Hermione tiptoes into the room, glances over her shoulder at the clock. Good, they should still all be in class. So should she, but she could get away with one extra turn this time. Who would know?

She shakes her head when she’s sees the state of Ron’s bed and belongings. Honestly, how can he find anything? She passes the mess and makes her way to Harry’s trunk. Opens it. Perfect.

She slides silently out of her clothes. Her robe, blouse and pleated skirt pool on the floor around her feet. In their place she pulls on Harry’s corduroy trousers, his shirt, his jumper. She digs in his trunk until she finds his cloak and throws it over her shoulders.

Hermione walks to the mirror, turns and looks at herself from the side. Slides her hand down her flat front. Smiles. From her bag, she retrieves a string and the knife she took from the kitchen when the elves were distracted. She can’t call it a sword, exactly, but it will do. She puts it down while she ties back her hair, then grabs it and turns back to the mirror.

“Yes,” she whispers.

She draws her swordknife and holds it in front of her, “Do what you will, but I will hinder it, if I may.’

Lower, she thinks, and repeats the phrase in a voice not her own, feeling the vibration in her chest.

She smiles again. Looks at the reflection of her own arm holding the sword. Strong. She is strong.

The smile disappears. Hermione sets her features and speaks again, loudly this time, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

She steps forward and swings her sword, thrusts it upward. Her agility thrills her.

The clock startles her when it chimes the half hour. Her eyes dart to the door, the open trunk. She packs her bag and makes a hasty exit, allowing only one wistful glance back at her stoic reflection.