Unofficial Portkey Archive

The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

One of my beta readers, George, has been quite rightly pre-occupied with college and buried under a blizzard of essays. As an Easter treat I am posting this early, but will replace it with the final version once George is free to kindly rip this chapter apart!

So - on with the show!

Chapter 8 - Do Not Meddle In The Affairs of Dragons

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

Dragon?!

A cold shroud of fear draped itself around Hermione. She could have sworn that for a second her heart paused, and a solid lump of ice had materialised deep inside her chest.

"D… dr… dragon..?" she stuttered, her lips barely able to form the single word that doubled as a question.

She saw Bill's expression change from one of sharing confidences to a dawning realisation that he had let slip a deadly secret. That hardly encouraged her, any more than it probably did him.

"Hermione, you do know about the First Task, don't you?" Now he appeared as anxious as she did, especially when Hermione shook her head. "Oh bloody hell!" Bill muttered under his breath, but not quite softly enough. Hermione caught the oath. It only increased the depths of her sudden feeling of panic.

"Bill… please… tell me you're joking?" she beseeched.

Grasping at straws, she thought, perhaps this was an elaborate jest? Yes! That had to be it! Bill had been set up by the Twins. Just one of their jokes, admittedly in poor taste.

Her brief hopes were dashed by the look of grave concern that spread across Bill's normally handsome face. "It's no joke, Hermione," he replied with the deadly earnestness of a former Head Boy turned responsible adult.

Hermione felt sick, and swallowed hard as the bile rose in her throat. "Oh Circe on a stick!" she muttered, turning her head away. "Oh Merlin!" A tremor passed through her legs as she experienced a feeling of light-headedness.

She might have passed out then and there, but for Bill's hand landing firmly on her shoulder. "Didn't Ron tell you..?" he asked concernedly. Turning her head back to face him, Hermione's expression was one of befuddlement . Once again she shook her head. Bill repeated her gesture, this time betraying his own confusion. "Charlie promised me he'd write…"

He tailed off, and then looked back towards the mouth of the alley, before peering back at Hermione's now wan face. "Can you walk? You're not going to pass out on me now, are you?"

Hermione took a deep breath and nodded affirmatively.

Bill moved his steadying hand to the small of her back and urged her forward. "Good. Let's find somewhere warm, then I'll start from the beginning."

* * * * *

Hermione wrapped her hands around the warm bottle of Butterbeer that Bill had just deposited with a thud on the tabletop before her. Somehow she believed that she had to keep a tight hold of something, to anchor her in reality. A Butterbeer was better than nothing and she wrapped both hands around the wet glass.

For what was supposed to be a confidential discussion, Hermione was surprised that Bill had immediately taken her by the arm and led her into the one place in Hogsmeade where privacy was definitely not in great demand: the public bar of the Three Broomsticks. Idly she supposed that Bill did not want to be seen leading an otherwise unescorted minor into the Shrieking Shack, or to a private room of the Hog's Head, or worse the Revolving Door. Mind you, that sort of blemish on her reputation was the least issue clouding her mind now.

Bill sat down heavily opposite her. Hermione noted that he had chosen something a little stronger in a tumbler of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Judging by the visible mist that hovered over the amber fluid, she doubted it was the finest blend. Whether this was Bill's tipple of choice or he needed a good stiff shot of courage was unknown to her. She hoped that it was the former.

Then again, a look at Bill's worried frown rather closed down that avenue. She was about to open her mouth and let loose the first of a multitude of queries already forming a disorderly queue inside her head, when Bill raised his left hand, which had been resting palm-down on the rough wooden surface. It was only a couple of inches but was quite effective at damming her impending torrent of unanswered questions. For a second, Hermione held her tongue, which left a swelling sense of frustration building up inside her.

Bill drew his wand, and, with a short but intricate hand movement accompanied by words in a foreign tongue that sounded vaguely Arabic to Hermione's ears, cast a spell that she did not recognise. When he had finished, Bill sheathed his wand. Rather than speak to her, his next move was to take an abrupt and quite large gulp of Firewhisky. Hermione was not totally surprised when he coughed up a couple of smoke rings a few seconds later.

"Needed that," he gasped, his eyes watering. An idle thought that her first question had just been answered flickered into Hermione's head, only to be swamped by a multitude of others. Another random query jostled its way to the front of the queue.

"What was that spell?" she asked, interest piqued as usual by any display of magic with which she was unfamiliar.

A sense of pride crossed Bill's face. "A 'Notice-Me-Not' spell - or, at least, that's the translation from the original Coptic." He grinned briefly. "Learnt that one from a fakir in a Cairo bazaar. Sort of an improved Imperturbable Charm." He bent forward conspiratorially. "Very useful when you are trying to break a curse as inconspicuously as possible." Then he leaned back. "Not only does it make it virtually impossible to be overheard, but it also alters others' perceptions. People will see that this table is occupied but it won't register by whom, so they move on and we should be able to talk undisturbed."

Hermione nodded. It sounded much like a personalised version of the Concealment Charms placed on Hogwarts to keep the Muggles away.

Then Bill grew serious and turned to the matter at hand. "You didn't know about the First Task, then?"

"No." Hermione's grip on the glass reflexively tightened as her control over the questions jostling in her head relaxed. "Is it really dragons?"

Bill nodded his head. "Only one - each. I wouldn't tease you about that," he said sadly. "I don't think even the Twins would stoop that low."

Mouth dry, Hermione took a swig from the bottle. As warm as the Butterbeer seeping down her throat felt, it was woefully inadequate for the task of removing the imaginary block of ice that by now had encased her entire chest.

"You said… you thought I would have known," she stated, the flutter in her breath painfully evident to her ears.

Now Bill looked worried. "Charlie and me… well, Dad had told us in secret about the Triwizard Tournament at the World Cup."

Hermione nodded as she recalled what she had previously dismissed as throwaway comments from the older Weasleys. Those remarks, heard on her departure from the Burrow for the long journey to Hogwarts now took on a more serious, and sinister, meaning.

"It was sometime in mid-October when I received an owl from Charlie. He'd volunteered to bring a dragon over from the sanctuary in Romania for the First Task." Bill took another, more refined, sip of Firewhisky, even as Hermione's nerves urged him to carry on.

"Then when I read in the Prophet that you'd somehow ended up as a Champion…" Bill hesitated, and gave Hermione a quizzical look. "I'd say that came as big of a shock to you as it did to us?"

Once again Hermione's response was non-verbal.

Bill appeared to be thinking something through, starting to form a question when he obviously thought better of it. "I daresay you've been through all this with Dumbledore and the like," he asked rhetorically. "Anyway, I wrote back to Charlie as soon as I heard the news. Told him that he should get in touch with Ron, to warn you." He looked up and stared her in the eyes, his own expression hardening. "Ron hasn't mentioned it, has he?"

"No." There was a distinct frigidity in that monosyllabic answer.

Rubbing his cheek with his free hand whilst grinding his teeth, Bill appeared to be teetering on the boundary between perplexity and pique. "Perhaps Charlie didn't write…" he mused to himself. Hermione was sure he was turning the issue over and over in his mind. "But he did reply straight away and tell me he had…"

Hermione took another mouthful of Butterbeer. "Ron and I… well, let's just say he doesn't believe me." There was more than a touch of bitterness in her voice.

She was uncomfortably aware of Bill watching her closely, a look of realisation slowly dawning on his face. "You've had a falling out with Ron, then?"

"Yes." She would have appreciated the opportunity to unburden herself at length on the subject of the perfidy of Ronald Weasley, but the persistent tightness in her chest reminded her of rather more pressing matters requiring her attention.

Bill's jaw muscles visibly flexed as he slowly nodded. "Yes… Ron can be a little headstrong at times. There again, the Weasley genes probably have something to do with it." His ready grin indicated agreement with neither his brother's nor Hermione's position, simply an understanding of the situation. She was about to return their attention to her own individual quandary when she spotted a new customer enter the Three Broomsticks.

Harry stood in the doorway, looking about as though searching for someone in particular. Hermione had not glimpsed Cho Chang as being among the clientele, then she remembered that she, not Cho, had arranged to meet Harry here this afternoon. He looked rather forlorn and lost as he could not find his friend, so she waved in his direction. His eyes, however, slid right past their table. The sideways glance she received from Bill reminded her that their presence remained cloaked from others

"Can you..?"

"Are you sure?" Bill appeared hesitant.

"Please. No need to keep it a secret from Harry."

Bill's expression led her to believe that he thought this unwise, but he nevertheless drew his wand and twirled it with a short, stabbing motion in Harry's direction. Harry's head suddenly jerked around in their direction. He hesitated for an instant, seeing Hermione had company, but she waved him forward urgently. As he sat down on the seat next to Hermione, Bill repeated his earlier wand motion before replacing it in his holster.

Harry looked at her. "What did…?"

"It's okay, Harry."

"Bill." Harry nodded in the older man's direction. Hermione noted at once his immediate, unquestioning acceptance of Bill's unexpected presence in Hogsmeade.

"Good to see you again, Harry. Shame it's not under better circumstances."

Harry looked quizzically at Bill, then Hermione. "It's about Hermione then?" Less a question, more of a statement.

Hermione was grateful that Harry was sharper than he sometimes appeared to those who did not know him as closely as she did. "Yes, Bill has some news about the First Task." She turned her attention back to Bill. "What do you know about the dragons?"

She saw Harry's hand, resting on the table, suddenly ball into a tight fist. Her own impending sense of panic started to grow afresh.

As much to calm herself as him, Hermione removed one hand from the Butterbeer bottle and placed it over his and urged him: "Relax, Harry, it can't be as bad as it seems." His hand felt remarkably warm, although when she glanced at his face, his expression betrayed the same lack of faith in that simple statement that she too invested in it.

Then, having brought her own, as well as his, rampaging feelings at least somewhat in check, Hermione repeated her question to Bill.

"Not much," Bill admitted. "Just what Charlie told me. He was charged to bring in one from the Balkans." He looked up and fixed Hermione with his ice-blue eyes. "An adult. Fully grown. Hungarian Horntail."

At that news, Hermione clenched Harry's hand even harder. Harry did not seem to mind - at least he did not react - but then she saw Bill giving her something of a crossways glance.

