G.C.S.E.,” Hermione corrected automatically. “And no, I took them already. I’m studying for my A-levels now.”
“A-levels? That doesn’t even mean anything!” Ginny said. “Those muggles need to work on their acronyms.” She shook her head. “You’re really going to study for them? On top of seven NEWTs?”
“I’ve always kept up with my muggle subjects,” Hermione said carefully. “It's good to stay well-rounded."
“But what for? You’re not still thinking about muggle university, are you?”
“I want to keep my options open,” Hermione hedged.
“Daddy says muggle universities are a hotbed for radical activity,” Luna said serenely.
Ginny and Hermione both looked at her, but Luna didn’t look up from her magazine.
“I’m sure Hermione wouldn’t be involved in anything like that,” Ginny said, patting Luna’s knee. “Besides, she’s not going to actually go.”
Hermione bit her tongue and let her gaze drift back to the window as the coach lumbered through Hogwarts’ wrought-iron gates. It was almost exactly as she remembered: the curve of the drive, the line of trees, the first glimpse of towers through the branches. The air smelled of damp earth and lake water and woodsmoke.
Her shoulders relaxed. No matter what else had changed, Hogwarts still felt like magic.
One last year. Finish NEWTs. Study for her A-levels. And then…
Move home to London, probably. University. Something her parents could live with.
Everyone assumed she’d end up at the Ministry—some fast-track program for war heroes and overachievers. Her parents wanted lecture halls and a sensible career they could explain at dinner parties.
Maybe she’d just chuck it and run. Pack a bag and travel the world for a year like she used to dream of doing as a child. It was a ridiculous fantasy—and she’d already promised her parents something very different—but it tugged at her all the same.
Ginny nudged Hermione’s ankle with her foot. “You are going to tell them no, right?”
"It's complicated."
"It's really not. Just tell them you don’t want to waste three years at muggle uni."
"Ginny—"
"You fought in a war! You helped defeat Voldemort! You can tell your parents no about this one thing."
Hermione sighed. Ginny didn’t fully understand that saying no to her parents now was not like saying no to an ordinary family argument. Not after Australia, and the awful aftermath of restoring their memories.
All of the other returning eighth years had come to Hogwarts two weeks ago for what McGonagall had called “reintegration activities”: group trips to Hogsmeade, bonding evenings in their new tower, and organized hikes through the surrounding countryside. Hermione had missed all of it, instead staying in London and trying to thaw the chill that had settled between David and Jean Granger and their only child.
"I told you,” she said to Ginny. “It’s complicated. Family stuff."
Ginny studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But you can't build an entire future around what your parents want.”
Hermione let out a strangled little laugh. “Says the girl who hasn’t told her parents she’s planning a career in professional quidditch.”
“That’s entirely different,” Ginny said, scandalised. “You saw how underwhelmed they were when I was named quidditch captain—you can’t blame me for wimping out on that conversation. You, on the other hand, are considering organizing your entire adulthood around other people’s anxiety. That’s”—She wiggled her fingers vaguely—“Harry-level martyrdom.”
Hermione smiled, because it was easier than admitting how true that felt.
The castle was closer now, and Hermione looked out at the grounds. Hogwarts had been repaired after the Battle, but more than that, it had been improved. Hagrid's hut was larger now, with a proper slate roof instead of thatch. The quidditch pitch had been completely rebuilt—Hermione could see enormous light fixtures installed at each corner, tall as the goalposts themselves.
Night games. Super.
As they passed through the entrance courtyard, Hermione caught sight of the new fountain in the center—a marble sculpture of a witch and wizard, the four house animals carved into the base around them. The water sparkled as it cascaded down from their raised wands, catching the evening light.
"Unity," Luna said, gazing at the fountain. "Though I think the badger looks a little rabid. Hufflepuffs are supposed to be cheerful, aren't they?"
