On Saturday morning, the Great Hall looked sleepy and unusually empty. Only a few students were scattered about, murmuring over breakfast. Ron and Hermione sat together. Ron was gloomily poking at his porridge, grumbling that he'd been kept up all night.
"And just when I finally nodded off, Oliver Wood barged into our room and started waking Harry up," he muttered, already regretting that he'd persuaded Hermione to get up early to watch the Gryffindor team train. "It wasn't even light yet! I don't see why you'd go to practice at such an hour. You couldn't see a thing! How are you meant to catch the Snitch in that darkness?"
"Wood's the team captain," Hermione said with a small shrug, turning a page in the book resting beside her plate. "He probably knows better than you how to train a team."
Ron snorted.
"Yeah, right. Because he's captain, he must know everything and never be wrong. Except he's never won the Quidditch Cup, has he?"
Hermione looked up from her book and gave him a stern glance.
"You do realise it doesn't depend on him alone? Your brothers have been on the team for years as well, but you never criticise them."
Ron sighed, set his spoon down, and rubbed his face with both hands.
"I'm not criticising anyone, I'm just saying. At this hour… why?" He yawned again and leaned his elbows on the table, propping his sleepy face in his hands. "But what I really don't get is that first-year Creevey. I heard his excited voice on the staircase when Harry had only just stepped out of the room. Why isn't he asleep? He's stuck to Harry like…" He broke off, searching for a suitably insulting comparison.
"Like chewing gum stuck to your shoe," Hermione prompted, still not looking up from her book.
"Exactly!" Ron perked up. "Only this gum keeps saying, 'Harry, can I have a photo?'"
He shook his head in disapproval.
"He just admires Harry," Hermione said with a shrug.
"Admires him? He's actually following him around! I nearly died laughing yesterday when Harry tried to get away from him. Colin was on his heels like he'd been bewitched. Harry speeds up — Colin speeds up. Harry turns — Colin turns. Harry even tried to hide behind a suit of armour, but he didn't make it in time, and Colin goes, 'Oh, Harry, you like knights too? Can I get a picture of you with the armour?'"
Hermione shook her head, though the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Maybe he just wants to record historic moments."
"Oh, sure. Historic moments like: 'Harry having breakfast,' 'Harry doing his homework,' 'Harry scratching his nose suspiciously.'"
Ron snorted and went back to his porridge.
Hermione listened to Ron's grumbling only half-heartedly, her eyes moving steadily down the page. Since the start of term she'd been rereading Gilderoy Lockhart's works every morning at breakfast — for the third time already. Maybe there were important details hidden between the lines, things she'd missed before. What if Lockhart set another test on his books? And what if the questions turned out even trickier this time? Hermione couldn't let anyone outperform her.
When she turned the next page, a small note slipped out of the book with a faint rustle. She frowned a little, picked it up, and unfolded it. But the moment her eyes moved over the words, a cold shiver ran through her.
There was only one line on the note: I'm watching you. The Smiting Hand.
Hermione spun around and scanned the Great Hall. At that moment Draco Malfoy was passing their table, flanked by his usual sidekicks, Crabbe and Goyle. His eyes met Hermione's for a brief second. Malfoy gave a contemptuous smirk and, without slowing down, lifted his hand as if casting a curse at her. He didn't stop and headed straight for the exit. Hermione flinched in spite of herself, tightening her grip on the note as she watched him go.
"What's wrong, Hermione?" Ron asked, finally dragging his attention away from his porridge. "You look white as a sheet!"
Hermione silently handed him the note. Ron grabbed it, read the line, and his face flushed red at once. He jerked his head up and shot a quick look towards Malfoy, who at that moment was disappearing through the doors of the Great Hall.
"He gave this to you?" Ron's nostrils flared like an angry bull's. "I'm going after him —"
"No, no, it wasn't him!" Hermione cut in quickly, already imagining Ron charging at Malfoy, yelling, and then Professor McGonagall — or worse, Snape — coldly deducting points from Gryffindor.