At once, she removed her hand. Bill's look made her feel somehow guilty, and she felt a stab of resentment for that. If Bill misinterpreted….

Hermione thought it was growing uncomfortably stuffy in the pub. She was starting to experience difficulty in breathing as her chest started to hitch. "Anything else?" she choked out.

Bill at once reverted to the unhappy look of the bearer of bad news. He dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "Charlie said they were to choose a female that had recently laid her eggs."

Letting go of the Butterbeer bottle, Hermione was not surprised to find her hands were now trembling. A new mother… that meant a dragon of the most dangerous sort.

What could Barty Crouch and the bloody Ministry possibly be thinking?

Harry's hand remained enticingly on the table. More and more, she found herself wanting the small quantum of solace that it represented ,but after Bill's reaction, she dared not seek it.

She found she had had just about enough of Bill, for the moment.

Taking a calming breath, she asked him the remaining question that seemed most important. "Do you know anything about the details of the Task?"

"No, and Charlie didn't mention anything, even if he did know."

Left to her own devices and overactive thought processes, Hermione struggled to master the tremors that now gripped her right arm. She tried hard to clamp down on the surge in fear from deep within. She was dimly aware that Harry had started to question Bill… something about Hungarian Horntails.

It was a bad job.

From deep within an old primal urge started to surge. Instinct was overriding her natural equability - indeed, her rationality. She had to escape from this suddenly stifling and oppressive atmosphere.

Hermione rose to her feet so swiftly that she bumped hard into the table. The collision upset her Butterbeer bottle, sending a swelling pool of warm liquid flowing over the edge and into Harry's lap. That drew an equally swift recoil and minor non-magical curse from her friend.

"Hermione?" Bill seemed confused.

"I've got to go," Hermione murmured, her heart beating impossibly fast. She turned and started to leave but was brought up short by an invisible barrier. The barrier of Bill's spell.

Turning, she cried out in frustration. "Let me go!"

Bill winced at the anguish in Hermione's voice, but gave another of his sideways glances, this time to Harry. Pinch faced, Harry gave a curt nod. Once again Bill's wand drew an unknown symbol in the air. Hermione virtually stumbled away from the table as the spell holding her back was cancelled. Shrugging off a late hand from Harry, something she would have gratefully welcomed not so long before, she tore though a crowd of Hogwarts students who barely had time to realise she was coming before she had stormed past.

Just as she reached the tavern door, Hermione bumped squarely into someone else, and tried to push past with a barely perfunctory apology. She was drawn up short when her victim spoke.

"Hermione? Whoa!"

Her vision whipped into focus.

Ron stood there, flanked by Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. He appeared as startled as she did.

It was a most combustible combination.

Something deep inside Hermione Granger snapped. Before Ron had a chance of realising her intentions, her right arm swung in a blur of motion, and her open palm contacted his left cheek with a resounding smack. Despite the disparity in their builds, Ron's head snapped back as though mounted on a spring.

"You treacherous bastard!"

Every head in the vicinity turned towards the unexpected confrontation. Some, recognising the putative combatants, nodded knowingly, captivated by the latest scene in this now-familiar drama. Others looked on curiously, attracted by the hubbub. Suddenly very aware of being under the gaze of others, Hermione turned on her heel and disappeared through the inn door with as much dignity as she could muster.

The cold air outside just appeared to make her cheeks burn all the more in a potent mixture of great discomposure and even higher dudgeon. Hermione stood in the middle of the High Street for a handful of seconds, trying to breathe deeply and regain control of her emotions. Tears stung her eyes, and she was about to depart the village environs when a strong hand grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her about.

An enraged Ron towered over her, his face a mixture of flushed pink marred by the vivid crimson imprint left by her right hand. He was alone: Seamus and Dean had the good sense to stay out of what promised to be a free, full and frank exchange of opinions.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Ron was on the point of screeching as he spat out the demand.

Not intimidated in the least, Hermione's hands landed squarely on her hips. She leaned forwards with her chin set in defiance, virtually daring him to strike back. "You knew!!!" she screamed. "You bloody well knew! And you didn't say a word!"

His reaction provided everything she needed to know about the truth behind her accusation. The colour drained from Ron's face, except for the impact zone of her hand upon his cheek.

Hermione could feel an uncontrollable fury boiling up within. She could barely restrain herself, her chest heaving and her hands balling into fists. Ron saw her narrowed eyes and heard her steaming breath hissing through her teeth. Wisely he quailed under her flinty stare and took a couple of steps backwards towards the Three Broomsticks.

"You… you…" Hermione spluttered, trying vainly to find another appropriate insult. To her exasperation, her mind had become so full of the red cloud of rage, fuelled by a palpable sense of injustice, that her vocabulary failed her utterly.

"Oooohhh!"

With her right foot, Hermione petulantly kicked imaginary dirt in the general direction of Ron's retreating form. Foregoing the opportunity to follow that inadequate gesture with a suitable hex, she turned and started what promised to be a long, lonely trek back to Hogwarts on foot.

As she stumbled up the hill towards Hogwarts' gates, an impending sense of doom weighed ever more heavily on Hermione's slim shoulders.

How could she face a dragon? By Merlin, she had been a fool to believe that she could possibly compete in that damned tournament, even with her limited aims, without imperilling herself.

A dragon? A dragon!

The tears, which her anger towards Ron had forestalled, started to flow through once more. She sobbed at the sheer unfairness of it all. Damn the Ministry. Damn Barty Crouch. And triple-damn Ronald Bilius Weasley!

That last thought caused her almost physical pain. No matter what she had previously thought of Ron, she had never considered that he would betray her so absolutely. His middle name had never seemed more appropriate.

She could not carry on. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw breath. Great sobs wracked Hermione's slender frame as she leaned against a tree trunk. She was crying freely now.

She heard behind her the sound of gravel trod underfoot. Her right wand slowly creeping towards her stowed wand, Hermione spat out a response without bothering to look at her approaching tormentor.

"Come to gloat, Ronald Weasley?"

A moment's hesitation, then an equally familiar voice replied.

"Breath deeply and relax, Hermione."

"Harry?" She was simultaneously relieved to discover that her one remaining best friend was there, and mortified that he had found her in such a state of personal distress.

"Saw you clock Ron, then caught you through the Broomstick's windows," he commented neutrally. "Ron didn't have much to say about what caused your latest spat."

"No," Hermione breathed with a shudder, trying to stop the tears. "I doubt he would." She turned around, aware that she must look a frightful mess.

"Here." Harry offered his handkerchief. It was not exactly clean, Harry being a boy and all, but Hermione felt a wave of gratefulness wash over her. Not for the handkerchief, but for the gesture of solace.

Her breathing abated towards a more normal rate. "Thanks," she said with a sniff.

After casting a quick Scourgify on the material, she wiped her eyes then blew her nose, before handing the cloth, now rather worse for wear, back to Harry, who looked rather askance at the now soiled material before stuffing it deep inside his pocket.

"So," Harry started with an air of fake insouciance. "Dragons." He gave Hermione a pointed look. "What are you going to do now?"

Hermione slumped back against the tree and slid slowly to the ground. Wrapping her arms tightly about her knees she looked forlornly up at him. "Frankly Harry, I have no idea. Start looking for a Muggle college education?" Her bitter little quip evaporated as she saw Bill striding quickly towards them. He looked rather ill-at-ease.

"Here," Bill called, stopping a few yards away. "You forgot this."

The reason for Bill's apprehension was immediately apparent as he held out a large and gaudy Gladrags' bag. Her dress! In all the furore over the dragons and then Ron Weasley, she had left her ball gown in the Three Broomsticks. "Thanks, Bill," she replied far less enthusiastically than she would have only an hour ago.

Bill still appeared troubled. "Look, Hermione, I know it's really none of my business what passed between you and Ron -"

"He knew," Hermione interrupted. "He bloody well knew about the dragons." That superheated sense of injustice was welling up again.

"Wait a second?" It was Harry's turn to interject. He had knelt down so he was not towering over her. "You say Ron knew about this?" Hermione nodded. "He knew something that might've killed you… and he didn't say anything?"

Hermione recognised that streak of iron hardness that was pervading Harry's features. It had caused Mad-Eye Moody to back off at the climax of his duel with her barely weeks ago.

"Are you sure?" Bill seemed worried for his younger brother.

"I accused him to his face. He didn't bother to deny it. That as good as told me," Hermione spat back. Bill's customary aplomb sputtered, a little taken aback by the vehemence in her response.

Harry was quiet - dangerously so, in Hermione's opinion. That did not bode well for the youngest Weasley son. "Still, that leaves the question of what you are going to do now, Hermione?"

It was time to turn serious.

Thankful for the change of subject, she put aside her still simmering resentment towards her one-time friend. Hermione assumed that Harry was referring to her continued participation in the competition. She started to rise from the cold ground, only to find Harry had straightened up and offering her his hand. She allowed him to pull her upright, aware that both Harry and Bill now appeared to be hanging on her next words.

"I still don't know," she admitted. "I had reckoned on there being at least one task dealing with a magical creature… but a dragon…" Her voice trailed off. "A dragon…" She was still having problems coming to grips with this new reality.

The cold north wind, straight out of Siberia, whistled across the lake. It seemed in itself to be an ill omen as the three compatriots shivered in its wake.

Bill broke the silence, his words a counterpoint to the stiff breeze. "I take it there's reasons why you haven't pulled out," he remarked. His reputation as the most intellectually clever of all the Weasley siblings was well-earned, thought Hermione. After all, Bill had garnered twelve Outstanding marks on his O.W.L.s, as well as the Head Boy badge, during his years at Hogwarts. "Yet," he added, giving Hermione a rather old-fashioned look.

Hermione drew her jacket a little more tightly around herself as the trees groaned in the wind. She remembered the promise she had made to her parents a few short weeks ago. How could she be expected to out-match a dragon? This was starting to become ridiculous! She looked to Harry for reassurance, but he appeared to be as painfully out of ideas as she was.

"Whatever you want to do, Hermione," Harry turned the question both he and Bill had posed into a statement. "Whatever that is, I'll support you to the hilt."

Hermione took a deep breath, as his words seemed to drain away the unreasoning fear that had dominated her past hour.

