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Two o'clock in the afternoon, Gryffindor Tower.
"Harry and Ron are back—tell them to come find me the moment they show up, and bring that new broom with them…"
It was the afternoon of Christmas Day, and the castle felt warm and peaceful. Professor McGonagall's voice carried through the common room, gentle but firm.
With most students gone for the holidays, even the deputy headmistress wasn't quite as stern. She sounded more like a kind grandmother than the usual no-nonsense professor.
George and Fred grinned and promised they'd pass the message along, while Percy—ever mindful of his Head Boy and prefect badges—gave a solemn nod and assurance.
Harry and Ron had planned to take the mysterious new broom out for a test flight. Hermione, worried sick, had dragged Professor McGonagall all the way from the Quidditch pitch to the common room, explaining everything: where the broom came from (nowhere they could trace), why it made her nervous, the whole story.
Only problem? Harry and Ron were nowhere in sight.
George and Fred had skipped lunch to tinker with their latest prank gadgets. When McGonagall tracked them down, they were sprawled in front of the common room fireplace, roasting mushrooms and thick slices of bread on sticks, whispering about swapping Percy's prefect badge for a troll head.
McGonagall had come ready to hunt the boys down, but seeing the twins so carefree—and remembering it was Christmas—her expression softened.
Let them play a little longer. They're still just kids.
Hermione, though, wasn't convinced. She had a bad feeling those two were off somewhere being reckless, maybe even breaking rules. When she heard McGonagall decide to let it slide for now, she pressed her lips together, wanting to argue but holding back.
McGonagall rested a hand on her shoulder. "Relax, Miss Granger."
During term time, she never would've let something like this go so easily. But after watching Sirius Black lately, and realizing there was more to that old story than anyone had let on, she was fairly sure Harry wasn't in immediate danger.
Looking at the worried little witch—lips tight, pale forehead creased, faint shadows under her eyes from way too much time-turner use—McGonagall couldn't help but smile. She gave Hermione's tense shoulder a gentle pat. "Loosen up a bit."
Hermione flushed, suddenly awkward. She was used to McGonagall scolding her; the soft, grandmotherly comfort felt strange.
With that, McGonagall left the common room. Sir Cadogan was still on guard at the portrait hole, perched on his fat little pony, lance in hand. As she passed, she reminded him to keep the password a little less crude.
Behind her, Percy was chasing the twins, shouting about his badge—which, judging by the yelling, had already been swapped for something with a very large head.
Hermione leaned against the window, staring out at the falling snow.
It was oddly quiet. The crackle of the fire, the Weasley brothers' laughter and thumps as they wrestled—normally comforting background noise. But Hermione couldn't settle.
For no clear reason, the knot of worry in her stomach kept tightening.
Black had broken into Gryffindor Tower twice, gone after Ron twice, and somehow hadn't actually hurt anyone. When would the next attempt come?
The Dementors were patrolling more heavily than ever, even over the holidays. Day by day, the Aurors had to be closing in on Black's trail.
Harry's old broom had been wrecked in an accident, and right at that moment, a brand-new, top-of-the-line model arrived—no card, no note, no clue who sent it.
Too many red flags. This wasn't the time to relax and enjoy vacation. She had to do something.
McGonagall had told them to take it easy. Dumbledore was nowhere to be found.
Which professor would actually listen to her and help track Harry and Ron down without treating her like a kid?
…
Three o'clock. The howling blizzard eased a little.
The small sounds grew clearer: logs shifting in the fireplace, portraits murmuring, a ghostly breeze whistling through suits of armor like distant crying.
It should have felt peaceful, but it only made everything quieter.
On the modest balcony outside the Muggle Studies office, a low table and two deck chairs had been set up. Hermione and Professor Lewin were having afternoon tea.
A clear bubble charm kept out the wind and snow, leaving an unbroken view of the white-blanketed grounds. It was the kind of scene that usually made you breathe easier.
