Unofficial Portkey Archive

I do not own any of JKR's original characters. I wish I did!

Hermione suffers two meetings: the first with her parents; and the second with a certain scurrilous journalist.

Chapter 5 - The Prerogative of the Harlot

That late Sunday morning, awash with brilliant sunshine, as November tried to pass for May, found a thoughtful Hermione sitting in the comfortable plush armchair by the window in the Gryffindor Common Room. Unfortunately, she felt none of the perceived warmth, as her mind was preoccupied with the recent events in her life.

She had reported to her Head of House the previous day to enquire about the arrangements for the imminent and inevitable meeting with her parents. Professor McGonagall had summarily explained to her that, as probably the most familiar face the Grangers knew from the wizarding world, she would Apparate several hundred miles to the south early on the Sabbath. She would meet Hermione's parents at King's Cross station, see them safely through the barrier onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and escort them on the long journey to Scotland aboard the Hogwarts Express.

As the extent of Hermione's legal challenge to her existing options of either enforced competition in the Triwizard, or being dismissed entirely from the magical world, had not yet become known to the Ministry, As a result, Dumbledore had decided prudently not to seek official approval for Muggles - even parents of one of his students - to be allowed to enter Hogwarts' grounds. Instead, he had booked a private room at the Three Broomsticks. Fortunately it was not a Hogsmeade weekend, so there was little chance that Hermione would be recognised in the village. But she could not be seen to leave the castle grounds either alone - a violation of school rules - or be seen in the company of the Headmaster without raising some difficult questions and setting inquisitive tongues wagging. So, to avoid any unneeded attention, Hermione was instructed to present herself at the Headmaster's study at eleven forty-five precisely. It was already half past eleven, and she decided it would be best to leave right away, punctuality being one of her virtues.

Having been clandestinely supplied with the password to speed her passage past the stone guardians of the Headmaster's office, Hermione arrived early for her appointment. Being determined to follow her instructions to the letter, she did not attempt an early entrance. So as she let the next few minutes before her appointed time slip by, she reflected over the last twenty-four hours in her mind's eye, she continued with the topic that had occupied her mind for most of that morning, and during her trek through the almost uninhabited Sunday morning corridors.

Her headache had finally disappeared when she had awoken on Saturday morning. Whether it had been a result of the mild concussion she had suffered on Thursday, or just the result of a week's stress, she did not know. She just felt relieved when Crookshanks had greeted her opening eyes with a loud purr and a lick, as though realising his mistress was feeling more akin her old self.

Most of the Gryffindors continued to hold themselves aloof. For all his faults and misdemeanours, Ron had considerable sympathy from his housemates. Hermione knew that, although strictly speaking she had been in the right to upbraid his explosive bout of fisticuffs with the loathsome Malfoy, given the reason for that encounter, she had lost a great deal of the Gryffindor moral high ground that she had spent a week in the Common Room. That was true even with herself: She felt guilty that it was an act of sticking up for her, no matter how misguided that caused Ron to be punished with Snape's detentions. Normally Hermione would have maintained that Malfoy's taunts were not worth being in trouble over, but ever since that evening in the Library, a part of her was thrilled at seeing the cocky Slytherin decked.

To her not very well-hidden disappointment, Harry had remained cooler towards her. She was not sure it was because she had proved that Ron did not have a monopoly on opening mouths and inserting feet amongst the Trio. Perhaps Harry had just had enough of his two friends bickering for now. But, at the back of her mind she had a nagging thought that maybe there was more to it than that. Had it something to do with Harry's Friday meeting with Dumbledore? She hoped he had not been disciplined over his confrontation with Moody. Surely her conversation with McGonagall had scotched any chance of that? On the two occasions she had tentatively broached that subject with Harry, he had been rather guarded towards her.

Then again, perhaps Harry was suffering for completely different reasons. Ginny, who to Hermione's slight astonishment seemed to have chosen to remain more firmly in her camp, rather than Ron's, had first brought that possibility to Hermione's attention at dinner on Saturday.

"Cho Chang," the younger redhead whispered to Hermione as they sat, side-by-side on a Gryffindor bench, tucking into a thick beef stew and dumplings.

"Hmm?" Hermione demurred, her mind on other matters.

"Look!" This time Ginny's elbow added a soft dig in the ribs. That succeeded in effectively capturing Hermione's attention.

"What?" With a mild hint of irritation, Hermione put down her knife and fork, and glanced over her shoulder at the Ravenclaw table behind her. As far as she could tell, Cho was sitting in the middle of a group of Fifth Year Ravenclaw girls, having a laugh and a gossip, which was a typical occupation for many other Hogwarts students on a Saturday evening. She certainly did not seem to be doing anything out of the ordinary.

"No!" hissed Ginny, and as Hermione turned to her with a baffled look, gestured with a slight but urgent movement of her head in Harry's direction.

Hermione this time glanced at Harry, who was seated diagonally opposite her. Harry's attention was fixed on the same point onto which Hermione's eyes had been just a moment ago. Whereas Hermione's look had been quizzical, Harry's expression was one of simultaneous rapt attention - yearning even - and a dreamy distancing. Certainly he did not notice he was subject to the close scrutiny of the two girls opposite him. He seemed faraway, lost in his own impenetrable thoughts.

"It's ridiculous," Ginny added with a little venom, jabbing at her dumpling with a knife and inflicting a serious wound on it.

"What is?"

"Him." Ginny's stare fixed on Harry. "He's fallen for Cho bleedin' Chang."

"You are joking?" Hermione replied in an equally low but less urgent voice.

"Nope. I wish - look at him! I think the poor sod has got it bad." Ginny sounded just a tad upset to Hermione's ears as the youngest Weasley returned her attention back to her stew.

'No way,' thought Hermione. 'Harry in love?' But as she surreptitiously kept her eyes on Harry, she was jolted out of her comfortable assumptions by the dreamlike expression on his face. 'Could it be?' she asked herself. After all, Cho was athletic, a Seeker just as Harry was, and by common assent amongst those knowledgeable in the field, namely the self-appointed Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, was regarded as the prettiest girl outside the Sixth and Seventh Years.

Her growing suspicions were reinforced when she noticed Harry's eyes move from their fixed point and slowly traverse around the Great Hall. When they again came to a halt, a brief look of irritation and disillusion crossed his face. Harry sighed and looked down sadly at his dinner plate. Taking a chance, Hermione twisted in her seat to see what had happened when her back was turned.

Cho was no longer seated amongst her peers at the Ravenclaw table. Hermione followed the route of Harry's gaze, which took hers amongst the happy Hufflepuffs. There was Cho, standing there, talking to Cedric Diggory in a strange sort of innocent intimacy. Hermione might not have known much about the subject herself, devoid in personal experience as she was, but she was observant enough to recognise the signs of a budding relationship in their body language; the brief bright smiles and whispered murmurs into receptive ears.

Harry's pronounced dismay had told her much as well. He now looked as thoroughly disgruntled with the situation as much as Ginny Weasley, Hermione observed with a slight jolt of surprise.

'So, it could be true,' Hermione admitted to herself. And was just a little shocked that this assumption actually made her feel more than a little hurt as well.

So, if Harry Potter had the beginnings of girl trouble, Hermione had her own unusual relationship issues to deal with.

The mood in the Gryffindor Common Room was still a little uncomfortable for her. She also had a stack of homework to engage herself with. Thus, Hermione had headed off ahead of time to the Library after breakfast earlier that Saturday. In order to determine her future at Hogwarts, or even within the world of magic itself, she also needed to inform herself of the extent of the rights she and her parents would have in the process. So far her diligent efforts had not uncovered any direct references to the Ministry being able to legally remove her magical abilities, or even if such a 'punishment' was possible.

When she had turned the final corner on her route to what the whole school now regarded as 'her' table, she found that it was already occupied by one internationally-renowned Bulgarian Quidditch star, quietly reading Hogwarts: A History.

Hermione was a little flattered when Viktor mentioned that he had missed her the past two evenings, and had detected a hint of concern in his heavily accented English. Otherwise, the first half of the morning passed in tranquil studying, only occasionally broken when one of Viktor's distaff fan club came to spy upon him.

It was, naturally, a Gryffindor, one Romilda Vane, who summoned up the courage to approach him for an autograph. When, without complaint, Viktor drew out a quill, the shameless hussy had sat on the desk, her back to Hermione and with the latter's meticulous notes trapped helplessly under her arse. Then Miss Vane lifted her blouse just a little, not quite enough to be considered completely revealing, and brazenly asked Viktor to sign "just above my belly button" as she wriggled on the polished surface. Hermione had huffed audibly in disapproval. Viktor had not blinked, scrawled on the offered flesh, and then resolutely and deliberately turned his attention away from Miss Vane's exposed midriff and back to his book. Romilda had favoured him with a sugary but wasted smile, then sauntered away, making sure her hips swayed. As their eyes met, Hermione exchanged a glare with her House compatriot that would have left the Mirror of Erised permanently scarred.

When she was sure they could not be overheard, Hermione had asked Viktor why he permitted such annoying, simpering girls to surround him.

"She means no harm," he had shrugged. "And there will be a day when they will not ask."

They had started to talk. Viktor admitted that he did not find all the attention desirable and wished more often than not to be left alone. It had made life difficult for him at times, as most people saw him simply through the distorting prism of his sporting achievements. The interest shown in him by obsessed females - and more than the odd wizard, he had somehow explained in his limited English - had ruined one blossoming relationship back home in Bulgaria.

So it was that Hermione came to ask him, with slight confusion: "But then why do you choose to sit with me?"

