At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

In the Gryffindor common room, the fireplace crackled and glowed a deep red, illuminating the entire rotunda. The air was filled with the savory aroma of roasting sausages and the cloyingly sweet scent of butterbeer.

This was a victory celebration banquet.

"That stick was only this far from Harry's head!"

Ron raised his voice by an octave, probably so that everyone in the lounge could hear him.

He was standing among the younger students, waving a half-eaten pumpkin pie in his hand, his cheeks flushed red with excitement and the warmth of the fire. "But without hesitation, I charged straight in! Even though I didn't have a wand, I knew I couldn't abandon my friends!"

A burst of enthusiastic applause and gasps erupted around him. Simon Finigan even whistled at him.

Harry sat to the side, a little embarrassed, but also with a relieved smile. It was the warmth of being accepted by a group, a sense of belonging he had never experienced in the Dursleys' home.

Only Hermione was huddled in a high-backed armchair in the corner.

She curled up into a small ball, her thick, brown curly hair almost completely obscuring her face. A thick book, *Standard Spells, Level One*, lay open on her lap.

She stared at "Yugadim Leviosa" on the page, but her fingers unconsciously picked at the spine of the book.

wrong.

not like this.

From the moment she stepped into the lounge, that strange feeling was like a clump of thick, cheap honey, forcibly poured into her brain along with the cheers and the heat of the fireplace.

It felt like there were two teams of little people fighting in her head.

A group of little figures shouted: "Don't be silly, Hermione! Look, everyone's celebrating! What a touching friendship! You should go too! Ron and Harry went to save you; you should go and thank them while you're crying, then everyone will be friends! As long as you stand up now, you can fit in!"

This thought is like a cup of warm, sweet honey water, flowing into your ears, making you want to sleep, give up thinking, and become limp and weak immediately.

But another group of little people screamed: He's lying! Defeating the troll had nothing to do with them! Ron was so scared he held his wand upside down! And they weren't the ones who saved the people at all!

"But...that's what everyone thinks." Hermione thought vaguely, her eyelids growing heavier as she tried to soften the terrifying memories of the night.

Go ahead, go and reconcile, don't be a freak.

The little witch wobbled to her feet, her logical defenses crumbling under the cheerful atmosphere. She had to thank them, even though Ron had just scolded her that afternoon…

Hermione was half asleep, her toes rubbing against the inside of her shoes, her body feeling weak as she tried to stand up.

No! This logic doesn't hold up at all!

It felt like someone had stuffed a wad of snow down her neck in the dead of winter; the little witch shook her head violently.

The mess in his mind was still churning, desperately trying to erase the image of the black-haired boy and replace it with Ron's heroic face.

Hermione bit her lip in frustration, instinctively reaching into her robe pocket to find a mint to clear her head.

……

Meanwhile, at the Ravenclaw Tower.

The night wind howled, and the air was thin and cold.

Lucian leaned against the window, gazing down at the sleeping castle. His robes still carried the lingering scent of gunpowder and chill of that broken world, the aftereffects of a recent massacre of a search party.

Within his field of vision, a golden torrent, representing the power to correct the plot, was swirling near the Gryffindor Tower.

He watched as the point of light representing Hermione shook violently, on the verge of going out.

"not enough."

......

The touch from my hand was icy cold.

That was a handkerchief left by Lucien, inside which was wrapped her broken pocket watch.

Then, a cool, gray magic pierced into his palm. It wasn't warm; in fact, it carried a chill that seemed out of place at the moment.

Hermione felt as if she had returned to that women's restroom.

In the scene, she saw Ron screaming, his legs shaking, and he was even holding his wand upside down.

She was so terrified by the giant that she almost tripped over it.

There was also the black-haired boy, who simply poked him with his wand.

"Click."

The crisp sound of bones shattering was so clear it made her teeth ache.

The scene abruptly ended.

That saccharine filter shattered, and the clamor of reality flooded back into our ears.

"I just waved my wand like that! And the troll was knocked unconscious!" Ron's voice continued.

