Unofficial Portkey Archive

I do not own any of the characters in this story. They all belong to JKR, even if her care of some of them could be questioned… Any similarity between this and the canon Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire is, frankly, pretty unavoidable.

Chapter 7 - When Lightning Strikes

On her way back from the Headmaster's study, Hermione already started mentally composing the next, difficult, letter that would soon be winding its way south to Oxford. She was deeply concerned that, despite their apparent accession to her wishes, her parents could reconsider their options now that the last legal avenues now seemed fully foreclosed. It was one affair to plan for the worst, but entirely another to face utter, unmitigated disaster in the cold light of day, especially when that disaster was as dangerous as the Tournament was reputed to be.

The Gryffindor Common Room had been awaiting her return or, alternatively, news of her fate, as rumours regarding her absence from class that afternoon spread in the wake of her rushed exit from lunch. Hermione later learned from the Twins, who could not keep mum about the handsome profit they had made, that the supposed smart money had been on her expulsion. An unsettling large number of her classmates had even been rather gleefully anticipating the event. Draco Malfoy, in particular, vocally looked forward to 'never seeing the Mudblood bitch darkening Hogwarts' halls again.' Hermione wondered if Lucius had tipped off his obnoxious offspring in advance of the meeting.

As she clambered through the portrait hole, Hermione noticed the sudden cessation of all normal early evening social buzz. Thus, she stepped into a rather pregnant and uneasy silence.

Most of her housemates looked rather surprised, if not put off, that she was still - for now, at least - one of their number. Of course, a significant number did not see her as 'one of them' at this moment.

Hermione was starting to feel royally irritated at their rather distant and disappointed treatment of her, and resignedly returned most of the frankly unbelieving stares with a look of thoroughgoing indignation. As she had no intention of sharing their company at this time, she began making her way towards the stairs that led up to her dorm.

There was a brief commotion as Hermione heard someone behind her try to make their way through the pack to intercept her. Someone's hand landed on her shoulder, impeding her progress. She spun around, ready to proclaim her defiance at whoever had dared to lay a hand on her.

The shout died in her throat when she saw it was Harry, pale-faced and anxious.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely.

She merely nodded, not willing to trust the steadiness of own voice at the moment.

The tension visibly drained from Harry's spare frame as he exhaled with relief. "Thank Merlin for small mercies! What happened?"

Hermione glanced over Harry's shoulder, suddenly much more conscious than he was that the two of them remained the centre of attention. She noted Ginny looking at them questioningly. For an instant she also caught Ron's eye before he glanced away quickly. The rather closed expression his face bore was impossible to interpret. The middle of the Common Room was just too public a place. She shook her head and whispered: "Not here."

Harry nodded; she knew he understood. "If you'll go get your cloak," he offered. "I'll see you down here in a few minutes."

His simple act of kindness left Hermione feeling altogether too relieved, considering her circumstances. She dashed off to her room, grabbed her winter cloak, but paused to feed a mewling Crookshanks. She glanced at her multi-coloured combined lesson planner, with the homework schedules she had mapped out, as usual, over the previous summer holidays. A rapid revision of both was now required, she thought with a grim determination. Steeling herself, she returned to the Common Room, where Harry was waiting patiently, clad in his own thick cloak. "Come on then," he said quietly. Without more, he offered his hand; without hesitation she accepted it and, ignoring the inquisitive looks from the audience that had hardly changed in the interim, allowed Harry to lead her through the portrait hole.

It was chill outside; in these northern latitudes twilight faded faster and sunset came sooner than Harry and Hermione were accustomed to in Surrey and Oxfordshire further south. As it was after four o'clock the dying embers of the setting sun reflected on the lowering clouds, painting the western horizon behind the Quidditch pitch a mixture of purple and dark grey, with fiery red and burnished copper highlights, before receding into darkness.

Had there been normal daylight, the two friends would have headed towards the lake, their destination being a large smooth boulder, an ancient memorial to the valley's glacial past. At that favourite spot over the past three years, three young Gryffindors had gossiped, planned, joked and cried with each other.

However, now was not the right time. Instead, minus one third of the trio, Hermione and Harry walked slowly around the castle's looming perimeter walls, their way dimly lit by the glare of lights through the innumerable leaded windows just above their heads. Their pace was seemingly faster than a normal leisurely stroll, as, even with Warming Charms employed, the cold Scottish air discouraged tarrying. Before they were halfway around the circuit Hermione was well through explaining, at her characteristic rapid and breathless pace of speech, the afternoon's events as they had unfolded from her perspective.

As she spoke, the expression on Harry's face grew ever graver. As their circumnavigation of Hogwarts continued, they found themselves not far from the path leading down to Hagrid's hut. As Hermione finished her retelling, a slight catch in her voice betrayed her intense frustration at the unfairness of her plight. Almost overcome, her cheeks flushing angrily, she came to a complete halt, then slumped rather heavily and inelegantly on a flying buttress .

Afraid she might stumble, Harry was at her side in an instant. "Hermione, you can't … we can't … let them win," he pronounced with grim determination as he caught her free elbow with both hands.

"But … it's so unfair," she sniffed, finally releasing her restrained emotions and wanting to stamp her feet as though she was still a petulant child.

From her side, Harry now moved to stand fully in front of her. His arms extended protectively on either side of her, just outside her slumped shoulders. His hands were flat against the cool but dry stones. "I know," he murmured, "but that's not new. So, there's no way out then?"

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "None that we could find that was acceptable to The Ministry… or, rather, to Barty Crouch …" she sighed, feeling the warmth of his closeness, which was strangely comforting. "Once Fudge had found out that he had no grounds for demanding my immediate expulsion, he seemed quite keen to find a means of allowing me to quit on my own terms. I think he would have jumped at the chance, if Crouch hadn't insisted that the bloody Goblet of Fire determined I had a damned binding contract to compete!"

Harry backed off a bit and raised his eyebrows at Hermione's uncharacteristic swearing, even if the epithets were plenty mild enough by Quidditch team standards. At that, Hermione just slumped a little more, her shoulders rounded, a picture of dejection.

"I mean, I checked and re-checked all the histories," Hermione continued her dejected explanation in a dull monotone. "They're not entirely clear on that point, but that doesn't seem to matter. Someone appointed Barty Crouch as judge, jury and executioner of this stupid competition. And the Ministry's committed. Fudge absolutely won't consider cancelling it." She rested her elbow on her knee, chin gently lying on her upturned palm. "Now no-one can come up with an alternative." She laughed mirthlessly. "Hermione Granger, the Mudblood Champion!" she muttered sarcastically, and not without a little bitterness in her tones..

Hearing her defeated voice, Harry found himself speaking with much more fervour than before. "Don't you dare speak of yourself that way, Hermione. You're far more than that, you're ..." He gulped, and failed to finish that sentence. Instead, he pivoted to sit next to his highly-strung best friend.

Hermione didn't bother pursuing that rather pregnant pause. She simply moved along a little to allow him room to squeeze onto the protruding wall next to her, and favoured him with a all and tight, almost wooden, smile.

Neither thought it unusual that the face of the buttress, initially rather narrow and angled, was now wide enough for two youngsters. Hogwarts Castle was magical like that.

"Thanks, Harry," she mouthed, her lips trembling. His support meant a lot to her - more than even she had realised. Silently, she enveloped him in one of her trademark hugs, and even more than usual Harry appeared a little awkward in her embrace. Releasing him, Hermione saw that this time his smile was genuine, albeit rather far away, as if he was questioning himself.

Seeing her regarding him, Harry immediately composed himself. He also looked a little worried.

"Are you sure about taking part?" he asked. "You know I would never think less …"

He stopped as Hermione raised the flat of her hand. She took a deep calming breath. "I wouldn't call it sure, Harry, but considering the alternatives it's the lesser of the evils as far as I can see," she replied honestly.

"So, what do we do now?"

Hermione was immensely gratified to hear Harry say 'we' and not 'you'.

"Well, as I have no idea what the First Task will be, I can't really train with a specific aim in mind, now can I? I can't seek any help from the teachers either."

Professor McGonagall had instructed that none of the staff was permitted to aid either Cedric Diggory or herself. This was to prevent the host school from gaining an unfair advantage over their visitors. Hogwarts had on site the full complement of teachers, covering all of the magical subjects, whilst Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had only brought over their headmasters to accompany the cream of their students. Their other professors were back in France and … well, wherever Durmstrang was sited, continuing their day-to-day roles with the rest of their magical pupils.

