Unofficial Portkey Archive

As ever, a great thanks is due to my diligent beta readers Bexis & George, and confirmation that I do not own any of the characters and am making absolutely sod all from this piece of fiction!

Ron's weekend had not gone as planned. He told Harry and Hermione that Saturday evening how Eloise Midgen was "an absolute disaster!" as a date. Hermione gathered that she preferred Madam Puddifoot's to the Three Broomsticks: a heinous crime in Ron's eyes.

She shook her head sadly. Ron was still far too immature for a relationship based on anything more than Quidditch, butterbeer and chocolate. Still, he did not appear too bothered that his first attempt at a relationship had crashed and burned so quickly. Instead he loudly expressed relief at his narrow escape.

Speaking of fledgling relationships...

Hermione sneaked a quick peek at Harry as he consoled Ron by submitting to another thorough thrashing over the chessboard. At times, she thought, Harry acted far more mature than his years; at others he still reminded her of the little-boy-lost figure he cut in his first days at Hogwarts.

"You're far too important to me."

Those words gave her hope that, one day, Harry might actually appreciate how important she aspired to be.

A small sigh escaped her lips. She really should not waste time pining over her non-existent love life. Other more pressing matters demanded her attention.

Taking advantage of the long break between the Second and Third Tasks, Hermione had started attacking her schoolwork with more of her normal vigour. Despite McGonagall's warnings, she fully intended sitting the year-end exams and continuing her previous record of outstanding scores. Professor Vector had set some particularly difficult coursework.

The Triwizard Tournament itself was more of a problem. Hermione had no idea what the final task might entail, which made training for it even harder than ever. Even Professor Moody had been unable to muster even an uninformed guess.

"Silly move, Harry." Ron's triumphant cry returned her attention to the chessboard, where Harry's rook was crumbling under the battering ram of Ron's unholy mace-wielding bishop, reducing yet another of his pieces to dust. He glanced up and Hermione found her gaze returned by emerald-green.

"Hermione, fancy helping me out here?" he mock-begged.

She shook her head. "I'm useless at strategy," she admitted.

"That doesn't happen every day," Ron observed. At the blank looks from his two friends, he added: "Hermione admitting she's not good at something."

"I'm not perfect, Ron," Hermione replied, a little more shrill than she intended. "Besides, I'm busy." She dropped her eyes to her Arithmancy text. 'Now, what if the key is the square root..?'

"I don't think even a genius could save Harry's position," she heard Ron add. Giving up her studies for a second, Hermione glanced over at the board and noted the distinct preponderance of black pieces over white and their aggressive posturing contrasting with Harry's remnant of a cowering rabble. Harry's king, naked to the obsidian assault, turned to his master strategist and implored him to surrender. Ruefully, Harry reached out and toppled over the ungrateful piece with his right hand.

"You win again, Ron." Hermione thought that Harry took his defeat with abnormal equanimity. Perhaps he was just content to allow Ron's day to end on something of a high.

"Want another?" Ron was already shepherding the remaining pieces into position even though some of Harry's alabaster army were attempting to desert.

Harry shook his head wearily. "Not tonight."

"Can't take another beating, eh?"

"Something like that. Why don't you find Ginny? I'm sure she'll give you a game - probably better than me."

"Nah!" Ron looked around for other potential victims, finally spotting someone on the far side of the common room. "Hey, Neville! Fancy a return bout and a slim chance of revenge?"

Hermione glanced over and could not suppress a smirk as Harry escaped Ron's clutches, before once again putting her head down and concentrating upon Numerology & Gramatica. She had barely begun when a familiar shadow loomed over her textbook.

"Mind if I join you?" Harry asked. "I've still got that Transfiguration essay to do for McGonagall."

"Sure, no problem."

Hermione favoured Harry with a warm smile as he sat down in the spare chair opposite, adding his parchment and quill to the already cluttered tabletop. Then she returned to the comfortable world of mathematical symbols and equations.

It was quiet, with only the odd snatch of conversation from nearby alcoves or sofas interrupting the scratching of quills. A perfect setting for academic study.

Yet, strangely, Hermione was finding it hard to concentrate on her formulae. Normally so at home in the ordered world of Arithmancy, she found her mind wandering. Not wandering far, only a matter of a few feet across the table. Glancing through her thick fringe, Hermione checked out the subject of her unbidden thoughts.

If Harry had similar trouble concentrating upon his own work, it did not show. Hermione could not help but feel a little pride as her friend devoted himself to his own studies. He had, at least, matured in that field.

Then he looked up, perhaps noting the absence of productivity from her quill, and caught her eye before she could look away.

"What?" he asked with quiet amusement.

For a second, Hermione was uncharacteristically flustered at being caught out. "No- nothing," she stammered, feeling her cheeks begin to blaze.

Harry took a double-take at that. "What?" he asked again, a tad louder and merging into a short laugh.

Butterflies in her stomach did not help Hermione regain some equilibrium. "Just... just... glad to see you knuckling down to work, that's all," she dissembled.

"Oh." He sounded a bit disappointed, but still favoured her with a wonky smile.

Hermione's insides flip-flopped. She deliberately avoided those limpid emerald pools, and forced her eyes back to her comparatively uninviting textbook. But while her mutinous eyes obeyed, resisting the urge to flicker back onto Harry, her attention was far less docile. It wanted nothing to do with the suddenly mundane subject of mathematical magic.

After a few minutes, her eyes followed her mind into rebellion. Hermione surreptitiously sneaked another look.

'Damn it!' she berated herself. 'You've loads of work to finish. Don't be so bloody hormonal!'

That harangue escaped her lips as a short irritated sigh. This time it was Harry who broke the peace. "You okay, Hermione?"

Having to look directly at him did not help matters. "I'm fine, Harry," she replied resignedly. "Just finding it difficult to concentrate, that's all."

She saw a sharp flash of concern on his face. He leaned forward urgently. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she lied transparently.

"Not another headache coming on, is it? You'd better take it -"

"No," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Not that." At least that much was true. Although she still suffered the odd irregular headache, those had eased considerable and were nowhere near as bad as they had been. "It's nothing, really."

His look of concern was pure fuel on the weird little fire burning within her. Hermione was not sure whether to praise Fleur Delacour for her insights, or damn her instead. She so much wanted to ignore the butterflies that unexpectedly materialised in her stomach, and return to the safe haven of study.

'Very strange,' she considered as the text danced uncomprehendingly in front of her. 'I feel... sort of empty when Harry's not around, but like a cat on a hot tin roof when he's near.'

Schooling herself to ignore her rebellious feelings, Hermione settled for the warmth of his company. That was worth any number of butterflies.

* * * * *

Monday morning found Hermione on a more even keel. It was not quite as bad... no, definitely the wrong word. Harry and "bad" did not belong in the same sentence. She just did not feel as... unsettled... in close proximity to Harry when others were around. At breakfast she could almost ignore her alien emotions.

She felt he normal mixed atmosphere of the start of the week: lingering thoughts of the weekend past mixed with a fusion of anticipation or, in some, dread at the prospect of another week's lessons. Hermione was always firmly in the anticipatory camp.

She also awaited a reply to her request sent via Hedwig the week before. The usual assortment of owls swooped into the Great Hall. Hermione found herself the target of two, one bearing a sealed letter, and the other her copy of the Daily Prophet. Paying both postowls with scraps of bacon fat, Hermione slit open the envelope right away, her sharp eyes scanning the parchment for key words.

Yes, it looked like -

"Hermione." Harry's voice was quietly urgent.

"Just a minute, Harry, it's -"

"You really should look at this." She turned and encountered Harry's a grim expression. He nodded towards her neglected newspaper. She followed his gesture and its headlines screamed out at her.

MINISTRY COMPLACENCY IN TRIWIZARD FARCE

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE: SHOULD HE BE REINED IN?

GRAINGER: WHY NO DISQUALIFICATION?

Hermione snatched the paper and glared at the copy, Harry perched at her shoulder.

"I thought you said Mad-Eye was going to have a word with Rita," he said quietly. His breath tickled her ear and she felt a frisson of impropriety. 'Not now,' she disciplined herself.

"He did... I mean, he was. Her article is on the inside pages. But this isn't under her by-line. It's in the editor's column." Hermione turned the paper so Harry gained a good look. "It's Barnabus Cuffe... the editor himself!" She returned her attention to the editorial.

Hard questions are being asked of the Ministry, with the continued participation of the false "champion", Muggleborn Hermione Grainger, in the Triwizard Tournament. Following her abysmal effort in the Second Task, she trails her three truly-chosen competitors by some distance .Grainger's inexperience was nearly fatal as she required rescue from the icy waters of the Black Lake last month. She was rumoured to need extensive medical attention at Hogwarts

At the time of her supposed selection, this newspaper raised entirely legitimate concerns as to how an under-aged witch could have possibly inveigled her way into this prestigious competition. The accusations of cheating and underhand influence have yet to be refuted. In these events one can detect the wand of that inveterate meddler, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

What has the Ministry done to salvage the situation - and, possibly, save the life of the undeserving Ms. Grainger? How has this mess come to pass? Is the Ministry complicit in this farce? The lack of legal recourse leaves little room for any other conclusion. Surely it should have been a simple matter to bar Grainger from competing, no matter the consequences?

This paper did not stint in our praise of the work of Bartemius Crouch during the aftermath of the dark days, when he administered justice to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's agents. But now he is an ailing man unable to provide the required firm hand on the rudder.

The machinations of Dumbledore have far outwitted the Ministry. This aged schemer has again proven far too slippery for those in the Ministry who are supposedly tasked with policing him.

Can we trust a Ministry that is unable to hold a simple sporting event? Fingers are now pointing at the office of the Minister himself. If Cornelius Fudge cannot control Headmaster Dumbledore, should he be entrusted with the levers of power?

"That's... unusual," Hermione observed cautiously.

Harry looked askance. "What is?" He jabbed his finger at the newsprint. "The Prophet's just having another go at you."

"No, not that," Hermione said quietly. "I can't decide what is more surprising: Cuffe having a pop at the Ministry - scratch that, at the Minister himself; or the Prophet having the guts to run the story..." She glanced up at Harry. "... or that Rita's attacked them a second time." She turned to the inside pages and found Rita's photographic thumbnail smirking back at her.

Aside from Albus Dumbledore, no-one stands to gain as much from the Triwizard Tournament as Muggleborn witch Hermione Grainger. Not only does she bask in the reflected glory of her three proper competitors, but her lofty company has caused her name to be linked with extremely eligible young wizards, including The-Boy-Who-Lived Harry Potter, and Quidditch superstar Viktor Krum, among others. For a plain girl who, with no previous romantic entanglements - in fact those who know her at Hogwarts state that she has never had a boyfriend, or even shown such inclinations - her competing is a heaven-sent opportunity to turn impressionable heads.

"The same old rubbish," Harry said dismissively.

"Hmm..." Hermione was several columns ahead of him. "There's more." She pushed aside some plates and laid the paper down on the tabletop, smoothing out the flimsy material. "What do you make of that?" Harry followed the direction of her pointed finger.

Of course, many will say that Grainger is reaping ill-gained benefits, yet at another level she is also suffering the after-effects of her participation. She lags far behind in the Tournament, exactly what seasoned commentators expected, this correspondent included. How anyone could expect anything more from a Fourth Year witch lacking prior magical experience is beyond belief. She nearly fatally failed the First Task, and the school is rife with rumours of her being hospitalized after the Second.

Many at Hogwarts believe that Grainger deserves no less, her travails being the fruits of deception and fraud. Yet the authorities bear responsibility for the welfare and safekeeping of students, even undeserving ones. We have learned from bitter experience that Albus Dumbledore is certainly no longer capable of fulfilling that role, if he ever was. But some fault lies with an even higher authority.

The Ministry has failed us once again, this time twice over. Initially it allowed itself to be hoodwinked into accepting a crystal clear case of cheating when Grainger's name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Then it failed to rule that her presence was unlawful. Perhaps worse, a student has been entered into a dangerous event without any safety net. Whilst Grainger probably deserves no less, if the Ministry cannot prevent this occurrence in such an obvious case, what does this say for the safety of our children?

