A/N: ***IMPORTANT***

I've completely rewritten Chapter 5. The previously posted chapter has been significantly lengthened to the point of filling two chapters, rather than a single one. For readers who began this story before April 8th, 2017, please make sure you go back and re-read Chapter 5 before progressing to Chapter 6; there's quite a bit more there now.

Spells:

Rite of Cleansing: Powerful ritual. Used to self-purify magical cores. WARNING: Highly addictive.

Disclaimer: I'm thankful for the opportunity to play around in the sandbox that is the Harry Potter Universe. Apologies to those authors whose ideas I have unintentionally incorporated.

Please enjoy the sixth installment of Of Fae and Fervor!

Chapter 6 – Hogwarts, We Have A Problem

Seated in their usual desk near the front of the Transfiguration Classroom, Ron and Harry exchanged glances as the empty chair in front of them remained so long after the start of class. With the odd number of students in the joint Ravenclaw/Gryffindor course, Hermione had managed to grab a desk to herself where she preferred to sit: dead center and as far forward as possible, her raised hand an almost constant presence in Harry's vision during lecture. Its, and her, absence made Harry feel uncomfortable. Something had happened to Hermione, of that Harry was certain; he just had to figure out what it was.

He'd been through this before. Last year, when she'd been petrified by the Basilisk, he'd only just managed to keep it all together, but at least he knew where she was and could visit her regularly. He'd even improved his note-taking during class so he'd have something to talk to her about when he visited the infirmary. He didn't know if it helped; Madame Pomfrey maintained that Petrifaction removed the ability to see and hear and Hermione never said anything after she recovered, but he felt better at least doing something.

Professor McGonagall's passing address broke him from his musing.

"Best try that again, Mister Potter," she mentioned dryly, striding past his desk to assist some poor student in the rear of the class. Neville, if the familiar panicked shout was anything to go by.

Harry brought his transfiguration attempt back into focus. They were supposed to be turning a chocolate rabbit into a crystal goblet, but Harry had absently formed his into a rather feminine shape. He peered closely at the glasswork; the shapely hips, slight bust, and mane of hair looked familiar. Eyes widening in recognition, Harry flushed and quickly slipped the crystal figurine of a very naked Hermione Granger into his bookbag and out of sight, hoping his unintended creation hadn't been noticed by any of his classmates. Especially Ron.

Oh, Merlin, he thought, glancing to his left at the fellow Gryffindor.

Thankfully, Ron was completely absorbed by the chocolate-eared glass cup in front of him, tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration. Content that he'd at least get an 'Acceptable' for the day, Ron leaned back against the chair and absently nibbled on the half-transfigured object.

"So, what do you think is up with Hermione?" He said, lips stained with chocolate. He set the now-earless cup down and grabbed another of his eared failures, motioning to the empty seat in front of them before shoving the unglassed chocolate in his mouth.

Harry looked around. The Professor in question was inspecting Neville Longbottom's valiant attempt at a crystal chalice. It was close; if you squinted, closed one eye, spun in place four times and forgot that crystal was supposed to be colorless and transparent, not bright green and milky.

And on fire.

Confident McGonagall was otherwise distracted, Harry felt it safe to respond.

"I dunno," he whispered. "She's been stressed all year, but seemed fine this morning. Excited, really; right up until she hit you. You spoke to her more than I did today anyway. Maybe she just wanted to hear about the encounter from the horse's mouth?"

Ron coughed in embarrassment. "I may not have given her a chance to say much this morning," he said sheepishly. "And anyway, what does a horse have to do with anything? Listen, Harry. I overheard Susan Bones talking about that spell Hermione cast; her Mum's head of the DMLE, yeah? And she said that spell, the Obfuscation Charm or something, was so difficult the Ministry had to remove it from the Auror requirements, but Hermione did it and she's just a third year, and a muggleborn!"