The carriage rolled to a stop. Outside, bursts of laughter and the clatter of wheels on cobblestones echoed off the stone walls as other carriages pulled in behind them. Hermione felt the familiar flutter in her stomach she always got stepping into the Great Hall on the first night of term—only this time, it came with the sharp awareness that it was the last time.
They climbed down from the carriage and made their way through the Entrance Hall. Almost immediately, Hermione heard the whispers start.
“Is that Hermione Granger?”
“I heard she turned down a deputy job in the DMLE to come back.”
“My cousin said she spent all summer with Viktor Krum, celebrating his World Cup win.”
“Is it true she’s Harry Potter’s girlfriend?”
Hermione fixed a pleasant smile to her face, just like she had all summer. Ever since the Prophet articles. And that excruciating ceremony where Minister Shacklebolt had given her the Order of Merlin, and called her a credit to her generation.
She was Hermione Granger, War Hero. The witch who helped Harry Potter defeat Voldemort. The brightest mind of the now-famous Golden Trio. So even though all she really wanted to do after being stuck on a train all day was unpack and then crawl into bed, she let Ginny steer her through the crowd to the Gryffindor table.
Neville’s grin was enormous when he spotted her, and the smile she gave him back was real. Dean and Seamus called her name. Padma waved from the Ravenclaw table. Susan and Hannah came over to hug her, warm and earnest. As she took her seat on the bench next to Ginny, she let her eyes slide over to the opposite side of the Great Hall, where the Slytherins were seated.
Blaise Zabini was there, looking unfairly attractive in the candlelight, laughing with Theodore Nott. A few seventh years she didn’t know well. But no other eighth years. No Millicent Bulstrode. No Daphne Greengrass, though her younger sister, Astoria, was there. No Crabbe or Goyle, which made sense. It had always been faintly astonishing that either of them had made it to NEWT-level study, and nearly dying in Crabbe’s fiendfyre was unlikely to have improved their academic enthusiasm.
And no Pansy Parkinson, which also wasn’t surprising. It would be hard to recover socially from publicly suggesting they hand Harry over to Voldemort, the dumb cow. Hermione supposed Pansy didn’t need NEWTs to host charity luncheons and marry well and do whatever else useless pureblood socialites did with their lives.
And speaking of useless purebloods…
No Draco Malfoy.
She’d been wondering all summer whether he’d come back. The Malfoys had turned themselves over to the Aurors immediately after the Battle, and their trials had been some of the first under Minister Shacklebolt’s new administration. Harry had given evidence for both Malfoy and his mother, and Hermione had been supportive.
She was generous. Fair. All the things the members of the Golden Trio were supposed to be. Plus, it was objectively the right thing to do. Hermione may not have liked Malfoy, but she recognized that he’d been a child put in an impossible position. It wasn’t his fault Lucius Malfoy was a spineless blowhard, and before Harry testified, Hermione had worried that Azkaban was a very real possibility. She’d written a letter herself, supporting his release.
And Malfoy had sent a thank-you note in response: three brisk, painfully formal lines so perfunctory he might as well have addressed them to whom it may concern.
She’d seen him leaving the Ministry after Lucius Malfoy was finally released, a protective hand at his mother’s back and the other raised against the atrium’s omnipresent photographers, looking for all the world like the tragic young heir of a fallen house as his wan father trailed after them.
There had been conditions, she knew. Reparations. Probation. Restrictions. Though nothing that interfered with the Malfoy Heir’s burgeoning love life, if the rumors Witch Weekly gleefully printed that summer were to be believed. And nothing that stopped him from coming back to Hogwarts if he’d wanted to.
Which, apparently, he hadn’t. Good. Hermione didn’t think she could stomach a whole year of being fake-nice to Malfoy, of all people. It was hard enough smiling in front of the people she actually liked.
“Oh, hello,” Ginny said, following Hermione’s gaze. “Blaise Zabini's back? This year just got significantly more interesting.”