Solace. She really, really wanted his hand - physical evidence of that support - after that gallant declaration. But once again, Bill's presence intervened. If he got the wrong idea, then it might get back to Molly Weasley, the Twins, or worst of all, Ron….

'I really want to go back to Hogwarts, curl up in my bed, wake up, and find it's all been a bad dream,' Hermione thought.

"What I want," she mused out loud, "and what I'm going to do are two separate things." The tears had dried up by now, and the panic attack that had caused her earlier flight had by now faded away a little. "After all, I'm not the only competitor who has to face a dragon…"

"True," Bill observed quietly.

Hermione's mind, restored to balance and retuned to the crisis, began turning thoughts over, reminiscent of a well-oiled machine. "Now, they can't be expecting us to fight a dragon," she said almost to herself. "After all, it usually takes a fair number of trained wizards to subdue an adult dragon."

"If it were easy, Charlie would be out of a job," Bill observed with a little black humour.

"And," Hermione continued as though Bill had not uttered a syllable, "dragons are a protected species these days. It's illegal to harm them. So I can't see how the competition could involve fighting a dragon. After all, the Triwizard Tournament is being held in the full glare of publicity, so it couldn't be hushed up if one of them were hurt.

"They are expecting three students - talented and advanced, but still students - to take on this First Task. Thus it has to be an achievable target." Hermione smiled ruefully. "After all, it would hardly suit the Minister if his competitors were all eaten, live and in colour, before the whole of European wizardry." Deep in thought, Hermione forgot about the chill wind, and worried her bottom lip with her teeth, a sign that she was deep in thought.

"Bill, you did say that Charlie was instructed to bring a dragon that had recently laid its eggs?"

"That's what he said," Bill affirmed.

"The eggs hadn't hatched?" pressed Hermione.

Bill ran his hand through his long red hair. "Charlie didn't say exactly, but the impression I gained was that they had not."

Hermione turned over this piece of information in her head. "So, the task itself must have something to do with the eggs, or possibly a baby dragon." She recalled for a moment how cute Norbert had looked in her First Year. "The mother could be guarding something, possibly an egg. Why else does it have to be a new mother?" she asked rhetorically.

"Makes sense," Bill replied unnecessarily. "Mind you, I wouldn't fancy taking on a dragon, even now, let alone when I was only a Fourth Year."

"Well, I don't either," Hermione shot back, a little more forcefully than she intended, and Bill appeared just a tad shame-faced over his comment. "Oh Bill, I'm sorry." He waved off her apology.

Harry was staring out over the lake, seemingly deep in thought. Hermione nudged him to attract his attention. "Oh, sorry… I was just thinking…"

"What?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, how are Viktor, Cedric and that Beauxbatons' girl expected to deal with a dragon?" He had obviously digested her earlier comments.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. Viktor! He didn't know about the dragon! She needed to let him know as soon as possible. A new sense of determination gripped her, so she straightened up, ready to move off.

"Before you go," Bill interjected. "Is there anything I can do?" Hermione thought Bill sounded a little strained, perhaps feeling a little transferred guilt over Ron's role in this sad state of affairs.

Hermione was about to decline gracefully when another thought struck her. "Bill, do you know where the Beauxbatons' coach is?"

"Not rightly," he replied.

"Down between the cliffs and the lake. Would you mind letting their competitor, Fleur Delacour, know about the dragons?"

Bill seemed a little confused about her request. "I don't mind, but are you sure?"

"Yes," Hermione replied. "Please make sure she gets the message."

"All right," Bill agreed equably enough. "What does this Fleur look like?"

For the first time in quite a while, Hermione was tempted to smile, but she kept her inappropriate thoughts to herself. "Don't worry, you won't be disappointed," she told Bill before giving him a brief description.

Bill shrugged and started to go back the way he had came, before he turned around. "Don't be too harsh on Ron, will you." That made Hermione's back straighten visibly. Bill, in turn, looked more than a little discomfited. "Anyway, good luck, Hermione. And be careful."

"Thanks Bill. And thank Charlie for me, will you?" With a wave, Bill moved off. Hermione turned to discover Harry watching her very carefully. "What?"

Harry scratched his head. "Tipping off your opponents, Hermione?"

"I am not in competition with them," Hermione responded tartly, assuming an injured air of innocence. "I really couldn't live with myself if I did not warn them." Then she ruined the illusion with a smile. "Harry, you know Cedric?"

Harry nodded. After all, it had been Cedric Diggory who argued that Hufflepuff should not be awarded the Quidditch match against Gryffindor last year following the intervention of the Dementors.

"Good. Would you please pass the same message onto Cedric?" She gave him a worried little smile. "He might not believe it from me," she added, sadly, aware of how badly her character had been besmirched.

"All right," Harry replied. "And I assume you are going to tell Viktor?"

"You assume correctly," she told him.

He turned without another word and scuffled off in search of Cedric, leaving Hermione with the distinct impression that he would rather be doing something else.

Hermione never did get her solace that afternoon.

* * * * *

"Drakon? Po diavolite!"

Hermione could not be sure but she thought Viktor Krum had just sworn. He had certainly invested those few words with as much feeling as she had heard since the Bulgarian had faced down Malfoy.

"Are you certain?" If Viktor had lost his equilibrium, then he had swiftly regained it.

"I'm afraid so," Hermione replied earnestly.

Viktor sat back in his chair. The rest of the Library was virtually deserted by this time on a late Saturday afternoon. Most of the senior students were still making the most of a Hogsmeade weekend, whilst the younger pupils had either finished their homework or had yet to decide to start it.

He regarded her oddly. "Vy tell me?"

The implication stung. "I've told you already, I'm taking part in this tournament against my will. I'm only a fourth-year. I do not consider myself in competition with you, or with the others," she rattled off rather quickly.

Viktor seemed to be sizing her up. "And haff you told the others?" he inquired, interested in whether he was being given an advantage.

"Not directly, but I have arranged it," she answered.

Viktor shrugged his shoulders, retreating into his usual nonchalance.

"Trooden," he muttered to himself. Hermione could understand the sentiment if not the language.

"What are you going to do?" she enquired quietly.

Viktor shrugged. "I haff no ideas, Hermy-own-ninny" he admitted.

Hermione looked down and picked at imaginary lint on her jeans. "Doesn't it… worry you?" she asked in even more hushed tones.

"Da, but vot can ve do about it now?"

The desk between them was soon covered with every available book concerning the subject matter of dragons. As soon as she had arrived in the Library, Hermione's voracious appetite for information, sharpened by a heightened sense of self-preservation, had kicked in. She had a new, more focused task: to devour anything and everything that might aid her in a confrontation with a dragon. Viktor's presence paradoxically became both a welcome and unwelcome interruption.

"You can still not take part," Viktor observed, not unkindly.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't." Viktor looked at her uncomprehendingly. "I have to, Viktor," she finished lamely.

"I understand," he replied, accepting her vague explanation unconditionally. "Ve all haff decisions to make, and haff reasons for making so, I am thinking." He rose to his feet. "I need to return to the ship." He gestured at the books. "Is difficult for me. My English not so good."

Hermione nodded her head. She could see Viktor's problem. "You have books there in Bulgarian?"

"Da. Not so many. More Russki. But easier to read."

Hermione favoured him with a rueful smile. "I understand, Viktor." Even with her well-honed research skills, it was difficult enough for her finding information that was useful, even in her native tongue. Viktor's language even had a completely different, Cyrillic alphabet.

"Vell, goodnight, Hermy-own-ninny." He started to leave, and was halfway out of sight when he stopped and turned back.

Hermione wondered what he had forgotten.

Nothing, as it turned out.

"Do you haff partner for the…tants?"

Hermione tried to decipher Viktor's question. "Oh," she suddenly realised. "The dance? The Yule Ball?"

"Da."

Hermione shook her head. Could it be that Viktor might ask her…? Surprisingly, she found that idea rather appealing.

"I vould be honoured to ask you, Hermy-own-ninny," Viktor replied. "But I am told that it must not be another Champion."

"Oh." That left Hermione feeling a little downcast. Feigning further interest, she carried on politely. "So, who will you go with?"

Viktor shrugged. "I haff no ideas. But Professor Karkaroff told me that he feel better if I accept Hogvarts offer of an…" He tried hard to come up with the right word. "Am-bast-are-door."

"An ambassador?" Hermione replied.

"Is good. None of the other girls here seem interested in Viktor Krum, only the Quidditch man." Hermione thought he looked incredibly lonely at this moment. Then he looked up. "Except you, Hermy-own-ninny Granger." He hesitated again. "You vill be safe, here, yes?"

"I don't think anyone will try anything tonight," she told him, thinking of the day's events. "But thank you anyway."

"Because I can get…."

"No. Not necessary."

"Vell, then, leka nosht."

After he strode away from the Library, shaking his head and muttering "Drakon?" under his breath, paradoxically it was Hermione who felt very lonely.

Before Madam Pince finally shooed her out of the Library, Hermione made sure that each and every volume from the mountain on the desk had been returned to its rightful position on the shelves. Ignoring her stomach's complaint that she was late for dinner, she was determined to make her way back to the Gryffindor common room. When she arrived she found the way barred by Patricia Stimpson and Ken Towler, the two sixth-year prefects.

"You can't go in there," Towler barked, almost making Hermione jump.

"Why?" she demanded. "I want to get washed before I go down for dinner."

"It's the Weasleys, Granger," Stimpson informed her. "It's not safe to be in there at the moment."

There was a momentary spike of alarm. "What's happened? Have you sent for Professor McGonagall?"

"Don't go telling us our jobs, Granger." Towler had never really liked her; Hermione gained the impression he considered her an over-zealous know-it-all, and this year's events had only cemented that opinion.

Stimpson stepped between her fellow prefect and the younger girl. "Better kept in-house," she advised. "It's a family argument. Fred and George advised us all to leave."

Hermione could not believe her ears. "Fred and George are having an argument? A proper argument?" She had seen them argue before but never in any way remotely likely to empty the common room.

"No," Towler shook her head. "Those two are having a set-to with your friend, the younger one."

"Ron?"

"That's the one. They told us to clear out as Weasley family arguments could be explosive." This time her shake of the head was one of resignation. "Not even the seventh-year prefects could stand up to them."

"Still think we should have sent for McGonagall," Towler muttered.