Harry furrowed his brows at Ron's casual classism and opened his mouth to retort before being interrupted by a call from across the room.

"Mister Weasley," Minerva addressed the unfortunate Gryffindor. "Anything you'd like to share with the rest of the class? Perhaps you'd could scribe Gamp's five Exceptions on the board, since you appear finished with your chalice," the professor said, affixing Ron with a stern glare.

"Um, uh, n – no, ma'am, uh, Professor," Ron stammered, back straight and head facing forward away from the instructor.

Unseen by the terrified ginger, Minerva allowed the faintest of smiles to grace her stern visage; she'd get the poor boy to learn if she had to spoon-feed it through his ear. She'd just have to do it after figuring out how Longbottom had managed to turn his notebook into a slab of corned beef, a clear violation of today's entire lecture on Gamp's Laws of Elemental Transfiguration. "It wasn't a request, Mister Weasley. Mister Potter, you may join him: at least two each … and no notes or textbooks."

Harry and Ron groaned audibly to sniggers from the nearby Ravenclaws and drug themselves out of their seats and up to the front of the classroom.

"Where's Hermione when we need her?" Ron complained quietly as they stood in front of the blank chalkboard. Harry shrugged, unwilling to reveal just how much he relied on the brilliant witch as well. Grabbing a piece of white chalk, he scratched out 'Gamps exceptions' at the top and the numbers one through five in a column down one side. At least he'd put something down.

Okay, Exceptions to Gamp's Laws of … something. Harry shook his head. Hermione would know this in an instant. Where was she, anyway?

In response, the classroom door burst open and smashed against the wall. Ron shrieked and jumped, snapping the chalk in his hand, shattered pieces of limestone clattering on the floor. There, in the threshold, stood Hermione Granger herself, hair tousled and uniform askew, as if she'd just finished a run through the castle.

"Sorry," she said meekly, her earlier anger fleeing as she blushed brilliantly, her unintended entrance causing seventeen pairs of eyes to snap to her, more than a few jaws agape, "the door opened easier than I remembered."

Professor McGonagall was unruffled. "Miss Granger," she began.

Hermione winced. She did not want to be on Minerva's bad side, and she was burning bridges faster than the Soviets during World War II. Who knew being fourteen again would be so difficult? There was no way she made it out of here without losing more points, and possibly even detention. Maybe that would be alright though, she could just blame it on overwork, maybe?

Minerva continued unabated. "While I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to join us in class, perhaps the next time you are tardy you could be a bit less dramatic? Did Mister Caldwell speak with you yet?"

"Who? About what?" Hermione said, confused. She didn't know a Caldwell, did she?

"Don't play coy with me, Miss Granger. I am certainly not in the mood," Minerva said shortly. Perhaps she needed to re-evaluate her opinion of the muggleborn witch; if she was unable to recall one of the fifth-year prefects, she likely was struggling to keep up in her classes as well. There might be some truth to the stack of complaints from Professors Trelawney and Burbage after all.

"Regardless, your tardiness begets a five point deduction from Gryffindor," she continued, gaze indicating a space behind the younger witch. "Take your seat; quickly now, and see me after class."

Hermione followed Professor McGonagall's eyes to the indicated desk, tucked into a shadowy corner of the classroom and blanched, color vanishing from her face as quickly as it had arrived. She had never, not a single time, been forced to sit in the horrendous cantaloupe-colored desk; never been associated with the large formal 'D' carved deeply into the front panel. Swallowing thickly, she trudged to the desk amidst the tittering of her classmates and sat, feeling the weight of the materialized white cone resting on her crown more on her psyche than any physical presence.

From the front of the classroom Harry watched open mouthed as his best friend plodded to the Desk, turning away before she sat; that was one image he refused to let enter his mind. He'd had to sit there once or twice in second year, and he swore Ron had spent half of first year as a cone-head, but his Hermione would never be seen there, and certainly not go so willingly.

