Unofficial Portkey Archive

Hermione Granger & The Goblet of Fire

My thanks to beta readers Bexis & George, who have spent so much of their own time & effort on this chapter. I welcome all their ideas, even if I don't always use them.

Disclaimer: Look, you know the score by now. She owns it all. I don't. 'Nuff said?

Chapter 9 - Broken, Battered, Bloodied and Burned

"It's so large…. I mean, I knew, but…" Hermione's voice trailed off. "I never thought it would be that big!"

Hermione could barely make out Harry's expression in the dim light, but she guessed he wore that little half smile he showed when embarrassed about something. "It gets larger, you know," he responded.

"Really?" Hermione reached her hand out to touch …

She ignored the crunch of small animal bones beneath her feet, and the dark, slimy walls of the long tunnel several hundred feet below the comforts of Hogwarts Castle.

The snakeskin, faded now to a translucent light greenish-yellow, was useless for her task, having been shed by a live Basilisk. It had a fragile rigidity to it, and Hermione was able to snap off a small fragment from a frayed edge. As she rubbed the membrane between her fingers it rapidly disintegrated into finer pieces, shreds drifting down to the dark remains beneath.

Well above the two Gryffindors, the other students, blissfully ignorant of happenings deep beneath their feet, were experiencing their normal Saturday afternoon enjoyments, a few hours free of worries about studies and homework for a few hours. The weather had abated slightly and several pick-up Quidditch games were underway, something Hermione felt exceptionally guilty about. Harry had not really had the opportunity this year to embrace his favourite pastime. But she had needed him, not only his prowess as a Parselmouth for access to the Chamber of Secrets, but also his guidance through the warren of tunnels and sewers towards their prize. It had to be now, the time when the disappearance of two students would be most likely to go un-remarked upon by their peers or the staff.

Harry had accepted Hermione's request happily enough, and with the tip of his wand giving off a cool bluish-white glow, he readily took the lead. Glancing back one last time at the physical reminder of a once-feared beast, Hermione shuddered. She would never forget the only time she had glimpsed the Basilisk, the reflection of burning eyes… and then, paralysis. It could have been worse, much worse. She fervently prayed that Harry was right when he said there had only been the one…

Harry had noted with some surprise that the tunnel to the Chamber was now unobstructed. Someone - Hermione was firmly convinced it had to have been Dumbledore - had removed the wall of collapsed rock and earth that had separated Harry and Ron nearly two years ago. She pondered briefly the thought processes that left the entrance to this evil place unguarded. But then came the realization that it took mastery of Parseltongue to enter.

Lost in unanswered questions, and pondering questionable answers, Hermione just managed to pull up short before bumping into Harry's back as he stopped before two huge carved serpents, bodies sinuously entwined in thick columns of stone, completely blocking their way. As Hermione raised her own wand, its tip brightly glowing to light their way, she could make out reflections glinting from emerald eyes many feet above her own head.

Rasping an order in that alien tongue, more a hiss than discernable words, Harry waited for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets to reveal itself. The reptilian statues slid effortlessly aside, and Hermione rather nervously followed Harry as he retraced his footsteps from nearly two years ago.

The Chamber was dark, but with a faint greenish tinge, and there was the sound of water echoing throughout the vast wizard-made cavern. Hermione could distinctly make out the sound of water dripping into water, and between the huge serpentine columns that Harry walked through she could make out the glimmer of waterways, channels of oily black that reflected back her own rather inadequate source of illumination.

Hermione was unprepared for the sheer scale of the Chamber. The ceiling could not be made out, lost in the gloom many feet above the duo, but it reminded Hermione of the naves in huge cathedrals she had visited, such as York Minster. Yet the area covered eclipsed even those monuments to the Muggle stonemasons' arts.

If the massive carved serpents had been impressive, Hermione's breath was taken away by the statue of Salazar Slytherin, at whose feet Harry had stopped. It dominated the whole of the far Chamber wall, soaring high towards the unseen ceiling.

For a moment Hermione was worried that Harry had become unnaturally still and quiet. Her mind was seized by a brief moment of panic and she worried that some fragment of Tom Riddle had survived. That brief flash of fear was allayed when Harry turned his head towards her. Then she realised that he had been waiting for her, having walked on whilst she had stopped open-mouthed, stunned into silence.

"It's over here," he said emotionlessly, gesturing to one side of the Chamber. Harry had never exactly opened up to her about what exactly had happened down here. His comments had always been vague and especially sparse with details. Hermione speculated for an instant what memories were being replayed in her friend's mind as he headed off into the dark.

Turning to follow his lead, Hermione's throat caught at the first glimpse of the deceased King of Serpents.

'Merlin! That thing was huge!'