Viktor had nearly grinned at her query. "To scare away the other girls, you think?"

Hermione shook her head.

"You are first girl here to not see Quidditch player," Viktor had continued. "You do not ask; you do not look for me as they do." He had gestured to a far row of bookshelves, from the corner of which the odd female head had popped out, before disappearing under their glares.

"You … how to say … interest me, Hermy-own-ninny Granger," he said slowly, giving Hermione the impression that he was trying to make clear to her that this was intellectually rather than emotionally. "You are spetsi …special, no?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I'm just an ordinary witch."

"You are Champion," Viktor stated calmly.

And so Hermione had felt compelled to tell Viktor the whole story about her supposed participation in the Triwizard Tournament, from before the Goblet of Fire had revealed her as a fourth name, right up to the meeting with her parents. It took some time as she tried hard to ensure Viktor could understand, and she did have a biting habit of rushing out her words without pause for breath, in one whole great flood. Thankfully, she was able to slow down from the need of having to explain what a particular word or phrase meant.

At the end, Hermione felt just a little bit lighter of the burden she had been carrying for a week. But Viktor sat there, unemotional but slightly unconvinced.

"I understand, I think," he said. "I do not understand why, but I think what you say is … vyarno - is truth, yes? This is vot makes you upset, da?"

When she had asked Viktor why he had chosen to put his name forward for such a potentially dangerous event, he had looked down at his large hands.

"For my semeystvo, my School and my country," he had replied simply. "Is great honour."

"But what about you?" Hermione asked.

Viktor looked up and held her eyes with simple sincerity. "A challenge. You can only … you become …" He appeared frustrated at not finding the correct words. Finally he sighed. "A better wizard I haff become by beating my challenges. I vant to be better."

As Hermione waited for the minutes to tick by, she wondered whether the same reasoning was behind Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour's decisions to put their names in the Goblet of Fire. Angelina had entered for the glory, of that there was no doubt. Viktor Krum did not need the glory; he already had enough to last his whole life. She shook her head; she could not for the life of her see the logic behind that.

"Ah, Miss Granger." The Headmaster's voice startled Hermione out of her reveries. He stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading up to his office. She had been so absorbed in her reflections on yesterday that she had not heard the gargoyle slide to one side. "Right on time."

* * * * *

Albus Dumbledore and Hermione Granger had wasted no time and flooed directly from the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts to the fireplace in a private room at the Three Broomsticks.

They had barely arrived when a loud knock at the door disturbed the silence. "Ah, that would be Minerva and your parents," Dumbledore observed, rather unnecessarily in Hermione's rather stressed opinion. "Come in, come in!"

As the moment approached, her fears over the attitude of her mother and father had resurfaced, and she was more than a little anxious over what McGonagall could have told her parents on the long train journey north.

Those worries were momentarily forgotten when she saw them walk into the room, seemingly a little nervous and baffled at being inside the magical world. "Mum! Dad!" She ran two steps and was swept up into a fierce protective hug by her mother, an act that was swiftly repeated when she greeted her father. Regardless of what would happen, she would always remain their little girl.

Dumbledore was his beaming best. "Glad to make your acquaintance, Doctor Granger, and … Doctor Granger. It is a shame our introduction is not under more propitious circumstances."

Tea and coffee were ordered by McGonagall, and the two Doctor Grangers were left blinking in surprise when a tray laden with steaming pots, jugs of milk, bowls of both white and Demerara sugar, plates of assorted biscuits and a dish filled with lemon drops suddenly appeared out of thin air on the low table in the centre of the room.

"Yes," Mister Granger replied slowly. "Minerva informed us on some details on the way up …" Hermione cringed inwardly "… and has explained something of the situation."

"Yes, well, before we begin, shall we be comfortable?" Dumbledore asked rhetorically, and with a small swish of his wand, two comfortable-looking green leather Chesterfield armchairs and a similar three-cushioned sofa winked into existence. Hermione noticed from the corner of her eye how her mother looked around in momentary alarm, grabbing hold of her father's sleeve.

'They are still not comfortable in my world,' thought Hermione, as she sat on the settee, flanked by her parents. Dumbledore took the armchair facing the Granger family, with McGonagall poised over the tea service. "Tea or coffee, Doctor Granger?"

They both looked up. It was her father who replied. "Can we stick to 'Mister' and 'Missus' for today, just to avoid confusion?"

"Of course," Dumbledore replied smoothly, as he unwrapped a lemon drop and popped it into his mouth. Hermione noted her parents mildly reproving looks as they calculated the cavity-causing potential contained within those little yellow blobs of sugar.

Instead, both her parents settled for coffee, one black, and another with cream and brown sugar. They paid rapt attention as the coffee pot moved of its own accord and poured the steaming dark brown liquid into similarly animated cups. The cups themselves were propelled on floating saucers, and each one received the same treatment from the jug of cream and the sugar bowl. Hermione accepted a cup of tea with a slice of lemon, and sat with the saucer balanced on her knees. No one seemed willing to take a biscuit at this early stage.

When the entire party was settled, Dumbledore proceeded to open the semi-formal meeting. "Now, would you like to begin with any questions you may have?" the ancient Headmaster enquired patiently.

Hermione saw her mother shoot a sideways glance across her at her father, who nodded in return, then turned back to Dumbledore. "If you don't mind, I'll begin." He put down his coffee on a small side table that had appeared beside of sofa. "I take it there is no question that our daughter has acted in any way to break the rules?"

"None at all," Dumbledore replied. "I have no doubt whatsoever that Miss Granger did not enter her name for the Tournament, nor did she influence any other person, being or object into doing so on her behalf."

"Good," Mister Granger grunted in mild satisfaction. Then he leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "Then what I don't understand is why she is being forced to take part against her will." He turned to his daughter. "You don't want to take part, do you, Hermione?" he asked with mild suspicion.

"No!" Hermione shook her head emphatically with conviction. "Definitely not."

Her father nodded his head slowly. "Yet for some reason in order to pull out, she is pressured to consider legal action against the Government!"

Hermione tugged on the sleeve of her father's jacket. "Not the actual Government, Dad, just the Ministry of Magic."

"Wait a minute, dear," her mother gently admonished her. "Let your father finish."

"We just can't see why…" Her father's words trailed off in obvious frustration.

Dumbledore's expression turned serious., and the twinkle dimmed from his eyes, as he fixed Hermione's parents rather coolly.

"Mister and Mrs Granger, there are many differences between the world that you know, and the magical one that your daughter has joined. There are many imperfections in our world, and in many ways we wizards and witches lag behind the attitudes that are second nature to you." He banished his own cup and saucer, summoned another lemon drop, oblivious to the censorious looks shared by the two dentists, and sat back in his armchair. "The political dimension here is very different from your own, with organised political parties, general elections and public manifestoes. Here there are competing factions, very fluid by their nature, with affiliations often determined by the personalities involved, very often with private or hidden agenda." He briefly ran his fingers through his long grey beard. "From what little I know of Muggle history, the closest comparison I can make to the British history that you probably know of is that of the great noble families during the conflicts known as The Wars of The Roses.

"The current Minister for Magic is a consummate politician, more interested in retaining his grip on the levers of power rather than carrying through with any ideological programme. He has seen fit to call for the Triwizard Tournament to be held at this time, ostensibly in order to strengthen bonds of unity between the three great wizarding schools of Europe."

"I appreciate this history lesson, Headmaster," Mister Granger noted dryly. "But I fail to see how this should involve our daughter."

"When the Goblet of Fire -" Dumbledore broke off for a second. "Forgive me, the Goblet is a magical instrument which selects the three candidates it believes most represents the qualities required to make a great champion. However, once the Goblet produced a fourth name, that of Miss Granger, the act was regarded as creating a binding magical contract."

"But you yourself have said you know she didn't put her name forward," Hermione's mother protested.

"Yes, I am perfectly content that this was the case." Dumbledore seemed troubled. "We have still not determined the exact …" At this Hermione was sure he gave her a surreptitious wink "… reason for your daughter's name being produced, or indeed as to why the Goblet felt any need to select a fourth champion. The Ministry does not believe her, as they have not had the benefit of knowing her and being able to judge her character correctly."

"So why don't you just withdraw her on behalf of the school?" Mister Granger demanded, softly but determinedly.

"It is rather complicated to understand, but as far as we can determine, Miss Granger is not representing Hogwarts, though I do believe she has many of the qualities that would make her an excellent choice in the future. The Goblet of Fire selected her on behalf of a fourth, non-existent, school."

Hermione felt her mother stir uneasily in her seat; indeed, the worry in her eyes revealed the extent of her alarm. "I'm sorry, Headmaster, but I'm having trouble following this. We all agree Hermione did not enter. You say she's not representing this school, but one that doesn't exist?"

Dumbledore gave her a small sympathetic smile. "Yes, well, as I said, we are not entirely sure why Hermione's -" Hermione started at the first time she had heard Albus Dumbledore use her forename in her presence "- name was produced. However the Ministry approach, as determined by the appointed overseer, is that regardless of the reason for her being named, she must compete or face the consequences if she refuses to do so."

"What, expulsion?" her father snorted derisively. "I'd rather that than have Hermione forced to take part in something against her will!"

"You mentioned other schools," his wife chimed in. "If Hermione had to leave Hogwarts, surely given her academic record she could transfer to another establishment?"

"Yes, perhaps that might be something to consider anyway, given that you've been unable to find a way out of this mess."

"Dad!" Hermione was more than a little alarmed at the direction the meeting was taking.

