Chapter Five: The Quiet War

Hermione adapted quickly.

She learned to keep her mouth shut when Sirius sneered at her, when Walburga made biting remarks about her Selwyn blood being weaker than Greengrass stock.

She learned to mask her reactions while reading the Daily Prophet, keeping her horror buried beneath a neutral expression.

Because the more she read, the more she realized just how different—how wrong—this world was.

And with that realization came a new purpose.

If she was trapped here, she wouldn't just survive—she would fight back.

Because that was the one thing, she was good at.

She had defeated Voldemort once.

She could do it again.

The first step was gathering information.

From the newspapers, she pieced together a timeline—one far worse than she had feared.

The Ministry had already fallen. It was subtle, carefully orchestrated, but undeniable. Legislation after legislation chipped away at Muggle-born rights until they had none left. Dumbledore had been disgraced. He was labelled a liar, an old fool who had lost touch with reality. Exiled. Not dead—but vanished. Just like in her fifth year, when no one believed him about Voldemort's return. The Order of the Phoenix was broken. There were whispers of resistance, but they were scattered, hunted, leaderless.

She needed to find them.

To help them.

And she had one advantage.

She knew about the Horcruxes.

She could only pray their locations hadn't changed.

Hermione knew she couldn't directly ask about the Order.

That would get her killed.

So, she had to be smart. She started taking daily trips to Diagon Alley—a habit that Sirius barely noticed, as he was often busy with his political duties under Voldemort's reign.

She played the role of a dutiful pure-blood wife, going on meaningless shopping trips hoping for something.

She scanned every face, every whispered conversation, every subtle act of defiance.

She remembered the faces of the old Order members—Marlene McKinnon, the Prewett brothers, anyone who could still be out there, resisting.

All she needed was one chance—one familiar face—

And she would take it.