The Hogwats Gaijin

The morning was sunny and deceptively festive. The air rang with birdsong and the excited voices of students streaming towards the stadium. But for Hermione this noise reached her as though through cotton wool.

Harry had left half an hour earlier. He had looked collected and hard, nodded to them in farewell and disappeared into the champions’ tent. Before leaving, he had once again — for the tenth time — swept his gaze over them — his special unit, as Dean jokingly called them — and asked them to be careful.

‘We will, Harry. We definitely will,’ Hermione had thought, squeezing the cold metal of the coin in her pocket.

Her thoughts involuntarily returned to the early morning, when they had gathered in a quiet corner of the common room for the final briefing.

‘These are Protean Charms,’ she had explained in a whisper, laying four gold Galleons on the table. ‘I enchanted them during the night. The principle is simple: if any of us spots danger or a change in plans, they cast a spell on their coin. Then all the other Galleons will heat up.’

Ron, turning a Galleon in his hands with the air of a jewellery expert, had given an impressed whistle.

‘Will it get hot?’

‘Noticeably,’ Hermione had nodded. ‘Enough to feel it. If the coin gets hot — Kieran and I leave immediately. Whether we’ve found anything or not. We just disappear.’

Ginny, who had been listening silently until then, had suddenly reached for the table and taken one of the coins.

‘Protean Charms?’ she had asked, looking up at Hermione with an admiring gaze. ‘But that’s N.E.W.T. level! Hermione, that’s… incredibly complex magic. You did this in one night?’

Hermione had felt a treacherous blush of pleasure rise to her cheeks. She had tried to suppress the satisfied smile — the moment was too serious for vanity — but the corners of her mouth had still twitched.

‘Well, I had to fiddle a bit with the synchronisation…’ she had begun modestly.

‘You’re a genius,’ Ginny had declared flatly, tucking the coin into her jeans pocket. ‘I’ll watch the stands. If Moody or Karkaroff make a move — you’ll know first.’

‘I’ll be at the castle entrance,’ Ron had added, pocketing his own Galleon. ‘Not a single fly will get past unnoticed.’

The memory faded as the crowd around them grew thicker. Everyone was heading to the Quidditch pitch, now transformed into a maze. Slytherins in green scarves, Gryffindors with flags, noisy Beauxbatons students…

‘It’s time,’ Kieran whispered in her ear.

They exchanged a glance with Ron. Weasley gave a barely noticeable nod — his face pale but determined — and, deftly slipping into a side passage, separated from the crowd and headed towards the main entrance of the castle to take up his position as the “bored prefect”.

Hermione and Kieran continued moving, but not towards the stadium. They carefully, step by step, edged towards the side of the human stream until they reached the greenhouses. From there, taking advantage of the moment when everyone was watching a flock of passing pixies, they slipped into the shadow of the castle walls.

Inside Hogwarts they were enveloped by silence. The roar of the crowd remained outside, turning into a distant background noise like the sound of the sea. Here there was coolness and echoes.

They walked quickly, trying not to let their heels clack on the stone flags. Kieran moved ahead — his gait soft and gliding. He checked every corner before waving her forward.

Third floor. Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor.

Empty.

‘This way,’ Kieran mouthed, pointing to a deep alcove behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

They squeezed into the narrow space. It smelled of dust and old stone. Hermione’s heart was pounding so hard that the beats seemed to reverberate painfully in her ribs.

‘Calm down, Granger. You’ve broken worse rules. You set a teacher’s robes on fire. You brewed illegal potions. You flew on a hippogriff. This is just… just inspecting an office.’

With trembling hands she took the silvery fabric from her bag. The Invisibility Cloak flowed through her fingers, light as water.

‘Ready?’ Kieran asked. He had already drawn his wand — smooth black wood covered in scratches.

‘Yes,’ she breathed, throwing the Cloak over her shoulders. The world dimmed slightly, sounds became muffled. She vanished.

Kieran nodded at the empty air where she had stood and touched his own crown with his wand.

