Professor McGonagall's office lay in half-light, lit only by a single oil lamp on her desk. Shadows from the tall cabinet and glass-fronted cases stretched along the walls and shifted in the unsteady glow, as if trying to peer over the shoulder of everyone in the room.
Olivia Lightflame sat on the very edge of her chair. Her face was buried in her hands, yet muffled sobs slipped through her fingers, breaking into sharp, uneven breaths. The sleeve of her robe was soaked through and no longer enough to catch the tears, and a crumpled white handkerchief lay useless in her lap, forgotten.
Hermione stood in the shadows, a little apart, holding back the instinctive urge to step forward and pull her friend into an embrace. Her fingers kept clenching into fists and loosening again. Her eyes stayed on Olivia: anger, confusion, hurt, resentment, all twisted together, tearing at her from the inside.
Professor Dumbledore sat by the darkened window, his hands folded over his stomach. The lamplight glinted in his half-moon spectacles, yet he seemed to be looking somewhere past the room. McGonagall, her robes thrown over a nightdress, sat rigid behind her desk, her eyes fixed on Olivia.
"Miss Lightflame," said the Head of Gryffindor at last, her voice firm and emotionless. "We need you to tell us everything. Most of all, why did you do it?"
Olivia flinched as if struck, then slowly lowered her hands from her face. For a moment she sat still, staring at a spot on the floor. Then she lifted her head and glanced at the professor. Her tear-filled eyes met McGonagall's gaze.
"I… I didn't mean to…" she forced out. "I swear… I didn't want any of this!"
The end of the sentence broke into a thin, hysterical squeak and slipped back into sobbing.
"We believe you, Miss Lightflame," Dumbledore said gently from his chair. "Just explain."
Olivia wiped away another tear with her fist, almost like a child, then took a shaky breath and looked at the Headmaster with a trace of hope.
"It all started in the summer…"
Dumbledore gave a faint nod, and Olivia, feeling his quiet support, went on:
"At the end of the summer holidays, I…" she caught on a sob, "…I received an owl. It came in the morning, when I was home alone. The letter said that… that my father was alive…" Her voice faltered. She swallowed. "And that whoever sent it knows what happened to him and where he is now!"
The last words burst out of her, almost a shout, as if she were throwing them at everyone in the room.
Hermione's eyebrows lifted in surprise. She knew how long Olivia had been trying, without success, to find even the smallest lead that might explain her father's disappearance. There had been no word of him since the last wizarding war.
"They wrote that they knew where he was," Olivia repeated, more steadily now, lowering her gaze to her trembling hands. "But they couldn't tell me straight away. They said it might be dangerous… dangerous for him," she added quickly. "And that I had to… had to prove my loyalty first. And not tell anyone. Not a word!"
Her voice broke again and slipped back into tears.
"That's all right, Miss Lightflame. Go on," McGonagall said, holding out another handkerchief.
Olivia took it and blew her nose, trying to pull herself together, then raised her tear-reddened eyes to the Head of Gryffindor again.
"When I got back to school, I kept writing to them," she said quietly. "At first, they only asked ordinary questions. How my studies were going, where I lived, who my dorm-mates were."
Hermione frowned at that. McGonagall leaned forward, listening intently.
"Then they said," Olivia went on, "that if I did a few simple things for them, they would be satisfied with my loyalty and tell me where he is."
"What sort of simple things?" McGonagall asked, enunciating each word clearly.
"Nonsense. Well… not exactly…" Olivia twisted the handkerchief in her hands. "They said that someone at the school… one of their friends… liked Hermione," she cast a quick glance at her roommate and immediately looked away. "And that this 'someone' was too shy to go up to her. They asked me to slip notes to her, without drawing attention. With sweet messages," she finished, almost under her breath.
"Notes? With sweet messages?" Hermione snapped. "They were threats! So it was you leaving them for me?"
Olivia nodded, still not daring to meet her friend's eyes.
