The potion was bitter and bone-dry.
Hermione knew better than to sip something that tasted like regret. She tipped the bottle back and drained it in one go, face scrunching up like she'd bitten into a lemon.
Snape gave a cold snort. "You may leave."
"Professor Snape?"
"I said leave. Now. Immediately. I'm busy. I don't have time to stand here chatting with you. Do you intend to disrupt my experiments?"
Hermione had no choice but to go.
Still, her throat already felt clearer. The stuff tasted vile, but it worked.
Close to noon she headed to Hagrid's hut and trimmed the magical creatures' manes. Her movements were clumsy, like a kid doing it for the first time. Hagrid gave her a puzzled look but didn't think much of it—just a child forgetting things now and then, perfectly normal.
She accepted Hagrid's pay—one shiny Galleon—and clutched it tightly, thanking him with genuine gratitude.
She swore to herself: this time she was hiding every single Galleon properly. This was money she had earned!
One Galleon.
If she came every day, that was seven a week… fifteen a month!
Now the only question was where to stash it.
Maybe bury it somewhere quiet on the grounds.
For now she slipped the coin deep into her pocket. She'd hide it properly after the swap ended in seven days.
…
Tom stared at the diary in his hands and sighed.
Hermione's daily life was painfully dull.
Eat. Read the paper. Study. Repeat.
Couldn't she go outside and talk to actual people? Living like a hermit that long would drive anyone insane.
No wonder her social skills were nonexistent.
He spent all day training too, but at least he still had relationships—Hagrid, Dumbledore, the occasional late-night run-in with Filch and Mrs Norris, and of course his bat-like roommate.
Tom quietly added Hermione to the "poor kid" category.
Still, she had underlined in the diary: MUST sign up for the "Youth Magic Exchange Competition (sponsored by Lockhart)" in Diagon Alley.
Tom knew exactly who Lockhart was.
Second-year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Professional fraud.
Diagon Alley felt familiar now; his memory was excellent. One walk and he never forgot a route.
Flourish and Blotts.
Crowds of young witches and wizards buzzed around. Daily Prophet photographers hovered at the back, cameras trained on the man centre-stage.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The fraud stood in his glittering golden robes, hair gleaming, voice booming. "This magical exchange competition is proudly sponsored by me—Gilderoy Lockhart!" He threw his arms wide, basking in the adoration and cheers.
Lockhart launched into his usual self-promotion: the time he fought a werewolf, the time he defeated a deadly basilisk at school…
Only at the very end did he mention the actual contest.
First prize: a complete signed set of his books plus a personalised photo.
A cluster of girls nearby squealed, eyes sparkling.
"I want a full signed collection too!"
"Oh no, he said only under-thirteens can enter. We're too old!"
Nearby, a loud red-haired family was getting very excited.
The mother clapped her son on the shoulder. "George, you need the practice—enter the competition!"
"Mum, I'm Fred."
"Right, Fred… you and George both go. I'll have a lovely big dinner waiting when you win."
"Actually…" George hesitated. "Maybe Ron and Ginny should enter. They're still under thirteen."
Molly planted her hands on her hips. "Dear, Ron doesn't start Hogwarts for another month and Ginny won't be there till next year. Their magic can't possibly be as good as yours two.
"Still…" She turned to Ron. "Ron, you could use the practice. Not many chances to show off magic in front of a crowd. It'll give you a head start in Charms next year."
The Weasley family stood out like a bonfire—thanks to all that blazing red hair. In a sea of black and blonde, they looked like a walking sunset.
"Hurry, hurry, sign-ups are starting! George, go on!" Mrs Weasley pushed her three boys. "Bring that trophy home!"
Fred and George shrugged in perfect unison.
"Mum's lost it. With this many people, how are we supposed to win?"
"Yeah," George sighed. "Whatever. For a decent meal this week, let's do it. Ron, the championship is all yours."
The smallest of the three gaped. "Me? You two are mental! I haven't even started school! I don't know any of the spells from the textbooks yet!"
"We'll tutor you this week—ha ha ha!" The twins grinned, clearly delighted at the chance to torture their little brother legally.
Tom waited at the very back of the line. Only after everyone else had signed did he step forward and write his name.
He spotted several familiar ones: the entire Weasley clan, Cho Chang, and—Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy? Even the little ferret was entering?