Hermione looked up again at the two boys who had been elevated to godhood.

In Hermione's meticulous observation, which allowed her to recite the footnotes of Potions textbooks, the scene before her seemed distorted.

Ron was laughing, waving the half-eaten pumpkin pie in his hand.

But that smile was too... too full.

It was like a clumsy actor overacting to cover up forgetting his lines. Hermione clearly saw that although Ron's cheeks were flushed red, his eyes were a chaotic, deathly white. The hand holding the pie was trembling violently—not with excitement, but with the spasms of muscles from extreme shock.

He was screaming. His body's instinct was still stuck screaming in the toilet.

However, the frenzied atmosphere around him forcefully suppressed his scream, twisting it into a string of unfunny jokes.

Hermes felt a chill: Ron wasn't lying, he was "broken".

The weak, real Ron Weasley who nearly wet himself was being forcibly enveloped by a grander, more righteous atmosphere. He was like a drowning man grasping at a straw, desperately using these fictional heroic tales to hypnotize himself and escape the psychological breakdown of almost being killed just minutes before.

And Harry...

The boy with green eyes sat in a more shady corner.

When Ron shouted the completely untrue "We'll stand together," Hermione noticed Harry's shoulders jerk.

He remembers.

Hermione was certain that Harry remembered the moment his kneecap shattered. Harry's lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to defend himself, to say that name.

But the next second, the Gryffindors around him surged forward, and a dozen warm hands patted Harry on the back.

"Well done, Harry!"

"You are our pride!"

The heatwave instantly drowned out Harry's feeble struggle.

Hermione saw that the light in Harry's eyes flickered resistingly for a few moments, then quickly dimmed, and was finally filled with a docile, almost foolish sense of happiness.

He was so lonely.

For this boy who had lived in a cramped room since childhood, the warmth of "home" was itself the most irresistible poison.

The world seemed to whisper to him: Forget about that dreadful Ravenclaw and trolls; only here, among those cheering for you, are you safe, only you are loved. If you nod, you are a hero.

So the savior boy obediently lowered his head, letting this false warmth alter his memory, turning him into the most sensible supporting character in this play.

Seeing this, Hermione felt an indescribable suffocating sensation gripping her throat.

These people are celebrating? Celebrating what? Celebrating their ridiculous recklessness and their almost deadly stupid luck?

That's fake.

It's all fake.

What truly saved her life was that black-haired figure who didn't even bother to glance at her.

A strong sense of unease welled up inside me.

"Hermione!" Ron waved enthusiastically, the crumbs at the corner of his mouth jiggling with the movement. "Hey, stop reading there! Come here! You're a hero too. If you hadn't been trapped, we wouldn't have had a chance to beat that big guy up!"

His familiar manner and the way he took her for granted, treating her as one of his own, made it seem as if the vicious remark from that afternoon, "No wonder she has no friends," had never existed.

"Go, go and make peace with him, he's your best friend..." a voice urged in my mind.

If it were Hermione from that moment, she might have genuinely been moved and run over.

But now, that bag of coldness is constantly reminding her: this is a fake celebration.

She opened her mouth, intending to ask, "Did you see the wound on the troll's knee clearly?"

But as she spoke, looking at the fervent faces around her, she suddenly realized it was useless. Trying to reason with them here was like trying to earn extra points for Gryffindor in Snape's class—futile.

"I...I'm not feeling well."

Looking at Ron's greasy smiling face, he forced out a stiff smile that looked worse than crying, slammed his book shut, and turned to rush toward the spiral staircase leading to the girls' dormitory.

Run away.

This is the only logical thing she can do right now.

……

Girls' dormitory.

Hermione wrapped herself tightly in the blankets, not even her head showing. The wine-red velvet curtains were drawn tightly shut.

The faint sounds of laughter coming from downstairs, penetrating the thick stone walls and curtains, became dull and distant.

The bed was a little stuffy and damp; it was wet from her crying earlier.

After a while, a messy brown head poked out, sniffed, and somewhat disheveledly pulled out a wand:

"The fireflies are twinkling."