Cornelius Fudge has proven a strong leader. Yet he surrounds himself with lickspittles, past-it's and never-will-be's, who are tarnishing his reputation and doing nothing in the face of the relentless erosion of old-fashioned propriety and standards. All these many incidents this year that show that the Ministry - and therefore the Minister - is losing its grip.

A buzz was spreading throughout the Great Hall as more and more subscribers, and those reading for free over their shoulders, started to digest the shocking volte-face of the magical nation's self-professed "biggest daily paper".

"I wonder what he thinks about it all," Hermione observed quietly, glancing up at the staff table, where Dumbledore tucked in unconcernedly to his breakfast kipper.

"Sod that," Harry muttered. "They're having another pop at you. That can't be good news."

Hermione slowly shook her head. "No... I don't think I'm their target anymore."

"I see Dumbledore's back in their sights then," Neville said as he sat down nearby. "Nothing changes."

"No," Hermione muttered. "They've found bigger fish to fry."

* * * * *

The next few days brought fallout from the Prophet's leader.

Cornelius Fudge requested - nay, demanded - the right of reply. Rumour had it that the Minister stormed into Barnabus Cuffe's office along with four intimidating Aurors, all reserve and political poise abandoned. The Ministry had taken pastings from the same reporter's quill earlier in the summer for the aftermath of the Quidditch World Cup, along with the disappearance of their employee Bertha Jorkins and the fiasco at Mad-Eye Moody's house involving Arthur Weasley. Now the Minister was ready to strike back.

The following day the gospel according to Fudge was splashed across all five columns of the front page, always upright regardless of the reader's angle of vision. Informative content was, as usual, sadly absent.

Apart from insisting that the Triwizard Tournament was a bounding success, and that the winner would prove to be a "real" champion, upholding centuries' old magical tradition, the Minister emphasized that the blame for any faults, of which course were none, lay anywhere but at his doorstep.

The name Hermione Granger was mentioned occasionally, but mis-spelt always.

Dark overtones invoked unspecified radical elements on the fringes of wizarding society.

By far the greatest share of culpability was dropped loudly at the feet of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

If the Prophet's criticism of Hogwarts' Headmaster had been sharp before, now it was no-holds barred, open season on "a past-it, senile old goat", as one of the less complimentary pieces put it.

Attempting to restore its loyalty to the Ministry line, the Daily Prophet redoubled its attacks on Dumbledore with all the vigour of a reformed zealot. The editorial the day following Cuffe's bombshell was cringe-worthy in its obsequiousness, going as far as to confess to some unspecified aberration in yesterday's edition, and reiterating total and utter faith in Cornelius Fudge and the Ministry. Letters from the proudest and most powerful ministerial supporters dominated the readers' comments page, all lambasting Dumbledore and his offensive ideas.

Rita Skeeter enthusiastically re-entered the fray, her aim trained back on her favourite target, with much muck-raking over Dumbledore's past. Lurid stories about his immediate family and their fates; insinuations about his relationship with Gellert Grindelward; his failure to prevent the rise of "You-Know-Who" and the grim cost of the ensuing conflict for the magical world; and a catalogue of more minor and recent events that purportedly reflected his lack of grip at Hogwarts.

Obviously, a quietly enraged Hermione thought, Mad-Eye's promise of words with Rita had gone by the board.

The target of these attacks carried serenely on, ignoring the bombardment. Dumbledore appeared more concerned with the quality of his Arbroath Smokie than the Prophet's scurrilous campaign.

In another way, though Rita's column had evolved. Whilst the cow still took the odd pot-shot at Hermione herself, those comments seemed less tart than usual, with an occasional hint of sympathy for her predicament.

Hermione could not help but notice this subtle, yet real, change in the political climate. Questions about the Ministry's efficiency continued to surface in the letters' page, sometimes in the context of who was allowing an old wizard, obviously way past his prime, was being allowed to guide the next generation. Seldom did the finger of blame pointed at Fudge himself; rather unnamed civil servants took the flak. Still, these were the first visible cracks in the public's faith. People remembered Rita's stories over the summer and wondered just how cack-handed their government could be.

Even at Hogwarts, Hermione was aware of doubts expressed about the Minister and the Ministry, outside of the normal malcontents, herself being the prime example. Purebloods in particular were expressing doubts, fuelled no doubt by inbuilt bias against anyone unfortunate enough to lack solid magical antecedents. Malfoy was heard declaring that Fudge was an imbecile for allowing Mudbloods and half-bloods to slip their leash and run riot, and that Father had always entertained doubts about the fool.

It was hardly a sea-change. Worse, Hermione understood that this questioning of the Ministry's authority was not necessarily in her favour. The prospect of a takeover by more hard-line pureblood factions, anathema to her, loomed as a possibility, still thankfully distant, were the Ministry were to collapse.

Something in the original editorial has piqued her interest, the throwaway line about her nemesis - or one of many - Barty Crouch. The school library carried regrettably little recent history, especially the aftermath of the fall of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." It appeared to be a subject that the wizarding world wished brushed under the carpet.

Hermione dispatched owl post to Remus Lupin. The return told of an outspoken, hard-line opponent of the dark side, who had fallen just shy of the top of the greasy pole, denied only when his son, now deceased, was revealed to be a Death Eater. The father had sentenced the son to Azkaban, where he had not lasted long; the mother had died, supposedly of a broken heart, soon afterwards. That had effectively blown Crouch's chances of the top job, creating a vacuum filled by the only alternative candidate, the present incumbent Cornelius Fudge.

Not commonly known, but much more interesting given Hermione's current situation, was how the Death Eater son had been unmasked. All hearings had been closed and their proceedings remained secret and sealed, save the names of the guilty and their sentences, which under Crouch had invariably been incarceration at Azkaban under the guard of Dementors. Public trials and juries were done away with, as Sirius had discovered to his cost. However, Dumbledore had participated in these Star Chamber sessions as a leading light in the Wizengamot's deliberations. He had let slip the skeleton in the closet to his fellow soldiers of the Light.

Igor Karkaroff, in a bid to save his own skin, had turned and offered the equivalent of Queen's Evidence. One of those he had given up was Barty Crouch's own son.

Thus Karkaroff avoided any custodial sentence, as it was unlikely he would live long, even in Azkaban, if shut away with his old Death Eater friends. After the Wizengamot took his evidence and passed sentence on the guilty, the turncoat had fled the country.

How he had managed to ascend to his current prestigious position as Headmaster at Durmstrang, nobody knew, and Hermione could naught but speculate. The confidential nature of the hearings must have helped greatly. Those who had been "grassed up", as Harry said when she told him the story, were in no position to talk, being either dead or still gaoled in Azkaban. The general public in Britain, and even more so abroad, remained ignorant of his role, either as a Death Eater or in the aftermath.

His history certainly explained the coldness of Bartemius Crouch. Having a hand in the deaths of both his son and wife, he resorted to unemotional detachment to keep his sanity. Crouch's intimate familiarity with death shone fresh light on his reactions after the Quidditch World Cup.

Both Crouch and Karkaroff, it appeared, shared the same guilty secret.

* * * * *

The Easter break was notable for the niggardly chocolate egg that Hermione received from Mrs. Weasley compared to that gifted for Harry. Hermione had not expected anything comparable to those Molly provided for her own family, but the Weasley matriarch's point was made loud and clear: she had yet to forget those stories in Witch Weekly about Hermione's supposed love-life.

Harry's mere proximity still flustered Hermione at times. Her mind would wander from Potions or Ancient Runes and she would suddenly find herself dreaming about Mister Potter. She was becoming better at controlling those rogue thoughts, but his very presence was a provocation.

In part, she considered that this would improve once the Third and final Task was revealed, and her practical side could concentrate upon what was really important. Then her imaginative side would state firmly that Harry was important.

It Harry neither said nor did anything out of the ordinary. Hermione just found his nearness unsettling her studious side.

She was increasingly unwilling to put distance between them, even at a cost to her beloved academic pursuits. Being unsettled in Harry's company was far preferable to that strange, aching loneliness she now experienced when he was absent for any length of time.

Was all this symptomatic of what she suspected?

Bereft of experience in matters of the heart, Hermione also lacked a confidante to talk through these titillating feelings. Her closest female friend at Hogwarts was Ginny, and that girl was hardly a disinterested party. Given how transfixed the youngest Weasley was with the same boy, Harry was not a subject she thought suitable for their girl talk.

None of the Hogwarts' staff was anywhere near her generation. Budding romance was certainly not an issue she would burden Professor McGonagall with for fear of suffocating disapproval. Sprout, Vector, Burbage... don't be ridiculous!

One day Hermione was fortunate enough to snatch a few minutes with Fleur. They rarely met outside of competition matters, so there was never enough privacy to recommence their talk in the Forbidden Forest, certainly not with respect to its more delicate aspects. Fleur had her own quarters in the Beauxbatons' carriage but could add little in terms of experience; her dalliance with Bill so far encompassed one meeting and one evening, and Fleur had yet to encounter the strange light-headiness that plagued Hermione.

Hermione's first recourse would normally have been to set all her questions down on paper in a letter home. This subject would be for Mum's eyes only, she admitted; Dad would - well, be Dad - and would probably combust. Yet whenever the ordinarily loquacious girl reached for her faithful Biro, far easier to write with than a quill, the words drained out of her brain.

Hermione could not let this state of affairs drag on until the summer. She needed a serious chat with her mum before Harry was again exiled to Privet Drive, a distance Hermione increasingly considered intolerable. The two Granger women had already touched upon "the birds and bees", embarrassing Hermione to no end, but that had involved pure biological facts, and not the emotional side. Harry's distance would be a mixed blessing: Hermione would only have to suffer one weird emotional state, abject emptiness; yet if matters took a favourable turn her amorous thoughts would drive her to distraction over the holiday.

If they were not already it was, all in all, a frustrating state of affairs.

Inevitably, however, Hermione soon had other matters to occupy her mind.

On the Thursday before the Spring Bank Holiday weekend, Professor McGonagall held Hermione behind after the morning's double Transfiguration. Her instructions were precise: Be at the Quidditch pitch at nine that evening; Ludo Bagman would then inform the four competitors of the nature of the Third and - thankfully, from Hermione's position - final Task.

An expectant atmosphere pervaded the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff benches at lunch and later at dinner. Everyone knew that the competition was entering its final lap, and, especially for those around Hermione or Cedric Diggory, the anticipation was palpable.

Hermione experienced a small thrill when Harry plopped down next to her. Ron had been hyperactive, almost bouncing along the corridors after she told them both the news. Their mood quickly infected all of Gryffindor House.

Yet she could not quite share their enthusiasm. True, the end of her ordeal was in sight, but that also meant that the climax of whatever plot had been laid was hurtling towards her. If it were worse then what had gone before...

Harry proved far more perceptive than Hermione ever gave him credit. He provided unswerving and quiet support, even if his mere presence ruffled her internal composure in his unwitting but by now familiarly pleasant way. His offer to accompany her that evening, hidden underneath his cloak, was typically generous and unselfish.

Hermione gently but appreciatively declined his proposal. Mad-Eye would spot him in an instant, and the last thing she wanted was to drag Harry into more trouble.

Harry would not take no for an answer. After a few moments of frowning, he proposed something less conspicuous. He would track her movements on the Marauders' Map, looking for any unexpected visitors. It was better than nothing, and Hermione knew that Harry wanted to help in any way however small, and it would not endanger him, so she accepted his kind offer. If the worst happened, at least Harry could raise the alarm.

Leaving the common room at eight-thirty, Hermione was striding across the Entrance Hall when a call stopped her in her tracks.

"Hey, Hermione!" She turned and saw Cedric strolling from the direction of the Hufflepuff common room. His roguish grin brought a small smile to her face. "Going my way?"

"If you mean down to the Quidditch pitch, then I might be." She dropped into step at Cedric's side.

"Well, I was fancying a pint or two at the Three Broomsticks." He could be so disarming, but Hermione found herself less affected than before. "It's not exactly the weather for Quidditch, is it?"

Cedric had a point. The spring mist lay unseasonably on the ground all day, unrelentingly swathing the castle in featureless grey.