Talented though Igor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime undoubtedly were, since otherwise they would not have risen to their exalted positions, it would be unreasonable to expect them to match the specialist skills of the likes of Professors Flitwick or McGonagall. Frankly, no-one seriously believed any teacher alive could equal Dumbledore's vast breadth of experience and abilities.

"I'll just have to read up on the histories, and research and hopefully master the tasks assigned in the later tournaments, working my way backwards. Try to see if there's any pattern." Hermione sighed loudly and threw her hands up in the universal gesture of helplessness.

"It could be almost anything. All I have to do is get by, that's all." Her rather quavering voice betrayed her apparent calm. She turned to Harry, who seemed to be in his trademark state of quiet contemplation, staring at the lake, where the Giant Squid's tentacles could be seen breaking the slightly misty surface, a slight luminescence against the dark mirror of water.

"What would you have done, Harry?"

Harry continued to stare at the ripples in the water. "I- I don't know," he finally and honestly replied. "I mean, I thought it would be great to take part." He kicked at a pebble on the sandy path. "Now, I'm not so sure. I don't know if I'd have had the guts to carry on." His smile was more of a wintry grimace. "They'd have probably had to carry me kicking and screaming from the Great Hall if my name had come out."

The tears started to leak from Hermione's eyes. "Damn it, Harry! I didn't ask for this." She cleared her throat as it suddenly felt heavy with emotion. "Merlin knows, I don't want it."

Harry half-turned towards Hermione, just as she mirrored his manoeuvre. Feeling an irresistible need for a little piece of human comfort, Hermione flung her arms around his neck, her head resting awkwardly on Harry's left shoulder and upper chest, her tears dampening his jumper.

The two young Gryffindors sat together in the chill evening air, Hermione letting go of all of her frustration and fears in wordless sobs. Just the fact that Harry had stood unwaveringly and loyally beside her throughout this ordeal so far meant the world to Hermione.

* * * * *

For the first time since that fateful Halloween, Tuesday evening saw the Great Hall filled with the complete visiting contingents from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, dining with their hosts. As usual, the house elves outperformed themselves once more with the spread available to feed the hungry.

Hermione Granger certainly could not be counted amongst the famished. She picked at her roast beef, with absolutely no appetite. Under normal circumstances, a quick walk in Hogwarts grounds would sharpen the teenage appetite, but Hermione's mind was still somewhere far distant at dinner, mentally composing and editing that inevitable letter to her parents.

It did not escape her notice that Ron was shooting odd angry glares in her direction. He had done so ever since she and Harry had returned to the Common Room, faces rosy with blood flooding back to chilled cheeks, and, in Hermione's case, eyes a little reddened. Hermione had heard from Ginny that Ron had received a Howler from Molly Weasley over his falling grades - not, Hermione thought with a bitter little twist of satisfaction - that they had much further they could fall. She was satisfied to ascribe Ron's dyspeptic mood to the fact that, without access to her help and notes, he blamed her for his current predicament.

Wrapped in her own thoughts, she did not notice it when Ron bestowed similar glances upon Harry.

The usual buzz in the Great Hall quickly subsided as Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet and cast Sonorus on himself.

"Attention please. Attention please!" By now the entire Hall had fallen silent, even the teachers paying more than normal attention to the Headmaster's upcoming announcement.

"It will be interest to you all when I say that classes scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, the First of December, will be cancelled."

The students erupted in a chorus of cheers and happy laughter, bringing a smile to Dumbledore's wise old face. The Weasley Twins were particularly loud in expressing their jubilation.

Amidst the cheering students, Hermione sat motionless, staring with unseeing eyes at the happy Gryffindors all around her. Harry seemed tense, and Hermione could guess why. She had told him what event had superseded classes that fateful day.

"Quiet please," Dumbledore pleaded. "I can see how much that bad news has saddened you," he remarked lightly with a broad grin. "But to compensate, I can inform you that the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament will be held on that date."

Another wild sweep of cheering echoed through the Great Hall, with many feet thumping on the wooden floorboards. Hermione watched as, amongst the Slytherins on the far side of the Great Hall, the visiting Durmstrang students chanted "Krum! Krum!" as one in deep bass voices, stamping hard on the floor, their champion's name echoing under the magical ceiling. With Karkaroff conducting the performance from his guest seat at the High Table, the Durmstrang champion's name echoed under the magical ceiling. Viktor sat there patiently, looking as unfazed and as uninterested as ever. There was polite applause from the rest of the occupants, although support was thickest on the ground within the Slytherin commune.

Almost in reaction, cries of "Allez Fleur!" arose from the Beauxbatons contingent, where Fleur Delacour bathed in the attention from her hosts amidst the Ravenclaws. Although there was a more restrained air to their euphoria, it was punctuated by the odd piercing wolf-whistle.

Not to be outdone, the Hufflepuffs, loyal to a man and woman, declared their undying support for Cedric Diggory. Most of the rest of the Houses followed their cue.

Then there was a solitary cry, originating from somewhere deep in the Slytherin horde. "What about Granger?"

The question was repeated with ever-increasing levels of intensity offset by declining degrees of courtesy.

Hermione dreaded what was sure to follow as once again she was certain she was now under the scrutiny of every witch and wizard present.

Dumbledore held out his hands to calm the fervour of the crowd. "Despite what you may have read -"

There was a rather rude outburst of juvenile laughter from one or two who did not appreciate the Headmaster's intensity. His calm stare soon restored equilibrium.

"Miss Granger will be participating in the Tournament," he stated with neutral, crystal clarity.

Hermione experienced a sudden stab of betrayal. Why had not Dumbledore told them all that she had not entered her name, and was the most grudging of competitors?

There was a smattering of applause from the Gryffindors, a few whoops from Fred and George, and surprisingly a lone clapper from somewhere on the nearby Ravenclaw table. Professor McGonagall stood and applauded her own student, as did Professor Flitwick. Apart from that, there was near universal silence betokening a complete lack of support. Except for …

"Don't you dare, Harry!" Hermione hissed as she grabbed his wand arm and shoved him firmly back into his seat next to her, ignoring the inquisitive looks from their Housemates. She knew what he had been about to do, and she knew that he knew that she knew.

"Why'd you stop me, Hermione?" he asked, rather bewildered and disappointed. "Might as well let them all see it …"

Hermione hung her head. "No, Harry … it wouldn't have been right." The anaemic reception accorded her did not upset her half as much as her own belief that her name did not belong in the same bracket as the true champions. "It wouldn't be right …" she repeated, more to herself than to her best friend.

Soon enough, when the last portion of the sumptuous Hogwarts' meal had been consumed, and the students were beginning to diffuse themselves throughout the castle, Hermione took advantage of the circumstances to make a beeline for her sanctuary - the Library.

* * * * *

"Please, tell me about Harry Potter?"

Hermione looked up from the copy of The Definitive History of The Triwizard Tournament 1285 to 1805 that she was currently skimming through. It had not been of much use to her in predicting what potential assignments she could face over the coming months, except to emphasize that the Tournament had been discontinued in the face of increasing death tolls amongst the competitors. It had never suffered an abandonment, even during the infamous Tournament in 1792 when a Cockatrice had escaped and gone on the rampage, injuring the Heads of all three schools, but that event had been the catalyst which finally encouraged the authorities to act.

Opposite her, in what Hermione had come to call 'Viktor's seat' in her own mind, Krum had put down his own reading material and was now observing her, although with his usual inscrutable air of apparent disinterest. By now, Hermione had surmised that this was, either naturally or as a result of self-training, a façade that hid a rather sharp brain. She wondered just how many people had been fooled by the ostensibly slow-witted athlete with his halting command of the English language. It was rather a good trick, she thought.

Certainly, Harry had not been among those duped by Viktor's outward veneer, or if he had been, he had quickly revised his opinions. The young Gryffindor had once again carried out what he saw as his duties in escorting Hermione to the Library that evening, even forgoing pudding as his charge dashed out of the Great Hall. And once again Hermione had watched from that annoyingly intermediate range - near enough to know that they were discussing arrangements that concerned her, but not quite near enough to make out the exact conversation that passed between the two young men. Whatever had passed between them, it had satisfied her self-appointed minder enough for Harry to once again forsake her company for a few hours at least.