Just as he finished speaking, the portrait swung open. Stimpson spun and drew her wand whilst Towler seemed to shrink away.

It was Harry, grim-faced.

"Harry! What's going on?"

Harry grabbed hold of Hermione's arm and pulled her away from the now closing portrait hole, which Hermione noticed featured a cowering Fat Lady.

Harry's reply was terse. "Let's just say that Fred and George are encouraging Ron to see the error of his ways."

* * * * *

Harry resolutely refused to discuss the siblings' settlement of differences over dinner that Saturday evening. As time wore on Ron became ever more noticeable by his absence. Even Ginny had been barred from the common room and had no idea what had caused it. Under intense interrogation from the youngest Weasley, Harry had just clammed up completely.

Hermione had some suspicions that Ron's actions, or to be more accurate his inactions, culminating in that afternoon's events were behind it, but Harry would neither confirm nor deny that.

When they returned to the Common Room, they found everything seemingly normal, although none of Ron, Fred or George was anywhere to be seen.

The letter from home had been left on Hermione's bedside cabinet, and brought both relief and some concern to its recipient. That her parents did not attach any blame to her regarding the ruination of the family's Christmas plans was some measure of respite. But the reminder of her promise to cease competing if matters became too difficult rung rather hollow with the revelation that their daughter would be confronting a dragon.

That night Hermione hardly slept, her mind a mixture of drafts and re-drafts of letters home explaining about the dragon, and her own thoughts on the coming assignment.

Come Sunday morning, Hermione would have appreciated a lie-in, but she had far too much research slated to even consider wasting her own time on rest and relaxation.

At that early hour, there were very few other occupants of the Great Hall. A few Ravenclaws, who glanced up as she passed them by, and the odd Gryffindor, but Hermione was allowed peace and quiet in which to enjoy her porridge. At least she was until two lanky frames slammed down into the bench seats on either side of her.

"Good morning, Hermione!"

"Good morning, Hermione!"

The stereophonic welcome from the Twins was rather unusual. After all, they were hardly early risers. Beyond that, they seldom joined the younger Gryffindors for meals, especially not Hermione, whom they tended to treat with a mixture of wary respect for her abilities and irritation with her stick-by-the-rules attitude.

Hermione's eye switched from one Twin to the other, and back again. "What happened last night between you and Ron?" she enquired.

"Ah, straight to business, Fred."

"No time for pleasantries, George."

Ignoring her query, they both started to load their plates with a veritable mountain of bacon, sausage, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and eggs, topped with black pudding, all mounted on a solid foundation of fried bread.

Hermione sighed. Sometimes obtaining anything out of these two was like pulling teeth, and this was one of those times. "Where's Ron?" she sharpened her earlier question.

"No idea…"

"… At all."

"Last time we saw him…"

"…There was a definite improvement in his appearance!"

The Twins stopped talking and started to shovel unimaginable amounts of food into their mouths, indicating to Hermione from whom Ron had learnt his table manners.

Hermione shook her head. It was too early for riddles. She was about to return to her own smaller meal when Fred on her right whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Dragons!"

"What?" Hermione jumped in her seat. With the amount of breakfast crammed into Fred's mouth, she was not quite sure she had heard him correctly.

From her left, George joined in. "Dragons, Hermione."

"We understand that there's a distinct possibility of you're becoming… interested in dragons."

Hermione looked askance at the two of them. "Where did that come from?" she asked quietly.

Fred smirked. "Harry was having a deep and meaningful discussion with our brother…" There was a certain sense of disdain vested in that word "… at wandpoint yesterday evening, and the matter may have come up in conversation, once or twice."

"Harry?" Hermione stated quietly.

"The same, and he seemed most put out by Ronniekins for some reason…."

"… And when we found out that our younger brother had been keeping secrets…"

"…From us, his own flesh and blood…" George sounded mortally offended.

"… Well, we just had to point out to Ronniekins the error of his ways," Fred concluded.

Hermione experienced a little thrill of revenge frisson through her that nearly, but not quite, overrode her sense of order. "And that secret was the dragons?"

"Oh yes! Bad form not to tell us when our own brother is coming to visit."

She knew that not only were they were referring to Charlie, but also suspected that the Twins had been more offended by Ron's failure to warn her rather than inform them about the First Task. Still, one should not look a Niffler in the snout. "Thank you." The Twins smiled, and returned their attention to breakfast. "What did you do to Ron?"

The Twins looked at each other, then turned what they thought were beatific smiles on Hermione. That alone encouraged her never to find herself on their hit list.

As Hermione finished her breakfast, she started to leave before a gentle hand on her elbow from Fred persuaded her to keep her seat.

"Hermione, you know that if you ever…"

"…Need our help…"

"…In any way…"

"…Particularly if it involves hexing Malfoy…"

"…Then you can rely on us."

Then they both winked simultaneously at her, before chorusing in a stage whisper: "Especially if it involves trying our hand against a dragon!"

* * * * *

Sunday was another marathon session in the Library for Hermione, continuing her efforts from the previous evening.

Dragons were difficult, if not impossible, creatures for a wizard, even an experienced one, to tackle alone. What price a fifteen year-old witch? The only example she could find of a wizard purportedly subduing a fully-grown dragon single-handedly turned out to be Gilderoy Lockhart's supposed autobiographical Magical Me. Given the source, it was as useless to her current predicament as that fraud had ultimately proven to be two years ago.

The books on 'her' table already resembled an alpine range when she heard and felt, rather than saw, someone slump into the seat opposite. Raising her eyes over the hardback mountains, she expected to see Viktor. She was surprised to find a rather hassled Harry staring back at her.

"Harry?"

"Thought you might like some help," he mumbled, reaching for one of the volumes.

"Don't!" Harry's hand jerked back as though touched by a live electric current, and he looked searchingly at Hermione. Rather abashed, she gave him a weak smile. "Sorry, Harry," she apologised. "I've already gone through those."

"Okay," Harry drawled, rather tiredly. "What can I do, then?"

Hermione indicated the massive weight of tomes on the table. "These are all the obvious books about dragons. Can you look for any other titles that might contain something that would help us, however tangential they may be." She started at Harry's sudden look of befuddlement. "I mean no matter how off-topic they may appear…"

As the morning dragged on, the two Gryffindors scoured the Library for anything that might refer to dragons, or describe a spell that might aid a witch in these perilous circumstances. Unfortunately, and to Hermione's growing frustration, their search was inexorably proving unavailing. As the titles became more and more esoteric, and less and less relevant to the immediate matter to hand, her aggravation manifested itself as audible running commentary. Hermione even began to entertain the heretical observation that, in this case, the Library was not proving itself up to the task, except insofar as to rule out each and every spell she was capable of performing. In fact, so far, her own diligent research had not thrown up anything that even an experienced wizard, acting alone, could have used to subdue a dragon.

Matters were not helped by the nagging little voice in her head not trusting Harry to carry out his tasks as diligently as she herself would. When Harry departed to scour the shelves for any likely titles with even a hint of promise, as soon as he disappeared around the nearest bookshelf Hermione would quickly rifle through the books he had just finished, just in case Harry had missed anything of use. She would quickly jot the titles on a scarp of parchment, ferret the list away in an inside pocket of her robe, promising herself to recheck those volumes later that coming week. Then she would reposition the tomes as near as possible to how Harry had left them. Each time she achieved her little deception just before her friend returned. She favoured him with a bright little smile, hoping that would throw him off any close inspection of those twice-delved into books. It seemed to work, as her smile seemed to disarm Harry. But she found herself being disarmed in return by the uncertain little grins he offered, reflecting pleasant surprise over what he could possibly have done to merit such a welcome.

Lunchtime came and went without complaint from either, although Harry's stomach did register the odd rumble of dissatisfaction. Without any obvious progress being made, Hermione's frustrations grew. Her smiles became more forced, and she started to find her eyes devouring the words faster than her brain could register them. That meant re-reading passages just in case she had overlooked any clue of sorts.

Uncharacteristically she slammed down the latest book she had been holding, as yet another tome proved unequal to her expectations. The sound echoed in the sepulchral Sunday afternoon stillness, drawing a start from Harry, who looked up from where he was slumped uncomfortably in the seat opposite.

"I never thought I would find myself saying this," Hermione declared intones that matched her dissatisfaction, "but these books aren't helping much." She finished with a loud exhalation that shook her shoulders and glared angrily at bookshelves that were betraying her lifelong loyalty.

A weary looking Harry appeared lost for words. Rather less noisily, he placed the hardback entitled Magical Creatures: A Wizard's Guide to Paranormal Pets on the desktop. "What then?" he asked, matching her lack of scholarly ideas.

Hermione's mind had been playing with possible alternatives for some time. "I think it's time we talked to an expert," she declared.

* * * * *

"Dragons, ' Ermione?"

Hermione fixed Rubeus Hagrid with her patented 'Don't play games with me!' stare.

"Yes, Hagrid. Dragons."

Hogwarts' resident expert on Magical Creatures seemed to quail under that Gorgon-like gaze, despite his weighing easily as much as twenty Hermione Grangers. "Blimey, I don' know wha' ter say…." He sat heavily back down on his custom-made chair, which groaned under the sudden assault but held up surprisingly well, although parts of it turned blue.

"They're the First Task, aren't they?" Hermione demanded.

Hagrid looked this way and that. Mostly so that he did not have to look at her. Then he pulled out a tablecloth-sized handkerchief to mop his brow. "I don' think I can say, ' Ermione." He avoided her stare. "I mean, it's a secret."

"Not any more it's not," observed Harry quietly, from his seat off to one side. "All the contestants know."

Hagrid stopped to consider that. "No, in that case, I s'pose it ain't," he replied quietly. "Blimey, Dumbledore'll 'ave summat to say." Bravely he turned his eyes back to Hermione, who was standing with her arms crossed, still glaring at her friend and second-favourite teacher. "I would'a told yeh, ' Ermione, only I promised. Didn' even tell Maxime 'bout 'em …" He broke off and stared miserably at the ground, looking thoroughly sorry for himself.

Alarmed at the prospect of a blubbing Hagrid, Hermione softened both her gaze and her body language. "I know you would," she said consolingly, gently patting Hagrid's elbow, which was about as far up his arm as she could reach.

