Hermione quickly settled into the routine of school life. As always, she took genuine pleasure in her studies and threw herself into them. But now, among all her subjects, one had become a clear favourite — Defence Against the Dark Arts. She had always considered this class especially important: the ability to stand up to dark wizards was not a luxury, but a necessity. Especially now, when the threat of the League of Light hung over her like the Sword of Damocles. But the main reason for her particular fondness for the subject this year was the new teacher — Gilderoy Lockhart. Of course it was. How could anyone remain indifferent when a world-famous celebrity was standing there in front of them? A wizard who had personally performed so many feats that even the mythical Hercules might have envied him. Not the mythical one, strictly speaking, but an ancient wizard. Still, even Hercules had probably not saved that many people from certain death.
At first, Hermione was sure her friends would be just as delighted by Lockhart. But Harry and Ron, to her considerable surprise, showed no appreciation at all for the chance to study under a great wizard. What was more, they immediately began picking at his advanced teaching methods.
"He doesn't know a thing!" Ron said angrily at breakfast the morning after their first lesson. He stabbed his fork into a pancake, clearly picturing Lockhart instead. "He even ran from the pixies! How could he have done all those things he wrote about?"
Hermione actually stopped chewing, stunned by what he had said.
"I think he did it on purpose!" she said at last. "It was the first lesson. He wanted to see how prepared we were, to give each of us a chance to show what we could do."
Hermione straightened up, lifting her head proudly. The thought of how neatly she had dealt with the pixies warmed her pleasantly. She shot a quick glance towards the teachers' table.
Harry noticed and raised an eyebrow.
"Hoping Lockhart'll praise you? Properly appreciate your efforts?"
Hermione sharply turned back to her plate, feeling her cheeks flush against her will. Ron and Harry exchanged looks, barely suppressing their smiles. Then Ron leaned closer and said,
"All right, let's say he really was testing something. But there's one detail that bothers me," he squinted. "How exactly was he meant to be watching us if he bolted from the classroom the moment the pixies snatched his wand? Why didn't he stay inside?"
The question caught Hermione off guard, but her confusion didn't last long.
"It's obvious!" she said confidently. "If he'd stayed in the classroom, we would've expected him to deal with the pixies himself. No one would have done anything. But this way, the moment he left—"
"Ran out," Ron muttered.
"—the moment he left," Hermione repeated pointedly, raising her voice, "we got straight to it and were able to prove ourselves! And he could easily have been watching us through some kind of magical device."
Ron shook his head.
"Incredible," he drawled, eyeing Hermione skeptically. "He ran away, we suffered through the pixies, and you're actually grateful to him for it."
Harry, breaking off a piece of toast, couldn't resist adding,
"Hermione, if you want Lockhart to notice you, all you have to do is ask him for an autograph every lesson."
Hermione flushed.
"What's that got to do with anything? I—I just appreciate his exceptional talent!" she burst out.
Ron snorted but didn't argue further. At that moment, owls began flying into the Great Hall one after another with the morning post. Ever since he'd received a Howler from his mum, Ron watched this scene with caution every time, casting wary glances at the winged flock. This time, though, he was lucky — there were no letters from home.
Hermione, however, received more than just the usual 'Daily Prophet' — there was also a letter from an unknown sender. She set the newspaper aside, turned the envelope over in her hands, carefully opened it, and began to read.
Hermione Granger,
We hereby inform you that the Smiting Hand will reach you no matter how you try to hide, and no tricks will spare you the punishment you deserve. Remember, our people are everywhere. Anyone you speak to, anyone you dare to trust, may be our agent. Do not expect Hogwarts to be your refuge this year.
Retribution is inevitable.
The Executive Council of the League of Light
Hermione's face instantly fell, as though all the strength had been drained from her. She involuntarily crumpled the edge of the letter and slowly lowered it, staring at a single point in front of her.
Harry noticed her state at once and frowned.
"What is it? Who's it from?"
Hermione said nothing and held out the letter. Harry quickly scanned the lines, his expression changing with each word. He frowned and looked up.
"Do you think it's real?" he asked carefully. "Maybe they're just trying to scare you?"
Hermione only shrugged, glancing around in a lost way. Ron, who had finished reading the letter by then as well, turned it over thoughtfully in his hands and asked,
"Why do you think the words 'Smiting Hand' are capitalized?"
Hermione stared at him, bewildered.
"What does it matter how it's written?" she snapped. "Is that really what worries you most about this letter? The spelling?"
"No…" Ron said, a little embarrassed. "It just sounds more like a rank or some kind of title."
Hermione took the letter again and read the lines more carefully.
"The Smiting Hand… yes… maybe you're right." She ran her finger slowly over the text. Then her shoulders sagged again, and her voice dropped to a bare whisper. "But that doesn't change anything. They'll find me. Even here."
She broke off sharply, a trapped look crossing her face, as if she had suddenly realized there was no hiding from the League. Hermione covered her face with her hands and whispered,
"I'm so tired of this."
Harry and Ron exchanged glances. Harry leaned closer and said,
"You should take the letter to McGonagall. Or to Dumbledore. They'll deal with it."