Harry's breath caught, eyes staring unseeing at the chalkboard. Ginny was acting odd last year and no one noticed or did anything until it was almost too late. If Riddle made one Diary, what would keep him from making another? She could be possessed, and no one would ever think to look for two Voldemort artifacts. I have to get into the girls dorm, somehow. Ginny hid the Diary in her trunk for safekeeping, maybe 'Mione is doing the same?

I'll have to talk to Ron about getting Ginny to help, and probably need another Fang too. At least I won't have to fight another Basilisk this time, he shivered. Hopefully.

Don't worry, Hermione. I'll save you.

"Harry," Ron hissed, his insistence barely penetrating Harry's mental haze. "Let's go, before McGonagall realizes we don't know what Grawp's Exemptions are," he finished, pulling firmly on Harry's robe.

Still struggling with the implications of a possessed Hermione Granger, Harry allowed himself to be led back to his desk, just managing to land his seat in his chair, a large portion of his mind remaining focused on the bushy-haired girl.

Mercifully, for Ron and Harry at least, the young witch's disruption caused Professor McGonagall to forget about her earlier assignment to the two wizards and Ron's gambit paid off in spades. In their place, the professor instead called up a pair of Ravenclaws, Sue Li and Mandy Brocklehurst, who smirked knowingly at the two boys before quickly putting the five Exceptions to chalk, gaining a pair of points apiece for their effort.

Show offs.

For Hermione, it was the worst 30 minutes of her life. The Desk's built-in silencing charm meant she could only respond to a direct question from the professor and she had been so engrossed in planning out how three teenagers could escape to Australia, without raising too many eyebrows mind you, that she completely missed Professor McGonagall's inquiry, earning her an automatic ten point deduction; yet another function of the much despised Desk.

Hermione kept her head down as class ended, waiting for the room to clear before she met with Professor McGonagall and unwilling to risk meeting Harry's eyes, even for a moment. She knew she was balancing her psyche on a razor's edge and seeing a look of concern, or worse, pity, on Harry's face would push her over. It was taking almost all of her effort just to remain stable in public and the stress was taking its toll.

Hermione suppressed a yawn and sniffed slightly. Maybe she was just ill at this point in time, and forgot?

I'll have to deal with that later as well, she thought as she rose and trudged up to the front of the mostly empty classroom. Ok, you're fourteen year-old girl. Better show some deference.

"Professor?" she tried, hoping that her attempt at meekness would be enough. "You wanted to see me?"

Professor McGonagall looked up from her papers and at the young witch in front of her. "I did, yes. I take it from our earlier discussion Mister Caldwell did not meet with you this morning?"

Hermione still couldn't remember any Caldwell, but after the earlier rebuke felt it unwise to push the issue. "No, Professor," she said simply.

The professor exhaled deeply. "Miss Granger," she began, "I must say, I am quite disappointed in your actions this morning. You've always been one of my star pupils, but I am beginning to think you've taken on too much this term. Half of Gryffindor is telling me that you cast a post-seventh year spell, a plainly ridiculous accusation, and the other half is quite adamant that you struck a fellow classmate, and Mister Weasley's nose seems to inclined agree. That was very unexpectedly muggle of you."

Hermione's temper flared at the casual use of the derogatory term. Keep it together, Hermione, she told herself. Pick your battles. Whatever you have to do. Don't. Screw. This. Up. Clamping her tongue between her front teeth, Hermione barely managed to keep from interjecting.

"Regardless," Professor McGonagall continued, "your actions caused quite a spectacle, resulting in no less than 47 trips to the infirmary. As much as it pains me to do so, I am forced to take a minimum of one point for each injury. Mister Caldwell was supposed to inform you of your detention with me tonight, but according to these notes I received from Professors Hagrid, Trelawney, Babbling, Vector, and Burbage, you seem to have missed all your morning classes, which, and I shouldn't have to remind you of this, should be impossible unless you specifically choose not to attend them."