"It don' seem fair, really," Hagrid continued, appearing not to have heard Hermione, who beamed at his first few words. "After all, they're quite peaceable creatures really, very misunderstood."

Hermione could not believe her ears. "Misunderstood?" she gasped, leaving her mouth open.

"No 'arm to anyone, 'cept o'course for 'em bein' nestin' mothers an' all." Hagrid stopped guiltily. "I shouldn't'a said that," he added even more guiltily.

Hermione took a calming breath. "Bill told us about the dragons. He said Charlie told him that they were all mothers who had recently laid their eggs."

"Yup, that'd be right. Awful protective, the mums, see." Hermione could have sworn Hagrid's eyes glazed over. "Bootiful, really." She guessed he was recalling Norbert, the dragon that had hatched in front of their very eyes three short years ago. She coughed, successfully trying to recall his attention.

"Do you know what the First Task involves, Hagrid?"

The half-giant rubbed his coarse beard with his left hand, glanced to either side to make sure no-one had sneaked into the hut whilst he had been day-dreaming about owning a dragon, then leant down to whisper in Hermione's ear. "Well," he began in confidential tone but at a volume that anyone outside the hut would have caught clearly. "There's this egg, see." Hermione cocked her head to one side and returned a quizzical look. "Special, like."

"Go on." Hermione disliked leading Hagrid into indiscretions, and always experienced a pangs of remorse and shame after having done so before. Not this time. This was information she needed badly - possibly life-and-death badly.

"This egg, it ain' a real egg, see." His voice grew softer, so even Harry had to move closer to catch the words. "But the dragon mum, she won' know. She'll try anythin' to stop someone grabbing an egg from ' er nest." He straightened up. "An' that's all I'll tell yeh."

Hermione considered that information. "Thank you," she murmured absent-mindedly. Now it all made sense. The Task could not have been to fight a dragon, given both their protected status and the sheer impossibility of a single wizard - or witch - bringing down a fully-grown adult of the species. The pieces fell into place: an object that needed guarding, and what more zealous a sentinel than a maternally outraged fire-breathing reptile the size of a lorry?

Hagrid looked mightily relieved.

"How can I disable a dragon?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Oh, yeh can' do that on yer own," Hagrid replied breezily. "It'd take six or seven trained 'andlers to 'old one of 'em down. It'd be silly to take one on by yerself…"

The sense of doom in the silence was palpable.

"I shouldn't'a told yeh that either," Hagrid ruminated, once again looked decidedly dejected.

"But there must be a way," interjected Harry, vocalising Hermione's own thoughts on the subject. "After all, they must expect the other Champions to stand some chance of success."

"Well, yeh see, the trouble wi' dragons is their 'ide. Very tough. Not many spells have any effect on a dragon." Hagrid stroked his beard once again. "I s'pose yeh could risk a shot at the eyes or the claws; not so protected, yeh see. Still, be a pretty long shot. Might just rile the dragon."

"But what sort of spells?" Hermione nearly wailed in exasperation.

Hagrid blinked. "I don' rightly know."

Hermione sat down and sulked, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip as they often did when she was under stress and tackling a thorny problem. "There has to be another way," she muttered, more to herself than to her two companions.

"S'pose yeh could try an' trick 'em," Hagrid speculated.

Harry was sitting with his elbow on the high surface of Hagrid's kitchen table, his chin resting on the knuckles of his right hand. Hagrid seemed lost for words. Hermione stared out of the window over the pumpkin patch, where Buckbeak had been chained up less than a year ago. She felt a great deal of empathy with the Hippogriff's situation - trapped with seemingly nowhere to turn.

And the Triwizard Tournament did not allow Time Turners, even if she could persuade an immoveable McGonagall to approach a bloody-minded Ministry.

Hagrid broke the uneasy silence. "Yeh'll both stay for tea, then?"

Faced with a more immediate fate, Hermione snapped out of her reverie, and shared an alarmed look with Harry. "Umm… Hagrid," she began to make their excuses. "I think we'd better get back …"

Harry's stomach betrayed them both with an ominous rumble.

Harry looked mortified.

Hagrid beamed.

* * * * *

Hermione looked on as Harry picked at his Sunday roast dinner. She had admired his bravery, if not his sense, when he had dutifully tackled one of Hagrid's homemade rock cakes. Her own appetite was pretty limited this evening, but for different reasons, as she turned her thought processes in full to the First Task, now barely a week away.

The problem now was more well-defined. The dragons were definitely guarding a prize, in the form of an egg, that would drive them to defend it to their utmost.

Plans to disable the dragon had so far proved beyond her own knowledge, and her ability. Since that was likely to remain remain so, as a result prospects for going through the dragon were looking quite bleak.

So, if one could not go through the dragon, one had to get past it. Around, over, underneath. And getting past it meant distracting it somehow - unless one fancied being a well-cooked, bite-sized morsel, good with ketchup, which Hermione did not.

Pondering on this, Hermione was oblivious to Ron's first public appearance of the day, but not for long. Her attention was soon drawn by an outbreak of sniggering further down the Gryffindor table that gradually grew out into peals of laughter. Hermione peered down the length of the table but there were too many intervening bodies for her to identify the source of the mirth that was even now spreading to the Hufflepuffs next door.

Her attention was still fixed to her left when she felt someone sit next to her. Turning to her right she found Ginny, also staring in the same direction, but with a look of mildly amused knowledge instead of uncertainty. Hermione started to put the question in her head into words, but Ginny beat her to it. "It's Ron," she said, her smile growing broader. Hermione raised her eyebrows, conveying the message that this was insufficient information.

"Go see for yourself," Ginny managed to respond before she joined with the gaggle of gigglers.

Realising that Ginny, in her current state, was an unlikely source of any further useful information, Hermione stood and took a few steps towards the group of Gryffindors who, their curiosity sated, were now starting to break up. That allowed the Hufflepuffs, some of the more intrepid Ravenclaws, and now Hermione, a good look.

Ron was sitting down, eyes fixed resolutely on his plate, trying to appear ignorant of his being the centre of attention. Hermione could not immediately see what everyone was so fixated on, since she wanted to keep her distance from her former friend. From that space her view was often blocked by the movement of interposing students. She found herself straining on the tips of her toes to obtain a good look.

"Oh my! Are they ..?"

"Horns?"

Hermione found herself lifted off her feet as two strong arms looped under her elbows and took firm but gentle hold on her shoulders. Said arms then turned her away from the sight of two little extrusions poking out of the thick red thatch covering Ron Weasley's head.

"Could be!"

Too surprised to complain, Hermione's head swiftly moved from side to side. She was flanked by Fred and George, and rather quickly found herself back in her seat next to Ginny, who appeared to find the whole event uproariously funny. Even Harry, on her other side, broke into a wide grin.

"Isn't he sweet," Ginny warbled. "Little devil!"

The Twins sat down opposite, both appearing delighted, and trying to look quite innocent, although that faculty Hermione believed Fred and George could never truly master. Comprehension dawned on her quite quickly. "You did that?" she declared, half in accusation, half in grudging admiration.

"Did we, Fred?"

"Couldn't really say, George." They shared a euphoric grin. The 'butter wouldn't melt in their mouths' routine did not throw Hermione off the scent as they both leaned over the table towards her.

"Little blighter deserved it," declared Fred.

"Too true," George responded, not missing a beat.

Hermione wanted to question them further, but from the corner of her eye she noted movement at the High Table. McGonagall was on the prowl.

"Please, tell me you didn't …" Words failed her and her left arm flailed in the general direction of the sullen Ron. "Not in the common room?"

The Twins once again betrayed their uncanny semi-telepathic thought processes when they chimed in unison: "Might have!"

McGonagall was now standing over Ron, scrutinising his scalp and demanding answers - answers which Ron, his head trying to sink lower on his shoulders, seemed unwilling to supply. Hermione groaned. "The portraits …"

The Twins looked at her as though she were mildly round the bend.

Hermione looked up again and with a despairing heart found a rather irritated Head of House bearing down on them. Realising that once again someone might be finding themselves in trouble on her behalf, Hermione dropped her own head into her hands.

The angelic smiles on the Twins' faces fled as McGonagall arrived. "I see someone has practised their rather unique skills on young Mister Weasley," she stated evenly, but her annoyance was clear from her stronger-than-usual Scottish brogue. "He would not reveal how he came about his new cranial adornments, but I will see you -" Her pointed finger jabbed quickly in the direction of Fred "- and you -" then George "- in my office immediately following dinner."

Her summons complete, McGonagall turned on her heel in a guardsman-like manner, and marched off towards the High Table, muttering dire imprecations about declining standards of behaviour in her own House.

With a sinking feeling, Hermione raised her head, expecting to be the recipient of angry stares from the Twins, but instead she found the two of them still grinning, although admittedly not as widely as a few seconds earlier.

"I told you she'd be impressed," Fred told George.

George took umbrage at that. "No, I told you!"

"No, I did!"

"Didn't!"

Hermione ignored their argument, hardly able to comprehend their thought patterns. "Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"Yes?"

It still spooked her when they replied in chorus. "You've probably just earned yourselves a detention with Professor McGonagall. Why are you so ..?" She couldn't find a word to describe their demeanour, and had to settle for waving her arms in a vague manner.

If their chorus was spooky, the Twins' winking at her in unison was downright unsettling. "Little Ronniekins needed to be taught a lesson," George declared. "And to take his medicine like a man, without making excuses."

"Needs to treat his friends and his brethren with a touch more respect," added George, a statement that caused Hermione to start and Ginny to choke a little on her roast pork.

"Well worth a detention with old McGonagall. Have to keep these youngsters in check, you know," George added.

Ginny, a little red in the face, glowered at her brothers. "Try anything like that on me," she observed with a rather unladylike growl, "and you'll have Bat Bogeys coming out of your nose from now 'til Christmas!"

The Twins started to laugh at that, but something in the petite redhead's mien caused them to stop and hastily assure their sister that they would never dream of daring to commit such an act. Hermione was rather impressed.

"So, how long will they last?" Harry asked.

George sat back, appearing exceedingly proud of himself. "We told Ronniekins it was until he apologised to Hermione here about keeping news to himself."