‘Disillusionment Charm,’ he whispered.

Hermione saw his figure ripple like air above hot asphalt. The colours of his clothes and skin began to shift, blending with the grey stone wall and the dark wood of the statue. A second later he was almost invisible — only a slight distortion in the air betrayed his presence.

‘I’m right behind you,’ his quiet voice came, sounding as though from nowhere. ‘Watch the coin.’

Hermione squeezed the Galleon in her pocket so tightly that the metal dug into her palm. Her hands were still shaking — a small, nasty tremor that willpower couldn’t stop. She was scared. Sickeningly, dizzyingly scared. Not of expulsion, not of teachers’ anger.

She was scared of what she might find behind that door.

For Harry — she reminded herself, taking the first step out of cover.

Hermione moved towards the door of Moody’s office, trying not even to breathe.

The lock clicked open with an Alohomora — a dry, unpleasant sound like the crack of breaking bone. Hermione froze, holding her breath, but the corridor was empty. She quickly slipped inside, pulled the heavy oak door firmly shut behind her, and immediately pressed her back against it, trying to calm her racing heart.

It was not quiet in Moody’s office.

The room was full of strange, unsettling sounds: quiet whistling, buzzing, scraping and periodic puffing. The air here seemed electrified with the owner’s paranoia.

Hermione cautiously took a step forward, trying not to touch the numerous instruments on the tables and shelves. Sneakoscopes spun like mad tops, emitting thin streams of smoke. Lie detectors vibrated faintly. But something else caught Hermione’s attention.

In the corner, on a crooked cabinet, stood a large mirror in a heavy, time-darkened frame. Its surface did not reflect the room — it was filled with swirling silvery mist, in the depths of which vague shadows moved.

Hermione, as if enchanted, stepped closer. The mist in the mirror began to dissipate, the shadows gaining substance.

From the silvery depths her own face stared back at her. But this was not the frightened girl currently standing in the office. The reflection grinned in a grimace of rage, its eyes burned with vicious fire, and its wand was raised to strike. Behind its shoulder loomed a tall figure with dark hair — Kieran, standing in a fighting stance. And further back, in the haze, two reddish blurs could be seen.

Hermione recoiled, feeling a chill run down her spine.

An artefact that showed the owner’s enemies.

If Moody saw her and her friends as enemies… that meant they were a threat to him. Not students, not charges, but enemies.

She forced herself to tear her gaze away from the horrifying glass and continued her search. Her eyes fell on a massive trunk by the window. It was enormous, iron-bound, and emanated such a powerful wave of protective magic that the hairs on Hermione’s arms stood on end. Seven locks. Seven levels of protection.

‘No,’ she told herself. ‘Breaking this would take hours. If there’s anything in there, I won’t reach it.’

She darted to the desk. Books on the Dark Arts, parchments with reports, a map of the maze… Everything looked normal. Too normal for a man who saw enemies in children.

‘Think, Hermione. Where would he keep the most important things? Where is what he needs every hour?’

She scanned the walls, covered with maps and posters.

‘Revelio,’ she whispered, sweeping her wand in a wide arc.

Magic responded with a soft chime. A section of wall to the right of the desk, which had appeared to be solid stone, suddenly rippled and melted away, revealing a narrow hidden niche.

Inside there was no gold, no dark artefacts. There stood rows of plump glass phials filled with a murky, thick liquid that looked like swamp mud.

Hermione reached out with a trembling hand and took one of the phials. The cork came out with a quiet pop.

A sharp, nauseating smell hit her nose. A mixture of boiled cabbage, old leather and something sickly-sweet and rotten.

She closed her eyes, and her memory obligingly supplied a recollection from second year. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. The bubbling cauldron. That smell was unmistakable.

‘Polyjuice Potion,’ she breathed into the empty office.

Why would a schoolteacher, even a former Auror, need industrial quantities of Polyjuice Potion? The answer was obvious and terrifying.

Hermione hurriedly stoppered the phial and slipped it into the pocket of her robe. This was evidence.

She needed to leave. Now.