"I am afraid it is not as simple as that," Dumbledore said sadly. "Your daughter is considered to have entered into a magically-binding contract. They are not easily broken."

"That's what lawyers are for," Mister Granger declaimed as he leaned back, crossing his arms and exuding an air of confidence.

"Well, perhaps they will have better luck than I have had as Supreme Mugwump," Dumbledore conceded. "But, as it stands, if Miss Granger does not participate, not only will she be expelled from Hogwarts, but steps will be taken to bind her magical abilities to the extent that she will no longer be a witch."

"Not necessarily a bad outcome," Mister Granger observed sourly.

"There are plenty of colleges that would welcome Hermione with open arms," her mother declared proudly. "We had always hoped she would attend a normal university."

Hermione cast a despairing look in McGonagall's direction. Luckily she caught the eye of her Head of House. "I believe we should consider Hermione's wishes in this matter," McGonagall stated clearly. The filthy look she received from Hermione's mother was plain and simple, clearly translating as: 'Don't tell me how to look after my child.'

"Perhaps," her father said doubtfully. "I must admit that neither Emma nor I have been happy with the choice she made after you visited us four years ago. Perhaps we should reconsider allowing her to continue her education here."

Hermione had had enough. "Dad! Mum! I don't want to leave Hogwarts." Her mother tried to hush her objections while her father just assumed the world-weary look of a parent who had long and bitter experience of his offspring's oft-expressed opinions. "That's why we're supposed to be looking at engaging the services of a lawyer."

"A rather expensive one," her mother observed. "We're not made of money, Hermione. Especially if circumstances worsen and we have to enrol you into one of the better schools." She emphasized the last words with a pointed look at her daughter.

"Ahem." Dumbledore interrupted the familial exchanges. "Hogwarts will meet any expense incurred." He met McGonagall's rather flabbergasted look with a sheepish expression of his own. "Out of the Contingency Fund, Minerva. After all, we are looking after one of our own."

Both her parents bristled at the Headmaster's implicit exercise of some degree of 'ownership' over their daughter, but Hermione's father was at least level-headed. "Thank you," he said rather curtly. "But what happens if your Ministry insists upon having their way? What happens then?" He leaned forward, apparently trying to intimidate the Headmaster, who seemed unconcerned. "I'd like to know more about this 'Tournament'

"Now, knowing our daughter as we do, we found it strange that she would complain about being entered into any sort of competition, especially one as prestigious as your colleague -" He indicated Professor McGonagall "- has led us to believe.

"Now, I can only assume that this is a sporting contest of some form?"

As it happened, Hermione's mother also had a comment of her own to add

"Hermione was never a sporty child," Emma Granger confessed almost as an aside to McGonagall. "Always preferred to read, rather than run and play."

"Really," the stern Gryffindor Head observed dryly. "I would never have guessed."

Mister Granger remained relentless in his pursuit. "Now, will you tell me the truth about this Tri-whatsit Cup?"

"Of course," Dumbledore replied.

"I guess that it's not just a question of how old Hermione is, or how her supposed participation is viewed by the rest of the school - although -" Daniel Granger fixed Dumbledore with a dentist's glare "- I must say it doesn't reflect much credit on your school that Hermione's story isn't believed."

Hermione hoped that no-one would have to explain the seeming importance of bloodlines in the wizarding world, otherwise there was little chance she would be allowed to remain at Hogwarts beyond the end of the afternoon.

"Why can't Hermione just turn up and then default, or sit on the sidelines?" her father continued.

"The Ministry's appointed representative would view such an act as akin to a refusal to take part, and she would be disqualified, subject to the same penalties as if she withdrew before the Tournament started," Dumbledore stated calmly.

"Why is there an age limit?"

Dumbledore sat quietly for a few seconds. "The Triwizard Tournament," he started slowly and clearly, "is a test of a champion's qualities - mental, physical and moral. It is felt that some of the challenges faced would be beyond the skills of any witch or wizard who had not passed at least O.W.L. level."

Hermione took a small relieved breath, but her respite did not last long.

"Is it considered dangerous?" Her father sensed some unease.

Both Dumbledore and Hermione shot anxious looks towards McGonagall, which did not escape the watchful gazes of Hermione's parents.

"I see," drawled Mister Granger. "Your colleague was pretty tight-lipped about what was involved on the train up." He leaned back so he was sitting up straight and tall. "You promised me the truth, Headmaster," he reminded Dumbledore.

Hermione closed her eyes.

"I did," Dumbledore acknowledged.

"How dangerous?" Dan Granger pressed insistently.

"Enough so that only those students who are of age - that is, in the wizard sense, and are seventeen or over - are allowed to enter."

"Excuse me." Hermione could feel her mother on her left struggle to lean forwards from the depths of the sofa. "So shouldn't Hermione be excluded on grounds of age then? By your own rules, she couldn't have been allowed to enter, and her nomination should have been rejected."

"Emma …" Her father was just a little impatient at the interruption. Hermione guessed he felt he had Dumbledore on the ropes.

"No, Dan," her mother insisted quietly but firmly. Hermione recognised the unyielding attitude of her mother; after all, Hermione herself practiced it every day. "I want to know."

"Of course," Dumbledore observed. "For an unfathomable reason, the Goblet of Fire has effectively stated that your daughter meets all the qualities required to be named as a champion. It is regarded as the ultimate arbiter on the matter."

"Not a very efficient way of conducting affairs, wouldn't you agree, Headmaster?" Mrs Granger responded acidly. The Headmaster just nodded in acknowledgement.

"Nevertheless …" Mister Granger sounded a little piqued. "The competition is regarded as sufficiently dangerous as to exclude non-adults?" Dumbledore nodded again. "Exactly how dangerous is it? How many have been injured?"

"Well, times have changed, and it has been a few years -"

"How many?" her father demanded, his tone growing louder and bolder by the second.

"Quite a few," Dumbledore admitted.

"Seriously?" This time the Headmaster just indicated agreement with a curt nod of his head. "And how many have died?"

"Dan!"

"Dad!"

Ignoring his wife and daughter, Mister Granger rose to his feet, upsetting the small table and sending his cup of coffee falling towards the floor. He missed McGonagall removing both china and liquid with a flick of her wand before they made impact. "Have competitors died?" he demanded, his voice rising to a shout.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed, before Dumbledore raised his eyes to look calmly at Dan's angered expression. "Yes, there have been fatalities in the past," the Headmaster responded, sounding weary. "That is one reason why the competition has not been held for nearly two hundred years."

"For Christ's sake man, she's only just turned bloody fifteen!" Dan Granger's voice was brimful of ire. Hermione could hear her mother stifle a sob at her side. "She's our only child. You are supposed to be acting in loco parentis yet you have done absolutely nothing to protect her!"

"We have taken precautions -"

"Precautions? What Precautions? Can you guarantee her safety? Can you? Can you guarantee that if she takes part she will come to no harm?"

Dumbledore appeared to look every year of his age, although he kept his voice level and reasonable. "No, Mister Granger, I cannot."

Silence again. Hermione was about to speak when the suddenly shrill voice of her mother broke the spell. "That's it, then." She stood to join her husband. "Dan, we are taking Hermione out of Hogwarts right now!" She turned to take hold of Hermione's left hand. "Come on, darling."

"You can expect to be hearing from our lawyer, Headmaster," Mister Granger said forcefully.

"No!" Hermione exclaimed loudly, pulling her mother back. She was determined to be heard.

"Hermione …" Her father rather growled her name, as though warning her to stay quiet. He might as well have stood in front of an express train for all the effect it had.

His daughter jumped to her feet, and pulled her hand out of her mother's grasp. "Dad, I'm fifteen! I can make up my own mind."

"Darling, we're only concerned for your welfare," her mother tried hard to sound sympathetic.

"No," Hermione cried, trying hard to convince her parents of her line of thought. "I'm not leaving."

"Oh no, missy!" Her father was striving to remain calm towards her, but was losing the battle. "We never wanted you to practise this magic rubbish anyway." He turned to the Headmaster. "There is nothing to prevent me taking my daughter out of Hogwarts, is there?"

Dumbledore considered his answer carefully. "Legally, no." He held up a hand to forestall further comment from the Grangers. "Of course, your daughter would still incur the wrath of the Ministry, and would undoubtedly face strict penalties. But, as you say, the decision is that of you and your wife."

"However," interjected McGonagall. "I think it would be fair to hear Hermione's views."

"Yes," Dumbledore reinforced his deputy's message. "Your daughter is a most capable witch, one of the most brilliant minds we have had enter the Halls of Hogwarts in a generation, if not longer. She has many remarkable qualities, not least that of knowing to do what is right." As he looked at Hermione, she guessed he was not referring to exam results, more likely a night a few short months ago that involved a Time Turner and a Hippogriff.

The elder Grangers looked doubtful. "Mum, please? Dad?" Hermione implored of them.

Emma and Dan Granger shared a look of mingled confusion and a hint of defeat. Hermione knew they always professed to involving her in all the family decisions that affected her. She wondered if they would be prepared to hear her side of the story now. She turned to face Dumbledore. "Professor, how many of Hogwarts' students put their names forward to be chosen by the Goblet of Fire?"

Dumbledore looked just a tad confused for a second, and then the old familiar twinkle returned to his eyes. "There were twenty-five students who successfully placed their name into the Goblet of Fire - and two who were unsuccessful due to the lower age limit, Miss Granger," he added with a sparkle.

"And who was selected as the true Hogwarts champion?"

McGonagall looked thoughtfully at her student as Dumbledore replied. "Cedric Diggory was chosen."