"True, but I believe we have an appointment," Hermione said with exaggerated primness.

Cedric smiled down at her, and then cast Lumos. Hermione followed his example and they made their way across the dark lawn, the bulk of Hogwarts disappearing into the gloom behind them.

At a gap in the stands, Cedric stood aside and let Hermione precede him. She took two steps and suddenly stopped dead. Cedric almost bumped into her.

"What the..? What've they done to it?" he said indignantly.

What indeed? The formerly smooth expanse of grass and earth was now filled with hedges that must be twelve-feet high. She immediately grasped what the Third Task would be. "It's a maze," she said with a tone of wonderment.

It was no ordinary maze. The Quidditch stadium was like a saucer, and their elevated view carried beyond the pitch and down the long valley. The mist was finally clearing, although contrary to nature it was thinning out from the ground up and after sunset. Hermione was convinced that the foggy day had been unnatural, conjured to hide the creation of her next battleground.

The irregular hedges extended as far as the eye could see in the dying light. If the entrance began in the middle of the pitch, the objective was some distance off.

"Well, now we know," Cedric breathed, still taken with the vista before him.

"Not what they'll be putting inside it, we don't," Hermione observed with stark realism. The two shared a look, silently acknowledging the difficulties lying ahead.

"Hello there!" A cheery voice from below called out. A wand burst into bright light revealing Ludo Bagman standing in a large earth circle in front of the only visible gap in the outer hedge.

The two Hogwarts' students moved toward the light. As they did, other wands burst into light. Their fellow competitors were waiting.

"Lumos!" Albus Dumbledore's amplified voice cut through the grey monotony. A huge ball of light settled some ten metres above the ground, driving away any lingering fog and illuminating the three headmasters and the tournament administrators who awaited.

"Well, what d'you think?" Bagman seemed overly cheery. "Wonderful job, eh?"

No-one else ventured an opinion, so Hermione replied quietly. "Impressive."

"Oh, this is nothing yet!" Bagman beamed. "Growing nicely, aren't they? Give them another month and Hagrid'll have them twenty feet high." He clapped his hands in anticipation, then spotted Cedric's slight discontent. "Don't worry, Diggory. We'll have your pitch back ship-shape and in Bristol fashion in time for next season. With you returning, I'd wager Hufflepuff'll be favoured." He turned and gestured expansively with his arms, encompassing the new arena.

"Now, I imagine you can guess what we're making here?"

"Labirint," Viktor grunted.

"A maze." Hermione and Cedric replied simultaneously with a touch of disgruntlement.

"C'est un labyrinthe?" asked Fleur.

Bagman looked somewhat crestfallen that all four identified the obstacle correctly. "That's right: a maze. Now, the Third Task is really straightforward." He waved his arm at the maze. "The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the centre of this maze. The first competitor to touch it will be the winner." He was warming to his task now. "It really is as simple as that." He then pulled out a small roll of parchment from his pocket.

"Now, this will be a handicap event. The better your prior scores, the earlier you will start this event." He glanced up at Viktor. "Mister Krum, you will start first."

Viktor displayed no emotion. No surprise there.

Bagman turned to Cedric. "Mister Diggory, you will start five minutes after Mister Krum enters the maze. Then, five minutes after that, Mademoiselle Delacour. Finally..." He glanced at Hermione. "... Miss Granger, I'm afraid you are the last to begin the competition, starting twelve minutes after Miss Delacour here."

Hermione nodded. The timings were of no concern. She did not have to win the damned thing to retain her magic.

"Now, even though some of you have advantages over the others, it's not a simple race," Bagman continued.

"Why am I not surprised," Hermione muttered under her breath. Only Cedric heard the acid comment and he could not help but snort, drawing curious stares from the others. He waved an apology.

"Yes..." Bagman drawled. "Well, back to matters in hand. There will of course be obstacles - most, but not all, magical. Hogwarts will provide a number of creatures, courtesy of ol' Hagrid."

'If he means Blast-Ended Skrewts, I will be having strong words with Hagrid,' Hermione thought darkly.

"Now, you'll all have a decent chance of winning," Bagman continued enthusiastically. "It all depends on dealing with the problems we've set."

Hermione sized up her fellow competitors. Fleur looked nervous but excited; Hermione could not blame her, as this would be the chance the Frenchwoman yearned for. A sideways glance found Cedric staring confidently at the maze. Finally, Viktor was... well, it was pointless to attempt to divine the thoughts behind his impassive mask.

"Well, now for the date." Hermione's attention returned to Ludo Bagman. "The big kick-off will be at three p.m. precisely on Monday, June the Twenty-First, when Mister Krum will commence proceedings."

The Summer Solstice, Hermione thought. An obvious date: judging by the size of the maze, or the part she could see, the winner might need several hours to reach the centre, and judging by the Second Task wizards did not object to tests of endurance. At least the winner should finish in daylight.

"If I may, Ludo?" Dumbledore stepped forward. "I would remind everyone that the school's wards encompass the full perimeter of the maze. Therefore please do not attempt to utilise Apparition." He gave a kindly look in Hermione's direction. "For those that can, of course."

"Yes, thank you Albus." Bagman regained the initiative. "Now, a few administrative notices. Brooms," he looked squarely at Viktor, "will not be allowed. Neither will Portkeys, as Professor Moody assures me that he will cast disabling wards. Then there..."

Hermione's attention drifted away. Barty Crouch, she noted, still appeared seriously unwell. His cold gaze was fixed entirely upon Igor Karkaroff. Knowing the back story, she was not surprised.

"Right! That's it!" Bagman was finally done. "See you all here on the twenty-first then."

Before the group broke up, Cedric tugged at Hermione's robes. He gestured towards Viktor who had not moved. Then he called over to Fleur, who had finished having a few quiet words with Madame Maxime.

The four competitors met in a tight little knot. The others present recognised it as a moment for them alone.

Cedric broke the pregnant silence. "Well, at least we know what we're facing." He looked back at the maze. "Another month... be difficult clearing them."

"Oui," Fleur agreed instantly. Viktor just nodded silently.

"If it's anything like the last one..." Cedric allowed his sentence to trail off.

"Da." Viktor was as sparing with words as usual.

"Eet weell be difficult, non?" Fleur's nervous anticipation was obvious. "Ze barriers, zey are 'uge now. Dans un mois?"

"In a month," Hermione quietly translated into English for Viktor's benefit.

"Yeah..." Cedric stared at the maze with hungry concentration. Hermione supposed that in his imagination he was already halfway through the challenge.

"You heard what Mister Bagman said," Hermione reminded him. "Creatures; magical obstacles. Who knows what we'll find in there?"

A broad smile broke out on Cedric's face. "We've got past dragons and dived to the depths. I can handle it."

A hand land gently on Hermione's shoulder. "Ve are not all as... ready, Ced-ric." Viktor drew out his pronunciation of Cedric's name. "Hermy-own-ninny is not same."

Cedric had the good grace to look abashed. He turned to Hermione. "Sorry. Got a bit carried away." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's... just can't wait; after all it's what the three of us put in for. I sometimes forget that you... well, sorry, okay?"

"I understand, Cedric." Hermione smiled wanly. "You've a lot of training to do. Knowing Hagrid, I wouldn't put it past him to sneak in a Nundu; probably thought the dragons were tame!"

"Nundu?" Fleur's eyes were like saucers.

"I'm joking, Fleur," Hermione assured her.

"You vill not be training?" Viktor looked askance at her.

"I'm not in it to win it," Hermione repeated her mantra. "The moment I can exit this event, gracefully or not, I will."

A quiet but insistent cough came from behind Hermione. She turned and saw the Headmaster waiting patiently. "I think it's time to go," she said with a shade of regret.

"Hey, wait a second," Cedric interrupted. "I've an idea. We're pretty thick together now. I've been thinking, what about we have a private dinner - the four of us? The evening before, the Sunday? What do you reckon?"

"I think that's a great idea," Hermione agreed.

"Oui, eet would be fun," added Fleur. The three of them glanced at the impassive Bulgar, who nodded.

"Great." Cedric appeared delighted. "Let's shake on it." He offered his hand to Viktor, who grasped it in a firm hold, then to Hermione and Fleur in turn. The two girls found their hands kissed by the gallant Krum, before exchanging kisses on their cheeks.

"We'd best be off now," Hermione reminded everyone. She knew Professor Dumbledore had infinite patience, and thought Madame Maxime would be equally lenient, but Karkaroff was staring daggers at his nominal charge. She glanced off to the left where the Ministry trio waited.

Crouch's iron gaze was still fixed on Durmstrang's headmaster. Only after Percy muttered something in Crouch's ear did he turn and start back up the path to Hogsmeade, presumably to Apparate back to London.

Starting up the sloping lawn behind the headmaster and Cedric, Hermione heard an angry but unintelligible outburst of Bulgarian behind her. Viktor had hardly moved an inch from their meeting point, and was engaged in what looked like a flaming row with Karkaroff. Under the fading light of Dumbledore's spell, both men appeared on the verge of coming to blows.

Everyone stopped to view the exchange. Madame Maxime obviously viewed the whole affair with Gallic disdain. Distance and poor light precluded Hermione from ascertaining Mister Crouch's reaction.

"Oh dear." Professor Dumbledore sounded long-suffering. "I do hope that -"

The discussion came to a sudden and abrupt end. Viktor stalked angrily away, towards the Durmstrang ship, ignoring Karkaroff's enraged shouts. The Durmstrang headmaster, suddenly aware of the scrutiny of others, yelled what Hermione could only guess was some violent Eastern European insult. He then turned on his heel and stormed in the opposite direction, towards the Forbidden Forest.

"Too late," Dumbledore breathed sadly. He turned to his own charges. "Let me return you to your houses."

Hermione had seen Viktor react in anger only once before, provoked by the same person. She wondered what had been exchanged, and feared further trouble.

Upon her return to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione automatically sought out Harry. To her surprise he was nowhere in sight, causing her a pang of keen regret. She approached Ron.

"How'd it go?" Ron asked excitedly. "What's the task?"

"What?" Hermione needed a second or two to recall why she had been absent. "Oh, just a maze."

"A maze? That's all?" Ron asked astounded. "That'll be easy-peasy."

"Perhaps," she replied absent-mindedly. "Where's Harry?"

"Oh, he's up in the dorm. Said he wanted some alone time." Ron looked searchingly at Hermione. "Nothing wrong with him, is there?"

"No, Ron." She glanced at the stairs leading to the boys' dormitories. "I'll just pop up and see him."

That startled Ron. "Hey! You can't just barge into our bedroom! Harry could be doing anything - and, I mean, anything..." He flushed deep red as his brain caught up with his mouth.

"I'll be sure to knock first," Hermione replied acidly. She left Ron spluttering, set off across the room, and started up the stairs. At the door leading to the Fourth Year dorm she announced her presence with a firm rap.

"Harry? It's me, Hermione."

"I know," came the muffled reply. "Come on in."

Hermione opened the door but did not look in. "Are you decent? Ron seemed to have his doubts."

"No, I'm fine." Entering she saw Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed. The curtains had been drawn but he had pulled one side open, and was pointing at something on the counterpane. "Saw you on the map." He jumped off the bed. "Well, what is it?"

"What's what?" Hermione's mind remained focussed on Viktor's predicament with Karkaroff.

"Why, the mysterious Third Task, of course," Harry gently mocked her. "Saw the big meeting at the Quidditch pitch too, so I'm guessing it's the hardest task they could think of..."

Hermione cocked her head and stared questioningly at him.

"... You've got to play Seeker for the Canons against Krum."

Harry's broad smile gave him away. "Don't be silly, Harry," she said, punching him lightly on the arm. "They would hardly pick a test that Viktor would find easy. They want some suspense."

"So, what is it then?"

"A maze."

"What? With hedges, like?"

"Exactly. Magically grown hedges, packed with nasty surprises for us. Apparently Hagrid's selecting creatures to entertain us," Hermione groaned.

"Oh bugger," Harry said quietly. "And how do they pick the winner?"