Viktor had regarded her confirmation as an entrant, and therefore his competitor, in the Triwizard Tournament with the same lack of emotion he had displayed in the Great Hall only half an hour ago. Hermione had thought he might question her a little harder on the subject, or perhaps even ignore her completely given her now official status as an opponent, but instead he had shrugged his shoulders in that universal gesture of helplessness and the acceptance of fate.

'Perhaps Viktor recognises I'm not really a threat to him, unlike Cedric or Delacour,' Hermione thought. 'He's played enough top-flight Quidditch to remain unfazed by the likes of me.'

But now his first question of the evening rather threw her off-balance. "What do you mean?"

"The … the man. Not the …momche …" Viktor struggled for the correct phrase. It was one of the rare times that Hermione saw him show any emotion, when he was unable to express himself fully in a foreign tongue. She wondered if the Library had any Bulgarian phrasebooks?

"The boy ..?" Hermione answered querulously. "The Boy-Who-Lived?" She repeated the nickname that she knew Harry absolutely hated.

"Neh." Viktor shook his head, Hermione noting that he did seem to be grasping the essentials of English gestures at last. "Not… boy. Man."

Hermione sighed. She assumed that Viktor had undoubtedly read the rather flamboyant histories already ascribed to Harry Potter and his role in the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named.

"Well, his parents were murdered by the Dark Lord -"

Viktor held up his hand. "Neh - this I know. Tell me about your pri-yatel - friend."

"Oh!" Hermione had misinterpreted Viktor's intentions, and not for the first time. She settled a little uneasily in her chair. To answer Viktor's deceptively simple question required her to sort through her own feelings and examine her own complex relationship with Harry Potter. It was best to be honest, both with Viktor, but more importantly, to herself.

"He's my best friend." That was the single most important fact. Viktor nodded as though acknowledging the self-evident. He motioned for her to continue.

"Harry's brave - incredibly so. In his first year here he saved me from a Mountain Troll." Viktor's left eyebrow raised a millimetre. 'That's something you did not know,' thought Hermione, seeing that tiny reaction as the Bulgarian's equivalent to bouncing off the bookshelves. She wondered how much was generally known about the last few years' incidents at Hogwarts, so decided not to mention Professor Quirrell, the Chamber of Secrets, or Sirius Black.

"More recently - this year - he shot his Patronus at Professor Moody … also on my behalf," she added, simplifying matters only slightly. She noted another ever-so-slight motion in Viktor's left eyebrow. Obviously, he was familiar with Mad-Eye Moody's reputation. This time though, a slight flutter in her own stomach matched Viktor's motion as she recalled that incident.

"And he's loyal too. He's one of very few who believed me right from that start that I did not enter the Tournament." Viktor's expression remained neutral but focussed.

'Probably managed to work that one out for himself,' Hermione thought.

"Like most boys, he's more keen on Quidditch than homework, but he's becoming better." Viktor's stare gave her the impression that he saw nothing wrong in Harry's approach, and she felt a slight blush colour her cheeks, from a mixture of both slight embarrassment and self-justification. Then her emotions took a little dive.

"His family… Well, what's left of them…" She did not want to reveal too much; after all, Harry had been a touch irritated with her comments to McGonagall on that subject. "Let's just say he's happier when he's at Hogwarts."

'And I'm happier when he's here,' Hermione continued to herself. It came as a little shock, her realisation that, of all the things that she would miss if she had to leave Hogwarts, Harry was at the forefront.

Not Dumbledore, nor Hagrid, nor McGonagall. Not Potions, Transfiguration nor Charms. Not the clean Scottish air and the wonderful food - even if the latter was provided by the labour of indentured house-elves.

Nor was it Ron Weasley either - not anymore, if ever.

It was Harry.

She gave Krum a searching look, but he merely shrugged, nodded to her, and returned to his own studies. Hermione also lowered her eyes on her reading, but because of his question, now her mind was entirely consumed by a thought of a different nature...

With a jolt of slight surprise, she realized she had never asked the same simple question of herself - what was the essence of her relationship with Harry?

Hermione's fingers rested between the leafs of the next page, but never moved to open them. Instead, she was carried into the memories of her previous three years, from the Halloween troll, to the curious conclusion of her second year, and finally her tumultuous third one...

A pattern grew, she noted, in her relationship with Harry - he had always been her foremost priority, even in times of discord between them. Perhaps the reason lay in her social insecurity, or maybe in their shared dangerous adventures and her constant worry. However, there was an underlying cause, and she could feel herself being confident of that assumption...

More than only friends? The thought had certainly crossed her mind, albeit rarely, but reality showed that he had never expressed an open interest in her … Yet, the irrationality of her third year put ever increasing doubts in her psyche. Why had she distanced herself from Harry, placated herself with Ron, and ultimately, become much less decisive in the affairs of her life?

Hermione glanced at Viktor, but he did not appear to notice and kept moving his eyes across the page. Why was she so suddenly even thinking about this? Confusion, a vice of which she had had plenty recently, welled up within her once more...

One answer seemed to recur in her conscience - Harry.

For the first time, a realization, more profound than any she could recall experiencing before, travelled through her... Like electricity, clarity can be a shocking effect.

Dumbledore had made a mention of it before ... Love ... what had he meant?

Hermione thought she had begun to comprehend that word at last. Harry, and … love? It was so strange, so confusing...

"Hermy-own-ninny, are you dobre?" she heard Viktor asking her, distantly.

"Hmm?"

Hermione managed to refocus on Victor, who gave her a rare inquisitive look of his own. "Are you dobre?"

"Fine, fine, yes," she reassured him quickly. Truth be told, her heart was beating in her throat...

All the pieces of the puzzle Hermione had not even been aware that she was completing finally and inexplicably fell into place.

For now, she realized that Harry Potter was no longer just a friend. Instead he had become the most important item in her itinerary of Hogwarts.

Maybe not just Hogwarts.

Hermione was not quite sure exactly what this sudden revelation portended to her relationship with Harry. He was a steadfast friend, and that he had proven time and again, even more so over the last few weeks. No-one else would have cast a Patronus on her behalf, or have been willing to do it a second time in front of the entire school.

Conversely, for no-one else would she have done what she did - and risked what she risked - over the previous summer holiday.

But whether, even tentatively, she wanted to explore a possible evolution in their acquaintance, Hermione was not certain. She was not about to risk upsetting their strong friendship unless she was sure any approach would be reciprocated. Especially now, when she needed to concentrate upon more weighty matters than those of the heart, and needed all of the pitifully few number of friends she had.

As she sat there, lost in her own thoughts, Viktor Krum just gave the slightest indication of a smile.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Hermione set to work thoroughly and painstakingly reconstructing her lesson planner to set aside time for some form of Triwizard Tournament training. Just that simple task forced her to set aside her feelings of futility since, at the moment, she had no idea what sort of preparation she required. Eventually, with the assignment completed, Hermione readied herself, to face the halls of Hogwarts as a fully-fledged school champion for the first time.

Dumbledore's decision to not publicly support her, by clearing her name of the accusations that she had somehow wangled her way into the competition, still rankled with Hermione. For the first time since she had arrived at Hogwarts as a wide-eyed eleven year old, she began to entertain doubts about the Headmaster's actions. Doubtless, he had been shocked at having to announce her name as a fourth entrant. Nor could any critical comment be made of his efforts to back her in the unavailing fight with the Ministry of Magic. Yet Dumbledore could have made life at Hogwarts so much easier for her now by stating categorically that Hermione Granger was an unwilling participant.

But when presented with precisely that opportunity, the Headmaster had done nothing.

She brooded over that. The only reason she could ascribe with any degree of conviction was that the Headmaster wanted to avoid a public falling-out with the Ministry. Any comment he had made in the secure environs of the Great Hall would have, sooner rather than later, found its way to the ears of the Minister - or, even worse, to the pages of the Daily Prophet. Yet in her eyes that approach was not far short of Fudge's attitude.

Hermione was just a little surprised on the Wednesday to find that there was a modest rise in support for her on the ground than she had imagined. It became obvious in Ancient Runes that the attitude towards her displayed by the Ravenclaws had softened a little. Padma Patil took the time and sought her out as the class ended. She explained that those who knew Hermione, and in particular those who, like her, had profited from Hermione's help with schoolwork over the years, had dissected Rita Skeeter's article and come to the tentative conclusion that there was more than a grain of truth in Hermione's continued protestations. This had evidently led to some serious debate - Hermione wondered if the Ravenclaw Common Room ever hosted any other type of deliberation - between those younger students, including Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein, who were starting to have doubts over Hermione's participation, and Cedric Diggory's contemporaries, including Penelope Clearwater, and others such as Cho Chang, who tended to lean towards the establishment view.