"A Sixth Year Hufflepuff," Hermione observed. "Tell us please, Professor, how old is Cedric?"

Dumbledore smiled. "He turned seventeen on the twenty-fifth of September, just six days after your own birthday, Miss Granger."

"Thank you." Hermione turned to face her parents, hoping that the information provided had made an impression on them, but to be certain, she decided to pre-empt their decision and try to influence the outcome. "Professor, could I please have a few words in private with my parents?"

"Of course." Dumbledore rose from his armchair. "Only if that should be acceptable to your parents, that is." He raised an enquiring eyebrow in their direction.

Mister Granger looked uncertainly at his wife, who took a hold of his left hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Coming to a decision, he nodded abruptly to Dumbledore.

"Excellent. Then Minerva and I will withdraw." He turned to Hermione. "Just tap your wand on the door when you have finished."

Exceptionally nervous, Hermione nodded, almost unable to speak. Her entire future would be decided in these next few minutes.

As McGonagall passed her, she bent over to whisper a few words in Hermione's ear. "Now, no Memory Charms or anything of the sort." She looked sternly at her best student, but there was a slight quiver of her normally stern lips. "Good luck, Miss Granger." The door closed smoothly behind her.

* * * * *

Hermione took a deep breath, trying hard to remain calm. She was determined to stay on and complete her education at Hogwarts. She had survived Trolls, Basilisks, Dementors: Neither the Ministry nor her own family would succeed where they had failed. She had been looked down upon by a large minority of the pupils - actually, now it was more akin to the healthy majority, she reflected. She had endured teachers who were vain, incompetent, biased against her, lycanthropic, or just plain incarnations of evil. Merlin, was it only three days ago she had been thrown around the DADA classroom by this year's model as if she was nothing more than a rag doll ?

No, Hermione Granger was a Hogwarts student, and so she would remain. It was not just the prospect of qualifications; Hermione knew she needed to take full advantage of her opportunity of studying as many facets of magic as she could. She could feel that something bad lurked over a far horizon, an oncoming storm. There was no way she would abandon Harry and Ron - well, perhaps this was not quite the case for Ron at this point in time, she thought - in the face of what was approaching. After all, who else would make sure they finished their homework?

Having come late into this very different world, both wonderful and at times repellent to her, Hermione was unwavering in her desire to remain a witch. She did not think it odd, although many others would. The idea of losing what she had become, her very essence now was to be a witch, was in many ways worse than any fear for her own personal safety.

A witch she was, and a witch she would remain, by fair means or foul, should the circumstances demand it. If the lawyers could not get her off the hook regarding the Tournament, then she would damned well take part. That is, if she managed to survive this afternoon as a witch.

Hermione turned to face her parents, who were still standing. She chose to sit in the armchair just vacated by Dumbledore. "Why don't we sit down and talk it through, just as we would do at home?"

Her father still looked undecided, and highly dubious about the whole affair, but her mother tugged gently on his arm, and they both sat down on the Chesterfield sofa facing their daughter.

"No wonder you didn't tell us all about the Tournament," Dan Granger muttered.

"I didn't want to worry you," Hermione admitted, with some measure of truthfulness. After all, she had been frightened that her parents would react exactly as they had this afternoon. "And hopefully it won't come to that."

"It certainly won't," her father shot back. "We're taking you back to Oxford with us."

"Dad, it's not as simple as that."

"Isn't it? Seems bloody plain to me!"

"Dan!" Her mother gently reproved him over his language.

Hermione sighed. This was going to be a difficult conversation, and she held the balance of her very existence as a witch in her hands. "Mum, Dad, let's face facts. I am a witch."

"No, dear, you're our daughter," her mother responded firmly.

"Yes, I am," Hermione agreed. "Your daughter who happens to be able to use magic."

"Should never have agreed to you coming here," her father grumbled once more.

"But I am here now. And it was the right decision." Her parents shared frankly disbelieving looks. "Look, coming to Hogwarts has changed my life in so many ways, all of them positive." She hoped she would be forgiven that little white lie. "You always thought I was different to other children, that unexplained phenomena happened when I got emotional. That was what they call 'accidental magic', uncontrolled use of my abilities.

"I didn't fit in. Here, I'm among children just like me, much more so than the kids back home. I am learning about the full range of my abilities, how much I can do in the future when I leave here."

Emma Granger leaned forward. "Darling, your father and I have talked about this before. We're frightened that you'll choose to stay in this new world, that you'll be lost to us."

"That'll never happen."

"Won't it?" Her father enquired. "Already the idea of attending a university after you'd finished here seems to have been dropped."

"I haven't chosen what do to when I leave Hogwarts," Hermione pointed out. "I may want to take on a normal university degree, I just haven't reached that point yet."

"You're leaving Hogwarts today, young lady!"

Hermione could feel the tears staring to well up, and her throat constrict. It was her mother who intervened. "Daniel, let Hermione have her say. We can at least listen." Her husband harrumphed and sat back, arms crossed in classic defensive body language.

"I am a witch. I am starting to learn now what I can and cannot do with magic. There are many wonderful things I have yet to learn. If you withdraw me from Hogwarts now, not only will I lose those opportunities, but there is a strong possibility that I will never be able to practice magic again."

"So much the better! You'll be back with us, safe and sound in Oxford. We can enrol you into Old Palace or any of those schools you were so interested in before that letter arrived." Emma Granger dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Everything changed with that damned letter."

"Yes, yes it did," Hermione agreed. "And I will be back knowing what I've lost." She bit her lower lip as she struggled to phrase her next appeal. "You both have a remarkable gift: Knowledge. You have used your skills and time and money to help people through the practice of medicine." Her mum nodded. "Imagine that you lost your ability to practice dentistry, or any medical skill. That you could no longer help those in pain."

She could see from her mother's eyes that she, at least, was starting to understand.

"That you knew you had those skills and knowledge, but you could no longer carry them out, no matter how willing or able you were."

"Dentistry is not a dangerous profession," her father, made of sterner material, commented.

"That's true," Hermione admitted. "But we are not at that stage yet. Accidents have happened at this school before, but no student has lost their life at Hogwarts for at least forty years." She looked hard at her father. "That's a record many schools in England would envy. It's because they understand the nature of the challenges we face, are aware of the potential power each pupil has, and are prepared for eventualities."

"And what about the Tournament?"

"Let me come to that in a moment. It may not happen - my being forced to take part, that is." She slid off the armchair and knelt in front of the sofa, as though a supplicant before her parents.

"There is still a chance that this legal firm will be able to expose flaws in proceedings. They could gain an injunction against the Ministry preventing my taking part and also protecting me from the consequences. At least wait upon that outcome."

Dan and Emma Granger once again shared one of those looks of exasperation and indecision, regardless of how unmoving and firm they desired to be. Hermione knew that they could talk to each other without speaking, through years of life together. It was her mother that made the final decision. "Alright, Hermione. We'll hold our fire and hope the lawyers come through."

Hermione exhaled with relief, but her Dad pounced on the remaining unanswered question. "And what happens if they fail. Will you choose to leave?"

Hermione straightened and looked her father in the eyes. "No. Then I will take part in the Tournament."

Her father jumped to his feet. "Oh no, no, no, young lady!"

Hermione stayed outwardly calm, although her insides were churning. "Dad, please sit down."

Muttering furiously, he did as he was asked.

"I want you to agree that it is my decision whether I choose to remain a witch or return back to the Mug - … er, home."

"You are not taking part in that Tournament, young lady!" Dan Granger wagged his finger at his headstrong daughter.

"Did you hear what the Headmaster said?" she asked. "How many students from Hogwarts wanted to take part?"

"Twenty-five," her mother muttered sadly.

"Yes, twenty-five. And more. Those who were under seventeen and not allowed to enter. To put that in context, it's about a third of those eligible to take part. And that doesn't count those from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, the other schools involved. Do you really believe that many young adults, because that's what they are, would willingly put their names forward if it was really dangerous?" She hoped she would be able to blindside her parents…

"But the Headmaster said it was dangerous!"

"And it is, to a degree," Hermione agreed. "But it is being run by the people who understand the hazards. Would Professor Dumbledore allow that many of his own students to put their names forward if every possible precaution wasn't being taken to reduce the risks as much as possible?"

"People have died," her mother whispered.

"In the past," Hermione responded. "Two centuries ago. Now even the magic world is more risk-aware." She could see her mother was wavering. "People died earlier this century playing normal sports; several are still injured playing rugby or riding horses even today."

"Dan..?"

Hermione's father turned from his wife and looked hard at his daughter. "That's a pretty slim argument."

"Cedric Diggory is not even two years older than I am. Dumbledore wouldn't let him enter if there was a realistic chance of serious injury" 'Or worse', she didn't add. "And there's an important difference between us."

"Yes?"

"He and the others have entered to win. If I have to take part, I only need to play to avoid harm and keep myself the right side of disqualification. Take the safe option every time."

There was silence. Hermione had played all her cards bar one.

She did not need to play it. Her mother would do so on her behalf.

"Dan?"

"I still don't like it, Emma. At worst she'd be home, safe and sound, even if she wasn't a witch anymore."

Mrs Granger looked down at Hermione, who'd assumed a most unfamiliar pleading expression.

"And she'd resent us for it for the rest of our lives," she sobbed.

Dan Granger climbed up from the green leather sofa and strode across to one of the pub's windows. "You know," he said quietly, "I never feel right in these places." He turned and looked at his daughter, still kneeling in front of his wife. "I don't pretend to understand this world, or the hold it seems to have on you."