Fully fifty feet in length, and with a body almost as thick as Hermione was tall, the Basilisk lay half-submerged in one of the water channels that ran the length of the Chamber. As she hesitantly approached the massive corpse, Hermione could see that parts of the carcass were badly decomposed, as not even a Basilisk was immune to the march of time. However, she did know that organic matter decomposed significantly faster in an open environment, and the fact that a good half of the Basilisk's body was submerged in the dank, ice-cold but still water gave her some hope that its state of preservation was appreciably better than its above surface counterpart.

Once again she shivered as she passed the massive head, the eye-sockets now vacant, with whatever was left of its eyes after Fawkes's assault having long since surrendered to the ravages of time. With a grim foreboding, she realised that an adult dragon would dwarf even this massive specimen.

Yet it had been conquered, by a twelve year-old boy on his own - well, with a little help from a Phoenix, a hat and a sword.

How had Harry found the courage to advance into the beast's lair? Hermione shivered, the cause not being the cold alone. She found her stomach felt strangely empty and she had to swallow at the bile which had started to rise in her throat.

Hermione was not sure what she found more upsetting: that Harry had to face this creature alone, without any ally to support him; or that she had been unable even to offer to accompany him, instead lying petrified in the Hospital Wing.

Harry had seldom mentioned the detail behind that day's work. Hermione knew that he instinctively tended to downplay his achievements, wishing nothing more than to sink back into the anonymity of the crowd. But now the evidence of his courage, both physical and moral, lay at her feet.

The sense of despair at Harry's isolation, of what could have become of him, mixed with the overbearing morbid atmosphere, weighed heavily on her shoulders.

She glanced in his direction. He was waiting, watching her carefully, as though expecting some harsh judgemental comment.

Opening her mouth, Hermione found the words dieing in her throat. There was nothing she could possibly say that could salve his memories of that day without sounding trite.

Harry shrugged. Hermione knew instinctively that he regarded the whole affair as no big deal, and had no wish to bathe in the glory. On reflection, she considered that he probably felt sad for the Basilisk.

Hermione redoubled her pledge that never again would she allow Harry to stand unaided and alone. She would be at his side no matter what!

"Come on," he said quietly. "It's tomorrow's dragon we have to worry about."

The plan was simple in principle, but far more difficult in execution. Remove enough Basilisk skin to create a garment that would provide Hermione with enough cover to fend off the scorching heat and other possible, unpleasant ravages of dragon's breath. The qualities of Basilisk skin almost matched those of dragon hide in being renowned for repelling most forms of both magical and non-magical attack.

Unfortunately most of the corpse visible above water was in an advanced stage of decomposition, and thus useless to Hermione. That below the waterline was impossible to access, and neither student fancied becoming soaked by entering the chilled water. It took repeated casting of Levicorpus to raise even a small section of the torso and dump it onto the cold flagstones.

As Harry struggled to drag the deadweight, Hermione, sweating equally as much alongside him, was surprised to find herself taking surreptitious glances at her friend. Since when..?

Harry was wiry in build, and was nowhere near as tall as he should be. Certainly the lanky Ron had always had a few inches in height on Harry, but her former (she had to admit now) friend had shot up in the last twelve months, whilst even someone as short of stature as Dean Thomas could pretty much see eye-to-eye with the scrawny Harry. Hermione attributed this to the years of neglect and under-nourishment he had endured at Privet Drive, and that it was extremely unlikely his height would ever reach six feet. Her emotions burned with anger and she swore to herself that if she had anything to do with it, Harry would never suffer at the hands of the Dursleys again. She would never let anyone else harm her Harry..!

'Oh Merlin, the commendo praemonitus!'

With a guilty start, Hermione remembered yet another promise she had made, and had yet to deliver upon. McGonagall and, to a lesser extent, Dumbledore were expecting her to remove the warning spell she had secretly cast upon Harry that summer. But that was one promise within her power to keep.

Hermione looked up at her friend.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" He turned his head and refocused on her, breathing heavily from his efforts,

Hermione took a deep breath. "Do you trust me?"

Harry momentarily ceased his endeavours and favoured her with that half-smile that told Hermione he was indulging her rather silly and unnecessary question. "Of course. More than anyone"

There was no hint of any underlying meaning in those words, just an open and honest acceptance. That just made Hermione feel both more protective and increasingly remorseful over her secretive spell casting.

"Then close your eyes."

He frowned a bit, as he often did when she was too many steps ahead of him. But, after one rather enquiring glance, her trusting Harry did as he was bidden. Hermione, with a light grip, raised her wand and aimed it at her friend.

"Illud incantentum quod ego olino posui in meo amico, Harry James Potter, ego nunc tollo."

The look returned. Harry even raised his eyebrows as he heard the incantation. Hermione guessed that he was unaware of the meaning, but also felt a sense of loss in that her pathetic little attempt at protecting Harry was no more.

When she had finished, Harry stood stock still. "I'm done," Hermione admitted quietly. She hoped there would be no accusation in his green eyes when he opened them again.

