Hogwarts had returned to normal, or so it seemed to everyone else. Students bustled from class to class, gossiping about Quidditch, homework, and who had or hadn't been hexed by Lockhart lately. But for Sky, it all felt muted—like watching a play from behind soundproof glass. The castle's heartbeat thudded on with infuriating consistency, but he no longer felt tethered to its rhythm.
Since the duel, since Dumbledore's veiled threats and mirrored truths, Sky had stopped pretending he was just a student here. The others had already moved on from the spectacle. Even Lockhart's ego had recovered, somehow.
Hermione noticed the shift in him, of course. She tried to engage him in class discussions, to rope him into debates about Transfiguration theory or historical timelines, but Sky always deflected. He answered questions without truly speaking. Until that afternoon, in the common room, when she pressed a little too far, and he finally asked, almost softly, "Are you free tonight?"
Hermione blinked. "Why?"
Sky looked away. "I need to show you something. I feel its probably about time I share somethings with you."
When they stepped into one of the side rooms in Sky's warehouse trunk, Hermione stopped mid-step and recoiled. "Oh my God, it smells like something exploded in here and then died from the embarrassment."
Sky waved a hand through the air. "That would be the rats."
"Excuse me?"
"I ordered fifty magical rats from the Magical Menagerie. Owl post dropped twenty. The rest are, I assume, part of an airborne rat diaspora or currently causing different forms of indigestion of certain mail carriers."
The twenty remaining rats skittered through a chaotic web of tunnels, spring-loaded boxes, levitating ramps, and glowing glyphs etched into floor tiles. It was less a cage and more a magical obstacle course.
Hermione watched, horrified and fascinated. Then she spotted something else. "Is that… Mrs. Norris?"
"Yeah," Sky said. "We get along now. She's retired. No children screaming at her. Regular meals. The warehouse is hers."
Mrs. Norris blinked at them, unbothered, from a heated perch beside an automatic feeder and her own personal catnip dispensary.
Then Sky reached toward a heavy table covered in rune-etched tools. With no wand, no incantation, he tapped it with two fingers—and the whole table disappeared.
Hermione froze. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then, quietly: "I knew something was off."
Sky turned, not smug—just steady. "I trust you."
And he told her a lot of things.
He told her about his business dealings that she wasnt fully privy too.
He told her about some of the things he had been preparing for the past 2 years as well as his way of getting currency nowadays.
He told her about his honest view of the magical world and how it was practically built to be against those like her and him.
And he told her about France.
He told her about Nicholas Flamel and the tests they did together. About discovering that his storage wasn't magical, but something else entirely. That it could even store raw magic itself, in quantities no wand or wizard should be able to contain. That Flamel called it impossible—and yet measurable. That Flamel, for all his genius, warned him to tell no one.
He told Hermione that she was the second person—ever—to know the full truth about his abilities.
And still, she didn't run.
Hermione didn't interrupt. She didn't run. When he finished, she just let out a long, quiet breath. "Thank Merlin. I was starting to think I was losing it." She hesitated, then added with narrowed eyes, "Was it you who kept stealing things at Beauxbatons?"
"No comment"
-----
They moved to a cleaner side table after a bit more small talk. Sky unrolled a parchment covered in sketches, equations, and magical theory. Diagrams of a snake's skull. Pipe-width measurements. Spell tolerances.
Hermione looked up from the parchment. "Excuse me?"
He tapped a line graph titled 'Magic Tolerance vs Internal Volume.' "It makes more sense. No risk no mess."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then: "How will you avoid its eyes?"
Sky reached into his coat and produced a pair of frosted-lens glasses.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You think that's enough?"
"I don't need clarity. Just outline recognition. Light scatter from frosted lenses will prevent direct visual transmission."
"You're underestimating magic," she said.
"Magic has overestimated itself long enough."
A silence fell.
"Don't go alone," Hermione said.
Sky hesitated. Said nothing.
They packed up their notes. Hermione opened the trunk hatch, letting the castle's faint noise drift in. But Sky didn't move.
He walked to the far shelf. One of the cages shimmered faintly with reinforcement wards. Welded metal. Quiet enchantments.
Inside sat a rat.
Scabbers.
The rat stared back at him. Unblinking.
Sky tapped the bars once. Scabbers didn't flinch.
"Coming?" Hermione called.
"Yeah," Sky said. "Just securing something unpleasant."
He cast a silent strengthening charm on the cage and watched the auto-feeder dispense a dry pellet. The rat didn't touch it.
Sky turned off the light, left it glowing faintly behind, and climbed out.