Fury rising, Hermione could taste copper now, but kept her jaw clenched through the reprimand. It wasn't her fault the morons stacked up against the portrait had fallen like dominoes! And if the stupid Time-Turner still worked, she wouldn't have missed her classes either!

"I will collect you from the Great Hall tonight, after dinner. Please attend your remaining classes to avoid any further automatic point deductions, if not for yourself, then at least for the sake of your House. You may go."

Eyes blazing, Hermione managed a terse "Yes, Professor" before spinning and storming out of the classroom. Australia was looking better by the hour.

When Harry and Ron arrived in the Great Hall that evening for dinner, Hermione was already seated alone at the far end of the Gryffindor table. She'd avoided them during both Care of Magical Creatures and History of Magic, fleeing the classes as soon as the bell rang and disappearing into the depths of the castle. Even the Marauder's Map couldn't seem to find her, much to Harry's chagrin.

She seemed furious when he last saw her, but she was clearly distraught now. Seeing her sitting there alone, Harry felt a pull he couldn't quite place and moved to sit next to her. Maybe he could ask her about her diary?

Smart, Harry. 'Hi, Hermione, you wouldn't mind if I rummaged through your personal belongings to look for a book with your deepest, darkest secrets, would you? Just in case it's a Dark Artifact that's possessing you. Thanks!'

Harry – You're an idiot.

Ron grabbed an arm before he could find a seat and pulled him down to the bench near the middle of the table.

"You don't want to sit next to Granger, Harry," Ron said as Harry reluctantly sat too far away from his best friend. "Did you hear what people are saying? George said she lost more points today than he or Fred ever managed, and they've been after the record since they got here! I can't be seen next to her, not now, not when I'm the Guy Who Fought off Sirius Black!"

Ron threw his hands wide at his self-awarded title, knocking a young blonde Ravenclaw into her housemates and on to the floor. Most of the nearby students seemed to pointedly ignore the fallen second year, and any that may have been inclined found their attention otherwise engaged as a doe-eyed Lavender Brown, seated directly opposite the two wizards, prodded Ron's ego for a fifth time that day. Ron was only too happy to oblige and leapt back into his tail, instantly forgetting that he'd struck anything in his flailing, much less a person.

Rolling his eyes at his overeager and easily-distracted friend, Harry turned to help the fallen witch up and found himself gazing into a pair of bright silver orbs. He felt his chest tighten as he stared deeply into the eyes below him, their irises so pure in color they put newly minted sickles to shame. Two obsidian pupils began to dilate, as if taking a breath to rebut his impropriety.

"Hello, Harry Potter," they seemed to say, dreamily. Harry released a breath he didn't know he had been holding and shook his head in an attempt to clear the gathered cobwebs, grasping the girl's right hand in his own and pulling her to her feet.

"I'm – I'm Harry Potter," he stammered to the eyes.

"I know," a pair of coral lips beneath the eyes said, a small giggle flowing musically from between them. "That's what I said."

"Oh."

"I'm going to go sit with my house now. Thank you for helping me up, Harry Potter."

"What? Oh, right, yeah. It was nothing."

Harry stared at witch before him, taking in every detail. How her wavy blonde hair perfectly framed her fair-skinned face. How her silver eyes glinted with knowledge and a bit of hidden mirth, the dark circles beneath her lids only partially obscured, betraying a worry that went beyond the normal issues of classwork and schoolyard drama. How her coral lips beckoned to his, glistening from the moisture of a timid salmon tongue. How –

"Harry,"

"What? Yes?"

"Would you mind releasing my hand? I'd like to eat dinner now, please."

Harry released the blonde witch's hand as if it burned as hot as his cheeks felt. Those perfect lips smiled again at him before turning and sauntering away with the rest of her, slipping between the assembled Houses to an opening down at the far end of the table, leaving a melodious "Goodbye, Harry Potter" in her place.