Only today, two of her best friends were missing. Two hours, no word. They could be frozen stiff out there and no one would know.
Hermione sat stiffly, feeling like she didn't belong at a cozy tea.
"I've been reading the notes Nicolas Flamel left behind," Professor Lewin said with interest. "Over six centuries he interviewed dozens of famous wizards and scholars. Turned the conversations into a kind of journal."
Hermione sipped her pumpkin juice and glanced at the yellowed pages.
The open section was Flamel's interview with "Nostradamus." The illustrations were strikingly vivid—some kind of mineral pigment that still faintly glowed with residual magic.
The book used to sit on a shelf in the office. When they'd served detention here, the professor would occasionally flip through it to pass the time.
According to him, a lot of the entries were random thoughts—whatever came up in conversation. No real order. Some famous wizards breaking down the deeper laws of magic, others sharing their view of the world. Fresh, eye-opening stuff.
But right now wasn't the time for fascinating reading.
"Professor, I came because of Harry and Ron…"
She explained everything again, stressing that she wasn't just imagining things.
It was deep winter. Even George and Fred, the kings of messing around outside, couldn't stay out long without coming in to warm up.
"But Harry and Ron have been gone two whole hours and still aren't back!"
The fourteen-year-old witch pressed her lips together, brows knitted, looking almost pitiful.
Professor Lewin thought for a moment, refilled her pumpkin juice, and pushed the plate of biscuits closer. "Don't worry too much, Hermione. On my word as a professor, I promise you—that broom has no hidden curses on it."
"The broom… you sent it?"
She looked up, startled, blinking.
"No, not me."
"Then how do you know?"
"This morning when you three were talking about it, Professors Flitwick, Snape, and I were right there. We gave it a quick once-over."
"Just from a distance? You didn't touch it or cast any detection spells—can you really be sure?"
"…"
Professor Lewin took a sip of pumpkin juice, looking mildly pained.
"Sirius Black is on the loose with bad intentions, yet none of the professors seem worried. I don't know why, and I'm not going to pry." Hermione bit her lip. "But Harry and Ron have been missing an hour… I'm scared."
Warm steam rose from the pumpkin juice, carrying its faint sweet scent. When she finished, she just sat there quietly, watching him.
"Fine, fine… I'll help you look."
Some students were angels in class and absolute headaches outside it.
Lewin sighed, went to his desk, pulled an old roll of parchment from a drawer, and spread it out in front of her. He tapped the center dot with his wand.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Just from the incantation, Hermione could tell this wasn't any official school tool.
Her eyes went wide as ink lines spread across the parchment, sketching out a detailed map of Hogwarts. Tiny labeled dots appeared—every person in the castle.
Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were right next to each other… inside the Potions office.
"Looks like they got on Snape's bad side and landed in detention," Lewin said, eyebrow raised. He folded the map and patted her shoulder. "Nothing to worry about. Snape isn't even in his office—he's probably just got them prepping potion ingredients."
Hermione nodded, still a little dazed.
"One more thing." He met her eyes seriously. "This map was confiscated from students by Mr. Filch. Technically it should be locked away or destroyed. For certain reasons it ended up with me. I need you to keep it secret, all right?"
"Of course."
"From the map, Snape isn't just out of his office—he's off school grounds entirely. He won't be back anytime soon. If you're still worried about your friends, you could go down to the dungeons and check on them. You might even be able to lend a hand."
He paused, then added casually, "Also… it's freezing out there. Best not to leave the castle."
"Yes, Professor."
Hermione didn't understand why he'd felt the need to say that, but she nodded, stood, and left.
As her footsteps faded, Lewin unrolled the map again. The holiday campus was much emptier than usual—far fewer dots.
Three separate dots were labeled Hermione Granger. One moving from the dungeons toward the office, one standing still near the front doors as if hiding, and one pacing in circles, leaving footprints but not going anywhere.