His shoulders relaxed slightly. The look in Harry's eyes was questioning but not in the least accusatory. "Care to tell me about it?" he asked lightly.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Hermione admitted. "Not really, but I will." She nodded once, then followed as Harry moved away from the waterlogged Basilisk and towards the supposed likeness of one of the Founders of Hogwarts. He turned and waited for Hermione to catch up, and as she chose to sit on Salazar Slytherin's left big toe, he found a similar perch on the other stone foot.

Hermione found she could not look Harry in the face, so she concentrated hard upon her hands, which lay fidgeting in her lap. "This summer," she started hesitantly, "I cast a spell on you. During the World Cup." She stopped, glancing up, awaiting a response. Instead he nodded his head, indicating she should continue.

"It was the commendo praemonitus." She halted as a slight look of confusion crossed Harry's face. "It was meant to warn me if you were ever in danger."

Harry's face split with a rueful grin. "I'm surprised you got a moment's peace, then." Then he looked at her over the top of his glasses in a manner that reminded Hermione of Professor McGonagall's stare at an under-performing student. "You never said anything… to me, I mean"

"I was worried, what with rumours of You-Know-Who's return, and your nightmares. And I was concerned you might have to go back to stay with your horrid relatives."

Harry was quiet for a few moments, staring at something, perhaps the rotting Basilisk husk. Finally he looked back at Hermione, his expression inscrutable. "You should have told me," he said simply without any rancour.

With another stab of guilt, Hermione tried to explain away her actions. "You already have too much to worry about. Ron told me all about your horrid family - the bars on the windows and the cat-flap on the door," she exploded in righteous indignation. "If I found out they were mistreating you then I'd… I'd have -"

"What would you have done, Hermione?" Harry was still speaking quietly, but his voice sounded a little downcast.

She glared fiercely at him, her ire not aimed at Harry Potter but at Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley. "I'd have come and stopped them!" she declared.

Harry gave a little mirthless laugh at that. "I believe you would, too." Then he fixed her with a sad expression on his face. "But that isn't your decision to make, is it, Hermione?"

"What do you mean?" Her face burned, because she knew full well what he meant.

Harry slid down off his rather incongruous seat and came to kneel next to a very nervous Hermione. "What do I want to be, Hermione? More than anything else?"

She stopped to think. A professional Quidditch player? She gave Harry a sideways glance and saw he was watching her expectantly.

That raised a very interesting question. 'What does Harry want?'

She thought back, and remembered Harry telling her what he had seen reflected in The Mirror of Erised. What was it?

'Harry's family.'

Hesitantly, Hermione started to form an answer. "You want to have - no, to be part of - a family." Harry indicated with a tiny hand gesture that she was on the right track, and should go on. She suspected he secretly envied Ron his family, something that basic. Harry wanted to be …

"Normal," Hermione breathed. She looked up at him and he nodded again. "You want to be Harry Potter," she continued. But that was so obvious to her - after all, that was who he was to Hermione Granger. Not the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry shrugged. "Aunt Petunia is my family, my mum's sister. Until I met Ron and you, I didn't really have any measure of family to compare it with."

Hermione's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh Athena! You think that its your fault!" All too clearly she could see how Harry's guilt complex could lead him directly to that tragic conclusion.

"I did, at first," Harry admitted. "Now I know better. But here…" He gestured at the surrounding Chamber of Secrets, but Hermione knew that motion encompassed the whole of Hogwarts. "Here, I'm not normal. I crave a little bit of anonymity. Thank Merlin I'm not in your position."

Hermione felt fortunate she was sitting down when Harry made that last comment, which hit altogether too close to her own closely-held suspicions. Either she disguised her turmoil well, or more likely Harry was not paying her terribly close attention. Instead, he was musing on his own situation.

He slumped back on his haunches, resting against Salazar Slytherin's giant instep. "Vernon might call me a 'freak' but back in Little Whinging I'm normal. I'm Harry Potter, no-one special."

"You're special to me," Hermione whispered, feeling her emotions well up and the first prick of tears in the corners of her eyes.

Harry smiled again. "Thank you, Hermione." Then he stiffened a bit. "But you really should have asked me before you cast that … thingummy."

"Commendo praemonitus," Hermione repeated bookishly.

"Yes, that," Harry blinked. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Hermione." He gestured apologetically then crawled that yard towards her. "It's just that sometimes… well, you have this tendency to do things without asking first. Ron said you were 'brilliant but scary.' A bit harsh but …"

"I was worried about you," Hermione interjected quietly.

Harry sighed. "But you didn't talk to me about it. You didn't ask me what I wanted or needed. You took it on yourself -" He held up his hands "- in what you believed to be my best interests, to make decisions for me."

Hermione sniffed. This afternoon was not going well. To hear Harry tell it, she had emulated Dumbledore's methods - and not in a good way.

"It was the same when you spoke to McGonagall about what you'd heard from Ron and the Twins. Why do you think I hadn't spoken to her or Dumbledore about home?"