Hermione sat down on the edge of Harry's bed. "First to the centre of the maze. The Triwizard Cup will be there, and whoever touches it first wins." She shook off a strange feeling of melancholy. "Won't be me, of course. All I need to do is get as far as I need to discharge my role as a 'champion.'"

Harry nodded in slow understanding. "So, apart from Hagrid's menagerie, what else?" He hesitated for a moment. "I hope he's not thinking of Blast-Ended Skrewts!"

"Me too, but if we're both thinking that way, he has to be." Hermione drew her legs under her and sat back on Harry's quilt. "After all, they started with dragons." She found her attention wandering to the Marauder's Map. "I take it nothing - or no-one - unusual showed up?"

Harry sat on the other side of the bed. "Nope. Saw you; Cedric, Viktor and Fleur, of course; Dumbledore was there with the other heads; and Percy and his bosses."

"No-one else?" Hermione's index finger idly traced a path on the map from the Quidditch pitch towards the Durmstrang ship, which bobbed on a representation of the edge of the lake. She was glad to see Viktor safely back on board. Luckily, despite what she had seen, he appeared not to have come to blows, physical or magical, with Igor Karkaroff.

Harry looked inquisitively at her. "No. Who are you looking for?"

"Hmm..?" Hermione glanced up from the map for a moment. "Oh, Viktor had another row with that vile man Karkaroff." She looked down again, her finger seeking out that little labelled dot, and finding it thankfully nowhere near the ship. As she drew increasing circles on the enchanted parchment, she finally found her target on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, then gasped. "Oh dear, that's not good news."

Harry leaned over, distracting Hermione with his close proximity. He seemed oblivious to that. "What?"

With some effort Hermione returned her attention to the map. "Karkaroff; look who's with him."

Harry peered through his glasses at the spot where her finger rested. He had to bend his neck to read the label, and Hermione was once even more awkwardly aware of his nearness. "B... Ba... Bar... Bartemius Crouch," he read out slowly.

"Two men who hate each other," Hermione said. "What are they doing together? That's what I'd like to know."

"Discussing old times?" Harry offered a weak joke.

"Hardly," Hermione snorted. "I can't recall them exchanging a civil word. I can't think what would - oh!"

Before her eyes the dot labelled 'Igor Karkaroff' disappeared from the map.

"What happened there?" she enquired.

Harry shrugged. "No idea," he admitted. "Not sure what half of the things I see on this mean."

Hermione gave it a moment's thought. "Could he have Apparated away?" she queried doubtfully before concluding: "But you can't Disapparate in the grounds." Glancing up, she saw Harry staring blankly at her. "Oh, honestly Harry," she sighed. "It's in Hogwarts: A History! Don't you ever read that book?"

Turning her attention back to the map, Hermione glanced at the ink representation of the Durmstrang ship, but could not find Karkaroff's label reappearing there. That, she decided, was a good thing: she hoped that he would cool his anger before next seeing Viktor. Hermione also worried about what could drive Viktor into such apparent rage.

"He could have used a Portkey, I suppose. Perhaps he had business at Durmstrang?" she vocalized her thoughts. Looking back at the map, Hermione saw Barty Crouch returning to Hogwarts. She was about to tell Harry that she was surprised Crouch was not on his way to Hogsmeade when a loud knock sounded on the door.

"Harry? Hermione?" It was Ron. Suddenly and acutely aware of how close she was to Harry, and where they were, Hermione jerked back and jumped nimbly off the bed before Ron could burst in. As it was he Ron reprised Hermione's cautious entrance. Eventually his red-framed face peeked past the door.

"Umm... Are you coming back down?" he wondered. "Everyone's dying to know about the maze."

Hermione sighed. "Sure, tell them I'll be down in a minute."

Ron stared at her. "You're all red," he said tonelessly, before whipping his head back behind the door "Hope I didn't interrupt anything..."

She could hear him clumping slowly down the staircase.

Hermione could feel the heat of her blush deepen at his comment. She dared not look back at Harry, all thoughts of the map forgotten. "I should go," she said, hoping he would not notice. "I'd best answer their questions."

* * * * *

Hermione's weekend passed in a blizzard of research and training. The research consisted of delving into every single volume she could lay her hands on relating to challenges in past tournaments. Her training was to try honing her skills in the magical fields she knew about, and to add as much new knowledge as she could on post-O.W.L. topics, especially Defence, Charms and Care of Magical Creatures.

She revised mostly generalised magic. Hermione was gambling that no specialised magic would be needed for the Third Task. If everything went according to plan, then she need only take one step into the maze and then give up. Well, perhaps more than a few steps: at worst she could keep out of trouble until one of the other three finished. That, she thought grimly, should be enough to ensure she was not thrown out for a lack of trying. That was a crime she never expected to be accused of.

Under Harry's suspicious and worried gaze she doggedly sharpened her prowess in defending against the Dark Arts. Hermione believed that, whatever might satisfy the judges, whoever was seeking to strike at Harry would not just let her roll over and play dead.

Ron was a willing participant and less-than-willing patsy for much of the mock duelling. He took turns with Harry to test her mettle. For once he matched up well with Hermione: Ron was keen not to be shown up by a girl, even if - no, especially if, Hermione conceded - the only audience was his best mate.

Harry was more of a problem. Hermione swore he still held back when training with her. She also had to admit that sharp pang of guilt she felt whenever her stinging hex struck home. Words were useless: Trying to rile Harry was a waste of breath and tended to end up leaving her simultaneously het up and regretful.

Even so, their workouts left all three of the Trio tired and aching once Monday morning rolled around. That day brought no spare time, with Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures in the morning, both taught under bright late spring sunshine. After lunch, Hermione dragged her bulging book bag to Arithmancy whilst her two boys sauntered off to the fraudulent subject of Divination.

When the afternoon was over, Hermione returned to the common room to chaos. Harry was missing, and the chatter was all about The-Boy-Who-Lived's latest foible.

Spying Ron perched edgily on a plush armchair, Hermione marched straight up. "Where's Harry?" she asked with anxiety borne of experience.

"Said he was off to the hospital wing, he did," Ron replied.

Hermione felt the sudden pounding of her heart. "What happened?" she cried, her voice drawing unwanted attention.

"Dunno really," Ron replied nervously. "One moment he was okay; the next he was on the floor."

"Clutching his scar, Trelawney said," Seamus added. "Rolled about like his head was fit to burst. Bloody frightening, it was!"

"Oh Merlin!" Hermione found her breathing laboured. "Did anyone go with him?" Nothing but blank looks peered back, so she chose the most obvious victim. "Ron?" Her voice was hard and threatened imminent retribution, so much that Ron blanched.

"No... He just said: 'See you later' and walked out." Ron reached out, whether to placate or reassure Hermione knew not. "It was just a dream, Hermione. It was hot and he dropped off, that's all."

Hermione's arm shot out with greater intent. Grabbing Ron by the collar, Hermione hauled his face level with hers. "You idiot, Ron Weasley!" she hissed. Then, so that only he could catch her words, she added: "You know what happens with Harry's dreams. 'You-Know-Who'!" She let go. "And you didn't go with him?"

"Hey, it's not my fault," Ron pleaded fiercely. "It's not like he couldn't walk. He was alright when he left."

That earned Ron a ton of book bag dumped in his lap. "Look after these," Hermione snarled. "I'm off to see if Harry is okay."

With that display she marched off straight to the hospital wing, leaving Ron to shrug helplessly at his sister.

It was alarming that, when Hermione arrived, Madam Pomfrey denied that Harry had set foot in the ward all afternoon. The nurse was most insistent, and Hermione had to finally accept her word. It was a flustered and worried Gryffindor champion who retreated to her common room, hoping against the weight of expectation that Harry would be there when she returned.

Experience trumped hope. Harry still had not turned up. Hermione's nerves worsened when, despite Ron's flippant assertion that Harry would not miss a meal, he did not turn up in the Great Hall for dinner either.

Ron's clumsily attempted calming words only heightened Hermione's unease. More than once she snapped back at him, earning shocked looks from the rest of the Gryffindor table. None of the students knew the basis of her unease, nor could she tell them, even if she wanted to. Almost anything could have... might have befallen Harry. Her mood was immeasurably worsened by the absence of both Dumbledore and Moody from the top table.

Straight after dinner, when all prospect of Harry turning up safe and sound, with his wonky grin and an appetite that belied his wiry frame, had slipped away, Hermione dashed off to the Dark Arts' classroom, but Moody was nowhere to be found. Mind and body both racing, Hermione ran through the corridors until reaching the foot of the staircase leading to the Headmaster's office.

The stone gargoyles impassively ignored her presence. They refused to admit her without the correct password, even after she stamped her foot and declared it to be an emergency.

At her limit, Hermione was about to draw her wand when a familiar voice almost made her jump out of her robes.

"Arguing with them is pointless, Miss Granger. I am not in there."

She spun around to find Professor Dumbledore regarding her with an amused smile playing on his lips.

Time was of the essence! "Professor!" she cried breathlessly. "It's Harry! He's -"

"Safe and sound and sitting in my office," the Headmaster finished with calm words. "Shall we join him?"

Hermione's legs almost turned to jelly with relief. She almost stumbled at the threshold but did catch the Headmaster's strange choice of password. Cockroach cluster indeed!

As Dumbledore reached the landing of the moving staircase, he had equally strange directions for Harry. "I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office."

"I thought you said..?"

Following Dumbledore into his office, Hermione was shocked to find Harry with his head deep in what she recognised as the Headmaster's Pensieve. Her relief was now tempered with mild annoyance and embarrassment. "Harry!"

She thumped him hard on the upper arm.

He jerked his head back, and almost fell over backwards. Before he could utter any apologies, Hermione closed the space between them and hugged him fiercely, before pulling back and raking him with concerned eyes. "What happened? How are you? What about this dream? And what are you doing with that Pensieve?" she fired off a broadside of questions. Harry wilted under the barrage, but before he could even attempt an answer, he was saved by the kindly Headmaster.

"I believe Mister Potter was simply tempted by curiosity, Miss Granger." Dumbledore moved to the Pensieve and regarded its milky contents thoughtfully. "I had been using this when the Minister arrived unexpectedly."

"Re... The cabinet door was sort of open," Harry admitted shamefacedly.

Scandalised, Hermione just huffed.

"Undoubtedly in my haste I did not fasten the catch properly." Dumbledore moved to sit down behind his desk. Hermione thought he looked tired and more his age than she had seen before. "Curiosity is not a sin, Mister Potter. Please, take a seat and tell me what you observed."

"I'm not sure," Harry replied. He pointed. "That's a Pensieve?" He hesitated for a moment. "So those are your memories?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You are not being punished, Harry. Just tell us what you saw in your own words."

Hermione listened with growing incredulity and anxiety as Harry recounted his experiences.

The trial of Igor Karkaroff.

Revelations that Severus Snape, Barty Crouch junior and Ludo Bagman had been Death Eaters.

Dumbledore's evidence that Snape's double agency had assisted in Voldemort's downfall.

Bagman's Quidditch prowess earning him a reprieve from Azkaban.

Barty Crouch sentencing his own son to Azkaban.

The trial of Death Eaters accused of attacking Frank and Alice Longbottom

Snape's fears that his Dark Mark was returning.

By the end, Hermione's hands were worrying one another in a tight mutual embrace. She now knew what Karkaroff sought so urgently to discuss with Professor Snape. And she had to watch out for Ludo Bagman, now a potential suspect in her Triwizard travails.

By the end Dumbledore stood and wandered to his Pensieve, frowning. He jabbed at the liquid with his wand, and from the disturbed surface a figure arose. It looked like another female student to Hermione. She struggled to catch the vision's words as it revolved...

"But why, Bertha? Why follow him in the first place?" Dumbledore asked sadly but rhetorically.

Before Hermione could ask the obvious question, Harry surprisingly posed it. "Is that Bertha Jorkins?" he asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, as I remember her at school." The Headmaster appeared to have suddenly aged a few years, before he returned with purpose to current events. "So, Harry, you had something to tell me? Is it something that you are comfortable discussing with Miss Granger present?"

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, and she thought he hesitated for just a millisecond. "I'd tell her everything anyway," he replied.

Hermione experienced slight warmth in her chest at his trusting words.