Fred saw a brief flash of concern on Hermione's face. "But knowing our dear brother, we felt that might take too much time. So they should drop off …" His eyes met his twin's.

"Tuesday lunchtime!" They finished in perfect synchronicity.

George leaned over in a very obvious conspiratorial way to give his sister a stage whisper. "No need to give Snape such an obvious present!"

Hermione smiled. The Twins had worked out when Ron's next Potions lesson was. At least that might mollify some of the blame that he would undoubtedly assign to her over this whole incident, not that she cared much at this point. In spite of what the Twins thought was her rather too rigid respect for authority, which had admittedly been strained by recent events, she felt some real admiration for the Twins' approach. Although it did go against her instincts, she knew she had to warn the Twins about the portraits. This time it was her turn to lean forward to impart some confidential information.

* * * * *

With the Twins off on their sojourn to their Head of House, from which they unsurprisingly did not return promptly, the Gryffindor common room was rather quieter than usual. Ron had retreated to such refuge as he could find behind the curtains on his four-poster. Hermione learned from Neville he had spent most of the day there.

Candlelight and the red glow from the hearth provided plenty of secluded and shadowy nooks in the dark of a late November night. Hermione found herself in conclave with Harry, bouncing her concerns and thoughts off of him, a willing sounding board.

Having ruled out overpowering any dragon, or at least the possibility of a teenage witch finding both the means and the strength to carry out such a shocking act in just over a week, the problem had redefined itself.

'How do I find a way past a dragon for long enough to steal an egg from its nest?'

"You could always fly past it," Harry declared some time before eleven, when they were the last occupants of the common room. Hermione pinned him with one of her 'You must be joking!' glares. "On a broom, I mean …" He trailed off under her frankly disbelieving stare.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm Hermione Granger. Not Viktor Krum - or Harry Potter," she added quickly. "I'm as likely to master the art of staying airborne on a broomstick in a week as Hagrid is to become a cordon bleu chef."

Harry winced at that retort. Hermione immediately felt a stab of guilt. He was, after all, only trying to help her. His idea held as much water, albeit not much, as anything she had been able to come up with so far. And her ideas had all been rapidly discarded as well. She was curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, and he was sat on the edge of a nearby comfy armchair, so she leaned over and stretched out her arm to give his thigh a reassuring pat.

"I'm sorry, Harry. That was uncalled for."

Harry shrugged. "I'd be willing to help you learn," he muttered. "You know I would. You'd do the same if it was me." His eyes took on a dreamy state. "It's a whole new world up there…"

Although the image Harry's offer conjured up in Hermione's mind was pleasant enough, in a Disneyfied sort of way, it bore no relationship to Hermione's reality.

Thus, she responded with a self-deprecatory snort of laughter. "I think you were at the front of the queue when they handed out flying ability, Harry. If it was you … maybe." Her shoulders slumped. "But it's me. Bloody typical!" Harry raised his eyebrows at the mild swearing. "Everyone has this image of the witch on a broomstick, and here's me - a real, live witch - and I can't even get my broom six inches off the ground." That one flaw in her abilities occasionally gnawed away at her self-confidence. "Even if I could, I'm not sure I could conquer my fear of heights."

Harry gave her a brief smile, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "There's probably a potion for that."

She smiled back at him, glad to break the tension that had been building between them as each of their ideas had been discarded as impractical for one reason or another. "Oh, and which of us will go and ask Professor Snape to brew it for us."

Harry chuckled in that quiet, understated way of his. "That would be you, oh perfect pupil. I wouldn't be brave enough."

For a brief moment, Hermione caught Harry's profile, the sharp contrast between shadow and orange-red firelight. 'He's becoming quite a handsome young man,' she thought idly, then shook her head, trying to clear it of untimely girlish diversions. "I'd have a better chance if I sucked up to one of the Slytherins. Do you think Draco Malfoy would ask as a favour for me?"

"You'd be better off starting with that broomstick right now." Harry's gentle laugh momentarily warmed Hermione. Then he grew serious again. "Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I think that idea's a non-runner. Only a genius on a broom would stand a chance in the air against a dragon." A genius with a death-wish, she thought gloomily. Glancing up, she saw Harry was deep in thought. She wondered what would have happened had it been his name that had been revealed on Halloween. She hoped she would have been as much a rock of support to Harry as he was trying to be for her. She grimaced as the vision of Harry on a broom being chased by an enraged dragon passed through her mind, and banished the thought from her head.

"What if…" Harry started quietly, staring at the fire, halted, then looked up. "What if… the dragon couldn't see you," he added slowly. Hermione wondered what he was on about.

With growing certainty in his voice, Harry seemed energised by an idea. "If the dragon couldn't see you!" He seemed surprised that Hermione had not caught on yet. "My Invisibility Cloak!" He hunched forward, speaking more urgently now. "If you had the cloak, then you could hide under it, sneak up on the nest, snatch the special egg, and get clean away!"

The look of joy on his face, his belief that he had found the solution for his friend, touched Hermione. And she felt awful at having to deflate his mood.

"No, Harry."

He looked shocked. "No? What do you mean?" He rose from his chair and came to sit on the floor in front of the sofa. "It's perfect!"

Hermione was moved by the urgency in his voice. "It wouldn't work, Harry," she replied softly.

"What? Why not?"

She sighed. "Dragons have other senses other than sight. They can track prey sensing heat through their tongues. I'm pretty sure their sense of smell is highly developed as well." The same factors ruled out the Disillusionment Charm, one that was too advanced for a fourth-year student but one Hermione was sure she could master ahead of schedule.

Harry shook his head. "It would give you a fighting chance, Hermione."

"Harry… Harry," she tried to calm him down. "No-one knows about your cloak - well, apart from Dumbledore and Hagrid, anyway."

"What does that matter?"

Hermione tried to keep her voice even, but it hurt to have to quench his enthusiasm. "If I disappear in front of a whole crowd of wizards, then everyone will know that I've used an Invisibility Cloak." She held a finger to his lips to forestall another protest. "There are people out there who still see you as an enemy, who might seek to hurt you. This is one big advantage you have over them. If Malfoy or any of the other Slytherins -" Snape's name came to her lips but was quickly discarded "- see me using one, then they'll know that you have access to one, and they can take precautions ... or try to steal it."

She slid down to the floor next to Harry. With him, in the shadows, she found herself gazing into his deep green eyes from a distance of only a few inches. "We'd throw away any element of surprise."

"That doesn't matter -"

"It does to me," Hermione replied with a forcefulness that belied her near whisper. "That cloak is irreplaceable, and I doubt it's proof against a dragon's breath."

Briefly, Harry seemed so overcome with emotion that he could not look Hermione in the face. Instead he turned away to gaze into the fire's glare. "You're … you're what's irreplaceable, Hermione," he murmured, a noticeable catch in his throat. "Sod the cloak!"

Both statements shocked Hermione, in different ways. Cautiously, she reached out with her hand, her fingertips brushing his cheek, causing his to turn back to face her.

"Harry, that cloak was your father's. I couldn't risk its destruction."

She was rewarded with another wry grin. "I can't force it on you," he acknowledged. "But if you need it, it's there. You don't have to ask."

At that, Hermione's resolve broke down completely. She flung her arms around the surprised Harry, drawing him into a fierce hug of thanks for his constant solace.

"Thank you," she whispered fiercely. But she was so close to him, and her movement so quick, that he wasn't ready for it. They toppled the short distance to the floor. Hermione found herself sprawled atop a rather thunderstruck Harry, their noses almost touching. She caught a scent that was uniquely his - a woody, peppery sort of fragrance. For a split second, and for the first time in her life, Hermione was aroused of the warmth of his wiry body. Perplexed, a blush started warming her own skin. He just stared back at her, a mixture of surprise and amusement clearly glinting in his eyes, overcoming the opacity provided by his glasses' lenses.

It was as if time was standing still.

The sound of the portrait hole opening abruptly brought both of them to their senses. Acutely aware of the extreme proximity of their bodies and how the situation might appear to others, they scrambled away from each other, making sure to stay hidden behind the sofa.

Hermione popped her head up, and saw Fred and George stride a little wearily, and fortunately single-mindedly, towards the staircase leading to the boys' dormitory.

More than a little relieved at their close escape, and even more abashed by the unfamiliar emotions churning within, Hermione turned back to Harry. It was difficult to tell, given his resolute stare at the fireplace, and the orange filter of the firelight, but his complexion appeared brick-red. Horrified at their mutual embarrassment, Hermione made a decision.

"I think it's time we went to bed."

Harry's head shot around. He gaped at her open-mouthed in amazement.

His reaction, and the obvious reason for it, utterly flustered Hermione. Blushing furiously, she stammered. "Sleep! I mean … I mean it's time we - I mean I - went up to bed, er, to sleep."

Harry nodded slowly but made no move to follow. "Goodnight then, Hermione."

Her composure in tatters, Hermione made her way to the staircase.

As she changed into her nightgown, whilst attempting to placate an attention-seeking Crookshanks, Hermione considered Harry and his willingness to grant her access to the one heirloom he had from his father. It was typical of him, and she could not think of any other boy who would be prepared to give up so valuable an object.

But a dragon did not need to see her to track her…

But what if the dragon was not looking for her, but for something else?

* * * * *

Neither Hermione nor Crookshanks emerged on Monday morning refreshed. She had laid in her comfortable four-poster for some hours, her mind ticking over as what began as the germ of an idea evolved into the preliminary stages of a plan. But, after she had finally succumbed to slumber, her powerful mind was assaulted by visions of a broom-borne Harry being continually chased around the tower-tops of Hogwarts by a vengeful dragon.

More than once, she woke in a cold sweat, unsure if she really had cried out Harry's name as the dream dragon's jaws had closed around the hapless Gryffindor. It took some time for her pulse and breath to slow to anything near normal.

Crookshanks, whilst always solicitous of his mistress's welfare, was rather put out that his sleep at the foot of Hermione's bed had been rudely disturbed by her repeated thrashing about and moaning. After a few minutes where both witch and familiar had sat staring at each other, he had made himself scarce, debouching from the bed and slipping out through the drawn curtains, off to some unknown nocturnal pursuit .

So, it was a rather drained Hermione who came down for breakfast, her mind still mulling the putative plan. Her dreams had left her appetite diminished. By Hogwarts standard, she only selected meagre fare for her plate.