She turned, throwing the Invisibility Cloak over her shoulders as she moved. The Sneakoscopes on the desk suddenly whistled louder, as if sensing her fear, and the sound spurred her on.

Hermione slipped out into the corridor, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. The lock clicked again, restoring the illusion of inviolability.

In the half-light of the corridor, by the statue of the Witch, the air shimmered.

Hermione ran over and pulled the hood of the Cloak off, appearing out of nowhere in front of the invisible Kieran.

‘I found it,’ she hissed, pulling out the phial. Her hands were shaking, and the liquid inside sloshed. ‘Look. It’s Polyjuice. There’s a whole stockpile of it.’

The air beside her thickened, and Kieran dropped the Disillusionment Charm. His face was pale but focused. He cast a quick glance at the phial, then at the office door.

‘Damn,’ he swore shortly. ‘So you were right. This isn’t Moody. We need to go to McGonagall. Or Snape. Right now.’

‘To Dumbledore,’ Hermione said firmly, pocketing the phial again. ‘Only he can—’

She didn’t finish.

In her pocket, where the enchanted Galleon lay, fire flared. The metal heated instantly, burning her skin through the fabric like a hot coal pressed to her thigh.

Hermione gasped and froze, staring at Kieran with eyes wide with horror.

‘The coin,’ she breathed.

The Galleon in her pocket was no longer merely warming — it was burning her skin. Hermione raced down the marble staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Kieran was right behind her, his breathing steady but heavy.

They burst into the Entrance Hall, almost knocking over Ron, who was nervously pacing by the huge oak doors, pretending to study the exam timetable on the notice board.

‘It wasn’t me!’ he blurted out when he saw their distorted faces. ‘I didn’t do anything! It was Ginny! She sent the signal from the stands!’

‘So it’s started,’ Hermione gasped, not slowing down. ‘Something’s happened. Run!’

They sprinted along the path towards the pitch, when from around the corner of the greenhouses a black figure swooped out like a giant bat.

They couldn’t stop in time.

Hermione and Ron practically collided with Professor Snape. Kieran, who had reacted a fraction of a second faster, slipped sideways, but also froze, finding himself dangerously close to the Potions master.

Snape staggered, regaining his balance, and slowly straightened. His face, usually pale, now looked like a mask of pure irritation. His black eyes narrowed into two icy slits.

‘How delightful,’ he hissed in his quiet, insinuating voice that always made Ron’s palms sweat. ‘Might I enquire where the Gryffindor gentlemen are rushing with the grace of a herd of panicked hippogriffs? And what exactly have you done this time to make you so eager to flee the scene of the crime?’

Ron opened his mouth but only produced an incoherent mumble, backing away. His ears began turning pink rapidly. Meeting Snape was always a bad omen, and right now — a catastrophe.

But Hermione understood: there was no time to waste on arguments. Every second could cost Harry his life.

She stepped forward, ignoring the trembling in her knees, and thrust her hand sharply into her pocket.

‘Professor!’ she gasped, holding out the phial of murky sludge to him. ‘We don’t have time to explain. Look!’

Snape glanced disdainfully at the phial, then at Hermione. His lip curled contemptuously.

‘What is this, Miss Granger? An attempt to poison one of the Slytherins? Or are you confessing to brewing illegal potions again in the girls’ bathroom?’

He snatched the phial from her hands, uncorked it with his long yellow fingers and brought it to his nose.

The effect was instantaneous.

The bored expression vanished from Snape’s face as if wiped away. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the smell. His eyes flashed with a sharp, unpleasant fire. He stoppered the phial abruptly and looked at Hermione with no trace of irony.

‘Polyjuice Potion,’ he stated coldly. ‘Fresh. And, judging by the smell, brewed with the highest quality Boomslang skin. Where did you get this?’

‘From Professor Moody’s office, sir,’ Hermione said firmly, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘We… we found a hidden compartment. There’s a whole stockpile of this potion there. Litres of it!’