She wiped away her tears and, using the faint light from the tip of her cane, opened her diary.

The moonlight outside the window was completely obscured by clouds, with only a few rays of light filtering through the gaps in the curtains, casting dappled shadows. Hermione huddled at the head of the bed, her usually voluminous brown curls now somewhat disheveled, a few strands hanging listlessly beside her cheeks, obscuring her confused and uneasy eyes.

She bit the quill pen, a bad habit she usually only developed when she encountered a problem she couldn't solve. The ink condensed at the nib, eventually giving way and dripping down, spreading into a blot on the paper.

That fleeting thought was like trying to catch the moon's reflection in water—it was impossible to cut it off or untangle it.

She simply put down her notebook.

The dim light illuminated the pile of things beside the pillow: the men's handkerchief and the pocket watch with its surface shattered like a spiderweb.

She picked up the pocket watch and brought it close to her eyes.

This watch was a gift from her father to her starting school, and it's stopped at this afternoon.

Hermione is a logical person. She believes in books, in rules, and in the fact that one plus one equals two.

But everything that happened tonight is like an unsolvable puzzle.

Title: Giant Attack

Main character: Ashford

Supporting characters: Harry and Ron

Result: The whole school praised Harry and Ron.

"I just can't figure this out!" Hermione muttered under her breath, getting a little frustrated, and rubbed her eyes hard with the back of her hand.

What's even more terrifying is that she almost believed it in the lounge just now. She almost thought what she saw was a hallucination, and almost became that background figure who could only laugh and clap like an idiot.

That feeling was even more disgusting than facing a giant monster.

If it weren't for this watch, if Lucien hadn't given me this strange handkerchief...

Once again, she recalled the look in the black-haired boy's eyes.

Hermione wasn't grateful to Lucien. His eyes were too cold, devoid of warmth or compassion.

"Even if he had just said 'Run!'" Hermione muttered, feeling a little resentful and inexplicably aggrieved.

"So, is it because I'm not strong enough?"

Hermione suddenly had this thought. Not the kind of strength that wants to rule the world, but like Lucian, strong enough that one doesn't need to lie, doesn't need to band together, and doesn't even need the praise of others.

Because he was strong, he could casually crush the troll's bones, then turn and walk away, throwing this false honor to Harry and Ron like trash.

Because of her weakness and fear of isolation, she was almost forced to swallow this expired candy called "friendship".

The girl bit her lip until she tasted the rust.

She didn't want to be a stray cat receiving charity, nor did she want to be a fool clapping.

Hermione Granger never gives up, whether it's an exam or this inexplicable and bizarre reality.

She carefully placed the bloodstained pocket watch and handkerchief into the thick diary.

Then, she picked up the quill pen again and opened "Theory of Magic".

Since the current spells are not enough, let's learn more difficult spells.

By the time she figured out where this feeling of unease came from...

"I'll throw this perfect score test paper in your faces."

She sniffed hard, locking all her grievances and fears deep inside her heart.

Even if she has to face Harry and Ron's fake smiles tomorrow, even if she has to play a role in this world that seems to have a pre-written script, she will still be the most perfect one.

Until her knowledge was sufficient to comprehend this illogical world before her.

……

Lucian withdrew his gaze. The point of light representing Hermione on the Gryffindor Tower, after experiencing a violent tremor, not only did not extinguish, but instead condensed into a purer core.

"Arrogance and prejudice are more powerful than simple gratitude."

Giving her the handkerchief wasn't for redemption, but merely a test of variables.

In this world with its predetermined script, drifting like a log is too boring. He needs a hard enough rock to test the waters.

If this stone is washed away by water, it will still be waste.

If only I could get stuck in the rapids...

"Don't let me down, Miss Granger."

Lucien's gaze fell on the few strands of faded silk he had brought back from that world; these were the contributions of those five henchmen.

In his experiments, these gray lines could cut or even... replace the threads of fate, though now they were negligible.

"So, what's the next step?" Lucien looked up, his gaze piercing through the sky.

"May all spirits await their fate, free from entanglement!"