Hermione's glare softened slightly. "Because you're too decent, because you blame yourself," she responded.

Harry shrugged again. "Perhaps? Perhaps I was worried what would happen if I was removed from the Dursleys' care - and not just to me." He put a reassuring hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You really are brilliant, Hermione, but you can't take decisions on everyone's behalf."

She gave a bitter laugh at that. "McGonagall told me the same thing about S.P.E.W." she admitted.

"She has a point." Harry did not quail under Hermione's glare. "I wouldn't have let you cast that spell on me if you had asked."

Hermione bristled. "Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't want you endangering yourself on my behalf," Harry replied honestly.

"But I choose to stand with you, Harry Potter," Hermione snapped. "You are my friend!"

Calmly, Harry took one of Hermione's hands in his own. "So, it's alright for you to choose, but not for me? That's rather arrogant, isn't it?"

Hermione started to glare at him, but there was no sense of condescension or reproof on Harry's face. What was worse, the more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that he was right.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she admitted, but then hastened to qualify her apology. "For not talking to you. But I'm glad I spoke to McGonagall about the Dursleys." She lifted her chin defiantly. "You don't deserve that!"

Once again Harry smiled. "You don't need to apologise to me, Hermione. We're friends." She was inordinately glad to hear him affirm that their relationship had not been damaged at all. "Just promise that you won't keep things like that a secret again."

Hermione was sure her heart stopped for a beat. That bloody hypothesis gnawed at her conscience again. She had agreed to keep from Harry the possibility that her participation in the Triwizard Tournament could have been a convoluted result of her attempt to protect him magically. She rationalised this, of course, because Harry did have a high threshold for self-blame. And if there were the slightest chance of a plot against Harry, she felt duty-bound to see the whole affair through to the end and unmask those behind the fiendish plan - endangering herself on his behalf, just what he did not want.

So it was with yet another guilty feeling and figuratively fingers-crossed that Hermione gave a curt nod.

"And you'll be pleased to know that Dumbledore visited my aunt and uncle for what he termed 'a little talk'," Harry continued

"About time!" Hermione declared. "Then you won't have to go back there. You can come and stay at the Burrow, or with me …" Her voice trailed off as Harry shook his head. "Why on earth not?" she demanded, her words echoing in the huge Chamber.

"Dumbledore told me that there were powerful protections in place for me at Privet Drive," Harry said with a tinge of sadness in his voice. "Or, more specifically, through Aunt Petunia."

Hermione's mind ticked over. 'Why Harry's aunt? What could be at Privet Drive that could not be found elsewhere?' Like with her, for instance.

Family!

The one thing that Harry craved yet the Dursleys seemed determined to deny him. Petunia was Lily Evans's sister, so she and Harry shared the same -

"Blood," Hermione whispered. She stared in sudden comprehension at Harry. "There's blood wards protecting you, aren't there?"

"Apparently," Harry said offhandedly, not bothering to ask how she knew what those were. "As long as I spend some part of the year there, then I'm always protected, and so are they, according to Dumbledore."

Hermione pondered this new revelation. She had wondered in the past why Harry, with his powerful enemies in the magical world, had never been attacked at Little Whinging since arriving there after that fateful Halloween thirteen years ago. She had never heard of any overt magical safeguards, but this made perfect sense. At Hogwarts, Harry was under the protection of Albus Dumbledore, and although that protection had been tested, so far he had come to no lasting harm. Protective wards, bound by blood, were one of the most powerful of shields.

"So, you have to go back then," she concluded sadly.

Harry nodded. "Not all summer. Just like this year, I can spend some time away, but to renew the wards I have to spend a month there, at least until I'm seventeen."

Hermione was downcast. The thought of Harry having to return back to those … horrid people… actually caused a little stab of pain. Then she felt Harry's hand touch her gently on her shoulder, and she looked up at his face, all calm acceptance of his lot.

"You know," he said softly. "What you did… I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful, Hermione. Not only did you mean well, but it'll probably make things better. Thank you."

She was surprised at the undertone of remorse, and to her slight embarrassment her only response was a rather pitiful sniffle. At that, Harry's fingers gave her shoulder the lightest, most gentle of squeezes. She was rather grateful for the dim light as Harry did not appear to notice her blush before he turned away.

"Back to work, I guess."

There was a tightness in her chest as she found herself staring again after Harry as he started working away at the Basilisk's hide. An unfamiliar, or at least rarely acknowledged, sensation bubbled away in the cauldron of her emotions.

Whatever it was, Hermione Granger vowed to herself that she would remain Harry's protector, watching his back as figuratively as she was literally at this moment. Even if she had yet to sort out her own feelings towards Harry, even if they remained unrequited, she was more determined than ever to act as his guardian angel.