‘You broke into a teacher’s office?’ Snape asked quietly, threateningly, but there was no anger in his voice — only the intense working of his mind.

‘We suspect he drinks it constantly, sir!’ Kieran interjected. He stood slightly behind, but looked ready to spring to Hermione’s defence at any moment. ‘Every hour. From his hip flask.’

Snape shifted his heavy gaze to Morgan, lingering for a second as if assessing the threat, then looked back at the phial in his hand.

‘So Moody…’ he muttered almost inaudibly. ‘That explains the disappearance of my ingredients. And much else besides.’

He suddenly straightened, the hem of his robes flaring.

‘We will discuss the fact that you committed breaking and entering later,’ he snapped. ‘For now — with me. Quickly!’

They moved towards the stands, quickening their pace. The crowd around them grew thicker — late students hurrying to find seats. The noise increased.

Snape suddenly stopped short, spotting a small figure with a camera around its neck in the crowd.

‘Oi! Creevey!’ he barked.

Colin Creevey, who had been trying to adjust his camera strap, jumped and went pale when he saw the approaching Terror of the Dungeons bearing down on him.

‘Y-yes, Professor?’ he squeaked.

‘Shut your mouth and listen,’ Snape loomed over him like a black shadow. ‘Run to the Headmaster’s box. Find Dumbledore. If he’s not there — McGonagall. Anyone. Tell them that Severus Snape requires their immediate presence at the maze entrance. Urgently. This is a matter of life and death. Understood?’

‘Y-yes, sir!’ Colin, stunned by such responsibility and the professor’s tone, nodded so vigorously he nearly dropped his camera, then spun around and raced towards the stands at Snitch speed.

Snape watched him go, then turned back to Hermione. He leaned towards her — his face inches from hers — and she could see every wrinkle by his eyes.

‘Are you certain of your words, Miss Granger?’ he asked quietly, but his voice rang with steel. ‘You claim that Alastor Moody is not Moody, but an impostor under Polyjuice? A Death Eater in the school, under Dumbledore’s nose?’

‘I’m almost certain, sir,’ Hermione breathed. ‘The artefact in his office showed us as enemies!’

Snape grimaced as if from a toothache, but nodded.

‘If you are wrong,’ he hissed, straightening and tucking the phial into his robes, ‘you will be cleaning cauldrons in detention until you are old and grey. Possibly even after. But if you are right…’

He didn’t finish. He spun sharply on his heel and gestured towards the maze entrance.

‘Move. The task has already begun. If this is a trap, Potter is already in it.’

They ran. Gravel crunched under their feet, their breath came in gasps, and the roar of the stadium beat at their backs like a tidal wave.

From around the corner of the stands, almost colliding with Snape’s robes, Ginny burst out. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes huge with fear, and she clutched a heated Galleon in her hand.

Snape braked so sharply that the hem of his robes flapped like a raven’s wings. He gave the breathless girl an icy look.

‘Another Weasley?’ he breathed with undisguised irritation. ‘Are you part of this… operation too?’

Ginny nodded convulsively, gulping air. She was intimidated by the Terror of the Dungeons, but fear for Harry was stronger.

‘Professor! Moody… he was acting strangely! First he just stood there, then he took out some parchment… old-looking… and started staring at it like a madman! And then… then he was talking to someone! Through a little mirror or something shiny! And then he walked off!’

‘Where?’ Snape snapped.

‘That way!’ Ginny waved towards the storage sheds, beyond the Quidditch pitch. ‘He was limping, but fast! He left his post!’

‘Show us.’

They raced behind the stands. The shadows here were thicker, the cheerful cries of the spectators sounded muffled and distorted. They were enveloped by the smell of dampness and rotting wood.

Ahead, where crates of old equipment were piled, a figure appeared.

Alastor Moody.

He wasn’t walking — he was almost running, heavily favouring his wooden leg. The thud of his prosthetic against the ground was rhythmic and ominous: thunk-scrape, thunk-scrape. He was heading towards the broom shed, slipping something into his pocket as he went.