“Ginny—”
“Just from an aesthetic standpoint!”
At that moment, the doors to the Great Hall burst open, and Hagrid ushered in the gaggle of nervous first years. Hagrid looked exactly the same as he always had—wild hair, wilder beard, beetle-black eyes twinkling with mirth. When his eyes found Hermione's, his whole face lit up.
The first years lined up at the front of the Hall, all of them looking varying degrees of terrified. Professor Flitwick placed the Sorting Hat on its stool, and after a dramatic pause, the rip near the brim opened wide, and the Hat began to sing:
A thousand years I've perched up here,
Awaiting each new class,
To sit atop your nervous heads
And sort you as you pass.
But this September's not the same,
There's more at stake, you see;
You'll need more than your House's name
To be who you must be.
For some of you have seen the worst,
You've lived through darkest days,
And some will find your hurt will heal
In most unlikely ways.
While others come to Hogwarts new,
Still nervous of these halls,
Take heart: this castle shelters all
Who answer when it calls.
Slytherins prize pure ambition,
So cunning and so sly,
But turn your sharpened will to good,
Not who is low or high.
And Gryffindors, so brave and bold,
Know courage isn’t all;
For recklessness can’t mend what’s torn,
Pride comes before a fall.
Ravenclaw, your wit and learning
Light up the darkest night;
Remember that real wisdom knows
When you should speak or fight.
And Hufflepuff, true and loyal,
Your dedication gleams,
But loyalty unchecked will rust
If you forget your dreams.
So mark me well, both old and new:
Your House won't make you great;
What matters most is what you choose
At each and every gate.
Now place me on and do not fear,
I'll test you, mind and heart;
I'll find the House that fits you best
And then the feast can start!
The entire Hall erupted into applause and cheers as Professor Flitwick stepped forward, unfurling a scroll of parchment that was taller than he was.
"Bloody hell," Ginny said. "How many first years are there?"
"When I call your name, please come forward and place the Hat on your head," Flitwick announced. "The Hat will announce your House, and you may join your table." He cleared his throat before shouting, "Addison, Margot!"
A tiny girl with blond braids practically ran to the stool.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Shacklebolt said it’s the largest first-year class in over a century," Hermione told Ginny as they clapped politely. "All the muggleborns who couldn't enroll last year, plus everyone whose parents kept them home or sent them abroad.”
Hermione found herself only half-paying attention as the Sorting continued, her gaze drifting up to the staff table. Professor Sprout had returned, cheerful as ever. Slughorn sat at his usual spot, staring out at the students as he ate, his mustache twitching as he assessed the new faces. Madame Hooch was back. Next to her sat a handsome older wizard Hermione didn’t recognize, probably the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. And next to him—
Tonks.
Hermione blinked rapidly.
What was Tonks doing here?
“What’s Tonks doing here?” Ginny asked, reading her mind.
“Maybe she came to see McGonagall and just stayed for dinner?” Hermione said as the last first year (“Ziegler, Mackenzie!”) was sorted into Slytherin. It sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.
“Yeah, maybe,” Ginny agreed.
Immediately, heaping platters of food appeared. Hermione’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything even borderline nutritious on the train, and now she was ravenous. She loaded her plate and had just taken her first bite when a nervous voice said, “Excuse me? Hermione Granger?”
Hermione looked up to find two young Ravenclaw girls hovering next to the table, one clutching a piece of parchment.
"Yes?"
"Could we—that is, would you mind—" The girl with the parchment thrust it forward. "Could we please have your autograph?"
Hermione hesitated, then forced the smile she’d been practicing all summer. “Oh. Yes. Sure.”
She signed quickly. The girl clutched the parchment to her chest like it was made of gold.
“Is it true you’re dating Harry Potter?” the other girl blurted out.
“What? No. Harry and I are just—”
“Shh!” The first girl elbowed her friend. “Sorry. She’s an idiot. But is it true you rode a dragon? Out of Gringotts?”