In the damp silence, broken only by the grunts and gasps of exertion, the two friends tackled the next stage of their difficult task, finding enough passably intact skin, flaying it and then scraping off any remnants of flesh, sinew, muscle and bone. It was not the impossible task that would have confronted them had the blood still flowed through the King of Serpents' veins, but with life having long since departed, a series of Diffindo castings produced just enough of the smooth, invaluable hide.

Scouring Charms - the same she used to clean frog guts from under her fingernails - cleaned up the underside quite nicely. Drying Charms finished what they would be able to do in the Chamber.

Hermione looked doubtfully at the volume their efforts had brought forth, wondering if it really was enough. The Basilisk corpse had lain in its underground tomb for too long even for its natural properties to preserve the scaly skin. She glanced up at Harry, and she could tell by his rather dubious expression that the same thoughts were running through his head.

"It'll have to do," she muttered.

It had been Hermione's original intention to ask Molly Weasley to fashion a garment out of their haul, but there had simply not been enough time, with the First Task fixed for the following Tuesday.

Harry was not satisfied with 'have to do'. Therefore he had urged a rather unexpected solution, one that Hermione had previously ruled out. Her realisation that her principles may stand in the way of her survival had led to a cobbled-together compromise and to her grudging acceptance.

"Dobby!"

Harry had learned in advance from Dumbledore that both Dobby and Winky were to join the other Hogwarts' house-elves the previous weekend. Harry's other rather over-zealous protector simply popped into existence in the gloomy cavern.

"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby had lost none of his enthusiasm, and appeared eager to serve the young lad. To Hermione's delight, he was wearing a rather odd assortment of clothing, odd even for this house-elf. She knew how difficult it was for a dismissed and unbound house-elf to find work, and Harry had also let her in on a little secret.

Dobby demanded payment for his services!

Suddenly the ideals that had driven her to found the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare did not appear as ridiculous as almost everyone else believed.

Harry knelt down as Dobby regarded him favourably with his bulbous eyes. "Will Dobby do a favour for Harry Potter?" he asked.

The house-elf appeared pathetically grateful for this request. "Dobby will do anything for Harry Potter sir!" he cried. "Dobby will not even ask to be paid by Harry Potter sir!"

Harry's eyes darted to Hermione's to judge her reaction,. She noticed a grin flickering on his lips as he read the disapproval etched clearly in her expression.

"No, Dobby." No sooner had Harry spoken those words than Dobby's ears curled downwards, his tennis-ball eyes filled with unshed tears, and he removed his tiny knitted hat, twisting it in his out-sized fingers.

"Harry Potter is unhappy with Dobby?" the elf whimpered.

Harry hastened to reassure his small friend. Hermione knew that Dobby was capable of fierce self-punishment. "No, no!" He reached into his pocket and withdrew a few shiny coins. "This is a favour I'm asking for my friend Hermione."

Dobby appeared to be suffering a crisis of indecision over whether to accept money. Hermione knelt down next to Harry, and put her hand on his arm, stopping him from offering the coins to Dobby. She produced her own small purse from the right pocket of her jeans, and opened it. "Dobby," she started gently. "I need your help, and I insist that I pay you for your work." She would not allow Harry to settle on her behalf.

Dobby's eyes darted from Harry to Hermione, then back again, indecision writ large on his over-expressive features. Harry nodded.

Dobby shuffled his feet. "Then Dobby would be proud to work for Harry Potter's Hermy!" he declared with renewed vigour.

There then followed a rather unusually inverted haggling session. Hermione tried to offer too much, Dobby insisted upon too little. But finally payment terms were agreed. Even as Dobby accepted the Galleons, Knuts and Sickles, the elf appeared fearful of incurring Harry's wrath. Harry had to assure Dobby that everything was exactly as he wanted, and that no, under no circumstances should Dobby be punishing himself for being paid by 'Hermy'.

Once Dobby departed, bearing the fruits of the last few hours' endeavours, it seemed that they were finished in the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione had no wish to linger, as the decaying Basilisk was starting to give off a decidedly putrid and unhealthy stench. The frigid water no longer covered it, and neither Harry nor Hermione fancied the effort of renumbering it. The whole place reeked of ancient evil, and by now the continual echo of dripping water was wearing on her nerves.

Ready to leave, Hermione was struck by Harry's rather serious expression. "What is it?" she asked.

Harry started to say something, thought better of it, and looked down at his feet.

"Harry?" Sometimes Hermione's voice sounded just a little too strident, even to her own ears.

Taking a deep breath, Harry intoned one word. "Ron."

That was one subject Hermione would have been pleased to have done without, even more so in the depressing setting of the Chamber. Instead of snapping back, she too took a mouthful of calming, if foul-smelling, air. "What about him?"

Harry kicked idly at a small stone. It ricocheted away in the gloom and landed in one of the water channels with a small splash.

"He's sorry, you know."

Hermione's hackles started to rise. "Sorry!" she repeated. "Sorry? What for?" Her voice started to rise in volume as memories of Ron's deceitful behaviour emerged from her mind. "For not telling me that I could become dragon treats?"