"That's what they told me… I didn't know anything! I thought it was… well… I thought it was sweet. That someone cared about you that much. They sent me the notes by owl, sealed, with strict instructions not to open them, since they were meant for you. Personally." She rubbed her forehead and covered part of her face with her hand, as if she couldn't bear Hermione's gaze. "I didn't know what was in them. I just left them where they told me. In the library, in your books, even under your pillow. I… I never saw this person. I thought it was just a romantic gesture. And then —"
She broke off. Her uneven sobbing filled the room again. McGonagall frowned.
"What happened then, Miss Lightflame?"
Olivia's eyes darted around the room. She threw a quick glance at the door, as if looking for a way out, but then, meeting the professor's steady gaze, finally spoke in a low voice:
"On Halloween, they said they wanted to give Hermione a surprise. They asked me to bring a pumpkin and a sheet into our room. They said it would be funny. That… that someone wanted to surprise her, make her happy," Olivia's voice faltered. "But what happened after… that construct… I didn't know it was something bad!"
Hermione felt anger rising inside her.
"But even when you realised what was going on, you didn't confess!" she shot back. "You hid the truth from me. From everyone!"
"I was afraid they'd expel me!" Olivia cried out.
She looked so frightened, so drained, that Hermione's anger quickly died down, giving way to a flicker of pity. Pity for this foolish, tangled-up girl.
At that moment, Dumbledore spoke.
"And you kept writing to them even after that?"
Olivia nodded. Her face burned with shame.
"I… I demanded an explanation. At first they tried to convince me that Hermione had made it all up. That the construct was just a joke. And the League of Light… that it was just her imagination. But then… then they started threatening me."
She gave in to sobs again.
"They said that if I told anyone… my father…" she swallowed. "They said they'd kill him if I said a word about them to anyone!"
McGonagall went still. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed.
"Go on, Miss Lightflame," she said shortly.
"They started making me do things again. Nasty things this time. They weren't even trying to hide it anymore," Olivia turned her head away. "I resisted! Then the holidays came and I went home. And when I came back and found out you were in the hospital wing and hardly anyone was allowed to see you… I… I was so relieved," she glanced at Hermione guiltily, "because it meant they didn't need me anymore."
Hermione only shook her head slightly.
"But when you came back to the room," Olivia's voice trembled, "the threats started again. They knew at once that you'd recovered!"
"Or someone told them from inside Hogwarts," Hermione cut in sharply. "Some Smiting Hand. You, for instance!"
Olivia only hunched her shoulders.
"It wasn't me," she whispered, barely audible.
"And the mirror?" Dumbledore asked quietly, almost without emotion. "Why did you carry out their… er… 'task' after all?"
Olivia stayed silent for almost a minute, not daring to speak or meet the Headmaster's eyes. At last she sniffed and began in a low voice:
"Recently… they sent another letter. They demanded that I put a spell on the mirror in our room. I refused, and they kept threatening me more and more. They said my father would suffer, and that if I helped them, they would release him. And I thought…" she looked straight at Hermione, "I kept thinking about what you told me. That I should do anything to be with my father…"
"I said that?" Hermione asked, surprised.
Olivia nodded, and suddenly Hermione remembered. Yes, she had said it, in a moment of sympathy, trying to comfort her friend.
"Yes," Olivia whispered. "And I agreed. They sent me a scroll with the spell. They said it would be the final test. That if I carried it out, they would release my father and leave me alone. I thought, just one more time, and it would all be over. That I'd be rid of them for good. And that I'd finally see my father."
Hermione stepped forward. Her voice shook with anger.
"One more time? You agreed, even knowing who was threatening me!"
"Yes!" Olivia cried out, her voice full of desperation. "I know, Hermione! But I… I just couldn't refuse. They would have… they would have killed my father!"
At that moment, McGonagall rose from her chair. Olivia instinctively shrank back, edging away on her seat. But the professor, though clearly angry, did not even raise her voice.
"Miss Lightflame," she said, moving closer. "Did they provide any proof that your father is alive?"
For a second, Olivia sat in silence, looking at McGonagall. Then she whispered, barely audible:
"I don't know…"
"What do you mean, you don't know?" McGonagall's brows lifted in disbelief.
"They sent me a letter that mentioned my childhood nickname. Mum said my father used to call me that when I was very little. And also… there was a photograph in the envelope. It showed an elderly man, with something of his features… but I'm not completely sure. The photograph crumbled in my hands after just a few seconds."