Some fifteen minutes passed, full of Hermione's sharp reminders to herself not to worry over silly nightmares. Finally, to her well disguised relief, a rather sheepish looking Harry appeared. They both blushed as their minds simultaneously re-ran the concluding events of the previous evening. Neither seemed ready to start what might have proven a stilted, awkward conversation.

As she spread a crusty roll with butter, Hermione idly mused over what might have happened had the Twins had not chosen that exact moment to return to the common room. Would mutual disengagement have followed their mutual realisation of how silly the situation had become? Or would Harry have …?

'No, best not to go there. Ignore those childish delusions and concentrate on what's important.' The voice in her head sounded determined yet strangely reluctant.

Besides, she was waiting for two specific members of her House to appear.

Ron had drifted into the Great Hall, desperate to remain anonymous. But that was difficult for a gangly red-head cursed with horns. With a look that Hermione translated as deferred loathing of both her and Harry, he chose to sit as far away from his former best friends as possible. She felt heaviness in her heart over that, more for Harry than herself, and pondered how the three of them had managed so thoroughly to cock up what had once seemed a friendship for life. Shaking her head wearily, she cast most of the blame at Ron's feet, but wished she had acted differently on occasions.

Neville and Ginny arrived at the same time but not exactly together. Ginny seemed full of life, whilst Neville… Hermione noticed him trying to watch the youngest Weasley unobtrusively, as though she was a rather rare and fragile flower that needed close care and attention. Ginny, of course, was blithely unaware of this, and Hermione, having botched one friendship, felt no need or desire to enlighten her.

As the four of them - well, three really, with Hermione for once playing the silent partner - carried out the usual Monday morning banter. Hermione made sure to keep a careful watch on the late arrivals at the breakfast table. It was just as she spread some lemon and lime marmalade on her buttered roll that Hermione finally noted the arrival of her prey. She wanted to catch them at just the right time …

""Hey!" Feeling a gentle nudge on her upper arm Hermione turned away and found Harry was giving her a rather speculative stare.

"Hmmm … what?"

This time he rewarded her with one of his shy little grins. "Mind elsewhere?" With the slightest movement of hand and finger, he drew Hermione's attention to the bread roll that was now dripping with sticky marmalade.

"Oh! … Thanks"

Harry regarded her closely. "You've got an idea, haven't you." It was said with such certainty that it could not have been a question.

"I might have," she admitted quietly. "How did you guess?"

Once again there was that momentary smile. For a second it made her insides hitch, and her mouth was suddenly parched.

"You have your 'Hermione in planning mode' expression on."

This time it was her turn to smile. "Am I that easy to read?" she asked kittenishly.

Harry pretended to ponder a weighty decision. "Only if you are an expert," he allowed.

It was as if the Great Hall had contracted, leaving just herself and Harry inside a bubble. "And when did you become an expert in the matter of Hermione Granger?" she returned just a little coyly.

'Why do I feel the sudden need to flirt?'

"It's a seven-year course. I'm prepping for my O.W.L.s."

'And is Harry flirting with me?

'Don't be silly. Why would he?'

With an abrupt and unusually constricted feeling in her throat, Hermione decided she needed to learn more …

"Hey!" This time it was Ginny, breaking the spell that shut out the world. "Don't hog the marmalade!"

Hermione quickly cast her eyes down to her knife, still over-laden with fine cut shred, and missed Harry look away just as rapidly. Passing the jar across the table to Ginny, who seemed to regarding her with a calculating stare, Hermione took one final bite out of her roll.

How silly to become distracted! After all, she had more urgent matters to attend to. "Excuse me." She wiped her lips with a napkin, rose from her seat, and moved a few yards down the table towards Fred and George. She started with an apology. "Sorry about last night," trying to sound as contrite as possible.

"Nothing to worry about," Fred replied, in seeming good humour.

"Yeah, McGonagall's hard but fair." George picked up where his twin had ceased. "Had us polishing the trophies again." He frowned for a second. "Hardly original, but she did let slip she thought it a neat piece of magic, if ill directed." He put on a wide grin and looked down the table towards Ron, greeting him rather ostentatiously wiggling both forefingers just behind his ears. Ron just turned a little to the opposite side, desperately ignoring his brethren.

"Didn't trust us with our wands, though," Fred enjoined. "Said she didn't want the Quidditch Cup to turn into a gargoyle."

"As if!" George sounded rather put out. "Quidditch is far too important to muck around with!"

"Yes… now, if it was the House Cup …" Fred's eyes were shining as they considered what would be a new best-ever prank.

Hermione gave a small, polite cough, drawing their attention back to her. She would far rather they concentrate upon a different matter. "You know that you said … if I needed your help ..?"

George looked at Fred, who nodded, then they both turned to give full attention to her. "What d'you want, Hermione?"

* * * * *

It could honestly be said that never had Hermione Granger been so keen to finish a Herbology lesson. From what Neville was muttering, the Flutterby Bush she was attempting to prune was equally relieved when the class finally ended.

She bounded down the slope towards Hagrid's hut and Care of Magical Creatures, making sure that she arrived before any of the Slytherins. Actually, there was never any danger that they would beat her to Hagrid's class, as they regarded their teacher as a dangerous half-breed with little or no sense when it came to creatures that carried dangerous reputations.

"'Allo ' Ermione! Yeh seem in a better mood today." Hermione thought Hagrid also appeared to be happier, no longer burdened with keeping a secret from her, and perhaps from others. She moved closer to him.

"Hagrid, I need to speak with you."

Staring down at her, Hagrid assumed what was often his natural state around her; bafflement. "Well, say what yeh've got ter say, then."

Hermione looked over both shoulders, making sure none of her Gryffindor colleagues were close to hand. "Can you arrange it so we work on the same Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

Hagrid stared back through half-lidded eyes. "Summat yeh want no-one else ter ' ear?" She nodded. He thought for a few seconds, then replied with a nod of his own massive head. "Okay."

A few minutes later, when the last of the Slytherins in Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had finally deigned to make a sullen appearance, Hagrid had paired the pupils off to see how the Blast-Ended Skrewts were faring, loudly suggesting to Hermione, for her classmates benefit, that she should accompany him and check up on one particular specimen that was skulking behind the pumpkin patch.

Once he was sure the other pupils were out of earshot, he leaned over Hermione and stared intently at her. "What's bein' on yeh'r mind, then?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Is Charlie Weasley still here?" Hagrid looked bemused at this question. "Not here, at Hogwarts, I mean," she clarified. "But with the dragons?"

Hagrid rubbed his beard. "I dunno if I should tell yeh, ' Ermione." He appeared a little crestfallen.

Hermione tried her best pleading look, eyes wide. "Hagrid, it's important."

Rather contrite, Hagrid straightened and once again checked that the coast was clear. "Well, I shouldn'a really say, but seeing as it's yeh… Yeah, he's here, out in a camp in the Forbidden Forest. That's where they're keepin' all the dragons, see, outta the way of the Muggles." Now he frowned. "Why'd yeh wan' ter know?"

Hermione beckoned the half-giant that he should once again lean down so she could speak confidentially. As he did so, she took a sealed roll of parchment out from an inner pocket of her robes, and placed it into his massive palm. "Can you pass this to Charlie? You see, I need …"

* * * * *

It was a more at ease, if tired, Hermione, who made her way into the Great Hall for lunch. But before she could make her way towards the Gryffindor table, she was intercepted by an over-excited Ginny, who was literally bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"I'm going to the Ball!" Ginny nearly squealed. As a Third Year, she could only attend as the date of an older student.

"Congratulations," Hermione replied sincerely. Thoughts of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws passed through her mind. Maybe even one of the handful of Beauxbatons' boys, who wilted in the company of their female counterparts, or another mysterious lad from Durmstrang, perhaps?

Ginny answered her unspoken question. "It was Neville! Can you believe it?"

Hermione glanced a few seats down, where a rather disbelieving Neville Longbottom sat as though shell-shocked. 'Probably can't figure out how he summoned up the courage to ask, or believe his luck she said yes,' Hermione thought. 'Or perhaps he just figured out how Ginny's brothers might react.'

A beaming Ginny was continuing to babble. "… No idea. I mean, he's not my first choice -" Ginny shrugged her shoulders. "- But at least he's nice."

Hermione could easily imagine just who Ginny's preferred option would have been. 'Exactly the same as mine' she thought with just a little spurt of bitterness. But everything else aside, Harry appeared to have set his sights on a different table altogether.

And Ginny's announcement, which the redhead was now repeating to a rather jealous Romilda Vane, had reminded Hermione of something else. There was that other little problem she had tucked away in the back of her mind whilst focussing on the thorny problem of the First Task. With the two obvious candidates ruling themselves out through their choices or actions, she faced the embarrassing prospect of being assigned a date, just like her new friend Viktor.

Those thoughts accompanied Hermione as she left her Gryffindor friends after lunch. The rest of them moved upwards towards the Divination classroom as she made her lonely way towards the world of Arithmancy.

Brooding on her own thoughts, walking slowly and making little sound, Hermione was only a few corridor corners away from Professor Vector's lair, when she heard two students' voices drifting through the dusty afternoon air.

"…Still no luck then?"

That was Ernie Macmillan. And if Ernie was there then -

"Nah! Jones and Abbott are spoken for." Yup - that was Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Well, Susan and I have agreed that I'm to be her date." Ernie sounded as pompous as ever. Hermione wondered whether quiet, pliable Susan Bones had much say in the matter once Ernie had made one of his pronouncements. Still, it sounded to Hermione as if Justin had the same problem as she did.

"Well, there's always Granger," Ernie added.

Hermione stopped with a start. She was not someone to be bartered around by boys! Still, Justin was not that bad …

"You must be bloody joking!" Justin's expostulation rather shattered that cosy little idea. "I mean, look at her. Girl's a right mess, all hair and teeth. Urgh!" Hermione could picture his impression, much like Crookshanks trying to cough up a furball.

"I know what you mean," Ernie chuckled. "She's one reason why wizards conjure up paper bags."

Hermione nearly dropped her overstuffed book bag. She was not vain about her appearance but that was just plain … spiteful!

"Well, would you?" Justin demanded, his voice coming just a little closer.