Harry stood his ground, and his voice remained calm. "He did try to tell you."

"Rubbish!" Hermione was now starting to anger. "He never did!" She stamped her foot. "To think I thought he was a friend. He's a back-stabbing, lying, worthless -"

"In the Common Room." Harry's quiet response halted the tirade of abuse before Hermione could gain full flow. "That night that McGonagall announced the Yule Ball."

"No he didn't," Hermione retorted. "He didn't talk to me at all that night. As you may have noticed, we haven't exactly been on speaking terms since he decided that I was an egotistical liar."

Now Harry appeared downcast. "He told me that he tried to tell you that night, but you avoided him and left before he could."

"That's… that's…" Hermione reddened as she replayed the events of that evening in her mind. Ron had acted as though he wanted to talk to her, but she had been afraid he wanted to ask her to the Ball. She had deliberately dodged him, and left the Common Room as soon as she could.

She fell back into dissemblance. "Why do you believe him, anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "Ron's my friend," he replied simply, making Hermione turn a further shade of crimson. "He's never lied to me, even if he can be a right prat."

"He hasn't been much of a friend to me, or hadn't you noticed?" Hermione snapped back, rather more spitefully than she intended. Ron's betrayal had really hurt her on a most personal level.

"I have and I do," Harry declared. "Look, it doesn't make up for what he's said or done since your name came out of the Goblet." Looking rather depressed, Harry sat down once again on Salazar Slytherin's somewhat mossy foot. "But he did try."

Hermione's ire at her former friend was only slightly abated. "He had more than enough opportunities to tell me about the dragons," she pointed out.

Harry held up the palms of his hands in that universal gesture of helplessness. "Yes, I know," he responded. "I'm not defending him, but I felt I owed him to tell you this anyway."

Hermione stood a few feet away. "Why?" she asked quietly.

"He was the first friend of my own age that I ever had" Harry admitted with a brief, bitter smile, "Friendship counts for something."

Hermione knew all too well what Harry meant. She had never been very well endowed in the friendship department herself. In over three years, Harry had not mentioned any schoolboy chums from before coming to Hogwarts, so she did not think he was exaggerating. In fact, she had rather suspected what he just confessed. She knew how lonely he felt.

And the first time Hermione had ever met Harry, he was already swapping sweets and stories with that gangly red-haired boy. It had been nearly another two months until Hermione had become the third part of that trio that was now rendered asunder. And Harry was loyal to a fault.

"He could have said something since then," she pointed out reasonably. "He can speak for himself, you know."

Harry nodded, then his face lit up with that quirky little smile that now had the ability to set Hermione's chest aflutter. "Of course, he may still be wary of the Granger right hook." Hermione's expression remained as stern as before, so Harry changed tack a little. "From what he said, Ron wanted to tell you himself, privately, as part of making up with you. I think that's why he didn't mention it to anyone else… so that he could be the one to tell you."

He looked rather uncomfortable telling her this. Did he share her unstated assessment of Ron's other possible intentions? Did he want that?

Hermione remained quiet, contemplating Harry's revelations, and also the fact that Ron's own brothers had carried out their own measure of interfamilial retaliation for his failure to reveal Charlie's warning. "Alright…" she admitted reluctantly. "Even saying that I accept Ron Weasley's word -" Her eyes flashed dangerously at Harry, who had taken the precaution of wiping any sense of relief from his face "- there's everything else that he's done. Don't expect me to apologise to him, but if he really wants to apologise to me, I'll listen."

Wisely, Harry shook his head, but instead of a smile his face took on a more serious mien.

"What now?" Hermione asked in exasperation. The setting really was playing on her nerves, the topic was upsetting, and she wanted to leave. Someone else should try speaking for himself…

Harry fixed her with what Hermione recognised as his 'Find the Snitch' stare. "I know you didn't enter your name in the Goblet of Fire, and I think I understand why you haven't withdrawn, but why do you think it happened?"

Hermione was momentarily struck dumb. There was her hypothesis, front and centre.

Harry's question struck straight at the nub of her dilemma. Nothing about her situation made sense to her so far. The hypothesis was the only explanation that held any water, as McGonagall and Dumbledore had considered, and Moody had struck out. Could Hermione's little summer spell have interfered with a plot to somehow harm Harry?

And she had promised, first to herself and then to the Headmaster, not to burden Harry with that possibility.

"I… I - I don't know," she responded lamely.

Harry's look was one of frank disbelief. She knew that he knew that she would have covered every possible cause or motive, and would have compiled a mental list of probabilities ranked in order of likelihood. He rose from his perch on Slytherin's foot and stood in front of her. She was afraid he was going to demand the whole truth.

He did not. "You know, if you want to talk about it, I'm ready to listen. After all, that's what you did for me last year."