Hermione clambered up from her knees and came to join her father. "Do you trust me, Dad?"

"Honestly?" he replied in a harsh half-laugh. "You're too clever." Hermione looked offended. "I sometimes get the feeling that you never quite tell us the whole truth."

Recognising that he was actually being quite perceptive, Hermione changed tack. "This is the rest of my life at stake. I know that as parents you're concerned, but I'm not stupid, and I know how far I can go."

"Always further than you actually can," he replied sadly.

"Then please, trust me on this." She took a deep breath. "If it comes to the Tournament, and if I find I'm out of my depth, then I'll withdraw and pay the cost."

Her father gathered her up into a tight hug. There were tears in his eyes as well as hers. "You never stop even when you're in over your head, Poppet," he whispered as he ran his hand through her hair.

Hermione felt her mother embrace her from behind, and could no longer delay the tears. All three Grangers wept quietly together, holding each other.

"I always thought boys would be a problem in a mixed school," her father joked.

For a second an image of bringing Ron Weasley home to meet her parents sprung into Hermione's head. 'Thank Merlin, that's not going to happen now!' she thought.

"You'll come back home for Christmas this year?" her mother said in a constricted voice.

It was then that Hermione knew she'd won this round. Only the future would reveal whether it was a Pyrrhic victory.

* * * * *

Albus Dumbledore was smiling quietly to himself when he entered the room. Hermione, one hand taken by each parent, could see the sparkle in his eyes.

"I'm staying," she said quietly, accompanied by a quiet sob from her mother.

"She talked us round, Headmaster," her father said in a voice laden with resignation. "If it comes to it, then I hold you responsible for her safety."

"I hold myself responsible for the safety of all my students," Dumbledore replied seriously.

* * * * *

After another round of refreshments, in which a tearful Mrs Granger tackled the chocolate digestives, and they agreed to support Hermione's exploration of the legal avenues, the elder Grangers bid their farewells. Hermione's parents embraced their daughter one last time before leaving to take the late afternoon train back to London. This time Dumbledore decided to walk them down to Hogwarts Station, so that he could speak further to them about his responsibilities as far as their daughter was concerned.

Professor McGonagall was struggling to suppress a smile. "Mission accomplished, Miss Granger?"

Hermione just sat down heavily on the sofa, her right fist in front of her mouth. "I lied to them," she muttered, too softly for McGonagall to hear her.

'I told them I knew what I'm doing,' Hermione thought. 'But I don't, and I'm scared. If I told them that, then I'd be on the train home right now.'

"Come along, Miss Granger. I had better see you back to Hogwarts."

'Am I that bad a person?' Hermione asked herself. 'That I can't tell the truth to Mum and Dad?'

* * * * *

The Gryffindor Common Room was fairly well occupied when Hermione made her way through the portrait hole. Some students were panicking over homework not even started at this late stage, while others lounged about, taking advantage of what was left of their free time for another week.

Hermione was saddled with the heavy weight of culpability over her deception, however well-intentioned her motives had been, of her parents. She wanted to curl up with a good book in her dormitory and forget all about the Tournament, the Ministry, and the potential horrific consequences. Something on Arithmancy, or Ancient Runes, should help take her mind off more painful thoughts.

She glanced around the room. Ron was playing wizard's chess against Ginny. Hermione knew Ginny remained convinced that one day she would finally defeat her brother fair and square. There were not many other Fourth Years visible, except for Neville, who sat quietly reading a book, every so often peeking over to the chess board to see how much longer Ginny's obstinate queen's bishop could hold off the hoards of obsidian pawns surrounding it.

Hermione was making her way quietly towards the staircase leading to her dorm when she spied Harry, sitting all alone in a corner, seemingly staring into space. She realised that he had not been thanked properly for his intervention in the by now legendary Moody-Granger lesson. She had been a little too dazed on Thursday evening, and had not taken the opportunity at breakfast the following day before McGonagall had interrupted them.

It was, of course, also a perfect chance to find out what had been eating away at Harry for the last two days.

Her hushed approach did not disturb Harry, and he remained gazing into nothingness, his chin supported by the palm of his right hand, with his elbow resting on his knee. Hermione idly thought how much the pose resembled the perceived artistic impression of a thinker.

"Hi," she said, almost shyly, trying to have her intrusion upon his contemplation be as gentle as possible.

Harry moved his head slightly so that he could see her. Firelight glinted lazily in his lenses, tiny specks of red and orange and gold reflecting the roaring fire some yards away. "Hermione," he replied in a very neutral tone. Instinctively he moved the books and papers on the seat next to him so that there was room for her to join him.

"Missed you this afternoon," he said quietly as Hermione took the place offered her. She could understand his lethargic mood. It was nice and warm and comfortable, enough to lull the unwary into a Sunday afternoon nap, let alone introspective consideration. "You weren't in the Library," he observed.

"Is that the only place Hermione Granger would be found?" Her understated reply carried a hint of playfulness.

Harry gave her a rueful little grin. "No, but you go with what you know." Then his expression grew a little more unreadable. "Someone there asked after you," his voice again assuming that tone of neutrality.

"Oh." A pause. "Who?"

This time Harry paused. "Surprisingly enough, it was one Viktor Krum." His look was meaningful.

Hermione did not respond. 'Why do I feel embarrassed that Viktor asked after me? Or is it that it was Harry he asked?' she thought. It was as though she had a guilty little secret that she had kept from her friend. Perhaps it was, she considered with a little thrill.

Or perhaps her guilty little secret was something else. Wistfully, she wished momentarily that it had been the second option, that Harry might bear some small amount of jealousy, but her intellect ruthlessly stamped down on that brief flicker of emotion. Harry was looking in other directions. And Hermione Granger had ignored her early schoolgirl crush on Harry Potter sometime in the last eighteen months. So, what had kindled that idle thought?

Rather than answer, she deployed the tactic of misdirection.

"I had a meeting," she replied, her voice a little downcast. "With my parents," she added, maintaining eye contact with Harry, lest yet another reminder of his orphaned status cause him any distress.

"Oh." This time it was Harry's turn to be surprised. His lower lip trembled visibly. He leaned closer, to keep their discussion private, Hermione assumed. "They … they're not taking you away, are they?" Hermione was gratified to see a hint of anxiety underlying his words. More gratified than she expected.

"No." Hermione saw Harry's disquiet dissipated with one word.

Again, some strange part of her psyche felt more gratified than she probably had a right to be.

At least, Harry cared.

"Finally a bit of good news," he observed. "Not been much of that around recently, has there?"

Hermione gave a slow shake of her head in agreement with Harry's sentiments. "It wasn't pleasant," she said softly. "They worry about me a lot." She sat in quiet contemplation for a moment. "It's sweet, but they wanted to withdraw me from Hogwarts. They hate the idea of the Tournament as much as I do."

"I don't blame them," Harry muttered.

Hermione gave Harry one of her hard looks. "But you wanted to enter, didn't you, Harry? You and Ron."

Even in the pre-dusk gloom and the glow from the fireplace, Hermione could see Harry's cheeks redden. "Ah … well …" he stammered. "That's different."

"Because you're boys?" Hermione countered.

"Well, it does seem to be a bloke thing," Harry replied lamely.

"What about Fleur Delacour? She's just about as far from being a bloke as is possible, isn't she?" Hermione could feel her ire rising at Harry's casual implicit sexual chauvinism. If it had been Ron, she would have shrugged it off - or bitten his head off with an even more withering retort - but … she expected more of Harry. "Or Angelina, for that matter …"

Then Hermione bit her tongue. She remembered the original purpose for starting a conversation with Harry. She was supposed to be discovering if she had any fences to mend regarding Harry. She needed to try harder to temper her impulses. She needed every friend she could get right now, and as far as she was concerned Harry was the most valuable friend and asset she had …

"Don't worry, Harry, it doesn't matter," she apologized quietly. "Maybe I am different after all."

Harry flushed just a little. "Of course you are," he muttered. "You're Hermione Granger."

She smiled at that. Was Harry finally seeing her as a girl?

The two of them lapsed into a slightly uncomfortable silence, broken only by a log splitting on the fire in a gush of sparks. Harry stared into the fire some yards away. "Perhaps we see it slightly differently than you, Hermione. We see the excitement, the glory," he finally said, speaking almost to himself. "Ron probably sees the prize - and the chance to avoid this year's exams."

Once again there was that little half-smile that nearly always melted Hermione's hard heart. 'Maybe it isn't just a friend I need?' Now she blushed a little at the thought, and responded with a little grin of amusement.

"I'm relieved you, at least, don't see it that way …"

"No, you see the reality, the danger," he added, returning his attention in the direction of the fireplace.

Those last words caused her smile to fade away. She reflected on how much Harry resembled Viktor in his approach. Perhaps they shared more than a position on a Quidditch field.

Was that guilty little secret raising its guilty little head again?

She brought herself back to her original purpose. At least while he was in a ruminative mood, there was a little opening for her.

"Harry, you didn't get into trouble over ..?"

Harry turned his head to face her again. "Over Thursday's little problem?" Hermione nodded. "No," he said, sounding a little pained. "No. It was nothing like that."

"Then what did Dumbledore want -"

"My aunt and uncle," Harry said, his face clear of any emotion, but the tightness behind his words and his burning emerald green eyes belied that.

"Oh." Then Hermione realised. "Oh!" Her eyes widened.

"Someone," and Harry laid particular stress on that first word. "Someone told him about my life at home." He paused. "Hermione?"