Hermione glanced around, suddenly aware of how many ears were in the Great Hall. That stunt hadn’t exactly helped the already tense relationship between Goblins and Wizards, and she and the boys were under strict instructions not to discuss it. “I’m afraid I’m not—that is, it’s—”
Both girls' eyes went wide, clearly taking Hermione’s incoherent stuttering as confirmation.
“And is it true you learned to cast a Patronus in your fifth year?” the first girl pressed.
“Well, yes, but lots of us did. My friend Ginny here—” Hermione gestured, but the girls weren’t listening.
“Could you teach us? Please? We’re having so much trouble in Defense—”
“Sure,” Hermione offered quickly. “Find me after classes sometime next week, and we’ll work on it.”
“Thank you!” They scurried away, whispering excitedly.
Hermione stared down at her plate, hoping not too many people had witnessed that fawning exchange. Harry and Ron would have laughed themselves silly if they’d seen her giving autographs in the Great Hall. Though if they were here, they’d probably all be asked for them, and then the three of them would laugh about it later.
She missed them. More than she thought she would. They were both deep in their first year of Auror training, currently under the tutelage of Head Trainer Remus Lupin—one of Minister Shacklebolt’s better decisions, and a sure signal that the Ministry was no longer allergic to doing the right thing. Hermione had left them stacks of books from their Horcrux hunt, all annotated, of course. And also color-coded study schedules. And flashcards of the things that were most likely to show up on their first Auror exam.
They’d figure it out. And if they didn’t… well. Fred and George could always use the extra help at the shop.
“Can I have an autograph too?” Ginny asked playfully.
“Oh, shut up,” Hermione grumbled. “You could have helped me out, you know. You cast a brilliant patronus.”
“But they don’t want my help; they want Hermione Granger’s help.” Ginny held her hands up and swept them grandly to the sides, as if imagining Hermione’s name on a marquee. “Order of Merlin-having, dragon-riding, Minister Shacklebolt’s golden girl Hermione Granger.”
“That’s not really me.”
Ginny shrugged. “My brother’s not really one of Britain’s hottest young eligibles, but unfortunately, Witch Weekly printed it, so these featherheads are going to think it’s true.”
“Ron is lovely,” Hermione insisted.
Ginny pulled a face. “You don’t have to be mature about your ex-boyfriend, you know. I’m not all that mature about Harry.”
“Technically, Ron was never my boyfriend, we just shag—”
“La la la la la,” Ginny said quickly, slamming her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you when you talk like that.”
Hermione and Ron’s post-horcrux-hunt romance had only lasted a few weeks, but Ginny and Harry hadn’t gotten back together at all. Hermione knew that Harry loved Ginny deeply, but he was also, rather inconveniently, gay. Ginny had taken it far better than Hermione thought anyone ought to be expected to. Hermione made a mental note to ask Harry how his mind healer sessions were going.
When the last of the desserts vanished from the table, Headmistress McGonagall rose to her feet. The Hall fell silent immediately.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the room, “to another year at Hogwarts. It is wonderful to see so many familiar faces, and to welcome so many new ones. This year, we have an additional cohort of students. Those whose final year of NEWT studies was interrupted have been invited to return. These eighth-year students will have classes primarily to themselves, and will be housed in their own tower to provide them with space and privacy appropriate to their unique circumstances.”
Hermione caught Lavender Brown’s eye down the table. Lavender gave her a small, slightly tentative wave.
"These returning students will serve as examples to our younger years," McGonagall continued, with just the slightest emphasis that made it clear this was not a request. "Many of them have faced extraordinary circumstances this past year. I trust they will use that experience wisely.”
Hermione snorted into her pumpkin juice. Based on the stories Ginny had told her about last year, they’d definitely be able to tell the new students precisely how many ways a person could smuggle contraband into the castle.