Hermione nodded absently. Harry was probably right. But it wasn't just about the letter. All summer she had lived with the thought that at Hogwarts she would be able to relax. That behind the school's walls, the League of Light wouldn't be able to reach her. That she would have a break. Time to forget about the threat, at least until next summer.
Her gaze drifted across the Great Hall, catching on the faces of students. For a moment, it lingered on Elliot Grimm, who was having breakfast at the Slytherin table, chatting animatedly with his friends. Hermione thought again how badly she had misjudged him. She herself had turned him into a suspect, looked for signs of guilt where there were none. And now she understood: it was her own prejudice, her own hostility, that had made him so cold toward her.
'Where is Honeydew now?' she wondered. 'What's he doing? Spinning new schemes? Helping his dear uncle hunt down their next victim? Or already planning another attack on me?'
A former friend… or rather, someone who had only seemed like one. The lines from the letter surfaced in her mind:
'Anyone you speak to, anyone you dare to trust, may be our agent.'
Hermione gave a crooked smile. The warning had come a little late. By a year.
Still—
"Did you read the article about McGonagall in the 'Daily Prophet'?" she asked suddenly, looking at her friends as if she had just decided to voice a thought she had long been afraid to acknowledge.
Harry shrugged, puzzled. He hadn't seen any wizarding mail at all over the summer, and he didn't subscribe to the 'Prophet'. Ron frowned, his gaze flicking aside for a moment, as if he were trying to recall something.
"That's the one…" he said at last, "…about her connection to Nightshade?"
"Exactly," Hermione answered quietly.
She bit her lip for a moment, weighing whether to go on. Then she lifted her eyes to her friends again.
"My father is convinced she can't be trusted," she let out. "All summer I kept telling him he was wrong, but now…" She nodded toward the letter. "What if he was right? What if this warning actually means something?"
Harry and Ron looked as though she had just said something unthinkable. Ron's eyebrows shot up and he blurted out,
"McGonagall?"
Half the Gryffindor table turned toward him. Ron immediately pulled a face at them, as if to say, 'What are you staring at?', then leaned closer to his friends and added almost in a whisper,
"McGonagall is the Smiting Hand? I'd never believe that in my life! You might as well say it's Dumbledore himself."
"But I was wrong about Honeydew —" Hermione started, but Ron pulled such a face that she stopped short.
"That's not even a comparison!" he snapped. "She's a Hogwarts professor. And anyway, if she were working with the League, why would she have saved us on the Astronomy Tower roof last year?"
Harry nodded vigorously. Hermione fell silent, her gaze clouding over.
"Well… yes," she admitted slowly. "That wouldn't make sense."
Harry leaned a little closer and said firmly,
"Hermione, I think they're just trying to scare you. Don't worry. You're not alone. We're with you. We'll help you."
She looked up at him. Conflicting emotions were still playing across her face, but little by little her expression cleared. At last, Hermione gave a sheepish smile. Her chest felt lighter — even the thought that McGonagall could be capable of something like that felt wrong, alien.
"Thank you, Harry."
But even with their support, the anxiety didn't ease. For the rest of the day, Hermione kept catching herself going back to the words she had read, to her father's doubts, while the cold fear lodged in her chest stubbornly refused to go away. By evening, she finally made herself take the letter to McGonagall. She would have preferred to speak to Dumbledore, but all day long, as if out of spite, he never once appeared in her line of sight. And she had no idea where his office was or how to get there.
When Hermione reached the door to McGonagall's office, her doubts surged again with fresh force. For a moment, she wanted to turn around and run. Her father's voice — 'I don't trust that McGonagall of yours, that's it. Something's not right about her,' — rang in her head so clearly it was as if he were standing beside her. She froze, her hand hovering over the door handle. But then she remembered Harry's and Ron's faces, their genuine shock at her suspicions, and the events on the Astronomy Tower roof. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped inside.
"Miss Granger?" the Head of Gryffindor looked up at her in surprise.
The lost, uncertain expression on Hermione's face didn't escape her notice, and McGonagall immediately added, her voice edged with concern,
"Is something wrong?"
Hermione nodded silently, stepped up to the desk, and handed over the letter. McGonagall skimmed the lines, and her face seemed to harden into stone. Only a barely noticeable tremor in her fingers gave away her agitation. She turned the letter over, checking the sender's address, then looked up at Hermione.
"This is serious, Miss Granger," she said dryly. "Where did it come from?"
"A–an owl brought it…" Hermione managed.
Despite all her attempts to reassure herself, she wasn't completely sure she had done the right thing, and she watched McGonagall's every move with guarded attention.
"This letter must be sent to the Ministry immediately — to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the professor said.
She took a clean sheet of parchment, wrote a few lines, and sealed the message. Then she stood up from the desk and walked over to a small bronze cage by the wall. A brown owl was dozing on the perch inside — clearly one of the school owls.
"Wake up," McGonagall said quietly.
The owl opened its amber eyes and gave a slight ruffle of its feathers. The professor carefully fastened the rolled letter to its leg.
"Take this to the Ministry. Urgently."