Hermione was transfixed by his bright-eyed stare. He was so gentle with her, even when she did not deserve it. But just his expression threatened to drag the whole sorry story from deep within her. "I- I can't," she mumbled, looking away so she would not have to lie to those orbs of emerald green.

She shuddered as she felt Harry's fingers slide softly under her chin and slowly tilt it back up. He must have felt that, but he was not going to allow her to escape that easily.

"If it's a secret, then I understand," he said with patience and just a hint of tenderness. "It's just…" Harry's hand moved from under her chin to her shoulder. "Well, I'm worried about you - and it's more than dragons!"

Hermione shivered, less from a reminder of the First Task, than from the honest sense of caring she knew underpinned those words. She also felt too close to him, like before the Twins had interrupted. If he…

Instead, Harry mentioned the same place, if not event. "Last night I spoke with Sirius through the Common Room fireplace."

Her warm, fuzzy feeling left in a trice. "You did what?" Hermione's anxiety was clear. "Harry, that was far too dangerous. You could have been caught!"

Harry shook his head, his expression now grave. "Doesn't matter." His other hand came up and rested on what had been her free shoulder. "He told me that Karkaroff was a Death Eater at one point in the past."

"Karkaroff?"

Harry nodded. "Yup! Sirius said he stayed out of Azkaban only by grassing on other Death Eaters, giving the Ministry their names." His look was one of fierce concentration. "Don't you see, Hermione? It could all have been set up to get at you!"

For a second, Hermione was relieved that Harry had not seen himself as the intended target of any nefarious plan. Then she shook her head. "No…" she muttered. "That doesn't make sense."

Harry's hands left her shoulders as he took a step back. "What do you mean?" he asked in a tone of surprise.

"When it happened, Karkaroff was determined that I shouldn't be allowed to compete," Hermione recalled that Halloween all too well. "Even more so than the others…" She lapsed into silence. What if Karkaroff had merely been disappointed when Hermione Granger had turned up instead of Harry Potter?

No, he had been outraged at Hogwarts being allowed to enter two Champions. Nothing the Durmstrang headmaster had said or done indicated that he was other than perplexed and outraged at that fact there was a fourth competitor, rather than their identity.

"What would anyone want with me, anyway?" Hermione continued before catching herself.

At that remark, Harry paused, as if unsure. She could read that much in his eyes. Was he going to say something? Had she given away her hypothesis?

"I… Don't sell yourself short, Hermione," he said in a voice that sounded unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

Hermione now tried to reassure them both. "Lucius Malfoy wanted me expelled or the competition cancelled," she muttered. "So that wouldn't make any sense. There can't have been any plan to drag me into the Triwizard Tournament, since the most likely suspects have effectively ruled themselves out of suspicion by their own words and actions."

And, she thought, if Harry had been the intended victim, then no-one had followed up with another attempt following their first failure. She shook her head, more to clear it of these contradictory thoughts than to indicate disagreement with her friend. That was one of the reasons for her fight to stay in the competition, and for her continued participation until the truth was revealed.

"Let's go," she said with feeling. "This place reeks."

They left the Chamber of Secrets behind them. Hermione frankly hoped they would never have occasion to return. Even if no trace of Tom Riddle remained, the ghost of his personality still managed to taint the atmosphere - along with the rotting Basilisk.

If sliding down the chute from the Girls' Bathroom was easy, making their way back up under their own power was hard. Both emerged filthy dirty, and quite knackered from the effort of continuous swish and flick castings of Wingardium Leviosa. Hermione cleaned up first herself and then Harry with Scourgify and Evanesco, ignoring the sounds of mirth emanating from the pipes inhabited by Moaning Myrtle.

How had that ghost learnt about mud wrestling, anyway?

Ready to go, she stopped and faced her friend. "Thanks Harry!"

He looked rather abashed. Hermione wondered if he had an inbred uncertainty over receiving praise or appreciation, based upon a complete lack of it from just after his first to his eleventh birthdays, thanks once again to the Dursleys. Contemplating how introverted Harry had been when he arrived at Hogwarts made her blood boil, and she entertained the odd dark thought about possible futures for the Dursleys. As Flobberworms, for example …

"Umm… Hermione?" Harry's voice derailed that impractical train of thought.

He was deliberately looking away from her, at his feet, at the washbasins and taps, anywhere but at her.

"Yes?" Had he seen her scowling?

When he lifted his face, she could see he was flushed red. "It's about the Yule Ball."

Hermione's heart suddenly froze in her chest. Was Harry about to ..?

"I've never had to ask for a date," Harry said, wholly lacking in conviction. Immobilised no longer, Hermione's heart began beating madly of its own accord.

"It's just that… well, there's this girl who I want to ask to the dance, but she's in a different House…"

Hermione's heart turned to lead and crashed into her gut. "Cho Chang," she muttered with more than a hint of bitterness, as she turned away to compose herself. 'Silly Hermione,' she berated herself for momentarily raising her spirits then crushing them.