"I found it in the book," she added, nodding at the open Lockhart volume. "Someone must have planted the note there beforehand."
"But it still could've been Malfoy!" Ron wouldn't let it go. "I saw the way he was looking at you!"
Hermione gave a small shudder. She'd seen it too — that smug look, that mocking gesture, as if he really meant to curse her.
"It could've been him," she said. "But we've got no proof. We should take the note to McGonagall, and she —"
She didn't get to finish. The note suddenly went up in flames right in Ron's hands. He yelped and snatched his fingers back, and a second later nothing was left on the table but a small pile of ash. Ron stared in shock first at his hand, then at the burnt scraps, and finally at Hermione.
"That… wasn't me. You do know that, right?" he said quickly, just in case.
Hermione nodded absently. It never even crossed her mind that Ron could have burned the note. What worried her was something else. The earlier threats had come from outside, delivered by owl post, and could still be dismissed as a scare tactic. But this note had been slipped straight into her book. That meant someone connected to the League of Light was operating inside the castle again.
"We should go tell Harry," Ron muttered, glowering at the little heap of ash. "Maybe he'll have some ideas."
"He's at practice," Hermione said with a helpless sigh. "He won't be free anytime soon."
Still, after breakfast they grabbed a few sandwiches for Harry and headed to the Quidditch pitch. They decided one didn't rule out the other: they'd watch his training first, then talk about the note. But when they got there, the pitch was empty.
"Looks like they've already finished!" Ron said at once. "Let's go to the common room — Harry's probably there already."
Hermione shook her head.
"No. If they were done, we'd have run into him on the way to the Great Hall. He hasn't had breakfast yet," she said sensibly. "They're probably getting changed right now. We can wait a bit and then go straight to Hagrid's."
Ron sighed but didn't argue. He'd forgotten they were also supposed to visit the gamekeeper that morning. Hermione sat down on a bench, took out her Lockhart book again, and sank back into reading, trying to push away the uneasy feeling the note had left behind. Ron had nothing else to do but flop down beside her. Out of sheer boredom he scanned the pitch, then looked up at the rows of empty stands and, holding back a yawn, started counting the benches. Somewhere after twenty he lost track and was just about to start again when Wood came out from under the stands, followed by the rest of the team — including Harry. Oddly enough, they were still in their Quidditch gear.
"Did they take a break or something?" Ron asked Hermione, puzzled — but without waiting for an answer he called out, "Aren't you finished yet?"
"Haven't even started," Harry said gloomily, raking a hand through his hair. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."
With that, Harry swung onto his broom and shot up into the air, as if he couldn't wait to get rid of the irritation building inside him.
Ron let out a heavy sigh, propped his head on his hands, and got ready to watch the practice. It had to be more interesting than counting empty stands. Then he noticed movement near the entrance to the pitch. A group of students in green robes with silver trim had appeared there.
"Look," Ron said, tugging Hermione by the sleeve. She reluctantly looked up from her book. "What are they doing here?"
Hermione frowned, watching the Slytherins make their way confidently towards the centre of the pitch.
"I don't know… that's strange. Wood usually books the pitch in advance," she said, biting her lip. "Maybe there's been some sort of mistake."
But the expression on Marcus Flint's face — the Slytherin captain — made it clear he thought he was completely in the right. Flint walked up to Wood and held something out to him.
"Let's go closer," Ron said, and he and Hermione headed towards the middle of the pitch, where the two teams were already starting to bicker.
As they came closer, Hermione was surprised to see Draco Malfoy among the Slytherins. Ron voiced his surprise out loud.
"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," Malfoy said with a smug smirk. He slowly ran a hand along the handle of his brand-new broom. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."
Ron went still, staring despite himself at the seven gleaming Nimbus Two Thousand and One brooms the Slytherins were holding. The Slytherins, meanwhile, were clearly enjoying the way the Gryffindors looked at them with envy, fully aware that their chances of winning the coming season had just taken a serious hit.
"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy went on mockingly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."
The entire Slytherin team burst out laughing. Hermione felt anger boil up inside her and couldn't hold back.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," she said sharply, looking Malfoy straight in the eye. "They got in on pure talent."