"Very well." Dumbledore settled into his own chair. "Please begin."

"Well, I had a dream..."

Hermione listened with growing alarm as Harry spoke. He had dreamed through Voldemort's eyes... Harry, as the Dark Lord, had tortured Wormtail, better known as Peter Pettigrew, with the Cruciatus Curse. Harry only awoke from his nightmare due to pain so intense that it bled through his scar.

Dumbledore listened with what Hermione thought was rapt attention. When Harry finished, he looked expectantly at the Headmaster. Dumbledore sat thoughtfully for a few seconds. Hermione, bursting with questions, could not hold herself.

"Professor, what does it all mean?"

Dumbledore lifted his hand, indicating she should wait, then faced Harry directly. "Now," he said quietly, "has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting when it woke you over the summer?"

Harry appeared as astounded as Hermione. "No, I - how did you know?"

"Sirius told me when he visited after the Second Task." Dumbledore rose and paced behind his desk, every so often stopping and depositing another thought into the Pensieve.

Harry gave Hermione a beseeching look. Mustering up her courage on his behalf, she interrupted the Headmaster in mid-thought a second time, rephrasing her earlier question. "Professor, why is Harry's scar hurting?"

Dumbledore stopped and raised an eyebrow.

Hermione ploughed on, vocalizing her fears. "You think... there's a link between Harry and.... Oh Merlin!..." She could not bring herself to say the name. Dumbledore nodded in encouragement. "Something happened that night when..." She trailed off when she saw the pain cross Harry's face. "...When He was defeated that Halloween. He left something in Harry..."

Dumbledore chose his words carefully. "It is a theory of mine that your scar, Harry, hurts you when Lord Voldemort is nearby, or particularly when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred."

"But... why?" Harry asked plaintively.

"As Miss Granger suggests, you and he are connected by his curse that failed."

"So, was Harry having a dream, or actually living His experiences?" Hermione asked.

"Almost certainly the latter, Miss Granger." Again he turned to Harry. "Did you see Voldemort, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "No, just the back of his chair." He looked forlorn and bewildered. "But he hasn't got a body, so how did he hold a wand?"

"How, indeed?" Dumbledore muttered. He stared thoughtfully at an eclectic collection of silver instruments on one side of his desk.

"It's all linked, isn't it?" Hermione said to no-one in particular. When she saw both Harry and Dumbledore looking at her enquiringly, she stopped. She last thing she wanted was for Harry to think he played any part in her predicament.

"There are other happenings," Dumbledore offered in what appeared to Hermione an attempt protect both her and Harry from such thoughts. "Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer in Albania. A Muggle named Frank Bryce, a resident of the ancestral village of Voldemort's father also disappeared, never heard from again." Then he stirred uneasily. "And Igor Karkaroff has vanished."

Dumbledore missed the exchange of worried looks between his guests.

"That was the occasion of the Minister's visit. Igor has not been seen on board ship or at Durmstrang for three nights. Of course, he may have business abroad not intended for public knowledge, but still... These are dangerous times."

"In that case," Harry, suddenly emboldened, demanded, "get Hermione out of the Tournament. It's too dangerous."

Dumbledore sighed and looked sadly at Harry. "I have tried everything I know of, and several things I did not in pursuit of that end. I am afraid that is impossible, unless you wish her to lose her magic..."

Hermione saw Harry take a short breathe, ready to interrupt.

"... and then never to see her again."

With another pained look, Harry shut up. Hermione reached out a few inches and softly tapped the back of his hand with her fingers in an appreciative gesture. When she returned her attention to the Headmaster, Hermione could swear that Dumbledore looked straight into her soul.

"I shall do everything within my power to assure your safety, Miss Granger."

Mutely, she nodded, signifying acceptance, if not faith.

The Headmaster turned to Harry. "I will ask one favour, Harry." Harry nodded. "Please do not discuss what you learned tonight with Neville." Harry hesitated, and Hermione was intrigued. "His parents have never left St. Mungo's Hospital since those events. They cannot recognise him." It was Harry's turn to give a nod of acquiescence.

As they left the Headmaster's office, Hermione immediately pestered Harry. "What did Professor Dumbledore mean about Neville?"

"That night..." Harry started slowly, his face ashen. "The night He killed my parents..." Hermione moved her hand to give his a comforting squeeze. "The Longbottoms were tortured by Death Eaters." He shook his head then stared resolutely back at her.

"Snape -"

"Professor Snape, Harry." As soon as that automatic correction escaped her lips, she winced.

"Snape," Harry repeated firmly, "a Death Eater... well, at least he was once. Dumbledore's testimony saved him from Azkaban." His eyes burned brightly with indignation. "Barty Crouch would have sent him there without a backwards glance, only Dumbledore spoke up for him."

"Well, if Professor Dumbledore says he was a double agent, then that's alright," Hermione replied, as much to convince herself as him. "I would never have believed that of Ludo Bagman though." Would Bagman have had the motive and opportunity to Confund the Goblet of Fire.

"I hadn't noticed that Karkaroff wasn't around," Harry said. "What do you think?"

"We saw him leave," Hermione replied uncertainly. "Disappear straight off the Map."

"Should we tell Dumbledore or Moody about what we saw?"

Hermione chewed her bottom lip mulling that over. "I don't think so," she offered tentatively. "You'd probably have to hand the Map over." She did not want Harry to forfeit practically the only link to his father. "Let's wait and see. For all we know Karkaroff is off raising new complaints about me with the I.C.W. If we have to, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

She took a firm hold of Harry's arm. "Come along, I left Ron stewing in the common room..."

Harry's tummy rumbled rebelliously.

"...And you missed dinner as well," Hermione continued, nary missing a beat. "We'll take a detour via the kitchens."

* * * * *

Ron lapped up news of Snape being a former Death Eater with a superior air.

"I knew it, that greasy slime ball -"

"Ron!"

Ron continued to mutter imprecations against the Potions master under his breath along with claims that he had known it all the time. Hermione was worried that he would spill their secret with all of Hogwarts, but somehow Ron resisted.

Viktor confirmed that Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen, and left Hermione with the distinct impression that if his absence were permanent, Viktor would not be unhappy. The Bulgar was trying to knit repair his relationship with Penelope Clearwater and act as de facto leader of the Durmstrang delegation, whilst also preparing for the Third Task, so Hermione had little opportunity to speak with him.

Hermione was near full steam now. Every weekend she worked herself to a frazzle: hurried library research; revising for end-of-year exams, for which Ron declared her "truly mental"; and continued practical applications of everything she learned. Her two boys even sacrificed free periods during the week so she could continue to practice new spells and hone her existing skills to a fine edge.

She would never forget that.

Harry remained a concern. His personality changed subtly. He was quieter since Dumbledore expounded his theory that Harry was connected to... Him through his scar and what Hermione assumed was residual knock-on effect from being the only person ever known to survive the Killing Curse. Harry did not know but some of Hermione's research was devoted to that subject. Unfortunately the library's main section was useless, and Hermione assumed if any books existed on such magic they could probably only be found in the Restricted Section.

Perhaps, she mused, Harry might loan her his cloak one night.

She continued her weekly late-night "detentions" with Professor Moody. He worked her far harder than Harry would or than Ron could. He pushed her to her very limits, and she usually ended those sessions bruised, weary and perspiring.

Her physical fitness improved with her continued regimen of early morning runs, more pleasant as late spring turned into a warm and dry early summer. Those small rolls of puppy fat Hermione started the school year with were things of the past. Harry could still outrun her, but she no longer ended their occasional races gulping for breath like a beached fish.

It was wonderful running along the lakeshore. The sun had yet to reach its zenith; the air was clear and the temperature perfect. Their circuit was nearly completed, and Hermione knew that Harry would slow and then suddenly sprint for their imaginary finishing line by a large boulder. It had become a game: they both waited and silently dared the other to make the first break. The winner was usually the loser, being spooked into making the move.

Hermione was determined to gain the drop on Harry, even if she lost face in their childish little game. Sometimes, she reflected, being childish was acceptable behaviour; and besides, it could be good fun. Harry feinted, trying to set her off, but she bided her time, ready to strike once he made his next false move.

She watched as he shaped to kick, ready to strike when he relaxed.

Except Harry kicked and kicked hard, bursting away. Hermione cursed; he had gained the drop on her!

As she pulled up after the finish, she found Harry waiting, grinning despite his early morning sweat.

"I don't believe it!" she complained good-naturedly. "You fooled me again!" Better wind at least allowed her to complete whole sentences now without.

Harry's contribution to the debate was to stick his tongue out and perspire a little more.

Hermione laughed, and so did someone else. She turned and saw Luna perched on a smaller rock.

"That looked like fun," the Ravenclaw said. "Would you do it again?"

Hermione's laughter stilled. Catching sight of her expression, Harry had to stifle his own giggles behind one hand.

"Aw!" Luna slipped lightly off the rock. "You know," she told Hermione conversationally, "that you can tell when Harry is faking."

Harry stopped giggling and Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Really?" This was interesting, possibly golden, information.

Luna leaned close so she could whisper conspiratorially to Hermione. "You see -"

"Hold on!"

Hermione turned to Harry. "I'm about to find out your secret," she sang, turning her back on his rude gesture.

Harry shook his head. "No, over there, on the path from Hogsmeade."

Hermione and Luna followed the direction of Harry's out flung arm. Aurors at Hogwarts was rarely a good thing. A small group of them had left the path and were headed across the lawn towards the lake. In the lead was...

"That's Percy, isn't it?" Harry observed.

"Certainly looks like it," Hermione agreed. She recognised the lead Auror as the man who had accompanied the Minister in her first meeting with Fudge some months ago.

"What can they want?" Harry wondered out loud.

Hermione recalled that the Auror - Dalglish? Dormouse? Dawlish? - would have happily arrested her on the Minister's orders. A chill ran through her despite the warm weather. "Luna," she said quietly. "Can you go and fetch Professor Dumbledore or Moody?"

Luna hesitated a second. "Alright Hermione." She dashed up the slope towards the main castle doors, cutting across the descending party.

Harry was immediately at her side. "What's wrong?"

Hermione checked that her wand, safely secured in her jogging pants. "They might be coming for me," she whispered to him, suddenly alarmed. "But I haven't done anything!" She thought furiously. Could this have to do with Macnair's murder or Sirius Black's liberty?

Harry drew his own wand. "Not without a fight," he said grimly. He found Hermione's free hand gripping his arm.

"No Harry!" she urged. "They could arrest you!"

"Doesn't matter," Harry hissed, his eyes fixed on Percy Weasley.

"Harry!" He looked back at her. "You mustn't! Please? Promise me?"

Harry shook his head. "Not this time, Hermione."

The Aurors were nearly upon them, wands drawn. Hermione turned and moved in front of Harry. "Percy! What are you doing here?" she asked.

To her surprise Percy brushed past them as though they were of no importance whatsoever. The Aurors scarcely spared them a glance, particularly the grey-haired leader. They marched onwards.

Hermione swapped a befuddled look with Harry. They hastened to follow the party.

Soon it was obvious that the Aurors were heading for the shoreline nearest to where someone was cutting through the water with firm, controlled strokes. That could only be Viktor.

"Viktor Krum!" Percy shouted across the quiet water. He had to fire red sparks from his wand before Viktor, some seventy-five yards offshore, noticed. He stopped his exercise, turned in the water, and struck out towards the beach. Reaching wading distance, he walked warily through the water, his eyes flickering across the unexpected welcoming party.

Hermione noted that he appeared unarmed.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Harry noted from their position at the edge of the grass, five yards behind the Aurors.

Still dripping, Viktor stopped and faced Percy. "Vot?" he asked wearily.

Percy drew himself up to his full height, utterly failing to impress the athletic seeker. He unfurled a role of parchment. "Viktor Krum, by order of the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you are under arrest for the murder of Igor Karkaroff."

Hermione's gasp drew Dawlish's attention. The Auror turned and briefly pointed his wand in their direction, a clear warning.

"Vot?" This same question this time carried an element of amazement. He reflexively stepped towards the red-haired official.

Well aware of Viktor's physical attributes, Percy quickly stepped aside. "Aurors, he's all yours."