A deep line formed across McGonagall's forehead. Her gaze, sharp and piercing, fixed on Olivia's face, as if she were trying to read something there.
"A photograph that crumbled?" she repeated, a faint note of doubt in her voice. "Are you certain not a single scrap remained?"
Olivia shook her head without speaking. Her shoulders slumped again, as if under the weight of something unseen.
"I wanted to keep it," she whispered. "But it just… crumbled to dust. I didn't even have time to understand whether it really was my father."
Hermione couldn't hold back.
"Olivia, this could be a lie!" she cried, her voice tight with restrained emotion. "They've been manipulating you from the very start! How could you trust them?"
Olivia only shook her head.
"Maybe… maybe," she said in a dull voice. "But if even a part of it is true, Hermione… if my father really is alive… how could I refuse? I… I couldn't just ignore it."
Dumbledore, who had been listening in silence all this time, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach again.
"I'm afraid this looks like a fairly typical trap," he said at last. His voice sounded tired. "I imagine they knew you were searching for information about your father, Miss Lightflame. A photograph that vanished before it could be examined. A nickname that could be picked up from people who knew you as a child. Hints, then threats. A classic pattern of manipulation and intimidation. They left you without a single thread to follow to the truth, while constantly feeding your hope."
Olivia let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair.
"Does that mean," she whispered, "that it was all a lie? That I'll never find out the truth? About my father?"
"Who knows, who knows…" Dumbledore shook his head. "One thing is clear. You won't get the truth from them."
Olivia's lower lip began to tremble. She looked on the verge of breaking down.
"We sympathise with your grief, Miss Lightflame," McGonagall said. But her voice was distant. "However, that does not excuse your actions. Instead of going to your teachers, instead of asking for help, you followed their instructions, knowingly putting another student in danger."
The colour drained from Olivia's face.
"I… I was just afraid," she whispered.
"Afraid?" McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "Afraid enough to put Miss Granger's life at risk?"
Olivia lowered her head again. Her tears fell onto her knees, leaving dark marks on the fabric of her robes.
Hermione suddenly felt a strange emptiness wash over her. Yes, she was angry with Olivia for the threats, for the mirror, for all of it. But seeing her now, broken, worn down, stuck in endless what-ifs, was hard. And Olivia had pulled her away from the mirror in the end. She hadn't gone all the way.
"Professor…" Hermione began. "It's not her fault. They used her —"
"The question of fault, Miss Granger, will not be discussed at this moment," McGonagall turned to her. Her face remained unreadable, but there was a cold resolve in her eyes. "I will be sending a letter to her mother. And the Headmaster will have to decide what is to be done with Miss Lightflame."
Olivia gave a quiet sob. She barely dared to look at Dumbledore, as if searching for one last hope. The Headmaster sat just as calmly, as though nothing in the world could shake his composure.
"I will say only this, Miss Lightflame," he said at last. "If your father is indeed alive, those who manipulated you will use him as leverage against you again. What has happened must serve as a lesson, so that you do not fall for the same or a similar trick in the future."
Silence followed his words. McGonagall returned to her seat behind the desk.
"Miss Lightflame, you will remain here for the night," she said shortly, making it clear the conversation was over. "For the time being, you are not to leave this office without my permission."
Olivia nodded. Hermione didn't know how to act. She simply watched in silence as one of the witches in the portrait pointed Olivia towards a door leading into an inner room. She got up and, unsteady on her feet, went inside. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Hermione turned to McGonagall and Dumbledore, waiting for some kind of reaction, but the Headmaster still sat in silence, staring ahead in thought, while McGonagall bent over a letter, likely meant for Olivia's mother.
"And… what are we going to do?" Hermione asked at last, unsure.
"You, Miss Granger, will go to bed," McGonagall replied without looking up. "You have lessons tomorrow."
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again without a word and quietly headed for the door.
Silence met her in the corridor. Olivia's face stayed in her mind. The tears, the trembling voice… Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that this was far from over. Especially now, when it was becoming clear that the Smiting Hand could be right here in Hogwarts. Or it could be someone outside, pulling the strings and controlling what was happening inside the castle, playing their own game while staying in the shadows.