Was the Great Hall always so warm in April? Harry shrugged off his cloak and tucked it beneath him, loosening his tie and pulling roughly on his collar in an attempt to resist the rising temperature.

Hopefully dinner will start soon. I could really use a glass of water, he thought, sitting back down next to the bloviating ginger wizard.

Ron, having finished retelling his evolving tale to a continually and amazingly enraptured audience, filled his plate to overflowing as food appeared up and down the table.

"You gonna eat anything?" he asked, small bits of food fleeing the ravenous maw.

Harry could only focus on the witch he'd just met, the ache in his chest refusing to lessen. He'd only had that happen one other time that he could recall, and that was back when he'd first ridden on the Hogwarts Express and –

"Who was that?" he blurted to distract himself from dangerous thoughts.

"Who was what?" Ron looked around wildly, the terror that Black had returned to finish the job creeping into his eyes.

"Ravenclaw table, down at the end."

Ron's head snapped around in response before sighing audibly. "Merlin, Harry! Give a bloke a heart attack!" he said, clutching his chest in mock relief. "You mean the airy blonde down there that no one's sitting next to, right? That's Looney Lovegood. Mad as a bag of ferrets, that one. Her dad, too."

Harry raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but was forced to verbalize his encouragement for Ron to continue as the ginger took his silence as an opening to fill his mouth with yet more food.

"You know her, then?" Harry prompted.

"Not really," Ron waved a chicken leg in dismissal. "Ginny's known her for ages. Their house is near the Burrow, if you can even call it that. More like a tower, really."

"But isn't the Burrow a tow—"

"Like I said, the whole family's nutso. Mister Lovegood's got a magazine, the Quibbler, dunno if you've read it, full of all sorts of crazy animals that don't exist. And that's saying something, we've got loads more animals that muggles think don't exist. They're all barmy, if you ask me."

"The animals?" Harry inquired, attempting to parse even a bit of Ron's ill-described rant.

"What? Come on, Harry. Muggles! They're all barmy! I mean, some of them claim there's a sea monster in a lake in Scotland that no one's ever seen, yet they're absolutely certain that magic doesn't exist. Barmy, I tell you!"

"Right, because the giant squid in the Black Lake doesn't look anything like Nessie," Harry grumbled under his breath. Why was he friends with Ron again?

Any attempt to address such a philosophic question would have to wait. Ron had quickly managed to find someone nearby who apparently hadn't heard the events of that morning – hadn't Ron just finished telling Lavender the story? – and Harry's mind had more important things to ponder. He finished dinner with an unconscious smile, thoughts of chocolate and silver eyes dancing through his mind.

Alone and down at the far end of the table, Hermione sniffed and smiled sadly as she played Harry and Luna's new first-introduction slowly through her mind, repeating the memory over and over as she pushed a small amount of food around her plate. Harry was clearly enamored with the pretty blond witch, and Hermione simply hoped that there was room for her in this timeline as well.

As long as they're happy, I'll be fine, she unconvincingly told herself.

She had more important things to deal with than pursuing any young romance or relationship; little things like recovering from her earlier blunders, maintaining excellent student credentials as cover for her time-travel, and saving all of Magical Britain from itself.

Just another day in the life of Hermione Granger.

Hermione yawned and shivered slightly, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Was it always this cold in April? she thought. If this keeps up, I'll have to start wearing my scarf to meals.

Hermione glanced down the table toward the rest of her year. Harry seemed lost in thought as Ron regaled the nearby Gryffindors again and again, somehow managing to eat, drink, and breathe while maintaining a constant dialogue. Hermione might have even been impressed if it wasn't so incredibly off-putting she had to look away.

It was probably a good thing she wasn't very hungry tonight, anyway.

The Great Hall was mostly empty when Professor McGonagall finally collected her from dinner, leading the young witch out of the Hall and into her office. The stern-faced witch sat deftly behind a formidable mahogany desk, a rack of fuchsia and lapis scroll cases to her right, and instructed Hermione to stand at the front, an assuredly disciplinarian position Hermione once again had no recollection of.