He expected a reply, that was clear. "Well, it wasn't me," she replied defensively out of instinct, then this time it was her turn to blush under Harry's doubtful gaze. "I told McGonagall," she admitted.

Harry nodded, slowly, understanding the position. "Same thing, really." He sighed. "Well, it's done." He saw Hermione start to compose an apology or a demand for more information, and waved a dismissive hand. "I'd rather not talk about it, not now, not here anyway."

His dismissal seemed to leave open the option of some other time, though.

Hermione could not understand his defensive attitude about this, but reined in her horses anyway. She did not know what it was like not to have a proper family. This might explain the apparent distance between them since Friday lunchtime. Anyway, she had to remember the reason she had particularly sought him out, aside from their usual friendship.

"Harry," she started, quietly, hoping to recapture the mood of the start of their conversation. "I never really said thank you."

"For what?"

"For stepping in between me and Professor Moody."

"Oh, that?" Harry looked a little abashed. "I meant what I said," he mumbled. "You'd do the same."

Hermione blushed a little over Harry's belief and trust in her. It had taken some courage to cast a Patronus, especially against a grizzled operator with Moody's reputation.

She liked to think she would have done the same, but doubted it would have been in such a spectacular manner. Moody had demanded to know if she could take a life to save one. Hermione did not think she could, and hoped never to be in the position to find out. But would she give her own life up? She shivered at the thought, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the common room.

She hastily perished the grim thoughts, putting disturbing visions behind her. "How's the homework going," she asked gently, changing the subject.

"Okay," Harry replied a little evasively. "Could do with help on History of Magic, though," he admitted.

"How about you take a look at my notes after dinner? They're not as good as usual," she admitted, "but I've read the histories and can fill in the gaps."

Harry gave her a little smile. "Any chance of checking out your essay for Flitwick?" he added.

"Pushing your luck, aren't you?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "All right. I owe you at least that."

Harry stood up, and extended a hand to help Hermione out of her seat. "Stuffed breast of lamb tonight," he observed as they made their way across the common room floor, joining a slow but steady stream of students towards the Great Hall.

There was something in the mundane detail of school life that anchored Hermione's thoughts, and for a few brief but welcome hours dispelled her fears for the future.

* * * * *

The following week did hold some return to normalcy for Hermione, although most of the pupils outside of Gryffindor continued to shun her.

The atmosphere inside the Gryffindor Common Room could best be described as fragile. Ron was missing each evening as he served his detentions with Snape, which removed most of the possibility of a flammable quarrel with Hermione or perhaps even Harry. However, when he did return, late and complaining of all sorts of aches, pains and soreness thanks to the myriad of menial and dirty cleaning tasks assigned to him, Ron was in an equally filthy mood.

Hermione continued to seek peace and tranquillity, or what passed for it in Hogwarts, with a varying degree of success, before she finally settled for the Library, where she could tackle her homework in peace. Occasionally Viktor might quietly interrupt the silence with the odd question or two, and at other times they engaged in a little stilted small talk. Between the book stacks there was the intermittent appearance of one or more of Viktor's many female admirers, all discreetly admiring the sight of the Bulgarian.

On Tuesday evening Hermione was summoned to the Headmaster's office, where she finally met Mrs Blair, or Cherie Booth QC as she was known professionally. A short, dark-haired woman with a letterbox smile and a very firm opinion of her own worth, she had arrived with a small legal team of three to make notes. By the end of the evening Hermione was in higher spirits than she had been since the damnable Goblet of Fire had decided to select her as a fourth candidate. Cherie Booth had seen excellent grounds for an injunction being granted subject to an appeal against Hermione's enforced participation in the Triwizard Tournament. It was something about the School's - and thus the Ministry's - duty of care under both Scottish and English law. If proven that Hermione had not conspired to have her name chosen - and given that there was no evidence that she had done so, and had immediately and consistently denied her entrance into the competition - then there would be no call for sanctions against her. Cherie Blair had hinted she would have a quiet word in her husband's ear about the case, carefully censoring the magical aspects. As a former Shadow Home Secretary and qualified barrister himself, he could test the political waters with his own legal background to help.

So, with signed statements accompanying the Matrix Chambers team on the Hogwarts Express back to London, Hermione could calm her apprehension, at least for the present. Or as much as the academically-driven young witch ever could relax, as she steamed through her homework assignments, tried to coax Viktor through the intricacies of the British wizarding world, and once again viewed her study timetable culminating in the year-end exams with an optimistic outlook.

One black cloud on the horizon was Thursday's upcoming DADA class. It was not without some measure of trepidation that Hermione had entered the classroom, although she soon realised that none of the Gryffindors looked certain, nor confident, about what might befall them. Harry particularly looked uneasy to her as though he was expecting an attack of either the verbal or physical variety at any moment. That, she ruminated later, was probably the point that Moody had been trying to make last week.

Moody had been gruff and uncompromising but that was about the limit of his visible emotions. There was no explanation of the previous lesson's outcome, and certainly no apology offered, regardless of whether McGonagall had kept her promise to bend his ear. It was apparent that all concerned were quite content to bury the events of last week and move on. It was equally apparent that no-one was going to forget them anytime soon.

Instead of any more spectacular, if one-sided, duels, the class had been paired off to attempt minor jinxes on each other as a test of reaction times and defensive spells. Hermione, to her relief, had found Harry offering his services as a partner and opponent straight away, keeping a wary eye on their teacher, who just turned away to focus on Neville and Parvati. Even so, her patience with herself was tested as Harry put her in another full body-bind fifteen minutes later.

Abandoning the option of visiting the Library after dinner, Harry had accompanied Hermione on a visit to Hagrid's hut. Hermione had wondered if he had allowed her to put a jelly legs jinx on him towards the end of the class, but Harry remained tight-lipped and had just offered a knowing smile and a handshake from the vanquished. Hagrid himself was delighted to hear that Hermione was feeling confident about not taking part in the Triwizard. Forcibly ignored by a silent common consensus was Ron's absence, as his usual chair remained empty.

It was on Friday that affairs again began to spin out of Hermione's control. And, as tradition prevailed, it was the afternoon's double Potions where matters started to deteriorate. Draco Malfoy had been his odious worst at the start, managing to rile both Ron through some well-timed gloating over the redhead's detention, and Harry through choice insults that were aimed at Hermione. She had the feeling that it was only her keeping hold of Harry's arm and repeating that worn old phrase "forget it, he's not worth it," that had prevented Malfoy receiving a volley of hexes.

They had even survived the first fifteen minutes of lecturing on antidotes without Harry incurring more than a five point deduction "for repeatedly glaring at another student" when the first crack in Hermione's sense of well-being appeared, courtesy of Colin Creevey, who entered the dungeon and approached Snape's desk.

"Please sir, I'm supposed to take Hermione Granger upstairs."

Snape just stared down at the diminutive Gryffindor. Hermione, wondering what could have happened that required her attendance, was a little surprised that Colin did not expire on the spot, courtesy of the intimidating and eerie Potions master.

"Granger has another hour and a half of Potions to complete," Snape's reply would have chilled a Lethifold. "She will leave only when this class is finished." He turned his dark eyes back to the thick potions text on his desk.

In Hermione's opinion, Colin then proved his right to be a Gryffindor, pink and nervous as he was. "Sir - sir, Mister Bagman wants him," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go. I think they want to take photographs …"

Snape raised one interrogatory eyebrow, then glared straight at Hermione. "Very well," he snapped. "Granger, leave your belongings here. I'm sure you will want to return to try out your antidote on Potter later."

"If it's alright with you, Professor," Hermione responded more coolly than she felt. "I would rather stay here and complete the lesson." She took a deep breath. "The champions are having their photographs taken. I am not a champion."

In the immediate silence, Hermione swore she could have heard a pin drop. Colin was almost bursting. Snape's eyebrow had by now nearly disappeared into his hairline. Finally the Potions' Master made his mind up. "Ten points from Gryffindor for ignoring a direct instruction from a teacher, Granger," he intoned silkily. Then, more peremptory: "Now, don't keep Mister Bagman waiting."

Hermione flushed as she rose to go. Colin added that she needed to take all her books and quills, so she packed them away, uncomfortable aware that everyone present seemed to have their eyes fixed on her. As she turned to swing her book bag over her shoulder, she saw that she was wrong. Ron was staring determinedly at the dank ceiling, face blazing as red as his hair.

As she strode out of the dungeon, Colin trying hard to keep pace with her, Hermione asked her young temporary companion what the photos were wanted for.

"The Daily Prophet, I think."

Hermione was sure no good would come of this.

* * * * *

The small classroom was full of the best young wizarding talent in Europe. Cedric Diggory was already there, deep in conversation with Fleur Delacour. The Hufflepuff acknowledged Hermione's arrival, although Beauxbatons' representative did not deign to do so. Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner, but when he saw Hermione, just a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips.

Ludo Bagman, who had been talking to a woman Hermione thought she recognised from somewhere, jumped quickly to his feet and bounded forwards. "Good, good, here she is. Now we can start."

Hermione did not share his apparent good humour. "Start what, Mister Bagman?" she inquired warily.

"Why, the Wand Weighing ceremony of course. As soon as the other judges -"

"I'm sorry," Hermione broke in again. "What is this all about."

Bagman goggled at her. "Surely you know that your wand is the most important tool you will have when facing the challenges ahead. We need to check that they are all fully func-"

"Mister Bagman." Hermione's interruption this time was firm but quietly spoken. "I do not see the need to participate. I am not a champion, after all."