"I am pleased to announce two new members of staff. Professor de Brigue—" McGonagall gestured to the handsome older wizard Hermione had noticed earlier. "—is visiting us from Beauxbatons Academy, and will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Professor de Brigue stood and gave a small bow as the crowd applauded. He had a very French mustache.
“Additionally,” McGonagall said, her eyes twinkling in a very Dumbledore-esque manner, “we are extraordinarily fortunate to have Mrs. Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin joining us on sabbatical from the Auror Department. She will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to our NEWT students two days per week.”
Applause broke out again, more exuberant this time. Neville and Seamus got to their feet. Dean wolf-whistled. But no one clapped harder than Hermione.
"Did you know?" she demanded, turning to Ginny.
"No!"
They grinned at each other as Tonks stood and gave an embarrassed little wave to the students.
“Quidditch trials will take place the second week of term,” McGonagall continued once everyone had settled down. “Those interested in playing should give their names to their Heads of House. Eighth-year students are eligible for the teams and are encouraged to participate.”
Ginny sat up straighter, her eyes once again on the Slytherin table and Blaise Zabini, but now they were lit with competitive fire.
“And last, but certainly not least, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that products from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes remain strictly prohibited on school grounds.”
Hermione could practically hear the twins cackling with glee all the way from London.
“Now, I encourage you all to get a good night’s rest,” McGonagall said. “Term begins tomorrow, and I expect to see you all bright-eyed and ready to learn.”
It was clearly a dismissal. Students began getting to their feet, the hall filling with the scraping of benches and chatter.
Hermione scanned the crowd for Neville, planning to follow him to wherever the eighth-year tower was, when a voice behind her said, "Miss Granger?"
She turned to find McGonagall, looking formal but not unkind.
“Headmistress!”
“Would you come to my office, please? I’d like to have a quick word.”
“Oh! Erm, of course. I’ll be right there.”
“Already in trouble on your first night?” Ginny said, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Fred and George will be so proud.”
“She probably just wants to discuss my course schedule,” Hermione said, trying to sound casual even as her heart gave an unhelpful little flip. “I’m taking seven NEWTs. There might be conflicts.”
“Or she wants to appoint you Head Girl.”
“They already selected Head Girl—”
“Then maybe she’s inventing something else. Head Girl Supreme.” Ginny grinned. “You heard her. The eighth years are meant to set an example. It would make sense.”
As she made her way to the Head’s office, Hermione found herself thinking that Ginny might be right.
By the time she reached the stone gargoyle outside the office, her heart was beating faster than it should have been. It was ridiculous to be this excited by the prospect of more responsibility.
But she was.
The gargoyle stared at her. Hermione stared back.
McGonagall hadn't mentioned a password.
"Hermione Granger?" she tried. "Here to see the Headmistress?"
The gargoyle sprang aside.
Hermione had only been in the office once before, at the beginning of her third year, when Dumbledore and McGonagall had given her a time-turner and a stern lecture to go with it. The room felt different now. The portraits still lined the walls, but the desk was larger, the file cabinets neatly labeled in McGonagall’s precise hand, and a tea service sat ready on the side table. The whole space felt more practical somehow. More efficient.
Hermione approved intensely.
"Sit, please," McGonagall said, gesturing to one of the chairs across from her desk. She poured two cups of tea and handed one to Hermione before settling into her own seat.
“I’m very glad you decided to return this year, Miss Granger.”
“Me too, Professor McGonagall.”
“Since you missed our reintegration program, I wanted to go over the arrangements for our eighth-year students before term begins properly.” McGonagall took a sip of tea. “As I mentioned, you’ll have classes to yourselves, as well as your own dormitory in one of the East towers. You won’t be held to the same curfew or Hogsmeade restrictions as the younger students.
“Now, as for leadership among your year.” McGonagall set down her teacup. “Head Boy and Girl were selected from the seventh years, as is customary. However, I’ve appointed two prefects from among the eighth years to serve as liaisons between your class and me, and to mentor the younger prefects.”