‘Alastor!’ Snape’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What’s the hurry? Has the task already ended?’

Moody froze. His magical eye spun in its socket, staring backwards through the back of his own head.

‘Busy, Snape!’ he growled without turning. ‘Patrolling. Don’t interfere.’

‘Patrolling the broom shed?’ Snape continued walking towards him. His wand had already slipped into his hand. ‘Odd choice of location. And you have a strange smell about you, Alastor. Polyjuice Potion?’

Moody spun round sharply.

No more words. No warnings.

A flash.

A bright red curse beam shot from Moody’s wand faster than Hermione could blink.

Snape didn’t even flinch. He lazily waved his hand, and a semi-transparent Protego shield absorbed the blow with a resonant clang.

‘Expelliarmus!’ Snape barked in response.

‘Avada—’ Moody began, and the world exploded.

A jet of green death passed an inch from the Potions master’s shoulder, slamming into the ground and leaving a smoking crater.

Hermione screamed in terror, drawing her own wand. Ginny, white-faced, raised her hand. But they were too late.

This was no school duel. This was war.

Spells flew so fast they blurred into a solid wall of light. Snape moved like mercury, deflecting blows; Moody attacked with the fury of a rabid beast, hurling curses that melted stone.

‘Stupefy!’ Hermione cried, but her beam simply bounced off Moody’s shield.

Ron hesitated, staring open-mouthed at the deadly dance of lights.

While Snape took the brunt of the attack, holding the false Moody’s attention, Kieran darted sideways. Low, almost touching the ground, he slipped into the shadow of the crates. Without magic.

Moody raised his arm for another Killing Curse, aiming at Snape’s chest.

At that moment the shadow came alive.

Kieran burst from cover in a leap. A fast low tackle. His shoulder slammed into Moody’s thigh.

The old Auror hadn’t expected a Muggle-style move. He crashed to the ground like a felled tree, his wand described an arc and fired a curse into the sky.

‘Pup!’ Moody roared.

The fight turned into a ground struggle. Kieran was on top, trying to pin the enemy’s arm, but Moody was inhumanly strong. He kneed Kieran in the stomach; Kieran responded with a series of elbows to the head.

A blow. Another blow. Kieran took a fist to the cheekbone, his head snapped back, but he locked his hands around the opponent’s throat in a death grip.

‘Ron, no!’ Ginny screamed.

Ron, seeing his friend in trouble, finally snapped out of it. With a yell he threw himself into the melee, trying either to pull the heavy Moody off or help Kieran — he probably didn’t know himself.

‘Get off!’ Moody wheezed, his face rippling, skin bulging — the effects of the potion were wearing off.

His ring-covered hand scrabbled desperately across the ground. His wand was far away. But nearby lay an old, dried-out crate of Quidditch balls.

‘Kieran!’ Hermione rushed towards them, feeling everything inside her tighten with horror.

Moody reached it.

His fingers closed around the rusty handle of the crate. Kieran, raining down blows, and Ron, clutching the sleeve of Kieran’s robe — they all suddenly vanished.

Pop.

The air swirled into a vortex.

‘NO!’

Hermione fell to her knees where the tangle of bodies had been a second earlier.

Emptiness.

Only flattened grass, signs of struggle and the smell of ozone. The crate had vanished. Moody had vanished. Kieran and Ron had vanished.

‘Professor, what do we do?’ She looked up, staring at Snape and feeling herself losing control of her emotions.

Snape stood breathing heavily, his wand still pointed at the empty space.

From behind came the sound of many running feet.

‘Severus! What is happening here?!’ McGonagall’s breathless voice. Professor Flitwick was hurrying beside her, wand at the ready.

Snape slowly lowered his hand. His face was grey.

‘A Portkey,’ he said dully, staring at the scorched earth. ‘That wasn’t Alastor Moody. Someone under Polyjuice. And he took Weasley and Morgan with him.’

Hermione’s world narrowed to one pulsing thought: They’re gone. She sat on the ground, unable to draw breath, as reality slowly shattered into pieces.