Bagman seemed to swallow his tongue, as he went speechless and turned a strange shade of purple. "Not a champion?" he finally gasped. "Why, have you officially withdrawn from the Tournament then?"

Hermione started a response, but then immediately stopped herself. A withdrawal from the Triwizard Tournament at this time would not be backed by the legal safeguards being set in motion on her behalf. She had better tread carefully for now. "No, Mister Bagman. I would just like to check my rights and obligations with Professor Dumbledore before we start."

Before Bagman could reply, the witch with whom he had been speaking when Hermione arrived rose from her armchair. "Trouble, Ludo dear?" she asked in a saccharine sweet voice.

"Rita Skeeter," Hermione said quietly. She was recognisable from her by-line in the Daily Prophet, although the photograph the newspaper used must be rather dated, as it obviously flattered her.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Rita cooed back. Then she returned her attention to the hapless Bagman. "Ludo, darling," she fluttered her eyelashes at him through her bejewelled spectacles. "Is there any chance of having a small word with Hermione before we start? Just to get a bit of local colour, set the scene, you know …"

Bagman, starting to perspire heavily, seemed fixated by Rita's stare. "Rita's here to do a small piece on the Tournament," he said, more or less to Hermione.

Fully aware of Rita's journalistic style, Hermione was cautious. "I would rather wait until I've spoken to the Headmaster," she replied. She did not fail to notice a tic of displeasure in Rita's cheek at the mention of Dumbledore.

Fortunately that very person strode into the room, smiling benignly at Cedric, Fleur and Viktor. When his gaze settled upon the other trio, and he was aware of Rita Skeeter's presence, the intensity of his gaze dipped for a second.

"Albus Dumbledore," Rita screeched in apparent delight, although Hermione noticed that her eyes did not reflect the warmth of her words.

"Miss Skeeter," Dumbledore replied in a less than enthusiastic vein. He cast an enquiring look at Bagman, but it was Rita who responded.

"Officially sanctioned by the Minister himself," she crowed. "Cornelius is keen to get maximum coverage of this wonderful event."

"I am sure he does," Dumbledore observed, echoing Hermione's thoughts. "But, if you will excuse 'an obsolete dingbat' as you called me." He took hold of Hermione's arm and drew her away. Under her questioning look, he explained. "The International Confederation of Wizards' Conference. Rita believes some of my views are old-fashioned."

"Oh." Hermione now recalled the piece. It had been shallow, a thinly-disguised attack on Dumbledore, very in tune with Ministry's line against the Headmaster's oft-expressed views.

"You do not have to speak to Miss Skeeter if you do not want to," Dumbledore advised. "As you are underage the decision would in theory be mine."

Hermione looked back. Rita had fastened onto a most disgruntled Viktor Krum. The germ of an idea had formed in her mind. "No," she replied slowly. "I don't mind. There are a few things I'd like to say."

Dumbledore looked doubtful. "Miss Granger, I must caution you. Rita is an experienced journalist and -"

"Sorry, Albus." It was Bagman. "The other judges are ready to start the ceremony." Behind Bagman, Hermione saw Fleur and Cedric sitting in chairs near the door, whilst at a velvet-covered table a rather irritated Karkaroff had joined Madame Maxime and Barty Crouch, who sat waiting.

"One last question, Professor?" Hermione asked as Bagman went to rescue Viktor from Rita's clutches. "Does this ceremony commit me to taking part?"

"No," Dumbledore sounded certain. "Although mostly ceremonial, it does allow the judges to ensure that the wands are all in order." Hermione glanced up and saw another face she recognised, Mister Ollivander, purveyor of fine wands. "Participating in the Weighing of the Wands will not jeopardise your legal challenge," the Headmaster continued. "After all, we can always say you were pressured into taking part by, say, your Headmaster?" There was a twinkle in his eyes.

* * * * *

If the ceremony was relatively short, the photocall seemed to take ages. Hermione was acutely conscious of her hair and her teeth, especially when Rita insisted upon a shot of the two female competitors together. Up against a girl who she was sure was part-Veela, Hermione was even more self-aware than usual.

It was a relief when Rita finally called a halt, having taken ages personally ensuring that both Viktor and Cedric's individual portraits were finished to what she considered her own high expectations, fussing over both boys. As the champions of Hogwarts and Durmstrang gratefully exited the scene, Rita Skeeter sidled up to Hermione and Dumbledore.

"Any chance of that interview now, Albus?" she asked in that sweet, syrupy tone. "After all, Hermione here is the youngest competitor, and it is an absolutely fascinating storyline."

Dumbledore regarded her coolly, then turned to Hermione. "Are you sure, Miss Granger?" Hermione nodded. "Then, Rita, you may proceed." Rita's eyes lit up. "But, I warn you, if you wilfully distort Miss Granger's words, I will personally banish you from Hogwarts Castle and bounds."

Rita looked mortally offended. "Albus, I am a professional," she declaimed.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Hermione noted they had lost their benign sparkle. "That is what I am afraid of." He turned his back on Rita and faced Hermione. "Good luck, Miss Granger." Then he left along with Bagman and the other judges, engaging them in deep conversation as they walked away.

As Hermione turned her attention to Rita Skeeter, she found the journalist had already removed a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment from her crocodile bag. The quill sat quivering at the top of the parchment.

"Testing … my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter."

As soon as she spoke, the scratchy sound of quill tip on parchment could be heard. Hermione, suspicious, checked what it had recorded. 'Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter …' "A Quick Quotes Quill?" she inquired simply.

Rita hesitated. "Yes. One of the tools of the trade."

Hermione grabbed the parchment. "It is supposed to faithfully…" Hermione pointed her finger at the written words "…record the interview."

"Oh, well, probably a faulty model. As long as it records the gist …"

Hermione shook her head. "No, this will have to be carried out the old-fashioned way."

"What? The Muggle way, you mean?"

Her eyes narrowed, Hermione was just a little short with Rita. "Is there anything wrong with that?" She asked in the tone of voice that would have had Harry and Ron running for the hills. It did not intimidate the experienced reporter.

"Well, it's just so … Anyway, I haven't got another quill."

"Well, it's your lucky day," Hermione replied, delving into her bag. "After all, this is a school." She brandished one of her own quills under Rita's nose.

"Oh, how … fortunate." Rita's voice dripped with sarcasm and disdain.

"Shall we start?" Hermione took a seat so that there was a desk between Rita and herself. There was something about the journalist that set her teeth on edge.

"Yes, well," Rita flexed her fingers and grasped the quill. "I'm a little out of practice writing by hand." She settled down opposite Hermione, parchment partially unrolled and ready to record Hermione's words for posterity.

"One last request," Hermione added, after a little pause for effect. "I want to check your notes after we've finished." She gave Rita a false, saccharine smile, so similar to those she had seen the reporter use earlier. "Just to be sure you haven't missed anything."

"Of course." Rita favoured Hermione with a spiteful look. "Let's start with a little bit more information on Hermione Granger, the youngest champion for over one hundred and fifty years." Her smile was now as fake as Hermione's. "How you've risen from an unfortunate family background -"

"What!" Hermione nearly leapt out of her seat. "An 'unfortunate' background?"

"Being muggleborn, dear," Rita smirked. "Just a little local colour. After all, both your parents are Muggles, aren't they?"

"Both of my parents are dentists," Hermione responded through gritted teeth. "The equivalent of professional healers." She favoured Rita with another irritated glare. "There is nothing 'unfortunate' about my family."

"Oh, yes," Rita gave Hermione a superior look. "I've heard about dentists. All those tools they use. Sounds positively barbaric." She gave a theatrical shiver. "Still, it must have been difficult fitting in here, given your … family history."

"The only difficulties I've experienced," Hermione continued at a deliberate, studied pace to allow Rita to keep up, "are with bigots who believe that blood defines supremacy, rather than hard work and study."

"Ooh!" The quill was positively storming over the parchment. As far as Hermione was concerned, this gave the lie to Rita's professed lack of practice. "That's rather a radical view, isn't it?"

"Some might say that, I suppose," Hermione answered coolly. "From what I've seen, ability and knowledge is discounted by a large minority of the school." She paused, and added: "And as far as I can see this attitude is fostered by some of the Ministry's acts."

"Really?" Hermione was pleased to see Rita taking copious notes. "Please continue."

Hermione explained in greater depth the struggle she had had, not only to be accepted, but also to understand the new world she found herself pitched into at the age of eleven. How there was no thought to induction courses for muggleborn students. She also found the words to express her disdain about the ignorance displayed by the wizarding world of its Muggle counterpart; how the information provided to the growing generation was out of date, if not by centuries, then most certainly by decades.

When Hermione finally drew breath, Rita enthused: "Marvellous! Just… marvellous!"

"Quite."

The journalist started on a new tack. "And how does it feel to be chosen as a champion in the Triwizard Tournament? How did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?"

"To answer your second question first: I did not enter my name. And as to the first question, it feels terrible."

Rita stopped writing, and looked curiously at Hermione. "Terrible? Surely it's a great honour?"

"To be forced to take part in a Tournament with a fair chance of suffering injury? An event with a record of competitors being killed?" Hermione was into her stride. "Ask yourself this. If there were good reason for a lower age limit being set for this Tournament, then how did a fifteen year old end up as an entrant?"

Rita shook her head. "I don't understand."

"It's politics. The Ministry wants a Tournament that's smooth running. Whoever or whatever caused my name to be chosen put them into a difficult position. To avoid scrapping the whole affair, they have decided to force a fifteen year-old girl into taking part, against her wishes." Hermione took a breath. "Not just against my wishes, but also against the advice of Professor Dumbledore, the greatest wizard alive!" She finished on a fervent note.