"Now, Miss Granger," Minerva said firmly, her tone boding ill for the time-travelling witch, "would you like to explain why you chose to miss four classes this morning?"

Hermione's mind felt cloudy, like all her arguments were just out of reach. Did she tell her about the Time-Turner not working? Perhaps recall how she absolutely despised Muggle Studies and how everything they taught was fifty years out of date? How Divination was a load of old crock and Trelawney was surely a fraud?

Nothing seemed to land long enough to form a cohesive answer, but Hermione tried anyway.

"I," she sniffed, wiping her nose inelegantly with the back of her hand. "I don't – I'm not – "

Professor McGonagall's expression softened at Hermione's stammers. "I understand this must be overwhelming for you, this being your first detention at Hogwarts, I believe?"

Hermione could latch on to that. How could she forget her first detention? She'd been absolutely mortified, not just that they'd been caught, but that they been as plainly stupid and irresponsible as to smuggle a dragon through Hogwarts Castle. If they'd been found with the dragon in their possession –

Hermione shuddered at the thought.

"First Year," she croaked, surprising both herself and the Professor in front of her with her rough voice. "With Harry and Neville."

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow and pondered for a minute. "Ah yes, the 'dragon' incident." A small smile graced the features of the older witch. "Griselda makes it a point to bring it up every time she visits, much to the chagrin of her Slytherin charges; they don't take kindly to that sort of deception from a lowly pair of first year Gryffindors. Especially when one of those Gryffindors happens to be muggleborn."

Hermione flinched as if struck by the hated term.

"Yes, well, the punishment seems to have mostly worked, hasn't it?" Professor McGonagall continued, ignoring Hermione's reaction, the elder witch's face falling back into its stern resting gaze. "Unfortunately, in keeping with your achievements here at Hogwarts, you seem to have far exceeded that incident this time."

"I – I have more detentions, Professor?" Hermione said, only slightly surprised considering her actions from this morning.

"That remains to be seen, Miss Granger. Let us look at where you stand currently, shall we?"

The Professor pulled a slim fuchsia scroll tube from the rack beside her desk and removed the cap, pulling out and unfurling a surprisingly lengthy roll of parchment onto her desk top. The vast majority of the writing appeared in short, black ink statements interspersed with only a few red markings, but the large red block of text at the bottom drew Hermione's eyes, the young witch having no difficulty reading the inverted scarlet script.

(10 points) Attacking a student [Physical]
(10 points) Attacking a student [Magical]
(47 points) Indirect involvement in student injuries
(10 points) Absence: Muggle Studies
(10 points) Absence: Study of Ancient Runes
(10 points) Absence: Divination
(10 points) Absence: Arithmancy
(5 points) Tardiness: Transfiguration
(10 points) Dunce Desk: Ignoring a direct question from an instructor

Hermione took sharp intake of breath, face paling, her eyes wide at the horrifying list. 122 points in a single day. That wasn't just massive, that had to be –

"A new Hogwarts record, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall stated timely. "I'd offer my congratulations, but I don't believe that would be appropriate, given the circumstances.

"This does force my hand in regard to your classwork, however. Although you've been maintaining straight O's in all your courses, I've had quite a few complaints regarding your combativeness from some of your professors."

At this, Professor McGonagall pulled out a massive folder, fuchsia again, from a drawer and dropped it heavily on the desk surface, opening it and revealing the stack of parchments inside.

"I'd read through these, but perhaps it would be easier if I simply summarized them for you: Professor Burbage is impressed with your work ethic but has concerns over your interruptions in class, and Professor Trelawney sends weekly notes that you appear to have absolutely no aptitude for the fine art of Divination. The second is a non-issue; I'm not convinced anyone has aptitude for the 'fine art of Divination', but the first is problematic. I would have thought a muggleborn like you would easily excel in a class like Muggle Studies."