"Ne me dokosvai!" Viktor shrugged off the first Auror, who slipped and fell on his backside in the shallow water.

A second laid hands on him.

"Karkaroff... Murtuv?" Viktor's alarm was visibly rocketing. "Vot do you mean? Karkaroff dead?"

A Third Auror aimed his wand directly at the Bulgarian's face.

"If you do not come willingly, then we are authorised to use reasonable force to subdue you," Dawlish said. Hermione detected a tone of excitement in the Auror's voice. Deciding not to stand idly by without protecting her friend, she stepped forward and grabbed Percy's arm. He jumped at the contact and whirled around, as did Dawlish and another Auror, their wands drawn.

"What's happening?" she demanded.

Percy shook her off. "Not now, Granger. This is a Ministry affair."

Enraged, Viktor knocked one of the Aurors flat into the water with a shoulder barge. Warning shouts followed the loud splash. Hermione had no doubt that spells were about to be cast. Viktor noticed she was there. "Momiche, help me!" he cried just as two more Aurors knocked him off his feet.

"Hey!" Harry had his wand drawn and was on the verge of jumping into the fray.

Hermione could see the whole affair spiralling out of control. Turning away, she pointed her wand at her own throat. "Sonorous!"

"Stop!" she yelled, so loudly that everyone froze. "Stop this right now!"

Viktor's head emerged from the water, gasping for breath. The Aurors had forced manacles on his wrists.

Fuming, Hermione cancelled her spell and turned back to Percy. "You can't do this," she said forcefully.

One of the Aurors actually laughed at this slip of a girl presuming to tell them their job.

"Stay out of this, little girl," Dawlish replied. "Or you'll be arrested as well. And your friend."

Harry almost lost it right there. "Oh yeah? You're gonna try for two champions?"

Hermione had to restrain Harry with her free hand. She addressed herself solely to Percy.

"Karkaroff's dead?" She repeated Viktor's question.

"This is none of your business," Percy replied stiffly, brushing her off as an irrelevance. The Aurors were bodily dragging Viktor from the water, and at even that early hour they had attracted an audience of students who happened to be out and about. "I said, this is a Ministry matter."

"Oh no it's not," Hermione scoffed. "Arresting another country's Triwizard champion? You'll have an international incident faster than Rita Skeeter can write another anti-Fudge leader."

"I did not do," Viktor pleaded. "This is... ludost!"

Hermione thought she knew Viktor well enough to believe him unquestioningly. She also knew that if he was taken into custody, his participation in the Third Task was extremely unlikely. Justice worked excruciatingly slowly these days, she thought bitterly: the lightening speed of Sirius' imprisonment ... well, maybe delay had some virtue.

"The Portkey is ready, Weasley," Dawlish advised.

Hermione snapped back to the present.

If that happened, Viktor would be stripped of his magic, the very same fate that tied her to the Triwizard. She had to think of something fast, just to delay matters until the heavy artillery arrived in the form of Dumbledore. If Viktor's magical contract was broken, then he would have to...

"Percival Weasley!" she almost screamed. It was impossible to ignore her now.

"I cannot believe that you would be so stupid as to lay the Minister open to such a risk," she stated as though addressing an idiot.

That shook Percy. "W... wh...what?" For the first time he appeared unsure. "What do you mean?"

She had to keep him on the defensive. "If you arrest Viktor Krum," Hermione pointed at the potential prisoner, "then his magical contract with the Goblet of Fire will be severed. And you know what that means?"

"Well, that's his lookout," Dawlish smirked, his eyes flicking from Viktor to Hermione to Harry.

Hermione ignored the Auror. "Do you have any idea?" she said, addressing Percy in terms she had perfected with his youngest brother.

"He'll lose his magic," Percy relied as though this was obvious.

"No," Hermione huffed with a stamp of her foot in the damp sand. "The Ministry will have broken the contract," she added slowly and firmly, as though it was obvious.

"The... the Ministry?" Percy gulped. "But that's..."

Hermione did not allow him time to think. "Yes - the Ministry and an international binding magical contract, and the Ministry is personified in the Minister himself." She jabbed Percy in the chest with her finger. "Cornelius Fudge will become a squib, thanks to you."

The colour drained from Percy's face. "That's not... it can't be..?" He looked to his accompanying Aurors for guidance.

"That's dragon dung!" Dawlish observed, but he sounded less sure than a few moments ago.

Hermione turned her ire on a new target. "Oh really?" she said sarcastically. "My legal team researched this damned magical contract inside-out. Are you prepared to explain to the Wizengamot exactly who was to blame for losing a Minister?"

Neither man wanted any more of Cherie Booth, nor of Hermione for that matter. Percy looked from face to face and found no help. "I... um, well... don't think we should... um... er... be too hasty... ah..."

Hermione stepped back, crossed her arms and tapped her right foot impatiently. "Go on, don't let me stop you." She held her head high. "I can't stand Fudge anyway. He deserves what's coming to him. Make my day... you've been warned"

Viktor stood, dripping and uncomprehending; Harry had ceased straining at the leash but remained ready to take on five Aurors nonetheless.

With no helpful advice from the officers of the law, Percy was stranded. Hermione had bet the house that he would avoid even the slightest risk with the Minister's magic or, more importantly, his career.

Mercifully for Percy Weasley, as well as Hermione, the Headmaster arrived on the scene almost before anyone knew he was coming.

"Ah, a little misunderstanding." With a swish of his wand the manacles dropped off Viktor's wrists. The Aurors dared not make any counter move. "Would someone enlighten me as to what your arrival at Hogwarts is in respect of?"

The Aurors looked at each other, and Hermione thought there was a conscious decision to leave this to the berk from the Ministry.

"Um... Well, Headmaster, you see..." Percy floundered under pressure, the protégé taking after the Minister perfectly in that respect. Much as she enjoyed the sight, Hermione had Viktor to consider, so she stepped into the breach.

Glaring at the lot of them, she informed the Headmaster. "They are intent on arresting Viktor for murdering Viktor Krum."

At that the few students who had dared approach issued a collective gasp of surprise.

Her news did not appear to faze Dumbledore, and he took it in his stride. "I see now why Miss Lovegood was so insistent. Mister Weasley, I assume you are fully cognizant of the status accorded competitors in the Triwizard Tournament?"

Percy nodded. "Diplomatic immunity." His dry voice rasped out the words from memory. "But where a serious crime has been committed, such status can be revoked."

"Quite true," Dumbledore admitted. "But such a process demands mutuality. Has the Bulgarian magical attaché agreed to waive immunity?"

Gulping, Percy hesitated. "The papers are to be filed this evening, once the prisoner -"

"Accused," Hermione corrected deliberately. Percy glared at his putative nemesis. She matched him in full.

"The accused," he spat out, "is to be confined in a secure facility."

"I see," Dumbledore said quietly. "It would appear that the cart has been put before the Thestral." He gave Viktor a kindly look. "I am certain that Mister Krum can prove his innocence of any such charges. However, to avoid an unintended international incident, can I suggest that Mister Krum is released into my custody?" As Percy hesitated, Dumbledore continued. "Hogwarts is, of course, quite secure, and I am, after all, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. I do have some influence in supranational affairs. As Chief Warlock, I would hate to see charges of this magnitude fail due to incorrect paperwork."

Percy again looked for help but no-one came to his aid. Hermione knew none of the Aurors would dare to raise a wand against the most famous wizard alive. "The Minister will hear of this, Headmaster," was his petty rejoinder.

"Of that I am certain, Mister Weasley, since I plan to inform him personally. Meanwhile, I believe that we have sufficiently disrupted a school morning. If Mister Krum will give me his parole, then I shall ensure that he is available to meet any valid charges." He stressed the penultimate word.

"Da, is good," Viktor shouted in relief.

"Then our business here is completed," Dumbledore said. "Goodbye, gentlemen."

With scowls from Dawlish and bemusement from Percy, the Ministry snatch team activated their Portkey and disappeared from sight in an instant.

Hermione expressed her relief in one long, fluttery breath, before Viktor took her hand. "Blagodaria, Hermy-own-ninny. I never forget this." He raised it to his lips and gave the back a gentle kiss. Releasing her hand, Viktor snapped to attention and bowed, as he had all those months ago in the library. Then he turned to Dumbledore. "I am at your order, sir."

"That was brilliant, Hermione!" Her attention was captured by Harry's breathless admiration.

Dumbledore appeared intrigued. "What exactly did I miss?"

"Hermione told stuck-up Percy that the Ministry would break its magical contract with Viktor," Harry said before Hermione could stop him. "That Fudge'd become a squib!"

Hermione blushed as the Headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Really? Could such a matter occur, Miss Granger?"

Uncomfortable, Hermione nearly squirmed. "No idea," she admitted to Harry's sharp intake of breath. "It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment." She cast down her eyes so as not to see Dumbledore's disapproval. Instead, she heard the old wizard chuckle.

"There is an art in defending an indefensible position, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor for... well, a successful bluff, I suppose." He turned to Viktor. "Come along Mister Krum; let us repair to my office. I did intend speaking to you this morning after I heard the sad news about Igor..."

As the two wizards, the aged maestro and the young athlete, walked away, Hermione looked up to find that Harry was staring at her incredulously. "It wasn't true..?"

Luna regarded Hermione carefully. "I think." She said after some contemplation," that while I'd want you as my lawyer, Hermione, I shan't like you as my legal advisor."

"You lied." If anything, Harry was even more impressed with that.

Hermione did not reply immediately. Instead she grabbed Harry's arm and started to drag him up the slope towards the castle. "Come on!" she said urgently.

"What?"

"We have to find Professor Moody."

"Why?"

"Because we know who killed Karkaroff!"

* * * * *

The pair dashed back into the castle and through the slowly-filling corridors. Panting and glowing with the effort, they entered the Gryffindor common room. Surprising Harry, Hermione never stopped and ran straight up the stairs leading to the boys' dorms. Harry two paces behind her.

"Hermione, you can't go in th-"

Before he could finish his warning, Hermione had flung open the door to the fourth-year's sanctuary.

"Bloody hell!" Ron was standing in just his underwear. Hermione ignored him and ran straight to Harry's trunk.

Neville emitted a squeak and bounced back onto his bed, pulling the drapes closed.

"What in the name of Merlin is she doin' here?" Seamus demanded as he exited the showers, only a towel protecting his modesty.

"Harry?" Ron sounded outraged. "She can't be in here when we're dressing. Get her out!"

"Oh, shut up, Ron." Hermione spat without even looking. "None of you have anything of the slightest interest to me." She hesitated for a second. "Harry?"

"Seamus, how about just hiding in the shower for a moment," Harry advised.

"Why should I?" Seamus retorted belligerently. "It's her that shouldn't be here."

Hermione half turned and pointed her wand at the Irish lad. "Out!"

"Okay, okay, I'm goin'," Seamus protested. "But don't think I'm gonna forget this." He departed muttering dire threats.

Hermione turned her attention back to Harry's trunk. "Oh, and Ron," she said conversationally. "Would you please put your trousers on?"

With unnecessary violence Ron grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he asked again.

"Karkaroff's been murdered," Harry replied. "Percy's just tried to arrest Viktor for it."

"Alohomora!" Hermione muttered, and Harry's trunk sprung open.

"Percy? Here?"

Hermione grabbed the old scrap of parchment.

"Hey! What's she doing with that?"

"Hermione reckons she knows who the murderer is." Hermione ignored everyone's comments and turned for the doorway.

"I said we... you saw it too, Harry. Come on," she urged, as her feet started on the descent. The rattle of his feet on the stairs behind confirmed he was still with her.

Out through the portrait hole, Hermione strode determinedly onwards. Harry finally caught up with her.

"Hermione, why have you got the map?" Harry repeated Ron's inquiry.

"You asked me earlier if we should show it to the Headmaster or Professor Moody," she replied without breaking stride. "I didn't think so then, but it's different now."

"Okay, but what do we know now that we didn't then?"

Hermione paused. "I'm sorry, Harry, I should have asked before grabbing this." The Marauders' Map was clenched tightly in her left hand. "But I think we saw Karkaroff being killed that night."