The owl hooted in reply, spread its wings, and flew out the window. Hermione watched it all in silence. When the owl vanished into the night, McGonagall turned back to her.
"If you receive any more messages like this, or notice anything at all suspicious, tell me at once."
Hermione nodded.
"And I will speak to Professor Dumbledore," McGonagall continued. "We'll see what else can be done. The main thing is not to worry, Miss Granger. We will take every possible step to ensure your safety at Hogwarts."
"Thank you…" Hermione said quietly.
She lowered her eyes; her right hand tightened around her left wrist. Hermione shifted from foot to foot but still did not turn to leave. McGonagall gave her a questioning look.
"Is there something else troubling you, Miss Granger?" she asked.
"Yes," Hermione nodded. "Professor, may I ask you something?"
McGonagall looked at her over her glasses.
"Of course."
Hermione clenched her fingers into a fist, gathering her courage.
"It's… a personal question."
A flicker of tension crossed McGonagall's eyes, but she remained silent, waiting.
"What they wrote in the 'Prophet'…" Hermione hesitated. "Is it true?"
The professor studied her for a long, heavy moment.
"They've written all sorts of things in the 'Prophet', Miss Granger," she replied at last. "What exactly do you want to ask?"
Hermione couldn't meet her gaze and lowered her eyes again.
"About you and Thomas Nightshade," she whispered.
The silence in the office grew almost tangible.
"Yes," McGonagall said after a moment. "It's true."
Hermione's mouth went dry.
"So you really… you were seeing each other?"
"We were friends when we were young," the professor replied curtly. "Very close friends."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but McGonagall stopped her.
"If you're wondering whether he was always like this…" she broke off. "No, Miss Granger. He changed. A great deal. Back then, some of his friends were Muggle-borns. Quite a few of them."
The professor fell silent for a moment, as if remembering something.
"In his youth, Thomas was talented, charismatic, and…" she hesitated, choosing her words, "…very gallant."
McGonagall gave a dry smile, without the slightest hint of amusement.
"Still," she added, "from what I've heard through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic, he remains much the same even now. Just no longer young."
A trace of bitterness slipped into her voice, but it vanished at once, replaced by her familiar restraint.
"And after you finished school…" Hermione hesitated. "Did you see him again?"
McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line.
"Yes."
"And that's when you created a portal? So you could see each other more often?"
"That's correct, Miss Granger. You're very perceptive."
She adjusted her glasses and held Hermione's gaze for a moment, as if deciding whether to continue, then added quietly,
"But over time, Thomas began voicing his… er… new ideas more and more often. His aims." She shook her head in disappointment. "I tried to argue with him, to convince him that it was wrong, but he was utterly consumed by them."
Hermione waited, her heart tight, for her to go on.
"And then…" McGonagall glanced aside slightly, as if slipping back into those memories. Pain flickered in her eyes. "Twenty-seven years ago, a student vanished from Hogwarts. Without a trace."
"Who?!" Hermione exclaimed.
"A Muggle-born boy."
"And you think that it was—"
McGonagall sighed heavily.
"I had suspicions. Very strong suspicions. But no proof. And that was when I put an end to it. No matter what… no matter what."
She spoke calmly, but Hermione noticed a bitter line forming at the corners of her mouth. McGonagall was trying to carry herself as she always did — to look like the strict teacher who followed the rules to the letter. But behind that flawless restraint was an ordinary woman, betrayed by someone she had once trusted. And, it seemed, loved.
"So you broke things off with him?"
"Yes. And I destroyed the portal leading into Hogwarts."
Hermione raised her eyebrows, but McGonagall continued without waiting for her to ask.
"However, I didn't notice when he stole the book-portal leading out of Hogwarts. The very one you saw on the Astronomy Tower roof. Our last conversation was… very difficult." She paused briefly and took a slow breath. "I was simply…" She clenched her hand into a fist. "I didn't pay attention. And then, when I realised he had taken the book," McGonagall shook her head, a trace of weariness passing through her eyes, "I decided it didn't matter. He was barred from entering Hogwarts, and I believed the portal would be useless to him."
Hermione looked at the professor's drawn face.
"I'm sorry…" she said softly.
"You have nothing to apologise for, Miss Granger," McGonagall replied, slipping back into her customary sternness. "But if the League of Light has become active again, if they are threatening you, I must know everything."
Hermione swallowed nervously and nodded. McGonagall's confession seemed to steady her, to give her solid ground again. She felt trust in her Head of House return — and it meant more to her than she wanted to admit. Leaving the office, Hermione made her way toward Gryffindor Tower. The story McGonagall had told was still spinning in her head.
'They won't stop,' she thought. 'If Nightshade broke even with someone he once loved for the sake of his mad idea, then he truly is obsessed.'
The days that followed only confirmed her fears. Hermione received two more threatening letters. After the second one, on Dumbledore's orders, every new message from an unknown sender was carefully checked. At the slightest hint of danger, it was immediately sent to the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
The threats stopped, and that gave Hermione a short reprieve. But deep down she understood: this wasn't the end. It was only the calm before the storm.