Tom found that mildly hilarious.
The competition was set for Wednesday—three days away. He yawned, slipped out of the crowd, and left.
He had zero interest in listening to Lockhart brag any longer, especially since the bragging always turned into a book sales pitch.
"Hey there, little angel!" Lockhart's voice suddenly boomed across the square. "Little angel, are you in a hurry to leave?"
Tom stopped, surprised.
Me?
"Yes, you, little angel. Come up on stage, please."
Under the eyes of the entire crowd, Tom reluctantly walked back.
"Little angel, may I ask your name…"
"Hermione Granger." Tom gave the name, feeling every gaze on him.
"I know, you must be nervous in front of so many people, but don't worry—you have me, the legendary Lockhart, right beside you!"
Lockhart puffed out his chest. "I saw you signed up. You're the youngest entrant I've seen. First-year?"
"Er… almost first-year, sir. I'm just eleven. Term hasn't started yet."
"My goodness! What a brave young champion. You're going to be just as successful as I am one day."
Like you? Hard pass—Tom thought.
"Hermione, my young champion, I realise now I didn't think this through. I never expected someone so young to enter. Clearly you're a huge admirer of mine." Lockhart leaned in and waved at the photographer. "Let's get a picture with this brave young champion. Smile, Hermione!"
Heh.
The flash went off.
An idea struck Tom. "Mr Lockhart, could I possibly have one of your solo photos? I'm a big fan. I'd like to keep it in my room—it gives me strength."
"Of course!"
Lockhart handed one over enthusiastically. "I've decided to adjust the competition questions. To be fair to our youngest entrants like Hermione, every task will be first-year level only. You're fine with that, yes?"
"Of course—" Tom agreed.
After the photo he didn't leave right away. He'd taken the man's merchandise; the least he could do was sit through the rest of the show.
Lockhart's one-man performance lasted a full hour and a half. Tom genuinely wondered what kind of ego could sustain nonstop bragging for that long. Impressive, in a terrifying way.
During that hour and a half he collected a lot of jealous glares.
…
Half an hour later.
The Leaky Cauldron.
A small figure in black robes slipped inside. The hood was pulled low; no one could see the face, but the build was clearly young.
"Ron, first-year spells! You've got one week—better start studying if you want that trophy."
"We'll help you, Ron."
"George, you two are entering too!" Ron's face was scarlet. He took a tiny sip of lemon tea. "I'm the youngest here—can you not put all the pressure on me?"
The twins burst out laughing.
"George, what did you put in my lemon tea?!"
"Gotta use the loo." George patted his stomach and wandered off.
Fred followed, both of them still snickering.
The unnoticed black-robed figure moved, trailing after them.
"Hello, Weasley boys."
George and Fred jumped, yanking their trousers up in panic.
"Miss—this is the men's toilet! The men's! Please leave!"
"I know." Tom tilted his head, pulled out the signed photo. "Mr Lockhart's private portrait. Interested?"
Fred sneered. "Why would we want that? Maybe take it to our mum—she's his biggest—"
George clapped a hand over his brother's mouth. "Miss, wait! You're selling it?"
Tom slid the photo forward. "Name your price."
Magical photos moved. In this one Lockhart was puffing his moustache, then realised he was in a bathroom and started looking around in alarm.
"Twenty Galleons, miss." George held up a finger. "You know it's just a photo. Plenty of people like Lockhart, but it's still only a photo."
"Two hundred."
"Thirty-five Galleons, miss. That's our final offer."
"One hundred and fifty." Tom didn't blink. "I know you'll make a profit. Six days from now, same place. I'll bring you the full signed book set plus more photos. I like working with you. You have the connections, I have the supply."
The twins froze, exchanged a glance.
"One hundred Galleons, miss. That's all we've got—if that's not enough you'll have to find someone else."
Tom handed the photo over and held out his other hand.
"Pleasure doing business."
"May our partnership be long and profitable, miss."
Tom nodded. "May it be long."
"Though, miss… one small suggestion." Tom scratched his head. "I really do need to use the facilities. Could you step outside? And next time maybe pick a less awkward meeting spot."
He pocketed the money and melted back into the crowd.
A moment later Fred smacked George on the head. "You didn't wash your hands before you covered my mouth, did you?!"
George just shrugged.
---