He Used Your Feelings

The old headmaster also bore a few marks from the battle, but his expression remained composed.

His blue eyes behind the Half-moon Spectacles gazed at Hermione with a complicated expression, then warily flicked toward Voldemort, who was struggling amid the rubble.

Hermione's movements abruptly stopped.

She slowly turned to look at Dumbledore, at the stone in his hand—the stone that held Caesar's life in the balance.

The blood on her face had not yet dried. Mixed with sweat and soot, it lent her a startling, wild, and brutal beauty in the flickering firelight.

Her eyes—those brown eyes that had always shone with intelligence and curiosity—

were now like two bottomless, frozen pools. They reflected Dumbledore's figure, but held not a trace of warmth.

"Give it to me, Headmaster."

Hermione's voice was terrifyingly calm. There was no pleading, no explanation—just a simple, unquestionable demand.

Dumbledore did not answer at once. His gaze swept over the wreckage of the battlefield, over the chaos and screams growing louder in the distance as Fantastic Beasts attacked, then returned to Hermione.

"Hermione, my child..." His voice was weighted with deep exhaustion and sorrow. "Look around you. Stop and think. Caesar Habs, he..."

"Miss Granger."

A voice even hoarser and more exhausted than Dumbledore's cut him off, yet it carried a heavy authority.

Professor McGonagall emerged from the shadows on the other side.

Her steps were unsteady. Her robes were stained and torn, and her face was pale from the fierce battle.

Beneath that was a deeper exhaustion and desolation, as though she had aged ten years in an instant.

She clutched her wand tightly, but its tip hung low.

When her gaze met Hermione's, it held no anger or reproach, only a cold, almost despairing sorrow.

"He's dead." Professor McGonagall's voice was quiet, but the words struck Hermione like a hammer. "Caesar Habs. I killed him."

Hermione's body swayed almost imperceptibly, like a slender bamboo stalk in a gale.

But her expression did not change in the slightest. Not even the ice in her eyes melted a fraction.

She merely gazed at McGonagall in silence, as though waiting for her to continue.

"He said a lot before he died."

Professor McGonagall held out the letter to Hermione that she had found in Caesar's office. With difficulty, she recounted, word by word, Caesar's "confession" in the abandoned classroom.

How he had plotted from the very beginning to approach Hermione, using her talent and affection and making her a tool for achieving his goals.

And how, in the end, he had used the lives of every student and teacher at the school as leverage to force her to act.

She recounted it all in the briefest, coldest terms.

She added no personal judgment. She only stated the facts, every word like an icicle trying to pierce the seemingly solid ice in Hermione's eyes.

"...He used your feelings, Miss Granger. From beginning to end, it was all a deception."

Professor McGonagall finished, her voice trembling almost imperceptibly.

"You defeated Voldemort and saved Hogwarts from the most immediate threat of dark rule.

"Now, if you stop, everything... may still be salvageable.

"Headmaster Dumbledore and I can testify on your behalf. You were deceived and used.

"But if you attack Headmaster Dumbledore now for a lie, for someone who used you..."

She drew a deep breath, her voice filled with pity. "There'll be no turning back. You'll truly fall into the abyss, beyond all hope of redemption."

Silence.

Only the distant din of battle and the wind moaning through the ruins broke it.

Hermione stood there, blood from her enemies and herself smeared across her face. She listened quietly, then silently looked down at the letter in her hand.

Her gaze moved from Professor McGonagall's grief-stricken face to the Philosopher's Stone glowing faintly in Dumbledore's hand, then back to Professor McGonagall.

It seemed as though a long time passed, and yet only an instant.

Then she gently tilted her head, like a studious student pondering a complicated logic problem.

A faint, almost naïve puzzlement even appeared on her face.

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione said, still calm, her tone even taking on a hint of polite inquiry,

"What you've told me about how Caesar used me, about his plans and deception—

"Are there any witnesses besides you?"

The question was so abrupt, so...

Inappropriate.

On such a blood-soaked battlefield, at a moment when life and death, right and wrong hung in the balance, she was asking about "witnesses"?

Professor McGonagall froze. A sharp glint flashed in Dumbledore's eyes.

From the rubble, Voldemort—barely breathing but not yet entirely unconscious—heard her words.

A strange, wheezing laugh, like air escaping a broken bellows, suddenly came from his throat, full of mockery and madness.

"Witnesses... Ha ha... Cough, cough..."

Coughing up black blood, he laughed fitfully. His scarlet eyes swept mockingly over Dumbledore and McGonagall before settling on Hermione.

"Hogwarts... certainly produces remarkable people... Besides me, there's... another 'outstanding' student like you... What a shame I didn't... meet you sooner..."

He seemed to want to say more, perhaps about Caesar's secret dealings with Grindelwald's remaining followers, or perhaps about a deeper conspiracy.

But his grievous injuries and the backlash from the magic left him able only to make a string of meaningless wheezing sounds.

Yet his eyes gleamed with a kind of "satisfied" malice.

Look at that—another promising student willing to do anything to achieve her goals. Hogwarts' "education" had certainly paid off!

Dumbledore slowly closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again, and only profound sorrow remained.

"My child,"

he said to Hermione, his voice old and weary. "When you asked that question, you already knew the answer, didn't you?

"You also know what you're thinking when you ask it."

Between intelligent people, there was no need to spell things out.

Hermione's question—"Are there any witnesses?"—carried an implication as clear as a torch in the dark:

If Professor McGonagall was the only person who knew the "truth" about Caesar, then all Hermione had to do was make this "witness" disappear.

And the "truth" would disappear with her.

Hermione's intelligence—the keen mind that Hogwarts and Caesar himself had carefully cultivated, her knack for logical reasoning, spotting flaws, and solving problems—

was not being used to save anyone or defend anything in that moment. Instead, it coldly and efficiently began working to solve the problem of "how to preserve Caesar's chance of survival while erasing the evidence of his 'betrayal.'"

Kill the person who knew. Cover up the truth.

Hermione did not deny Dumbledore's words. She even gave a slight nod, as though agreeing with his assessment.

Then her gaze returned to Professor McGonagall.

All trace of the feigned confusion from a moment ago was gone from her eyes. Only pure, icy murderous intent remained.