Hermione was heartened slightly by the small shift towards a positive perception of her by the Ravenclaws, but still did not expect a significant change in her largely negative popularity. The Hufflepuffs were loyally and solidly behind their own man, and Hell would freeze over before she received anything even approaching a mild compliment from any Slytherin. She would settle for a little more support from her own Gryffindors. With the exception of a few close friends, it was the reactions of outright hostility to merely interested observation in her House which hurt her most.

The atmosphere in the corridors, though, still hung heavy with unstated yet obvious lack of sympathy regarding her position. By now she was inured to most of the unfriendly glances or whispered comments, especially as Harry was so often at her shoulder, meeting any and all disapproving stare for stare, and glare for glare. But, deep down, where even Harry could not see, she ached at seeing so many she had previously worked with in classes or on projects swallowing the popular line.

She had resolved to advise McGonagall of her scholarly intentions after Thursday morning's Transfiguration class, and found it fortuitous that her teacher was also looking to discuss matters with her prize student, although her immediate reaction to Hermione's request was rather negative.

"Miss Granger, I thought we had agreed that you should concentrate upon the immediate matters in hand?"

Hermione stood her ground. "I still wish to take the examinations this year."

McGonagall favoured her with that icy stare over the top of her glasses. "The reason for Triwizard Champions being given the leeway regarding their qualifications is that they need to concentrate fully upon the competition. It is considered that with the call on both their physical and mental reserves, it is unfair to expect the competitors to fully meet their academic requirements in the same year. And need I remind you that you are at least two years younger than those competitors were anticipated to be?"

Wrinkling her nose at the apparent discounting of exam results, Hermione was not convinced. "Academically, my age is of no consequence. I still believe it is possible for me to complete my studies and take part. After all, I'm not intending to win the Tournament. And how do I train when I don't know what the Tasks are?"

"I am fully aware of your intentions regarding the Triwizard Tournament," McGonagall replied coolly. "It is a most realistic approach. And whilst one cannot tailor one's training to meet a specific undertaking at this stage, there is the psychological pressure of participating to take into account." She sighed and gave Hermione a sympathetic look. "Look back at last year and think, Miss Granger. Remember the pressure that you forced yourself to endure in order to meet an unrealistic timetable."

Hermione pounced upon a spark of hope in the reminder. "Is there any chance of a -"

"No!" McGonagall looked as forbidding as Hermione could remember. Obviously her teacher could read her mind. "Absolutely not! There is no prospect of the Ministry allowing you access to another Time Turner. Even without your foolish decision to burn your own bridges, at the very least it would be seen as unduly favouring a Hogwarts Champion."

"But I thought …"

"Then clearly you should think again." Professor McGonagall shook her head as though Hermione had made a crude request. "Although you managed to fit in almost twice the normal number of classes, you were quite frankly exhausted mentally and physically by the end of the year. I have seldom seen a Third Year suffer so much from self-induced stress."

Hermione hung her head. Yet another brief moment of hope had been cruelly dashed within seconds of its inception. Later she would wonder if it might have been possible to go back nearly three weeks to prevent her name being produced from the Goblet of Fire, or at least to discover how such an event had occurred. She looked back up at McGonagall with determination undiminished. "I still want to sit my exams, though."

Indicating that Hermione should take a seat, McGonagall did not respond immediately, but seemed to be thoughtful for a few minutes. Finally, she spoke. "I do not see any harm in your sitting the exams. After all, they are internal year-end tests only, not for an external qualification or certificate." Seeing Hermione's incredulous expression turning into one of outright glee, McGonagall held up a forestalling hand. "But only upon your honest agreement that you concentrate upon the priority task, that of surviving the Triwizard Tournament unscathed."

Hermione nodded her head eagerly.

"And that if I find you are over-stretched in your studies, to the detriment of either your health …" McGonagall gave Hermione a pointed glare, emphasizing the next condition, "… your sanity, or your achieving our stated aims in the Tournament, then I will not hesitate to bar you from sitting the end-of-year examinations." Once again she sighed. "After all, you can claim an exemption."

In Hermione's opinion, there was as much chance she would claim that exemption as there was in her being discovered in a broom closet with Draco Malfoy. She suspected Professor McGonagall shared that belief.

"Agreed, Professor." Hermione was about as encouraged as she had been since Halloween. She had also noted that McGonagall, just as Harry the evening before, had referred to "our" aims instead of merely "yours". She was about to take her leave.

"A moment, Miss Granger." Hermione stopped rising from her seat at McGonagall's command. Her teacher shifted just a little closer in her own chair, conveying the message that her next words were of a more confidential nature. "The Headmaster will shortly make two announcements. I will divulge the details to you on the understanding that they are to go no further."

Bemused, Hermione's response was automatic. "I can't even tell ..?"

"Not until after the announcement," McGonagall reiterated. "Thereafter, I am sure you will find ample time for discussion."

Hermione leaned in closer, intrigued as to why this information was being released to her in advance.

"First, the Headmaster will declare that the older students can visit Hogsmeade this coming weekend." Hermione wondered why such routine news was being revealed to her in such confidence. After all, as a Fourth Year she would have the right to go to Hogsmeade if she so wanted.

"I would suggest that you take the opportunity to visit Gladrags Wizardwear on Saturday." McGonagall fixed her with a knowing look, trying hard to convey a message of some kind.

It was a message lost in translation.

"But… why?" Hermione was confused. Why visit a magical clothier? After all, she had all her school robes, purchased as usual from Madame Malkins in Diagon Alley. They were all right, weren't they? Did she have a split or tear, or was she growing out of her size too quickly?

McGonagall opened a desk drawer, extracted what appeared to be a sealed parchment scroll, and thrust it upon an uncomprehending Hermione. "Just hand this to the proprietor." Seeing the evident befuddlement on Hermione's face, McGonagall added: "It is regarding the Yule Ball."

"The Yule what?" Hermione squeaked, just for once a little slow on the uptake. However, from the depths of her magnificent memory, she soon recalled reading a little about it in Hogwarts: A History.

"A traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament, and an opportunity for us at Hogwarts to socialise with our foreign guests," McGonagall informed her.

"Yes, I remember now," Hermione muttered quietly.

"It will be held at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, finishing at midnight when we celebrate the coming of Christmas Day. The Ball will, of course, be held in the Great Hall, and dress robes are to be worn."

"But I don't see how this affects me," Hermione maintained, still not grasping the full implications of what she was being told. "I'm going home for Christmas."

"I am afraid you are not, Miss Granger," McGonagall replied with an underscore of sadness. "Please let it be understood that we regard you as a full Hogwarts Champion, regardless of any machinations involving the Goblet of Fire. Therefore, as a Champion, you are obliged to follow tradition and open the ball with your partner, alongside the other three Champions."

"But I promised!" Hermione pleaded. "I promised Mum and Dad that I would go home this Christmas. I've stayed at Hogwarts the last two Christmases." She glared at her mentor, who seemed genuinely upset at the distress shown by her pupil. "You can't make me stay."

"Unfortunately, we have as little choice in this matter as with anything else concerning the Tournament," the Professor admitted ruefully. "Do you recall what that Umbridge woman -" McGonagall pulled a face as though she had experienced a particularly sour taste on her tongue "- reminded you of just before she departed?"

Again searching through her memory, Hermione replayed in her mind the last few moments of that meeting a few days ago. "Something about … meeting obligations in full? That no allowances would be made for anyone?"

"Exactly." McGonagall nodded your head. "And I am sure you understand that, more so than the others, your parents do not count for much with this Ministry. It is most unfortunate, but your attendance is mandatory. As a Champion, you are expected to be an ambassador on behalf of Hogwarts, and to some extent you are viewed as representing the United Kingdom."

Her momentary enthusiasm entirely drowned, Hermione could not believe how quickly her emotions had spiralled downwards. "But … I promised them when they let me stay here! What am I going to tell them now?"