"Merlin, no!" Ernie declared,. "Not even for all the gold in Gringotts. I mean, could you imagine what being with her would be like?" She could hear their footsteps now, only just ahead of her, around the next corner. "It'd be 'No, you shouldn't do it like that! That's not how the book says it should go! Put that there! And your other hand… there!' Bossy cow!"

"Yeah, I know wha-"

Justin stopped as he turned the corner and found himself face to face with a rather fuming Hermione Granger.

"Er… Granger?" Ernie's self importance deflated rapidly as he caught a glimpse of Hermione's fierce expression. He seemed uncertain of how much of their derogatory comments she had overheard.

They had both witnessed her recent confrontation with Ron.

She did not trust herself to speak, and to her slight surprise noted that her wand was drawn. She had it gripped tightly, although at the moment it stayed down at her side in a hand trembling with barely suppressed anger. Both boys, whom Hermione had some previous regard for, found their eyes drawn to that wand, or - more precisely - to its brightly glowing tip. But it was her stony silence that really seemed to unnerve them.

"Umm… No offence meant, Granger," Finch-Fletchley muttered, backing away and trying to keep Macmillan between Hermione's wand and himself. "Only joshing, you know… Gotta go," he muttered, then turned and, abandoning his supposed friend, ran.

"Going with Susan?" Hermione ground out between gritted teeth. Ernie did nothing but quickly nod in agreement. "Should I tell her to bring the paper bag, or will you conjure one up especially for her, along with the corsage?" There was quite some measure of venom in the almost whispered question.

Ernie seemed to whimper, then started to back away, until his back bumped against the corridor wall behind him. With a start, he turned, then glanced back at Hermione. "Must go!" he yelled, as he too retreated round the corner, his running footsteps echoing back.

Hermione stood there, her right hand fingers chalky white as her grip on her wand remained painfully tight.

* * * * *

Professor Septima Vector had appeared rather confused by the cooling of the atmosphere in her Fourth Year Arithmancy class. Hermione had refused to have anything to do with the two Hufflepuffs when they finally made their appearance, red-faced and anxious. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley almost quailed every time Hermione turned to look in their direction. The other students in the class seemed equally at a loss.

Hermione did not tarry once the lesson ended, her face burning with a mixture of righteous indignation and furious embarrassment. She had felt that, if not quite friends, Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley were at least fellow travellers. Now she had learned that they truly viewed her, and presumably other girls, in terms of beauty before brains. She shook her head.

That must explain why they were not sorted into Ravenclaw. And why Gryffindors did not go slumming with Hufflepuffs.

Hermione made her way up to her dormitory to freshen up before dinner. As she stood in front of the mirror, the cutting remarks she had overheard swam back into her mind.

Sadly, she had to admit, some of their comments were too close to home. Her hair had proven untameable. Hermione had come to accept that, short of several hours' pitched battle with a hairbrush it would remain so. She did not wish to cut it shorter, as she rather liked the way it flowed down her back - and anyway, why should she? She liked her hair long.

The teeth … oh dear! At least she had persuaded her parents to spare her the indignities of braces, which she had worn at Primary School. That just provided the other girls in her class with another excuse for taunting her. But her two front teeth were just too long and prominent even when her lips were closed.

Hermione shrugged off her robes. She was carrying a little extra weight around the middle. Not much; she would not call herself podgy, but neither did she have the slim waistline that … Damn! Another adjective!

Her shoulders and upper arms were perhaps just a little less feminine with the extra muscle definition gained through heaving around that huge - but absolutely essential - book bag. But on the upside, she could pack a wallop, as first Draco Malfoy, and now Ronald Weasley, could attest.

And her breasts… well, her A-Cup bra was perfectly adequate for the task.

'Let's face it,' Hermione admitted to herself. 'I'm no oil painting. No wonder no-one has asked me out.' Then she glared fiercely at her reflection, which just shook her head back at her. 'And do I care? No! Because I'm happy with what I am…'

Only while that was what she said, something deep inside her could not accept it as the complete truth.

Sighing, Hermione trudged sadly down to the Great Hall. She really was not in the mood for much company, but as she approached the Gryffindor table, she found her cohorts in the middle of some humorous story. Unwilling to interrupt them with her doleful outlook, she quietly looked to slip past them.

"…Oh yes, that's the first time ever!" Dean sniggered.

"What do you mean?" Ginny seemed bewildered.

Parvati seemed affronted at the others finding the subject a matter of fun. "That's not true, Dean Thomas, and you know it!"

"Oh come on," Seamus interrupted. "Every lesson since we started, that silly old bat has come up with the same old thing."

Intrigued despite herself, Hermione edged closer, unnoticed by anyone else.

Ginny still appeared confused. "But what is it?"

Seamus turned to her. "Today was the first time that old fraud didn't predict Harry here's imminent demise!"

Hermione glanced to her side. A few feet away Harry was standing, looking extremely uncomfortable. Trelawny had often 'foretold' Harry's gruesome death, even before Hermione had walked out on the entire subject. Her opinion of Divination was not improved any by the fact that Harry still lived and breathed.

"But," a rather frantic Lavender interjected, desperate to protect her own favourite teacher's good reputation, "she did make another prophecy!"

"Yeah," snorted a familiar voice. Hermione saw Ron, now missing his head adornments, standing behind Lavender. She knew he had as much faith in Trelawny as she did. "Didn't stop her predicting someone else would die, did it though?"

Just as Ginny enquired about the victim of this latest forecast, Hermione felt a hand land on her shoulder. She glanced sideways to see Harry looking anxious and earnest. "Come away," he urged. "Don't listen to them."

Slowly, every pair of eyes turned towards Hermione. It was with a certain coolness that she realised who they were referring to.

"Me," she said quietly. She pursed her lips, then addressed her next words to Parvati and Lavender. "So old Bug Eyes predicted my death, did she?" It was not really a question, and judging by the way both girls lost some colour, Hermione knew she was spot on. Neither would reply directly.

"That she did, Granger," Seamus said, not unkindly. "But it's all bollocks!"

Harry, Dean and even Ron muttered in agreement, but Lavender was not having that. "It is not 'bollocks', Seamus Finnigan! She said the Virgin -" She broke off briefly at an outbreak of immature sniggering from the Weasley-Thomas-Finnegan corner. Glaring at them made no difference, so with a huff she continued. "The Virgin will die before the Feast of Stephen," she declared hotly.

"That could be anyone, Hermione," Harry tried to reassure her.

"The Virgin," Hermione muttered, suddenly experiencing the feeling best described as someone walking over her grave.

"Something you want to confess to, Granger?" Seamus snickered through his own laughter, earning a not-so-gentle cuff on the ear from Ron.

If Hermione had heard him, she gave no sign. "Virgo. My Sign of the Zodiac." Suddenly Trelawny's ridiculous foretellings did not seem so harmless as they had done before.

With the atmosphere thoroughly removed of any hilarity, the Gryffindor group broke up, and Hermione took her seat for dinner next to Harry.

"Look, Hermione, you've always said Trelawny was an old fraud," Harry tried to break the sudden impending sense of doom that had enveloped the Gryffindor table. "She's never been right before. Even McGonagall said so."

The problem was, and Hermione was still loathe to admit it, that the old trout had managed one accurate prediction last year. Nagging away at the back of her mind was the memory of Sybil Trelawny's prophetic interpretation of the arrival of the Grim in Harry's tea leaves, unwittingly foreshadowing Sirius Black's presence at Hogwarts.

Hermione shivered; even Trelawny's repeatedly erroneous foretelling of Harry's impending demise could pedantically be attributed to one recurring inaccuracy, instead of multiple mistakes. "I know. It's just …" She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. "… Just that… with everything else going on …"

Hermione knew Trelawny only had to randomly repeat her success rate of one accurate forecast per year, and it could be her - or even worse, Harry - who paid the price. The Divination Mistress only had to be lucky once.

Harry laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "I know you'll do fine." His eyes shone. "I always believe in you, Hermione Granger."

'I wish I shared your belief in me,' Hermione thought. Instead of replying, she tried to focus her attention on her pork chops.

Something was nagging away at the edge of her thoughts. An issue raised by news of that afternoon's Divination class.

Her plan was sound, that was true. But what if it did not work? She recalled a dusty quote, by some old German Muggle general, that no plan survived contact with the enemy. So she needed reinsurance against that eventuality.

As she ate, Hermione turned that problem over in her mind. For inspiration, she looked at Harry. He had survived so many potentially fatal situations over the last three years, from Dementors to werewolves, to DADA professors who had not been quite what they seemed. And Ginny's diary …

Hermione's body gave a reflex little shudder. 'That was possible,' she admitted to herself. 'All I need is Harry's help.'

She turned to her side and started to whisper the outlines of another plan into Harry's ear.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The origin of this chapter's title seems lost in the mists of time, but has been used in several fan fics. The second line is: "For you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup." It is a variant of a quote from J.R.R. Tolkien: "Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." Rumour has it that the quote was first used in a 'Dilbert' cartoon and later bumper stickers!

From my cheap Bulgarian phrasebook: -

Trooden = Difficult

Tants = Dance

Leka nosh = Goodnight

From my kind beta reader George: -

Po diavolite = To the Devil (an oath similar to the English equivalent "Bloody Hell!")

The idea about the host school arranging ambassadors if the visiting champions required them was suggested to me by reviewer Dan (Tank03). Of course, being the world of HP, it won't turn out nearly as neatly as had been hoped.

The comment about Trelawny's one accurate episode of fortune telling and the potential implications for Hermione (or Harry) is based on the IRA's chilling but accurate statement after they narrowly failed to wipe out Mrs. Thatcher and the British Cabinet in the bomb blast at the Grand Hotel, Brighton, in 1984. "Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once; you will have to be lucky always."

Hermione's 'German soldier' was Karl Phillip Gottfried von Clausewitz, a Prussian who had fought against Napoleon, and whose "On War", first published after his death in 1832 based on notes he left behind, is considered one of the great works regarding the politics of warfare. His famous quotation that: "No plan survives first contact with the enemy" is sometimes ascribed to the great Helmuth von Moltke, Chief of the General Staff and architect of Prussia's victory in the Franco-Prussian War 1870/71.

Next chapter - finally some action. Hermione is eaten by faces the First Task.