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Hermione only knew one thing: she had to run. Faster. Faster still.
It felt like she was racing against Death itself — every second she lost was another second Draco might be dying in the jaws of the basilisk.
Her thoughts tumbled chaotically as she sprinted toward the headmaster's office. She knew — she knew — that only phoenix tears could counter basilisk venom. Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick might be able to defeat the monster, but detoxifying its bite? Not a chance. Even Snape's most potent antidotes would take precious time to brew.
Only Fawkes could save Draco quickly enough.
The image flashed before her eyes again — Draco's arm pierced by long, gleaming fangs as he shoved her out of the way. The spray of warm, bright blood had splashed across her cheek. Even now she could still feel it there, drying on her skin. Her stomach lurched, dizziness washing over her.
This is my fault, she thought numbly.
She wasn't arrogant enough to believe Draco had betrayed Voldemort because he was touched by her tears. He had clearly prepared for this day. Dragon's blood to win trust. Unicorn blood for emergencies. He had contingencies layered upon contingencies.
If not for her… Dumbledore might have slain the basilisk already.
I only make things worse.
The shame stung. Every memory of doubting Draco now felt like a dagger twisting in her chest.
As she tore through the corridor, students stared — at the Slytherin robe she wore, at the blood on her face.
"What happened? And why are you wearing a Slytherin robe?"
A pair of hands shot out, grabbing her shoulders. Percy Weasley. He stared at her, scandalized and suspicious, duty blazing in his prefect eyes.
He was responsible for student safety during the Christmas holiday patrol. Hermione — once an obedient student — had grown more reckless since befriending Harry and Ron. Percy expected explanations.
He didn't expect her to shove him.
Startled, he staggered back several steps, nearly falling. A younger girl pushing aside a sixth-year prefect — practically unthinkable.
"I'm sorry!" Hermione called over her shoulder — already running, not bothering to check if he accepted the apology.
She kept climbing.
Eight floors. Who had decided the headmaster's office needed to be eight whole floors up? Sweat trickled down her temples, freezing as it hit the cold winter air. Her thick curls stuck damply to her face, but she felt nothing except urgency and fear.
On the third floor, she finally saw the stone gargoyle — hope embodied in carved granite.
And then reality hit her like a brick.
She didn't know the password.
"Bertie Bott's Beans! Licorice Wand! Butterbeer—"
She blurted out every sweet she could think of. Dumbledore always used sweets.
"Lemon Sherbet—Lemon Snow Baby!"
The gargoyle sprang aside at once. The wall split open to reveal the spiral staircase. Hermione dashed onto it, nearly tripping in her haste. The staircase rotated upward at an agonizingly slow pace.
Move. Move. MOVE!
Her mind kept conjuring horrors — returning with Dumbledore to find only the basilisk waiting… or Lockhart's unconscious body beside Draco's corpse… or nothing but blood on cold stone.
She forced herself to breathe.
She remembered the look Draco had given her before she fled — confident, almost reassuring.
She chose to trust it.
The staircase finally delivered her to the door with the brass knocker shaped like a lion and an eagle. She barely registered it. She shoved the door open.
Inside, a circular table stood at the center. Several elegantly dressed witches and wizards sat around it — the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Their expressions were stern, important, self-satisfied.
Directly across from her sat Dumbledore, hands steepled, weathered face calm as still water.
"Look at this," a cold, oily voice drawled. "This is the kind of student produced under Dumbledore's leadership — rude and uncultured."
Lucius Malfoy's voice grew louder, silk sharpening into venom. Around him, the other governors nodded eagerly, criticizing Hermione as if she weren't right there.
Dumbledore did not even blink.
But when he finally spoke, the words cracked like thunder.
"My student," he said, voice ringing, "is not yours to judge."
The office fell instantly silent. Lucius tried to speak and found he could not — the weight of Dumbledore's authority pressing the breath from his throat.
Then Dumbledore turned to Hermione, and in an instant the storm was gone. His eyes gentled.
"Child, what's wrong?"
Hermione looked straight into Lucius's pale, expectant eyes — and then delivered the blow.
"Another student has been attacked," she said clearly.
"Your son might be dying… and you're here playing politics."
Lucius Malfoy's composure shattered.
He slammed his palms onto the table and roared, voice cracking with raw fear, "If anything happens to my son, Dumbledore, I will make you pay for it!"
Then he whirled on Hermione. "Girl — tell me what happened! Where is he?"
But Hermione wasn't even looking at him.
She met Dumbledore's gaze. Her breath stilled. For a moment, something tugged at her consciousness — an odd sense of drifting, a soft pull she couldn't place.
"Let's go," Dumbledore said simply.
He seized her sleeve.
And the two of them faded, growing transparent, then dissolving entirely.
Apparition.
Lucius stared at the empty spot where they had vanished. Under normal circumstances, he would have ranted about Dumbledore abusing his authority. Hogwarts prohibited Apparition.
But today… he said nothing.
Because today, Dumbledore was going to save his son.
"Damn it," Lucius growled, slamming his fist onto the table. Fear tightened his features. No one dared to speak. No one dared to look him in the eye.
His other hand clenched his serpent-headed cane so hard his knuckles whitened — the only outward sign of the terror twisting inside him.
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