"The truth," McGonagall replied. She rose from her seat and came round to the side of her distressed student. Kneeling down, ignoring her ageing joints so that she was at head height with Hermione, she tried hard to empathise with the younger Gryffindor. "Hermione, they will understand that you will be called upon to make further sacrifices this year."

"That doesn't help much. It's been … what? A week or so since I promised them I'd be home for Christmas?" Then Hermione recalled the other promise she had made to her parents that day, about knowing exactly what she was doing. Another false promise. Now, if Mum and Dad re-examined that promise following her breaking of the other …

When Hermione left the Transfiguration classroom, finding a partner for the Yule Ball hardly registered as a problem with her at all.

She should be so lucky.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Hermione once again borrowed Hedwig to send her apologies speeding to the south. And again she felt uncomfortable, deflecting Harry's quiet enquiry about the reason for a second letter in three days. To assuage her guilt she had only her knowledge that McGonagall had insisted she keep her peace about the upcoming announcement of the Yule Ball, and that this knowledge would not remain private for much longer.

'The ball … a secret … from Harry.

'The ball … Harry.'

Of her own volition she had used those nouns in the same sentence. In a trice Hermione realised that she had before her another unexpected - and probably futile - task.

Professor Moody was cold and distant in that afternoon's DADA class. It may have been her imagination but Hermione formed the distinct impression that he paid her more attention than he had to any of his other students. He watched from the periphery of the room as the Gryffindors practised the disarming spell on each other, and seemingly lingered longer over Hermione and Harry than with any other pair of students.

But this was not the fierce, dangerous Mad-Eye Moody of a fortnight ago. Rather, he remained silent, brooding on the sidelines, observing, passing no comment, even when both of them finally succeeded in casting Expelliarmus effectively against the other. He offered no remarks on their progress. Hermione found it rather unnerving, and his presence also appeared to set Harry a little on edge. Neither found it easy to keep their concentrations under the man's looming, taciturn scrutiny.

Throughout the day, Hermione maintained her punishing schedule, carrying out research into any of the possible tasks she could possibly face in tandem with her usual scholastic subjects. The problem though, as she had admitted to her parents, was that the potential range of tasks was nearly limitless. Dangerous magical creatures did appear to play a recurring role, so Hermione anticipated at least one task involving something of that ilk. However, she could not hope to identify what kind of animal she could expect to meet. Characteristically, she sought to cram in as much information on how to deal with different magical creatures as possible, a task that appeared to be beyond even her own well-developed powers as a swot.

And magical creatures would at best cover only a single task out of the three before her. It had been stressed to her that the Triwizard Tournament was designed to test not only the Champions' bravery, but their mental and moral attributes as well. Thus, duelling had played a prominent role in early Tournaments, although it had ceased being a mandatory event by the time the competition had been abandoned for the first time.

That Thursday evening, in the Library after visiting the Owlery and imposing once more upon Hedwig, Hermione enquired of Viktor how he coped with the uncertainty. The Bulgarian just shrugged his shoulders. He put his faith in his own abilities, he said, aided and abetted by the fitness regime he had long pursued for Quidditch purposes. He looked a little uncomfortable when he revealed this to Hermione, as though apologising for his preparedness and suitability for the tasks ahead when compared to her own rather hapless and hopeless position. After that, the two Champions sat quietly, seemingly engrossed in their own studies.

Friday brought a new variation to the torture that was Double Potions. As Hermione and Harry arrived outside Snape's dungeon lair, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, looking remarkably happy. Each wore a large badge affixed to their robes.

"I think you'll appreciate these, Granger," Malfoy said as he smirked.

Hermione sensed Harry tense up as she peered at the badge on Malfoy's robes. As the Slytherin pressed the white enamel face of the badge, the surface lit up with luminous red lettering, large enough for her to clearly make out the words in the dimly lit underground corridor.

Support CEDRIC DIGGORY

The REAL Hogwarts Champion!

Hermione mused on this for a moment. "Well done, Malfoy," she observed, slowly and calmly. "I never gave you enough credit for thinking about inter-House unity."

Malfoy's trademark smirk disappeared, to be replaced by the equally patented scowl. "Then you'll like the next part even better!" he snarled, and once again his fingers touched the badge. "That isn't all they do!"

The crimson hued lines disappeared, and within a second two new words appeared, the first flashing a sickly lime green, and the second an 'appropriate' and complementing shade of mid-brown.

FILTHY MUDBLOOD

As soon as the insult had registered with Hermione, her thoughts focussed on Harry's reaction, and more specifically on preventing its escalation. She hurried to place herself between her best friend and his putative nemesis, but her initiative did not halt a verbal assault by Harry.

"I'll knock your bloody block off, Malfoy!" The malevolence contorting Harry's face as he stared at Malfoy over her shoulder was clear to Hermione. So incensed was he at the slur on her good name that it took all of her strength and considerable help from Neville, to keep him from ripping into his Slytherin foe.

For his part, Malfoy displayed absolutely no sense of irony about being protected from the painful and well-deserved consequences of his actions by the very person who was the object of his insult

To the contrary, her predicament brought renewed amusement to his voice. "Good, aren't they Granger?" he taunted. Harry had stopped struggling, but his murderous gaze on Malfoy told of the anger that still simmered underneath.

"Just … what I'd expect … from you … Malfoy," Hermione remarked icily. "When life hands you … salmon, you can be … counted on to make … salmonella…."

She was rewarded with Malfoy's blank stare. As it happened, Muggle humour was lost on the poor little pure-blooded bigot.

Just then, the echoing characteristics of the stone corridor enhanced Pansy Parkinson's unpleasantly shrieking laughter. Momentarily, Hermione wondered if the bovine Slytherin might have caught on to her joke. No such luck. Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione saw that all of the Slytherins, every single one, had activated their badges, illuminating the passageway with a mixture of greenish-brown hues.

Harry's colour had drained from his face, his expression fierce, his jaw was set, and his right fist was tightly clenched if not cocked. "Leave them, Harry!" urged Hermione. "They aren't worth it!" With that, the fight seemed to leave Harry, and his shoulders drooped as his muscles relaxed. That did not stop the intensity of his glare at his contemporary nemesis and the muttering under his ragged breath.

Hermione now felt it was safe to turn back and face the Slytherins. "Oh, very funny, Malfoy," she observed sarcastically. "Resonant with your renowned wit and originality."

Malfoy grinned coldly. "Like them, Mudblood?"

Sensing Harry's blood was about to come back to the boil, Hermione half-whispered over her shoulder. "Ignore them, Harry."

She was pleased to see that Neville had not relaxed his vigilance, hand resting on his wand, and that Parvati was also standing close by, her eyes darting from Malfoy to Granger to Potter.

Coolly, Hermione surveyed their rival House. Open and expected animosity she could cope with. "Is this all your own work?" she asked Malfoy as calmly as if she was inspecting a Potions sample. Malfoy's smirk broadened. "Or did you have to ask Daddy to help you out again?" Hermione added in a saccharine-laden voice.

That remark wiped the smirk from Malfoy's face, as did Harry's simultaneous rather rude and unexpected guffaw at her words. The blond Slytherin's fingers flexed around his wand. "You little..." he started to splutter.

"Yes," Hermione waved him off. "I think I can guess the rest, given the confluence of your lack of either intellect or imagination." Then, ignoring the nerves she felt, she stepped closer to Malfoy. "There's an old Muggle saying, Malfoy. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me!'"

She knew she was pushing Malfoy hard, and the risk she was taking by humiliating him in front of his own, especially given the reputation that the Malfoys had for lacking in patience. But if she did not stand up to them now, then she ran the risk of becoming a doormat.

She continued. "At least my father taught me never to commence a battle of wits with an un…."

"Now then, what is happening here?"

Despite her outwards poise, Hermione had never been happier to hear Professor Snape's voice as she was at that moment. She doubted that even Malfoy would risk drawing his wand in a teacher's presence, let alone his own Head of House's. Then again, she would rather not put that to the test.

Now ruddy-faced, Malfoy turned to Snape. "Granger insulted my father, Sir!"

Snape's eyes flickered for a moment to Malfoy's badge, seemed to harden for a moment, then turned coldly onto Hermione.

"Indeed? That will be … ten points from Gryffindor," he intoned silkily.

'Usually that would be more,' Hermione thought to herself.

Shouts of "That's a lie!" from Harry, and protestations of unfairness from Neville and Parvati seemed to wash over the Potions Professor. He stood there, refusing to bow to their complaints. "I will brook no more delay in my class. Inside, all of you!" And he turned on his heel, his robes billowing out theatrically behind him.

