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The green light of the Killing Curse had vanished, leaving only a dark, shimmering stain on the cold, damp earth. Hermione looked at the pulverized remains of the dark wizard Lestat.
"Bombarda Maxima!" she intoned. The already shattered corpse was instantly engulfed in a localized, white-hot explosion, scattering dust and fine organic material into the wind.
Tom Riddle, standing over the vanished body, looked at Hermione with a surprised frown. "What are you doing?" he asked. "You used Avada Kedavra. It leaves no mark."
"It leaves no physical mark, Tom," Hermione corrected, putting away her wand. "But the Ministry's forensic magical team is far more sophisticated than you give them credit for. They can detect the residue of an Unforgivable Curse on the victim's soul or the surrounding air. If Lockhart turns in a body that was just cleanly killed, they'll know he used the Killing Curse. But if he turns in a pile of scorched, exploded debris? They'll assume it was a Blasting Curse or a magical explosion. It's a clean-up, Tom. A matter of political plausible deniability."
Tom stared at her. She thinks of everything.
"Now," Hermione said, turning her attention back to him, "you are taking the 'results' to Lockhart. Tell him he finally got his big win. I will be back tomorrow."
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Hermione boarded the Hogwarts Express, the annual wave of noise, steam, and chaos washing over her. She navigated the crowded corridors with practiced ease, finding a compartment near the middle of the train that was mercifully empty.
She settled into a seat by the window, opening a new textbook on Advanced Potion-Making, her mind still preoccupied with her current projects. A few minutes later, the door to the compartment slid open.
A man stood there. He was shabby, his tweed jacket patched at the elbows, his face lined and weary, as if life had simply been too much trouble for him lately. But his eyes, though tired, were kind, and he had a gentle, soft-spoken manner.
"Excuse me," he asked politely, his voice carrying a soothing, low tone. "Is this compartment occupied?"
Hermione closed her book. "No," she said, shaking her head.
The man smiled gratefully and hoisted a battered, worn suitcase onto the luggage rack. He sat across from her.
"I imagine you're a third-year, judging by the course material," he said, looking at her book. "Gryffindor?"
"Third year, yes," Hermione confirmed. "And you're the new professor. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Remus Lupin."
The man's weariness vanished, replaced by a look of sharp surprise. "Indeed I am," he said. "How did you know my name?"
Hermione pointed a finger at the suitcase he'd just placed on the rack. The name "R. J. Lupin" was scratched into the leather.
Lupin laughed softly. "Of course. A simple deduction."
"No," Hermione corrected him. "It's written right there. But I also know something else, Professor." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "Headmaster Dumbledore has assigned me as your teaching assistant for the whole year."
Lupin's smile vanished. "Teaching assistant?" he frowned. "I was unaware of that. Dumbledore mentioned in his letter that he was sending me a student to help with classroom setup, but he did not mention a long-term contract."
Hermione's face hardened. That old coot. She had agreed to one year of service for the Philosopher's Stone, which he had now unilaterally converted into a permanent, renewable contract.
"Don't worry, Professor," she sighed, rubbing her temples. "The man has a way of making his personal deals seem mandatory. I'll take it up with him when we get to the castle."
Lupin didn't press. He looked exhausted. He yawned, rubbing his tired eyes. "I apologize, Miss Granger. I need to catch up on some sleep. I had a rather strenuous night."
Hermione nodded, her tone softening with understanding. The full moon was two nights ago, she thought, her eyes taking in the faint, silvery lines of exhaustion around his mouth. He's recovering.
Lupin pulled his shabby coat over his shoulders and curled up in his seat. Within moments, a soft, low snoring sound filled the compartment.
Hermione looked out the window at the familiar, rolling green countryside. Her mind drifted back to her coming conversation with Dumbledore. That manipulative old man.
The compartment door burst open.
"Hermione! You're here!" Ron yelled, barreling in and plopping down next to her. Harry slid into the seat opposite.
"We've been searching every carriage," Harry said, smiling. "We thought you'd be hiding in the luggage rack or something."
Hermione looked at the sleeping professor. "Be quiet," she whispered, gesturing toward Lupin.
Harry's eyes landed on the sleeping man. He glanced at Hermione, a question mark on his face. But as he looked back at the professor, the man's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment. Lupin's gaze fixed intensely on Harry for a single, long second, a flicker of something—nostalgia, recognition, profound sorrow—before they snapped shut again.
Hermione noticed the exchange. So, he recognizes James's son. Of course.
The train sped along, the scenery a blur of green and brown. Suddenly, the train lurched violently and then began to slow, the metal screeching in protest. The lights flickered and died, plunging the entire carriage into a cold, absolute darkness.
The sudden change startled everyone. Ron cried out, his voice sharp with alarm. Harry fumbled for his wand, the fear in his voice palpable.
"What's going on? Why did the lights go out?"
A profound, suffocating cold began to spread through the carriage. The temperature dropped instantly. Frost bloomed on the windows, and the air seemed to thicken, heavy with a terrible, existential dread. All the warmth, all the happiness, all the good memories in the compartment were being sucked into a vacuum.
A blurry, black shadow—a figure of darkness and decay—appeared at the compartment door, slowly gliding in.