Hermione's cheeks were blazing, both in embarrassment and anger. She'd completely forgotten about how ridiculous her Muggle Studies class was, but she'd diligently done the work anyway. It wasn't any worse than her Social Studies sections in Primary, but she certainly hadn't enjoyed it and was not-so-secretly relieved when she dropped it at the end of her 3rd year last time around. Still, to have all her work reduced to a mere 'you did well because you were a muggleborn' comment from a teacher she thought she respected was an offense she couldn't just let pass by.

"It's firstborn," Hermione said hotly, the words forcing themselves out before her inner dialogue had a chance to properly vet them for tone, substance, and age-appropriateness. Committed now, Hermione internally took a step back and let her instinct ride.

Professor McGonagall quirked an eyebrow and looked up from the large stack of complaints in front of her.

"I'm sick and tired of all these muggleborn comments from people I thought I respected;" Hermione pressed, "people who I thought saw me as a person and not some ridiculous circus freak. You invite people like me into your world with the expectation that we'll just happily leave our history, our country, our families behind and gladly become second- or third-class citizens to a world that would frankly rather not have us around.

"Do you think I enjoy being belittled for my every achievement, even though I outperform every student in my year? 'Oh, she's so smart for a muggleborn', 'She'll go far for a muggleborn', 'Can you believe her parents are only muggles?'" Hermione said mockingly. "Do you know what 'muggle' used to mean, centuries ago? Savage. Neanderthal. Uncivilized. Unclean. Livestock. Magical Britain views us as no better than animals, and the War proved that. I'm constantly hearing how terrible the War was; how families hid in terror lest they be targeted next by the Death Eaters. Do you know how many non-magical people, no-majes, died while witches and wizards faffed around and cowered under their tables and behind their precious Statute?

"Of course you don't. No one does, because the all-knowing Ministry of Magic doesn't recognize no-maj deaths as casualties, and simply obliviated the information if it could be tied to any magical source. So maybe I missed a bunch of classes because I was trying to figure out how I'm supposed to succeed in this world that's tailored specifically against my kind. It's not like I can go back to the no-maj world anyway, I'm three years behind on education and my parents are only out a small fortune to send me here and I'm not about to abandon Harry and Luna to the whims of Magical Britain. So just give me my punishment, engrave my name on a plaque where I can polish it during my detention, and let me get back to carving out a meagre life on the bottom rung of the social ladder," Hermione finished in a huff, face flushed and breathing heavily.

Professor McGonagall had gently placed the parchment down and closed the fuchsia folder during Hermione's tirade, clasping her hands together as she patiently waited for the third-year tantrum to subside.

"If you're quite finished," she patronized. "I suspect most of this is the result of stress. I had my concerns, but I thought you'd be able to handle the additional workload. Clearly, I was mistaken. Regardless of your, and my, personal feelings on the matter, as Head of House and Deputy Headmistress I must require you to verbally state your intentions for the remainder of the term: do you wish to drop any of your classes, or will you be finishing out the term with your current load? Regardless of your decision, I will not be permitting such a course load next year."

Hermione exhaled through gritted teeth. It was like talking to a rendered brick wall, one that had layers upon layers of prejudice and classism painted on and mixed throughout the plaster facing. She wasn't going to get anywhere trying to convince the severe-looking witch to change her ways; any more than Ron had been able to convince Crookshanks that Scabbers wasn't food. This did, however, present her with an opportunity. If the Time-Turner was truly broken, which she'd have to double check tonight just to be absolutely sure, then getting rid of useless classes like Divination and Muggle Studies would be necessary just to make sure she could actually make it to all her classes. Although –

"Actually, Professor, I would like to drop two of my classes, if that's an option. Muggle Studies and Arithmancy, I think."