"A Time-Turner, huh?"
Lewin studied the map with an intrigued smile.
…
Hermione moved quietly, wand drawn from her pocket—vine wood, quick and nimble.
It was a wand that suited her perfectly. She brushed her fingers over the knot at the end, wishing she'd already mastered the Disillusionment Charm so she could go invisible whenever she wanted.
She was tucked in an alcove behind a suit of armor no one ever passed.
The Potions classroom and office were deep in the dungeons—torches burning silently, corridors wide and dim, only the moan of cold drafts and the occasional shimmer of a ghost passing through stone.
She checked door numbers carefully, hyper-aware of every footstep. The slightest sound echoed.
"Ghosts or portraits noticing me would be bad enough. If Peeves shows up—or a Slytherin…"
Hermione held her breath, heart beating faster, feeling like a cat prowling through the dark as she slipped down hallway after hallway.
Last year, during the Chamber of Secrets mess, everyone had been guessing who Slytherin's heir really was. They'd suspected Malfoy for a while. In the months they'd been fooled by Professor Lewin, Hermione had considered brewing Polyjuice Potion to get information—only Snape's private stores had the ingredients.
The plan never got off the ground.
She reached the corridor outside Snape's office far more easily than expected.
A guiding lantern glowed in front of the door—bright as a hearth fire in the gloom.
The door was shut. Rustling sounds came from inside, along with the faint sound of Ron grumbling.
Really just prepping ingredients?
Hermione pressed her ear to the door, hesitating until she heard Harry's voice telling Ron to put on gloves before touching the toads' backs.
She knocked lightly. "Harry? Ron?"
Silence for a few seconds, then excited shouting: "Hermione!?"
Quick footsteps, followed by two thumps—heads banging into the door.
"It's me… You guys haven't been back to the common room in hours. I checked the pitch and the grounds—nothing. Professor Lewin said you were down here, so I came to see if you're okay."
"Okay?" Ron's voice shot back. "This has been awful!"
Harry answered more calmly, "We were heading out to test the new broom when we ran into Snape in the entrance hall. He picked a fight, confiscated the Firebolt, and locked us in here to squeeze pus out of toads."
"Wait…" Harry paused. "The whole thing only took five minutes, and we didn't pass anyone on the way. How did Professor Lewin know we were here?"
"A special kind of magic. Not important right now."
Hermione stared at the crack under the door for several seconds, eyes narrowing as questions piled up again.
She remembered the professor casually mentioning he'd seen them unwrap the Firebolt that morning and checked it for curses.
So why had Snape taken it?
And why had McGonagall been okay with them flying it in the first place, when Black was out there and the broom's sender was unknown?
Thinking back, Flitwick, Sprout, even Dumbledore had all seemed oddly calm. She remembered how grim they'd looked after Black's first break-in.
But later attempts—even killing Scabbers—the headmaster hadn't seemed that angry. Almost like Harry and Ron's safety wasn't their top concern.
The professors seemed to have quietly agreed Black wasn't a real threat. But that still didn't explain Snape… or the hints Professor Lewin had dropped about the truth behind Harry's parents' deaths that Harry had overheard…
Hermione gently pushed the door. The lock didn't budge.
"Alohomora!"
Sparks flew from the lock; one nearly singed her robe.
"Don't bother, Hermione," Harry called. "Snape put an Anti-Alohomora Charm on it. We're stuck till he gets back."
"But he's not even at school."
"What?!" Ron launched into another round of loud complaints.
His shouting echoed down the corridor—much louder than footsteps. Yet no ghosts appeared. Only the wall torches flickered, stretching Hermione's shadow long across the stone floor.
"As long as you two are safe. Just focus on the toads and don't give Snape any extra ammunition."
"You're leaving?" Harry asked.
"Yeah…"
Hermione slipped into a corner and pulled the golden chain from under her shirt.
She needed to know what Snape was really up to.
And what secret the professors were keeping.