Before he followed his master's instructions, Malfoy smirked one last time at Hermione, but she knew she had come out ahead in this latest contretemps.

Parvati favoured her with a look that was half admonishment, half astonishment. "Merlin, Granger, you're unbelievable at times, you know?" The Indian girl shook her head. "Amazing," she muttered as she walked into the dungeon classroom. As he followed, Neville's features carried a nervous tight smile.

Hermione tensed up a little as she felt a hand fall on her shoulder, but relaxed as she felt it give her a tentative, gentle squeeze. Knowing intuitively it must be Harry, she felt more of the tension she had been holding in ebb away at the reassuring touch. Finally, she felt she could breathe normally, and let out a shaky little exhalation.

"You took a risk there," Harry observed quietly. Hermione nodded. Harry just smiled ruefully. "I would have -"

"I know what you would have," Hermione interrupted. She stared into his green eyes. "But it's my fight, and I came out of it unscathed - and without any detention," she added, with a slight inflection of surprise.

Harry just stared back. It was almost as unnerving to Hermione as Moody's scrutiny had been yesterday. Finally her friend spoke. "You don't always need to fight your battles alone, Hermione. You have friends who will stand up for, and with, you."

For uncounted moments, as Harry's words sunk in, they stood in uncertain silence.

"Potter! Granger!" Snape's icily correct words echoed in the passageway. "Any more delay in starting my class, and it will be a week's detention each!"

* * * * *

"Your attention please!"

Albus Dumbledore's magically enhanced voice echoed through the Great Hall, cutting through the babble of dinner time, which was, being a Friday, all the more animated as weekend plans were laid.

"I am afraid that I have a couple of further announcements to make." A good-natured groan rose from his students. They come to know that the Headmaster's relaxed demeanour did not necessarily preclude his ensuing message from being a warning that, if ignored, could lead to an early and messy death.

"First, I am pleased to confirm that this coming weekend will be a Hogsmeade weekend." Even his Sonorous charm could not override the cheer that erupted from the four student tables, and Dumbledore waited calmly for the hubbub to calm a bit. "Yes, I thought that might please some of you!" The laughter that followed from his students was good-natured. "Arrangements are as usual. Third-years and above can visit the village, although those under seventeen years-old must produce a permission slip from parent or guardian to show to Mister Filch."

The murmur of dozens of conversations increased to a frenzied buzz as those weekend plans were now ripped up and redrawn afresh.

"Ahem!" Dumbledore's rather apologetic clearing of his throat hardly made any impact on the student body, who had either forgotten or were ignoring his initial announcement that there was at least one more notice to come. "I have one other piece of information to impart that I believe should be of interest. On Christmas Eve, Hogwarts will once again host the Yule Ball."

At this proclamation there was a moment's hiatus in the noise. A couple of feminine but definitely unladylike squeals of delight broke the silence, followed by resumption of the ferocious conflagration that was excited teenaged conversation. Much of which, Hermione noted rather grumpily, came from her own housemates, and in particular from her own contemporaries Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown.

"I shall leave Professor McGonagall to provide you with the details." With a characteristically warm smile, Dumbledore left the stage clear for his deputy.

"Thank you Headmaster." McGonagall did not carry quite the air of bonhomie that her superior managed so effortlessly. The student body quietened, aware that this was a teacher with a far less forgiving reputation. "The Yule Ball is a traditional aspect of the Triwizard Tournament, and one that we have decided to reintroduce, with a view to offering the opportunity to socialise with our honoured guests." She nodded towards those members of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang present this evening. "The Ball will be open to all fourth-years and above who choose to remain at Hogwarts instead of returning home for the holidays."

Hermione's silent scoffing at McGonagall's mention of "choice" was interrupted by a sigh from Ginny Weasley, who was seated opposite. She felt a pang of sympathy for the younger Gryffindor, and for a second wished they could change places, as Hermione had no great desire whatever to attend the Ball.

"However, younger students may be invited by a fourth-year or above," McGonagall added. Hermione was momentarily amused by the how suddenly cheer was restored to Ginny's face. She caught Ginny's eye and the two of them exchanged grins - Hermione's was, for a change, genuine as Ginny's at the latter's happiness.

"The Ball will start at eight o'clock, and will finish at midnight." McGonagall appeared to glare at the packed Great Hall over her spectacles. "Your Heads of House will provide further information on what is expected from Hogwarts students." With that the Deputy Headmistress resumed her seat.

Immediately the drone of banter resumed, although now a new topic held the students' attentions. The bacon pudding, lovingly prepared by the house elves, remained mostly untouched as discussion ranged mostly around one unavoidable subject: who would be partnering whom at the Yule Ball.

Hermione noticed the inevitable fact that most of the enthusiastic talk came from the distaff side. For their part, the boys seemed more than a little disconcerted at being both the subject and object of excited female conversations.

Not unexpectedly, Hermione's mind wandered back to the two nouns she had inadvertently used in the same sentence. As her attendance at the Ball was mandatory, she would have to have a partner…

In a society as seemingly hidebound as the Magical world, it was not considered a point of etiquette for the girl to approach the boy. And in a society as hidebound as said Magical world, who amongst the boys would be brave enough to seek out Hermione Granger as his partner?

There was one boy Hermione knew, and now hoped, would have the guts to ask her. He just happened to be sitting alongside her. Perhaps if she encouraged him to think a little on the subject? She turned towards him, her brain already ticking over the problem of her opening gambit.

She needn't have bothered.

Harry was paying her no mind. In fact, he was ignoring the Gryffindor table entirely. His neck was stretched, unobtrusively trying to gain enough elevation to fix his eyes on the Ravenclaw table over an intervening crowd of happy Hufflepuffs. Without having to look, Hermione knew exactly the identity of the girl Harry was trying to find.

Hermione sighed inwardly. Harry's evident disinterest would make matters … difficult for her. She rightly did not consider there to be very many acceptable boys who would favour her with an invitation. With an air of resignation she decided to see how her fellow Gryffindors were responding.

The first person Hermione noticed was Ginny, whose bubbly elation at receiving a possible ticket to the Ball was now replaced by a rather irritated expression. Her eyes darted from Harry's face to the Ravenclaw table, and back again. When Ginny finally glimpsed Cho Chang, she scowled fiercely. Hermione was struck by how much she resembled her brother Ron at that moment. Then, catching Hermione's stare, Ginny shrugged her shoulders in that universal gesture of resignation. In true Weasley fashion she commenced an attack upon the bacon pudding.

Parvati and Lavender were already ensconced in a tight little group, giggling girlishly. Hermione shook her head in some irritation at how those two so easily managed to reinforce every negative stereotype about teenaged witches. Romilda Vane, who was not at all behind her elders in that respect, as far as Hermione was concerned, already seemed to be plotting her way into the Ball through the ticket of an elder boy.

Of the 'supposed' stronger sex, Neville was pasty faced and seemed to be summoning up his courage. But, as he often seemed to be in that state, Hermione could not be sure that he was even thinking about a date.

Fred and George were stuck together, as per usual. Hermione had been touched that, when word of the 'Filthy Mudblood' badges had spread - mostly Slytherins had taken to sporting them, although by and large they contented themselves with support for Cedric Diggory, at least when in danger of encountering a member of staff who was not the Potions master - the Twins had approached her with an offer to devise an 'appropriate' response. With no small measure of regret, Hermione had gratefully declined their offer, but she was assured by Fred (or was it George?) that it still stood. In fact, they would gleefully regard it as their Gryffindor duty.

But she did not expect that either of the Twins would volunteer to assist her in her new quandary.

Then she saw Ron. He was staring in her direction, but as soon as he caught her eye he glanced back down, his attention riveted on his dinner plate. Once again Hermione sighed internally. A few short weeks ago nothing would have meant more to her than being asked to a dance by Ronald Weasley. Now she knew that she could not countenance such an event. Admittedly, a part of her would have still welcomed an approach, but for decidedly mixed motives. On the one hand, his invitation might signify that their friendship could be rebuilt, although recent events ensured that she would never feel anything more for Ron. On the other, there was a revenge factor, to slap down his offer and to publicly crush his hopes - if he had any, that is.

Ron was eyeing her again, a worried expression on his face. Unwilling to encourage any further interaction with him, Hermione looked away. Best keep her powder thoroughly dry. Confrontations and arguments with Ron never went well.