Rita scowled a bit at Hermione's characterisation of Dumbledore. Hermione noticed that, and the slightest hint of a smile crossed her lips.

"But what about the prize? What about the chance of becoming famous?" Rita remained as condescending as before.

Hermione shrugged. "They don't really interest me. I don't need the money." That much was true, with two professionals as parents. "And I've seen the burdens that fame can bring." She recalled Harry's desire to be known for himself, not as The Boy Who Lived.

She missed the frank look of disbelief Rita shot her. "So why take part? Why not withdraw gracefully."

Hermione leaned forward, a little venom in her reply. "Simply because of the Ministry's pigheadedness. It seems to regard the revelation of my name by the Goblet as entering into a Wizard's Oath. If I pull out, they are determined to see me removed, not only from Hogwarts, but from the entire magical world.

"They are pressuring me into accepting my entrance as a fait accompli just to save their precious competition. Either I participate or I face expulsion and more." Hermione sat back and crossed her arms. "What kind of politicians put their own image before the safety of a schoolgirl?"

Rita was scribbling away. "This is excellent stuff," she observed enthusiastically. "Hermione Granger versus the Ministry of Magic!" She halted for a second. "Is there anything else?"

Hermione smiled inwardly, and leaned conspiratorially over the desk. "Well …" Rita bent over to catch Hermione's slightly softer-spoken words. "Have you ever considered the House Elves ..?"

* * * * *

Hermione was up with the lark on the following morning. She had plenty of homework to tackle, especially catching up on her Potions' notes after the loss of Friday afternoon to the rigmarole that was the Weighing of the Wands ceremony and the accompanying photocall and interview. Thus it was that she arrived early in the Great Hall, and found it to be pleasantly nearly empty.

Even though the chamber was sparsely populated at that hour of a weekend morning, Hermione noticed that all conversation ceased when the inhabitants of the Great Hall became aware of her presence. It was eerie, making her way to the breakfast table. As she passed little groups of silent students, there was a brief whispered comment or hushed observation that she could not quite make out.

As she sat down in her now normal spot at the Gryffindor table, far too early for Harry or Ginny to join her, Hermione glanced up at the teachers' table.

Professor McGonagall gave her a frankly disapproving look over the top of her spectacles, then returned her attention to the newspaper in her hands.

As Hermione strained to make out the block print on the front page from some distance, a delivery owl swung down and perched in the middle of the table, a copy of The Daily Prophet secured to its leg, a service for subscribers. Hermione tore off a piece of dry toast and some bacon rind, and rewarded the owl for its long trip. As it flew off, she picked up the paper and turned to the front page.

It was dominated by a large and unflattering picture of her, and a sixteen point editorial.

SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH

There is nothing more painful to behold than an ungrateful child.

The news that Hogwarts student and so-called Hogwarts Champion, the muggleborn Hermione Grainger (aged 15), has poured scorn on so many of our society's hallowed traditions, and attacked the Ministry itself, is not only sad, but should also point as a warning to those who seek to increase the Muggle influence in today's magical Britain.

Miss Grainger's participation in the Triwizard Tournament is mired in mystery itself. Although she denies well-founded accusations of chicanery, her status as so-called 'top student for her age' and rumours of favouritism from Albus Dumbledore hint at an agenda beyond the air of healthy competition. When compared to the three other true champions, Miss Grainger represents an unwelcome intrusion into this august competition. Someone who four years ago knew nothing of this world, and should be grateful for being given the chance to participate, has thrown kind wizarding hospitality back in our faces. The stench of foul play hangs in the air. Who knows who would benefit should a muggleborn become Triwizard Champion?

And there is worse to follow. Despite her callow youth, Miss Grainger - whose family has no known magical antecedents - has allied herself with the more liberal elements of society. Her dangerously radical political ideas are what we have come to expect from the declining standards in education presided over by Albus Dumbledore, long-time Headmaster at Hogwarts, who seems more interested in maintaining good relations with Muggles and seeking out muggleborns than in the safety and security of the realm. What are they teaching our children? Freedom for House Elves? Whatever next - clemency for werewolves, perhaps?

This publication, along with many other supporters of law and order, believe that Hogwarts is now at risk of becoming nothing more than a cradle for crackpot, revolutionary policies, and as a consequence making Britain a laughing stock. Many have raised the question of whether it is wise to have such an aged wizard as Dumbledore sitting on the Wizengamot. Now answers must be demanded regarding his apparent state of senility. We do not need Muggle creeds or culture if they are set on breaking down society. If Miss Grainger is an example of today's Hogwarts student, the time has come for the Ministry itself to take a firm grip on the problem.

Read Rita Skeeter's exclusive interviews on pages 5-9 and 16-17.

* * * * *

Hermione read the editorial to the end with some satisfaction. Rita had taken the bait - hook, line and sinker. Hermione's attempt to cast herself as more trouble inside the competition than she was worth was proceeding splendidly. The Daily Prophet had played right into her hands.

She expected a great deal of criticism. That much she had already seen from McGonagall's reactions. But when the lawsuit was filed, it was now quite likely that the Ministry would be unwilling to put up much opposition. Surely, they would take the easy way out, once that they realised that the Tournament would be more disrupted with her in it than out of it.

She became aware of a shadow passing over the newspaper. She looked up to see a rather disgruntled Albus Dumbledore, scanning the front page and the questioning of his mental capacity to preside over Hogwarts. Hermione prepared herself for the lecture to come. It was unfortunate, and she blushed so deeply that her skin was crimson way beyond her neck and shoulders, but there was an old saying about omelettes and broken eggs. She had given the Ministry an awfully big stick with which to beat Dumbledore, but if anybody had the intelligence and resources to fight back, it was the Headmaster.

"I did warn you, Miss Granger," he observed quietly. Then he turned his head at a slight angle. "They could have used a more recent picture of me, though. Not my best side. Still, who would trust a paper that cannot even spell your name correctly."

Then he moved on towards the head table and became engrossed in a hushed conversation with his deputy.

Hermione nearly tore the flimsy newsprint as she sought to find the details of her interview. She had personally checked Rita Skeeter's notes yesterday evening. Finally, after fawning pieces on Cedric, Viktor and Fleur, she came to her own article. At first, she almost had to laugh. That insipid reporter could not have been more predictable. But as she delved further into her own 'in-depth' feature, her ire started to grow.

Hermione knew she had a part to play, but that was made easier by Skeeter's poison quill. Her attempt to gain some public sympathy for her own plight, and to push what she firmly believed was the moral imperative of S.P.E.W., had given the Ministry rather more ammunition than she had intended.

She reminded herself that she did not really care what Rita said about her. She had not counted on her parents being brought so prominently to the fore. That was grounds for high dudgeon. The casual discarding of her views on the rights of other magical beings stung - she had hoped for at least a little reasonable debate. And as for the other commentary …

Slamming the Daily Prophet down on the hard wooden surface, Hermione glared at those students brave enough to meet her eyes. Those who did soon looked away.

Not only had Rita had a field day with Hermione's own words, but she had obviously sought input from other sources at Hogwarts. Hermione was under no doubt that some of those informants bore robes lined with green and silver. And what in blazing Hell was Ronald Weasley up to?

Hermione shot another quick peek up at the head table. She caught McGonagall's eye, and received a rather resigned shake of her mentor's head. It was clear McGonagall could not believe either her views, or that she had been stupid enough to have them - actually, Hermione thought, that should be 'misquoted' - in the public domain. 'Good,' Hermione thought, 'she of all people should know I'm not stupid.' A little further along, Snape was staring at her as though she was quite mad.

That did it. She caught herself wishing her Potions instructor would perform an anatomically impossible act. Hermione swore she would defeat this bunch of lickspittle politicians and fawning toadies. If it took her the rest of her life, Hermione Jean Granger would knock some sense into them, or seven bells trying.

* * * * *

My thanks to beta readers Bexis & George who once again have put this piece through their respective mangles, improved it immeasurably.

Spetsi = Special (contraction of)

Vyarno = True

Semeystvo = Family

The chapter title is a quote from a speech by British politician Stanley Baldwin (Prime Minister in the 1920s & 1930s) made at St. George's, Westminster in 1931. The phrase itself was proposed by his cousin Rudyard Kipling as part of an attack on press baron Beaverbrook. "What the proprietorship of these papers is aiming at is power, and power without responsibility - the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages." I think it sums up the Daily Prophet's role quite succinctly.

The Wars of the Roses were nominally a battle for the Crown of England between the dynastically related royal houses of York and Lancaster. Both political and military, they can be dated from the overthrow of King Richard II in 1399 to the final defeat of the Yorkist sympathisers at Stoke Field in 1487. (Although the period of civil war was sporadic and the fighting really occurred in short spasms from the 1450s.) The allegiances of the great noble families that had grown out of baronial society, such as the Nevilles, the Beauforts or the Percys, were often the determining factor in which party had the upper hand. The three parts of Henry VI by Shakespeare give a very vivid description of the fluctuating fortunes of this period. From JKR's depiction of the political world of magic, particularly the Wizengamot, it does remind me of this particular piece of theatre.

In loco parentis literally translates as "in the place of a parent." It is the legal term to describe a teacher's responsibility towards a pupil. Whilst a child is in a teacher's care, some of the privileges of the natural parent are transferred to the teacher so that he or she may carry out his or her duties. In return, the teacher must assume certain responsibilities and recognise that both legal and moral obligations rest upon him or her in every aspect of the work