Hermione nodded, understanding washing over her. Of course. McGonagall wanted her to be a prefect. She’d have to arrange a meeting with the Head Girl and Boy, perhaps pass along her old patrol schedules—
“Neville Longbottom and Lavender Brown will be prefects. They are available as a resource to you should you have questions regarding the new mental health services available in the hospital wing—”
“Pardon?”
“Mental health services, Hermione. Poppy—Madame Pomfrey, that is, has brought on a mind healer full-time. He specializes in trauma recovery.”
Hermione was still trying to process. “And Neville and Lavender are…”
“Are the eighth-year prefects.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione said finally. “I just thought—when you called me up here—that maybe you needed my help?”
Professor McGonagall’s smile was borderline teasing, which was not an expression Hermione could ever recall seeing on the old witch’s face. “I think you’ll have quite enough on your plate this year.”
“Yes,” Hermione said. “Sure. But I was a prefect for two years. I organized the D.A. I’ve been consulting with the Ministry all summer—”
“Hermione—” McGonagall held up a hand, “—this is not a slight. I simply thought you deserved a break.” She smiled. “Perhaps a full night's sleep.”
“I sleep.”
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow.
“I sleep enough.”
McGonagall smiled at her. “How many NEWTs are you planning to sit for?”
“Seven.”
“And you’re also studying for your A-levels, according to the letter you sent me over the summer.”
Hermione nodded. “Yes. And thank you again for helping with the transcript charms. I realize it’s a bit unorthodox, and I can assure you that I’m well prepared—”
“I have no doubt that you’ll do very well at university, if that is what you choose.” McGonagall tilted her head down slightly to peer at Hermione over her glasses. “But is muggle university what you want?”
It was such a simple question. Hermione didn't know why it made her throat tighten.
"It's complicated," she said. "Family stuff."
McGonagall was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the ticking of some complicated brass instrument on the shelf behind her.
“Hermione, do you know why I’m Headmistress of Hogwarts?”
Hermione blinked at the apparent subject change. “I… Well, you were the Deputy Headmistress. And then Dumbledore, and Snape—”
"Because I wanted the job." McGonagall's tone was matter-of-fact. "Not because someone needed me to take it. Not out of duty. I wanted it."
Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“You’ve spent seven years earning top marks, keeping up with your muggle academics, and saving the wizarding world in your spare time.” McGonagall’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I’d like you to try just being a student this year. See how it goes.”
“But I like helping. I like being useful to people.”
“You are useful whether you’re helping other people or not.”
It was a nice thing to say. But it felt like being benched.
McGonagall stood, signaling the meeting was over. “It’s getting late,” she said. “And I do believe you’re missing a party your fellow eighth years are throwing. Your tower entrance is in the cloisters in the East Courtyard. There’s a stone hippogriff guarding the entrance. The password is reprieve.”
Hermione got to her feet, still feeling wrong-footed. Her hands were sweating. She wiped them on her jeans.
“Thank you, Professor.”
She was nearly at the door when McGonagall spoke again.
“Miss Granger?”
Hermione turned.
“You’re allowed to want things. Even things that might disappoint other people.”
Hermione smiled politely and got herself out of the office as quickly as dignity would allow.
The spiral staircase seemed to take forever going down.
She’d thought McGonagall was calling her in to give her more responsibility. To acknowledge all her hard work. Her sacrifice. To tell her she was needed.
Instead, she’d told her to take a step back.
The castle was quiet as Hermione made her way to the East courtyard. The stone hippogriff stood guard in the shadows, exactly where McGonagall had said.
“Reprieve,” she told it.
The statue swung aside, revealing a steep, stone staircase.
One more year. Seven NEWTs and A-levels. If McGonagall didn’t need her help, fine. She would focus on her studies.
Hermione climbed the stairs, leaving the empty courtyard behind.