"You mean... when his dot disappeared?"

"That seems to be the last time anyone saw him alive. And you do remember who was with him?"

Harry stared straight at her. "Barty Crouch," he said flatly.

"He had both motive and opportunity," Hermione added. "Come on." She started moving again. From the route it was obvious to Harry where she was headed.

"You're going to show Mad-Eye the map?"

"Yes!" she called back over her shoulder. She was sorry about handing over Harry's property, but Viktor's liberty and life could depend upon this.

Hermione burst through the entrance to Moody's classroom. "Professor?" she yelled, hoping that he had yet to leave for breakfast, or had already returned. Chastising herself for not first checking Moody's location, she started to unfurl the map.

"What's up?" Moody rumbled out of his small office, wand in one hand, a flask in the other, his magical eye focussing and zooming in on the two students who had disturbed his morning.

With a small sigh of relief, Hermione let the map roll up on itself.

"Professor, you know that Headmaster Karkaroff is dead, don't you?" she asked.

Moody stopped dead. With a swish of his wand the open door slammed shut behind Harry, making him jump in surprise.

"Colloportus!" A flat squelch signified that the door was sealed.

Moody advanced upon Hermione. "And where did yeh 'ear that then, Missy?" he said in a dangerously low tone.

"Percy Weasley told us," Hermione, slightly intimidated, replied truthfully.

"Weasley?"

"And the Headmaster confirmed it. You see, Percy and the Aurors were here to arrest Viktor, who didn't do it, you see, we saw it happen, well, not really 'saw', but, you see -"

"'Old on there!" Moody called, raising his hand to stem the torrent of words. "Slow down, Granger." He stumped over to his desk, taking a long draught from his flask as he did so. "Just so 'appens I do know about Igor. Was with the Aurors that found the body last night; guiding 'em in the Forest."

"The Forest?" Harry asked slowly.

"You found his body in the Forbidden Forest?" Hermione darted in. Moody nodded. She turned jubilantly to Harry. "It all fits then!"

"What in the name of Merlin's balls are yeh on about, Granger," Moody demanded.

She whipped around. "This," she said, holding out the Marauders' Map. Moody took it, and as he opened it on his desk, she intoned "I solemnly swear I am up to no good!"

Hermione noted the sudden look of shock in his one natural eye. The magical one just span at high speed on its axis.

"Merlin's beard!" he exclaimed. "This is... some map yeh've got 'ere, Granger," he noted slowly.

"It's not mine, actually," Hermione admitted. "It belongs to Harry. You see, it was made by -" Once again Moody waved his hand, and Hermione fell silent.

"First, is it accurate?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "You can see, if you look at your office..."

Moody traced his gnarled thumb over the parchment and stopped at the dead centre. Hermione could just make out two little dots labelled with her and Harry's names. Moody's thumb shielded his own dot.

"So I see," Moody admitted, not moving his thumb from the parchment. He appeared to be studying the rest of the map. "So, 'ow does this tell you who offed Igor?"

"We were watching the map," Harry replied.

"That night, when we found out about the Third Task on the Quidditch pitch," Hermione elaborated. "We saw Karkaroff meeting someone in the Forbidden Forest."

"Did yeh now?" Moody's voice was controlled but Hermione detected an undertone of restrained violence. She assumed this was how Moody reacted to receiving information this type of information. "Don't leave me in suspense then. "'Oo was it?"

"Barty Crouch." Moody's magical blue eye ceased its crazy revolutions and fixed itself on her. "We saw Barty Crouch approach Karkaroff, then Karkaroff's name simply disappeared. At first we thought he might have Apparated, but now we think..."

Once again Moody held up his hand. "'Old 'em thestrals, lass. Barty Crouch, yeh say?" Hermione nodded. Moody glanced at Harry, who confirmed her story with an affirmative nod. "One tiny little problem with that."

"What?" Hermione demanded.

"Bartemius's got a cast iron alibi," Moody said firmly. "Went straight from that little shindig ta the Ministry. Then was closeted with ol' Fudge 'imself. The Aurors checked out everybody who could've done in Igor." He smiled, a gruesome visage. "Long ol' list of folks wanted Igor dead, and, yep, Barty's near the top o'that. But there were witnesses saw 'im Disapparate from 'Ogsmeade an' arrive at the Ministry."

"But we saw him," Harry repeated.

"Yeh saw a dot, Potter. Plenty of law-abidin' wizards saw 'im in person, startin' with the Minister."

"Yes," said Hermione in exasperation. "But that means he's definitely using a Time Turner."

One could have heard a Pygmy Puff hit the floor, so sharp was the silence. "A Time Turner?" Moody asked slowly. "What in Hades make yeh think Crouch used a Time Turner?" He leaned in close to scrutinise her face. "And where did yeh learn about 'em?"

Hermione felt herself colour at that last question. "I was allowed access. Used it all last school year."

"Hmmm..." Moody chewed over that little morsel of information. "That I didn't know," he said sotto voce.

"It was all perfectly legal," Hermione added.

"Don't doubt it, not with yeh," Moody admitted. "It 'ad ta be Ministry-approved if yeh used it' ere. But why d'yeh think Crouch used one, eh?"

"We saw his dot appear twice on the Map," Hermione pointed to the parchment, "at the same time. More than once, actually."

Moody suddenly slapped his hand on the Marauder's Map, which rolled up on itself. "I might need ta borrow this fer a while, Potter." It was a statement, not a request.

"Umm... sure..." Harry replied uncertainly.

Hermione's natural curiosity asserted itself. "Why, Professor?"

Moody tapped his magical eye with the tip of his wand. "Keep an eye out fer Crouch in case he does come a'callin'," he said, more like his normal self. "I'll also ask one or two ol' contacts in the Department ta check up on Barty. And I'll speak ta the Unspeakables, see if they've a time turner missin'."

Hermione nodded; it all made sense. Yet she still had unanswered questions. "Professor, do you know why Viktor was arrested... well, nearly?"

"Aurors searched around Karkaroff's body. Came up with brizzles that they traced ta Krum's broom. Also found 'air on Karkaroff's robes that was Krum's. No doubt they'll be checkin' Krum's quarters on that damn ship and 'is wand an' such." Moody rose from his desk. "Sounds like Master Krum wouldn'a exactly been upset at Igor's early death, so 'e's top o'that list. Can't go throwin' threats about without raisin' suspicions. Now, if yeh'll excuse me, I've a class ta teach."

As they passed through the now unsealed doorway, Hermione turned to Harry. "Someone's trying to frame Viktor," she said with certainty.

"You're sure, aren't you?" Harry asked.

"Yes. I can't believe Viktor would do anything like that. I know he was very upset with Karkaroff. They had plenty of confrontations and arguments." She thought back to the judges' meeting the morning after the First Task. Karkaroff appeared quite happy to sacrifice Viktor in a battle of wills to prove who was top dog at Durmstrang. She just wished that Viktor were not so hot-blooded in those arguments, the only subject over which he lost his cool.

"What about the evidence?"

Hermione pondered that. "Well... I'd expect traces of Viktor on Karkaroff's robes. I daresay we've hairs from Moody or McGonagall on ours. And the bristles... well, Crouch could have been planted them," she finished a little unconvincingly. "And don't forget, we saw Viktor on the ship when Karkaroff disappeared."

Harry stopped, putting a hand on her arm. "Hermione," he started tentatively, "are you sure you're not... well, biased because it's Viktor?"

"Honestly, Harry!" Hermione shot back. "I can't believe you could say that! Viktor is my friend, and of course I believe in him. I'd do the same for you - and I have!"

Colouring a little, Harry appeared penitent. "Yeah, I know," he replied in a small voice. "And Viktor appears a decent enough chap. But the Ministry don't arrest people just like that -"

"Think about Sirius," Hermione replied a little hotly. Seeing Harry blanch, she conceded a little. "But you're right. There will be a huge outcry about Viktor. The Ministry must have something to go on."

"How about breakfast?" Harry asked, trying to mend the odd fence. "Perhaps Ron will be dressed by now?"

"Oh!" Hermione started to blush and covered her face with her hands. "I rushed into your dorm, didn't I?" Harry nodded with a sly grin. "Do you think they'll tell Professor McGonagall?"

"Depends?"

"Depends on what, Harry?"

"How frightened they are of you."

* * * * *

As McGonagall never brought up the subject of the boys' dorm, Hermione assumed nobody grassed.

The last week before the Third Task was as hectic as Hermione had ever known at Hogwarts, putting even her exploits with the Time Turner to shame.

Her training reached a pitch, and Ron and Harry were nearly as tired as she was. Professor McGonagall allowed them to use the Transfiguration classroom during lunch hours. With a smile that belied her words, she told Hermione that she was fed up with the clutter left behind in other unused classrooms and walking in on the three of them practising some spell or charm or jinx.

At least, Hermione thought, they should all get full marks on the Defence Against the Dark Arts' year-end exam. Certainly she should, given her additional 'detentions' with Professor Moody. He was insistent she could win the damned competition, but Hermione had more modest aims.

The start of exams distracted her from the Triwizard climax. Hermione found additional time to revise, usually at the expense of sleep. She reminded herself that she could sleep when school was over; examinations waited for no witch.

Hermione remained concerned for Viktor. He now resided in a guest suite at Hogwarts, part of the Dumbledore's arrangement that ensured his continued 'liberty', effectively house arrest. His story had obviously convinced Dumbledore that he was innocent, as Viktor practically had the run of the Castle and its grounds. Still, Viktor admitted he had no alibi, having been alone in his cabin when the crime was supposedly committed.

Hermione understood that there more magical 'evidence' than she knew implicated Viktor, but the Ministry could not persuade the Bulgarian authorities to waive Viktor's immune status. That was turned down flat: the Bulgars fervently considered Viktor Krum a national hero, and could not be convinced that he was anything other than an innocent dupe in a nefarious British plot. After all, Bulgaria had been robbed of the Quidditch World Cup last summer by the perfidious English (the magical population of the Balkans did not distinguish between Irish and English), and Hogwarts being allowed two champions in the Triwizard Tournament only inflamed matters. Public opinion back in Sofia saw an open-and-shut case of nobbling the favourite.

Viktor hinted to Hermione that he expected a far more rigorous investigation once he returned home. Karkaroff had powerful friends.

Penelope Clearwater decided not to be associated with a murder suspect, and that shaky relationship had foundered. Hermione had never seen Viktor so down. Beyond his customary dour mien, she could tell he was depressed, and suspected he regretted his open clashes with his ex-headmaster that now cast a pall of suspicion over him.

With everything else whirling around her, Hermione tried hard to find time to help Viktor, both to prove his innocence, and simply to maintain his morale.

The Bulgar was still quiet - more so than normal - when he joined his three co-competitors for their Saturday evening dinner, less than twenty-four hours before the Third Task began. Cedric arranged for the elves to convert a small room near the Hufflepuff common room into an intimate dining area, and they provided a fine meal into the bargain. Nothing was too heavy, with the competition looming, and all except Fleur eschewed alcohol. The French girl restricted herself to a single glass of white wine with her food.

It was, in Hermione's estimation, a fine evening. The talk mostly avoided the trials, both past and future, they had all faced, and even Viktor emerged somewhat from his introspective mood. At the end they had toasted, with butterbeer, each other and mutually exchanged good luck wishes.

Hermione believed that the four had forged firm friendships. In that way, the Goblet of Fire had accomplished its goal of strengthening inter-school relations.

As they broke up, Cedric waited for Hermione.

"It's getting late," he observed. "I'll walk you back to your common room. You won't be in trouble if you're in a prefect's company, and I daresay going forward that won't be an issue."

Their awkward small talk, mostly concerning Hermione's prefect prospects, was interrupted within minutes by Moody, Marauders' Map in hand. "Granger, Diggory, come with me."

With mutual looks of puzzlement and some anxiety, Hogwarts' two champions followed the grizzled old warrior to his office.

"I've got some last words o'advice for both of yeh," Moody grunted as he removed whatever magic protected the doorway. "You first, Diggory." He showed Cedric inside. "Wait 'ere, Granger. Only be a minute or two." The door swung closed.