* * * * *

Another evening in the Library followed, although this time Hermione's study companion was Harry, rather than Viktor. The Bulgarian was absent, so rather than leave her alone, especially after the afternoon's episode with the fourth-year Slytherins, Harry had dug out his homework, allowing Hermione time to continue her rather far-ranging and equally unfocussed research.

Hermione hated this process. She preferred studying a specific subject, and always wanted to research with a definitive aim in mind. This was not S.M.A.R.T. thinking, as her father would say. The aim of surviving the Triwizard Tournament was easy to set. Less so was the method of preparation.

Finally Hermione conceded defeat, at least for the night. Just how many magical creatures had appeared in this ridiculous tournament? As for the other tasks, she could divine no consistent theme attached to them. Testing a competitors moral strength could be through bribery, whether for money, power or carnal knowledge, as had happened in the earlier years. Or through the ability to make choices. Hermione would back herself in any question of intelligence, given enough time to devour any books that were relevant. But with such a range of possible options, her limited experience in practical magic, and lack of time was against her.

True, the Trio had managed to work their way through the defences that guarded the Philosopher's Stone, but it had taken all three of them working together. The idea of mounting a broom and flying like Harry, or guiding her way through the strategic test of a simple Muggle game of chess, would be beyond her. Professor Quirrell had already disposed of the Mountain Troll. And now she would be working alone.

As they made their way back through the corridors, ignoring the odd student sporting one of Malfoy's badges, Hermione's mind was still sifting through her problems. She entirely missed Harry's words, and only noticed when he was staring at her, obviously awaiting a reply to an unheard question. "Sorry, Harry. My mind was somewhere else," she admitted.

"I'm not surprised," Harry acknowledged. "There's a lot to think about." Then he grinned. "Even inside the mighty brain that is Hermione Granger!"

She punched him light-heartedly on the arm. "What did you say?"

"The first time? Ah, well, just were you thinking of visiting Hogsmeade tomorrow?"

Hermione started to shake her head, then remembered just why McGonagall had provided her with advance notice of the Hogsmeade weekend. "I was hoping to study, but there's…" She did not want to reveal she would be visiting Gladrags. Somehow that just seemed so… girly. "I need to pop into one or two places," she admitted.

"How about we meet up later for a Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?"

Hermione temporised. "Well, I really should continue with my research…" She trailed off as she saw just a glint of disappointment in Harry's eyes and a little softening of his smile. "But that seems like a good idea."

Harry's smile broadened. "That's a date then." Hermione nodded.

For the span of a few heartbeats, Hermione wondered if there was going to be more…

Of course not.

As they stepped through the portrait hole, hearts just a little lighter with plans for Saturday afternoon, the Common Room was full as was usual on a Friday night. Most students took the opportunity to grab a late night without the prospect of facing lessons in the morning. With no free seats available, Hermione was ready to go up into her dormitory and carry out a little more reading.

She had bidden Harry a good night when she spotted Ron, weaving his way through the Common Room and apparently on an interception course. He was whey-faced, which Hermione knew meant that Ron was in a state of anxiety, although Snape's evening detentions were now so routine for him that she doubted that would be the reason for any angst.

Tentatively, while still some distance away and cut-off from her by milling fellow students, Ron raised a hand in what became an aborted attempt at a wave. Rather uncharacteristically, he mouthed words to her instead of bellowing across the noisy Common Room.

"We need to talk, Hermione."

Hermione had already made one stand today against someone who had tried to make her life miserable for nearly four years. She was in no mood to concede to another whom in her eyes had betrayed her. With one hand cradling her books, Hermione unconsciously placed the other on her hip, in a stance that radiated warning signs to those who knew her. 'What now, Ron Weasley?' she thought, with rather more venom than was strictly necessary. His unusual sense of prudence seemed misplaced. 'Not about that, we don't.' She could feel the blood rising. At the back of her mind she dimly realised that one or two of the more aware onlookers in the immediate vicinity were either taking prurient interest in what promised to be another episode destined to make Gryffindor Common Room lore, or else were ready to bolt if the anticipated Granger-Weasley storm erupted.

In contrast to Hermione, what little colour was left in Ron's pallor ebbed away, showing up his freckles even in the slightly dim surroundings. He was frustrated in his attempt to cut across the floor when Angelica, Alicia and Katie dawdled in his path, unaware that they were interfering in a private drama whilst preoccupied with talk of dances and boys.

Hermione's temper, born out of frustration over the last few weeks, suddenly took hold of her with a chilling clarity. With grim satisfaction, she thought of the tongue-lashing she would mete out to him when he made his way to her…

Then it clicked. Another scene, jumping down Ron's throat, was exactly what she had promised Ginny, promised herself, that she would try to avoid. For once Hermione recognised the mood she was in, and that it would only take one word out of place from her former friend to set a match to her unlit fuse. And Ron was an expert at finding the wrong word, both quantitatively and qualitatively.

Ron was pushing his way past the better-looking half of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, trying hard to attract her attention and equally hard not to attract anybody else's. This proved difficult, as his elder siblings had now engaged their team mates in friendly banter.

Not trusting herself to hold a civil conversation, Hermione decided for once that discretion was the better part of valour. She turned on her heel, resolutely ignoring Ron even as he called out her name. Heads turned as she swept with increasing urgency towards the safe haven of the girls' dormitories.

* * * * *

It was a brisk November Saturday, all grey skies and a piercing north-easterly straight out of Siberia. The looming and gloomy clouds threatened but never quite delivered on their promise of a downpour.

The streets of Hogsmeade were not as busy as usual, with most of the inhabitants wisely staying inside. Most of the students sought cover in the Three Broomsticks, Madame Puddifoots or one of the shops.

Hermione had never previously visited Gladrags Wizardwear. Their range of clothing was beyond the usual sensible ware available in Diagon Alley, where Hermione bought her school robes. It had only been at breakfast when, overhearing the conversation between Lavender and Parvati on what now seemed to be their only interest, she realised that several Pureblood girls had already arrived at Hogwarts that year with ball dresses.

Obviously their parents had somehow received advance warning, although it seemed remarkable that they had kept the reason for providing such garments secret from their children. Either that, or Pureblood girls were remarkably dense. It was also the likely reason why Mrs. Weasley had supplied Ron with those dress robes that he had complained so bitterly about at the Burrow and on the Express. And Ron, of course, had proven he could be remarkably dense.

So away from her natural habitat of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, and ignoring the more popular locations of Zonko's or Honeydukes, Hermione entered the world of witches' high couture. The sign over the shop advised the unwary that Gladrags also had branches in London and Paris. With a quiet snigger, Hermione wondered if they also boasted a branch in Peckham.

Early on in her life as a witch, Hermione had wondered why magical folk purchased fancy clothing from specialist purveyors, and did not Transfigure their existing wear into bright raiment. She had soon discovered that not only was this regarded as a sign of poor breeding, but the skills required to maintain the shape, and indeed the coherence, of any transfigured garment with absolutely no sign of alteration were only acquired through mastery of the subject obtained after years of practice.

For a witch to appear in what was recognised as a transfigured ball dress would be as much of a public disgrace as a Muggle appearing at a Royal Garden Party in a knocked-off Donna Karan.

And no witch wished to run the risk of her gown unravelling in the middle of a social gathering. 'Well,' Hermione admitted to herself, 'I can think of one or two reprobates who might consider it.'

The shop was still quite busy with those girls who had not been lucky enough already to possess dresses, or those with the Galleons to purchase something they fancied rather more. Hermione stayed on the fringes, trying hard not to be noticed. All she needed now was for Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass or another of the Slytherin girls to poke fun at her.

She fidgeted and faked interest in the latest fashions. Some of the lingerie was … well, rather too revealing for someone of her tastes. And, as she glanced at some of the girls exiting the changing rooms or posing before the full-length mirrors, she wondered just how high hemlines could be or how far necklines could plunge.

Hermione also noted how easily some of the girls wore their robes. She started to resent being forced to attend the Ball and thereby participate in another competition she could not hope to win - a beauty contest. Cho Chang looked particularly elegant in a simple silver ball gown.

How could her mere nouns possibly stack up against that girl's adjectives?