Draco's face twisted with anger.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood!" he spat.
Hermione didn't understand exactly what Malfoy meant, but from the reaction around her she realised it was something deeply offensive. The whole Gryffindor team surged toward Draco at once, and the Slytherins immediately closed in around him to protect him.
Ron, purple with rage, shoved his wand through the crowd, pointing it straight at Malfoy, and yelled a spell. But his broken wand played a nasty trick on him: instead of hitting Draco, the spell backfired, struck Ron in the chest, and knocked him off his feet. He hit the grass with a heavy thump and ended up flat on his back.
"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" Hermione shouted, running over to him.
Ron struggled to sit up, trying to say something — but the moment he opened his mouth, a large slug dropped out with a loud, wet splat. Then another. And another.
To the Slytherins' jeers and laughter, Harry and Hermione grabbed Ron under the arms and hurried him towards Hagrid's hut, hoping the gamekeeper could help. All the way there Ron kept throwing up more and more slugs, one after another, tumbling from his mouth and leaving a shiny, slimy trail behind them.
When Hagrid saw them, he flung the door wide open and ushered them inside. He quickly set a copper basin in front of Ron so he could spit the slugs into it.
"Who put that curse on you, then?" Hagrid asked, frowning.
"I was trying to hex Malfoy," Ron croaked, bringing up another slug. "He called Hermione Mudblood…"
"He didn't!" Hagrid burst out angrily, his thick eyebrows knitting together, then looking at Hermione.
She lowered her gaze.
"He did," she said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course —"
"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," Ron said, spitting out another slug. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born."
While Ron kept explaining, Hermione was only half listening. In her head, the pieces were already starting to come together: Malfoy's veiled threat in Diagon Alley, the hateful letters from an unknown sender, the mysterious note from the Smiting Hand, the contemptuous look at breakfast — and now this slur. What if it was all the work of the same person?
When the talk died down and the slugs finally left Ron alone, they said goodbye to Hagrid and headed back to the castle. On the way, Hermione shared her suspicions. Harry listened closely, and Ron backed her up at once.
"It's definitely him!" Ron burst out. "No doubt about it! I'd love to punch him —"
"Ron," Hermione said firmly, "a fight won't fix anything. You'll only make it worse."
Ron made a face but didn't argue. They walked in silence for a while. Hermione tightened her grip on her bag of books and said quietly,
"I think I'll tell Professor McGonagall everything. About the note too."
But she didn't go straight away. All day she kept turning it over in her mind — one moment everything seemed to line up, the next she was full of doubts. Only in the evening, worn out by her thoughts, did she finally gather her courage and go to Professor McGonagall to talk about it.
"That's why I suspect Malfoy may be connected to all this," Hermione concluded. "He could easily be helping the League of Light." She faltered for a moment, then made herself say it: "I think he is the Smiting Hand."
McGonagall straightened and fixed Hermione with a steady look over her glasses. A heavy silence filled the office, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
"Miss Granger," the professor said at last, her voice firm, "these are only your suspicions."
"But Professor!" Hermione protested. "Everything points to Malfoy — his behaviour, the things he's said —"
"We need facts, Miss Granger," McGonagall interrupted, calm but firm. "Do you remember how you were wrong about Mister Grimm last year? You were certain it all added up then too, and it turned out to be a mistake. I can see you're in danger of making the same mistake again."
Hermione felt something inside her drop.
"Yes, Professor," she murmured, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "You're probably right."
McGonagall inclined her head slightly, and her tone grew warmer.
"You have an excellent mind, Miss Granger. Use it to find real evidence or the real culprit."
Hermione nodded and rose. She understood there was no point arguing. By the time she left McGonagall's office, it was already dark. She walked slowly down the half-lit corridor, trying to sort out her thoughts.
"I'll find proof," she whispered, her gaze lingering on the strips of moonlight falling across the castle walls. "The main thing is to make a clear plan."
But, to be honest, she didn't yet have a single idea where to start.