Hermione sat down in one of the small alcoves. A few minutes later the door opened again and Cedric exited. "The professor will give you a pass, Hermione," he said. "It'll see you back to the common room without trouble." He moved to go, and then hesitated, before holding out his hand. "In case I don't get the chance tomorrow, I hope you do well."

"You too, Cedric." Hermione responded, and they shook on it. "Remember, you're Hogwarts real champion."

To her surprise, Cedric shook his head. "No, given all that's gone on, I reckon you should be." He then appeared to make a double-take, as though surprised at his own thoughts. "Funny... must be nerves."

Before Hermione could comment, a gruff voice sounded. "Granger, get in 'ere." Moody stood in the open doorway, watching them. Cedric shrugged and turned away. Hermione entered, ducking under Moody's arm. He sealed the door and cast some privacy charms. To her surprise when he sat down at his desk, he motioned for her to sit on one of the seats scattered around the classroom. He customarily made her stand.

"Yeh ready, Granger?" he asked with a quieter than normal air.

"As ready as I can be," Hermione admitted. "Thanks to you..." Moody waved off that comment "... and Harry and Ron."

"Good, good," Moody observed slowly. "You bin gettin' closer to the Potter lad?"

Hermione flushed red. "He's been helping with my training, that's all."

"Really?" Moody seemed to ponder that denial. "Given yeh'll 'ave done a lot o'this fer 'im, I thought mebbee..."

Hermione kept her thoughts private, not offering up how much she would like to be closer to Harry.

"Still, tomorrow we find out the truth, eh lass? Yeh still set agin goin' all out fer the win?"

"I know I can't beat Cedric, Fleur or Viktor," Hermione replied. "At least, not all three. And I don't have to bother. As long as I carry on, I've fulfilled my part of that contract..." She almost spat out that word. "...and can continue my life as a witch."

"And what if yeh need ta win?" Moody fixed her once again with that electric-blue eye.

"Nobody can guarantee a win, especially for the weakest competitor."

Moody stirred uneasily. "Well, if they do..." he tapped his wand "... they'll 'ave to make a move then, won't they? We'll find out then." He pushed himself out of his seat. "Let's just check those reflexes just one last time; constant vigilance and preparation!"

"Okay." Hermione drew her wand reluctantly. She hoped this would not carry on too late...

...

A voice cut through her hazy thoughts.

"Granger? Granger! Yeh okay?"

Opening her eyes, Hermione found the unsettling face of Mad-Eye Moody peering down at her. She started to rise, but a sharp pain cut through her head.

"Take it slow, girl."

Pushing herself up on her hands, Hermione scrambled to her feet, and sat gingerly in the closest chair. Her head pounded with a regular thud. "What happened?" she asked weakly.

"I think yehr tired, Granger. You tried steppin' inside a Bedazzling spell instead o'deflectin' it." Hermione groaned, but at least her head was clearing, even if the ache persisted. "We'll call it a night." He peered down at his student. "Need summat for that?"

Hermione shook her head, which was a mistake. Her brain seemed to ricochet like a snooker ball off the inside of her cranium. "No, I'll be fine," she lied. "Just a headache."

"Okay then. Last words, Granger." Moody stood tall. "Yeh're better than yeh think. You can win this if yeh want it. Stuff it up all those pureblood arses."

'Yes,' Hermione thought. 'Yes, I can.'

Where did that come from?

'I can win this. I want to win this.'

* * * * *

By the time Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room, her headache had eased, and she finally dared to believe that she could and should win tomorrow. It would take a tremendous effort, but nothing utterly beyond her. Just imagine Malfoy's face!

That last thought made her snigger as she provided the password to the Fat Lady.

The common room, while not deserted, was nowhere near full. Many students were taking the advantage of the last dregs of an evening with no lessons on the morrow; others were rushing late homework so they could enjoy the Third Task on Sunday.

Hermione spied her friends and headed towards them. As she did so, Harry rose and, without a word, made his way past her.

"Harry..?"

He continued on his path and left for the boys' dormitories.

Hermione turned and addressed no-one in particular. "What's up with Harry?"

"He's been very quiet tonight," Ginny spoke up. She sounded concerned. Neville nodded in agreement.

"Ever since he came back from meeting Mad-Eye," Ron added.

"He met Professor Moody?" Hermione required clarification. "I've just come from seeing him. Harry wasn't there."

Ron shook his head. "Nah, earlier. Mad-Eye came by at dinner and asked for him. Harry went up straight after we'd finished." Ron's expression lit up with fond memories. "Roast beef and Yorkshire pud tonight; lovely, it was. What did you have then, Hermione?"

Hermione ignored Ron's culinary request. "What did he want with Harry?" she asked.

Neville shrugged. "Don't know," he admitted.

"But he's been really quiet ever since he came back," Ginny repeated. "Hasn't said a word about what."

Hermione worried herself for a few moments. What would Moody want with Harry? It had to involve the Triwizard tomorrow, or, more accurately, what might coincide with that event.

Reminding herself that tomorrow was fast approaching, Hermione sat down. "Can I borrow some parchment please, Ginny? I'd like to drop my parents a note about tomorrow."

Minutes later, as she scratched away with a borrowed quill, Hermione was aware of someone approaching her from behind her. Twisting in her seat, she was relieved to find Harry. She started to frame a question about his meeting with Moody, but the look on his face dissuaded her. He looked worried - no that was wrong: something had left Harry in a quandary.

"Harry, what's the -"

"Have you got a moment, Hermione?"

She hesitated. "Of course." What was he carrying?

Harry jerked his head. "Just... over there." He motioned towards a quiet corner of the common room.

Ignoring the bemused looks from her friends, Hermione stood and followed Harry to a spot next to the fireplace. Whatever was in his hands was twisted up. Hermione could tell he was nervous.

He turned to face her. "Umm... not sure how to put this.... But..." He held out the object. "Would you wear this - please... tomorrow?" His expression betrayed earnest hope. "For me?" he added.

Hermione's eyes grew wide as she recognised Harry's Quidditch jersey, deep maroon and amber, with 'Potter 7' emblazoned on the back. Almost reverently she accepted it from him. She looked up. "Why?" she asked quietly.

Ignoring her question, he repeated in some anguish. "Please? I'll be there with you... sort of, you know? So you won't be alone," Harry added lamely.

She held the material to her cheek. It was not soft but carried Harry's scent.

"Of course I will," she said softly. She could not reject this seemingly innocent if confused request. "Thank you, Harry." Reaching out, she softly patted his arm.

Relief smashed its way through the anxiety on Harry's face, although Hermione thought he still appeared undecided over something or other.

Then he appeared to reach a decision on the spur of the moment. Preceded by an audible gulp as though summoning up his courage, Harry leaned forward and planted an awkward but gentle kiss on Hermione's forehead.

The common room almost froze for the two of them. Hermione, scarcely believing what had just happened, stood there cradling his jersey. An enigmatic smile played on her lips.

She could almost feel the heat of Harry's blush which stretched from his brow until disappearing below his collar. "For luck," he added unconvincingly in a high, strangled voice, before turning on his heels and nearly running for the dormitory staircase.

Hermione remained motionless for a few seconds. Did Harry really just kiss her? Did he mean what she hoped he did? Had it been a spontaneous gesture of deep friendship or the planned first step towards...

She felt the heat of her own sudden spectacular blush, or was it giddiness supplying the warmth, and the unexpected weakness in her knees?

She turned to face her friends.

Neville appeared amused.

Ron's expression was unreadable.

Ginny's face crumpled like someone had just crushed the last hope from her heart.

In a daze, Hermione carefully put one foot in front of the other until reaching the spare seat. Sitting down to steady herself, she could not think of a word to say.

Harry had kissed her!

"Did Harry just kiss you?" Ron asked, a slight edge to the question.

Hermione nodded. "I think so," she breathed. It was real now; she had admitted it.

"Yes, he did," Ginny added tartly. She scooped her parchment and quills into an untidy bundle. "I- I think I'll go to bed now," she said, finishing with what sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.

Hermione ignored any Weasley emotions. She ignored anything and everything except...

Harry had kissed her! And tomorrow she would win the Triwizard Tournament.

* * * * *

Sunday the twenty-first of June dawned in glorious sunshine, befitting the summer solstice.

From pleasant dreams, Hermione Granger awoke in a mood to match the weather.

She had made her decision. Forget the Triwizard Tournament and Death Eater plots; this morning she would tell Harry Potter exactly what she felt for him. After The Kiss Hermione was convinced that she would find a most receptive audience...

She wanted to - had to - tell him so, should fate deal her an unlucky hand in the Third Task, Harry would know that she loved him with all her heart.

Hermione was down early to the Great Hall. Harry had not been in the common room, and she hoped he might have slipped out for an early breakfast, however unlikely given the day.

Perhaps he had trouble sleeping after The Kiss.

The Great Hall was all but empty. That no-one was at the Head Table was slightly unusual. Hermione shrugged it off; probably the faculty had plenty to do to prepare for today' events.

Pouring a mug of pumpkin juice, Hermione decided that love certainly developed a healthy appetite. She would also need to stock up for the afternoon. She would not be making that mistake twice. As she spooned some scrambled egg onto toast, a post owl made an approach through the open windows.

Highly unusual, thought Hermione. It looked like a Daily Prophet delivery owl. That rag did not publish on Sundays. Intrigued, she reached into her robe pocket and deposited a Knut in the owl's leather pouch, allowing her access to its burden.

It was the Prophet! Turning the paper over, Hermione abruptly spat out a mouthful of juice.

A huge headline started back at her.

A WORLD EXCLUSIVE; FROM THE QUILL OF RITA SKEETER

SIRIUS BLACK HARBOURED AT HOGWARTS

DUMBLEDORE PROTECTS CONVICTED MURDERER

* * * * *

This chapter includes dialogue from chapter #30 of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire."

Numerology & Gramatica is a standard textbook at Hogwarts.

An Arbroath Smokie is a particularly fine smoked haddock.

"I have climbed to the top of the greasy pole" was a famous quotation of Benjamin Disraeli when he was first appointed Prime Minister in 1868.

In the book, Barty Crouch junior was found with a group of Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban. For obvious reasons, I am changing my policy of sticking with the book and following the film version, where he is betrayed by Igor Karkaroff.

The Star Chamber was a special court held at the Palace of Westminster - in a chamber whose ceiling was painted with stars! It was used to try prominent and powerful defendants, usually at the whim of the ruling monarch, and there was no appeal against its decision. Its use died as the English Civil War broke out in the 1640s. Despite the best of intentions it had effectively become a host of political show trials. The name is still in use, usually referring to the final arbiter in disputes over budgets between the Treasury and other governmental departments.

Queen's Evidence is when a defendant pleads guilty and gives evidence for the prosecution (the Crown) against his fellow accused for a discounted sentence.

In the UK cheap ballpoint pens are often referred to as Biro pens after their inventor, László Bíró.

The Spring Bank Holiday in Scotland is officially the last Monday in May. Sunset on 27 May 1995 was at 21:39 in Edinburgh, so it would be slightly later in the Highlands.

In the book the Third Task took place on 24 June. I have moved the date forward three days for reasons that will be revealed later.

"In it to win it" was an early advertising line for Britain's then new National Lottery.

I have changed the pensieve memories' sequence so that Dumbledore had already moved the memory of Snape's returning Dark Mark had already been deposited before Harry's unauthorised access, and Harry saw rather than heard of the trial of the Longbottoms' attackers.

Translations from Bulgarian, courtesy of George: -

Momiche = Little one

Ne me dokosvai = Don't touch me!

Murtuv? = Dead?

Ludost! = Madness!

Blagodaria = Thank you

Hermione's change of heart over the Triwizard Tournament will be explained in the fullness of time.

The unusual publication of a newspaper on a day it is not normally distributed has a real-life equivalent, when the Sundays-only 'Observer' rushed out a mid-week edition when the owner, "Tiny" Rowland, hailed a favourable Department of Trade & Industry report on his great rival, Mohamed Al-Fayed. The edition on 30^th March 1989 carried the headline "Exposed: The Phoney Pharaoh" and is regarded as a low point in that great newspaper's history.