She was about to abandon her task and join Harry for a much-needed Butterbeer when a lady with a rather superior air approached her. "Can I help you?" There was a supercilious tone to her question, as though Hermione did not really belong here. If the question had been put to her in a more friendly manner, she might have demurred and left, but Hermione had had her fill of people trying to do her down recently. She dug into her bag and pulled out the roll of parchment given her by McGonagall. Her reply was more than a little irritable.

"I was instructed to hand this to the proprietor."

The superior lady gave Hermione a long look up and down, as though sizing her up. "I see," she replied coolly. "That would be me."

Hermione gave her the parchment.

"Thank you." The owner's words were still cold, lacking any empathy with a would-be customer. 'Perhaps my wearing one of their robes would drop prices,' Hermione thought bitterly.

"Well, that all seems in order." The proprietor handed the papers back to Hermione. She seemed slightly less reserved than she had previously. "If you would like to follow me?" At that the lady immediately weaved off through the ever-changing racks of gowns, dresses, tops and skirts towards the back of the shop, on the side opposite the changing rooms. Hermione scuttled along in her wake, ignoring the odd questioning look from those customers who had recognised her.

A magical curtain moved to one side and Hermione followed the lady into what was obviously a workroom, with looms and sewing machines chattering away of their own accord. There had to be a silencing charm at work, as Hermione had been unaware that this room existed from just the other side of the curtain.

The owner stopped near a cubicle that looked remarkably similar to the booths in the changing rooms. With a flick of her wand she intoned: "Order number thirty-five." Then she turned back to Hermione, who had been peering over the nearest sewing machine. "If Mademoiselle would enter here. Tap your wand three times on the mirror and you will find your gown ready for you."

Hermione entered the cubicle, then turned with a start at the sound behind her. She relaxed when she saw it was only the curtain being drawn. Following instructions, she drew her wand…

* * * * *

A smile tried hard to tug at the corners of Hermione's mouth as she strode as quickly as possible back up the High Street towards the Three Broomsticks.

She was now the proud owner of what even a boring old bookworm regarded as a beautiful dress. It appeared to be the perfect ball gown: Modestly cut but not frumpy, it struck a chime with her own expectations. A nice pastel shade of dusty blue - periwinkle blue, the proprietor had stated - it suited her colouring down to the ground. And after a few quick alterations at an impromptu fitting, Hermione had twirled around, studying her reflections in the full-length mirrors as intently as those girls she had previously pigeon-holed as 'air-heads'. The mirrors had commented on how well the dress fit her, and for once she thought they had provided honest evaluations.

Shaking her head at the memory, Hermione recalled how strangely disappointed she had been when she realised that this particular dress must be far too dear for her limited budget, which had no provision for expenditures on ball gowns. She only had a limited amount of liquid wizarding funds, and most of those were earmarked for less expensive and more practical items such as books, quills, books, ink, and more books. Even if she had access to her parents' credit card, it would be useless here.

Brushing past some proud supporters of Cedric Diggory, judging by their brightly shining badges, and keeping her head down to avoid eye contact and likely insult, Hermione once again swore that she would have to ask McGonagall about the dress. When she started to slip ruefully out of the dress, commenting that she could not possibly afford it, the dress-shop owner airily explained that payment had already been arranged on behalf of the School, provided that Miss Granger found the gown met her expectations.

The cold wind was bitter and Hermione pulled her scarf up and her woolly bobble hat down to protect her face from it. She also had to remember to pass 'Rebecca's good wishes onto dear Minerva.' Yes, there were a few more questions she would put to the Transfiguration professor, as well as adding her heartfelt thanks!

'Now, all I am lacking is a date,' Hermione thought. 'Not that's there anyone left who I want as a partner.'

"Hermione?"

She stopped short at the sound of her name.

"Hermione Granger!"

She turned in the direction of the male voice, as did several other bystanders. It was a tall young man with long, flaming red hair that marked him out as a Weasley. Said hair was worn in a ponytail that would definitely not be considered acceptable at Hogwarts.

"Bill?" Hermione could not believe that the eldest of the Weasley children, a former Head Boy, had called out her name in the middle of Hogsmeade.

"It is you!" Bill was quickly making his way over from the opposite side of the street. "I thought it was."

Hermione was a little ruffled. When she had first met Bill at The Burrow a few short months ago, even she had succumbed to the prevalent view that Bill was cool. Even his profession, a Cursebreaker working for Gringotts Bank, was something Hermione found fascinating. After all, a bookworm must have standards!

There had been little chance to talk to Bill that summer. She would have been surprised if he had even noticed her during the frantic events at the Quidditch World Cup. Yet, here was a young man in his early twenties, effortlessly drawing admiring glances from the few elder female students who were around, choosing to chat with the unremarkable Hermione Granger.

He stepped up onto the pavement, towering over the petite younger Gryffindor, his movements sending his dragon's fang earring swaying.

"What brings you to Hogwarts, Bill?"

He smiled. "I was in London, doing some boring desk research at the fag end of one of my latest missions, and I needed some equipment that I couldn't find anywhere else." He was carrying a Dervish and Banges magical paper bag. Hermione assumed whatever it contained must have been rare indeed, possibly even marginally unethical.

Her attention was caught by one group of girls, who had just exited Honeydukes and were now pointing at the incongruous pairing of book-smart mouse and a man to drool over. 'First Viktor Krum, now William Weasley,' Hermione thought. 'I am going to make a name for myself if I'm not careful!'

Bill had noticed their audience as well. He glanced up and down the High Street, then leaned in closer so that he would not be overheard. Hermione caught an earthy, woody scent, redolent of eastern spices. "A quick word or two?" He beckoned her into the alleyway between the Post Office and a small shack.

If it had been someone else, Hermione would have drawn her wand. As it was, she trusted Bill. And she realised that Bill could probably have an assignation with any eligible - and some out-of-bounds - female in Hogsmeade that afternoon. He certainly did not need to lead a rather plain young girl away to have his wicked way with her. She followed him a few yards into the shelter of the alley, noticing the pointed glares and rather shocked expressions from the gaggle of girls opposite. 'Bang goes my reputation,' she thought resignedly.

"We were all shocked when we heard the news," Bill told her. "Dad was so worried, and Mum… well, she couldn't quite believe it." His voice trailed off a little at the end as though betraying a mild sense of rebuke.

Hermione nodded. Not one of the Weasleys had mentioned Molly's reaction to the news.

"Anyway…" Bill leaned in closer. "Have you figured out yet how you'll deal with the dragon?"

Dragon?!

* * * * *

Once again I owe major debts to beta readers Bexis and George. The time & effort both gentlemen take over this story is immense, and I am humbly grateful to both of them for their help.

The phonetic Bulgarian was taken from Chambers Bulgarian Phrasebook. which gives my beta reader George kittens, so he has both corrected it and wondered what exactly I spent the massive sum of £4.95 on. I think the answer is in the price…

Momche = Boy

Dobre = Okay

Some trivia supplied by George. Krum is actually the name of the Bulgarian khan that lived between 803-814 AD…he made a drinking cup out of the skull of the Byzantine emperor Nikephoros I, but also enacted the first written laws in Bulgaria around that time…his legacy is that of a strict, but just ruler. Although his drinking habits obviously need a little refinement!

Hermione strongly suspects that Harry was about to introduce the Great Hall to Prongs, his Patronus. This nice little twist was suggested by beta reader Bexis. As was the wonderful line about nouns and adjectives!

In JKR's world the Yule Ball is held on Christmas Day. I have switched it to Christmas Eve for a plot reason. I also fail to see how a couple of hundred students (and teachers) would feel like dancing the night away a few hours after digesting a Hogwarts Christmas dinner! I have also brought forward the date of the announcement of the Yule Ball from its canon timing of being after the First Task; again this is for storyline reasons.

S.M.A.R.T. is a management mnemonic associated with setting targets. They should be: specific; measurable; achievable; relevant; and time -related; although there are several other versions of this tool. As you can guess, I've wasted a lot of my life in management seminars, and am still a pretty useless manager!

The quip about Gladrags Wizardwear is based on John Sullivan's TV long-running comedy 'Only Fools and Horses'. The Trotter's three-wheeled van (a Reliant) promised offices in 'New York; Paris; Peckham'. Peckham is an inner suburb of South London.

Sunset times in Glasgow: - 16:10 on 15 November, 15:50 on 30 November (The Met Office).

The title is a reference to Hermione's sudden awakening of what Harry Potter could mean to her.