If Professor McGonagall's hair hadn't been tied back into its usual tight bun, her eyebrows would have disappeared far into her hairline, and even then it was a near thing. Clearly taken aback by the young witch's choices, she adjusted her square-rimmed spectacles and cleared her throat to give herself a few moments to recover.

"Arithmancy, Miss Granger? I would have thought Divination, surely. You and Sybill, Professor Trelawney, don't exactly have the best student-teacher relationship. Your grades are vastly different as well: you're sitting at an extremely solid 'O' in Arithmancy, top of the class if I'm not mistaken, while only just managing to crest the bar in Divination."

Hermione gave a predatory smile. "But Professor, how am I ever to learn how to cope with adversary if I'm unwilling to try and better unfavorable relationships? Continuing with Divination will help me do that. I can always study Arithmancy on my own if necessary; I did manage a Polyjuice Potion last year in a bathroom after all," she said innocently.

Professor McGonagall sighed in defeat, another young mind lost to the whimsy of fortune-telling. "Yes, yes, of course. If you're absolutely certain?" Hermione nodded a bit too enthusiastically considering her earlier outburst. "Very well. Do you have the Time-Turner with you? No? Then I'll need it by the end of the week.

"Now, in regard to punishment for your actions today, I believe a week's worth of detentions will suffice. Yes, Miss Granger," the Professor said firmly, cutting across Hermione's open-mouthed gasp and attempt at rebuttal, "regardless of the truth behind the source of the panic, the scrolls never lie: you most certainly had a hand in causing it, whether or not it was a spell from your wand or some other device.

"Perhaps, under normal circumstances, the point loss and single detention would suffice, but with a criminal like Sirius Black running amok, examples must be set. I will see you here, in my office, at four o'clock sharp every day this week. Do not be late. You may go, Miss Granger."

Hermione spun wordlessly and stalked into the hallway, her anger having quickly returned at the unfairness of the punishments she'd just been served. She needed an outlet, some way to dissipate her pent up energy. That was most certainly the reason for her massive mood swings; too much magical energy in a frail, fourteen-year-old body.

She stormed up to the seventh floor corridor, bowling over a pair of unsuspecting Ravenclaw first years who happened to travel a bit too close to her chosen path, and summoned the Room of Requirement, entering to a bare stone-walled room with a simple runic circle carved into the floor, a small bedroll tucked into a far corner.

Ensuring the door was well hidden, Hermione unrolled the covered wool batting, stripped herself of clothing, and folded them into a neat pile at the head of the bed. Walking to the center of the circle, she sat cross-legged and began chanting the Rite of Cleansing. The ritual was a simple one, used for centuries as a means to cleanse one's magical core by passing the magic of the surrounding area through it. Performing the ritual naked wasn't necessarily required, but Hermione had destroyed more than one outfit when she'd performed the ritual back at the Manor; the power coursing through her disintegrating the fibers of her clothing.

The ritual circle began to glow in a bright cyan light, motes of magic swirling around the young witch's form. The motes increased in number as they picked up speed, spinning faster and faster around the witch as she chanted. Inside the maelstrom, Hermione felt her mood lighten, the weight of everything that had occurred that day lifting off her shoulders, stress bleeding away into the aether. She was warm despite her nakedness and a heat grew in her core, building to greater and greater heights until it burst, filling her body with ecstasy, her eyes rolling back into her head in response to the sheer volume of pleasure coursing through her frame.

Hermione never made it to the bed.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, read, and especially reviewed. There was a deluge of critical reviews over the earlier chapter 5 posting, and I appreciated them all. I caught a massive number of issues that would have caused a story like this to progress strangely, and certainly not how I envisioned it.

Again, Thank YOU.

As always, your involvement in the story keeps me motivated to write. I know it's been nearly two whole months since I last updated, but there's a very good reason for that: I got sidetracked. There's a blog post addressing that up and available for your purview, if you're so inclined.

Thanks for reading!