Harry's eyes were nearly as wide as Dobby's had been earlier. "How… how did you know?" he asked rather haltingly.

Hermione took a deep breath and shrugged. "Woman's intuition," she replied rather too blithely. "She's a lucky girl, Harry. Just go out and ask her. Now can you go? I'd really like to use the facilities." She suddenly did not want him around any longer; she felt so empty at the moment.

"Thanks! See you later," he called out as he turned. His sudden enthusiasm grated on her already raw feelings. He reached for the door handle. "By the way, who's your partner?"

Hermione regarded him grimly. "I haven't decided yet," she muttered as she walked into the nearest stall and slammed the door shut. Honestly! Boys!

Strange how that fact suddenly hurt so much when she still faced an ordeal that threatened her physical survival.

* * * * *

Monday evening and Hermione was once again ensconced in the Library, working hard on her Arithmancy homework. The possibility that she may not be around to hand it in to Professor Vector had occurred to her, but in that event she was determined not to leave anything undone.

It also helped take her mind off tomorrow's event. She was nervous enough about that as it was. Every moment that her mind was not fixed upon a specific academic problem, she found it preoccupied with fears about dragons. Hence the Arithmancy homework.

Viktor Krum had not made an appearance, and as a consequence the Library was spared the attentions of 'Krum's Corps' as the Bulgarian's admiring followers had come to be known in some quarters. Thus her surroundings were as sparsely occupied as normal on a Monday.

All too soon the homework was completed, and Hermione was left alone with her trepidations about the morrow. 'What if the plan did not work? What if she was not fast enough? What if ..?'

She shook her head. What she needed most was a good night's rest, but sleep had been elusive for some days now, her mind invaded even then by those same dragons that haunted her waking moments.

As she was leaving the Library, Hermione caught some softly-spoken words.

"You know, you'll be alright."

Hermione turned. There was a younger girl, sitting at one of the desks, her face obscured behind the book she was reading. An upside-down book.

'Ah,' Hermione thought. 'Loony Lovegood.'

The third-year Ravenclaw put down her book and Hermione was struck by how utterly untroubled the younger girl appeared.

"You are far stronger than you appear," Luna said in that quiet, matter-of-fact, tone.

Intrigued, Hermione's reply was a little waspish. "You seem to disagree with Professor Trelawny then."

Luna showed no sign of having been interrupted. "And you're not alone, you know." She returned her attention to the volume on the desk, picking it up every bit as topsy-turvy as before, and seemingly no longer interested in conversation. Hermione wondered if Luna really did read upside down, or if it was all an act.

"Daddy said he would like to talk to you after you finish the First Task," Luna continued, eyes still fixed on the pages in front of her.

"Daddy?"

Luna's look was as dreamy as ever, and Hermione found it rather disturbing to be the subject of that unfocussed silvery-grey stare. "He edits The Quibbler. Have you ever read it?"

Hermione had. She recalled a rather unreliable magazine with plenty of stories that were fantastical even by the magical world's capricious standards of plausibility. "Only a few times," she admitted, which was the truth. "Anyway I have to get through the task first."

"Oh, you'll manage that well enough," Luna replied as though dismissing a minor debating point. "Wit without measure is man's greatest treasure."

With that, Luna raised the inverted cover of her book for the last time, concluding what Hermione believed to be her most confusing conversation at Hogwarts.

At least Hermione's worries were momentarily sidetracked, and thoughts of the strange Ravenclaw and her father's magazine left her wondering. Not until she had stepped through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor Common Room was Hermione aware that the atmosphere was out of kilter.

For a start, the room was eerily silent, despite being chock full of students. It was the silence that often follows a storm. The way every face turned towards her was more than a little unnerving, even if by now boringly repetitive.

Harry was standing apart from everyone else, breathing hard from some unknown exertion or excitement. His was the last head to turn in her direction, and Hermione saw his face was flushed. Beads of perspiration ran down his brow.

"What?" Hermione croaked through a suddenly tight throat.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing to worry about, Hermione," he replied in a rather taut tone. "Just a minor disagreement about Quidditch."

Hermione took in the tense looks on the faces of the older students, and the odd expression of confusion on the few younger ones still up at that hour. Instinctively she knew that whilst Harry was being truthful, he was also being economical with that commodity. But Harry was right; now was not the time to press her friend.

"Okay," she responded warily. "I'm going to try for an early night."

Harry nodded curtly. "See you tomorrow."

As she left the Common Room behind and ascended the stairs, Hermione had a second unusual event that evening to take her mind off of what the next day might bring.

Yet she still had one last personal task to perform.

* * * * *

When Hermione's alarm literally told her it was 'time to rise and shine' she could have sworn her eyes had only closed a few moments ago. Sleep had been elusive, with the First Task and her plans tormenting her thoughts. And she was not sure if she was awake or just dozing when the dragon had chased her through the school corridors, encouraged in its pursuit by Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy.

The bathroom mirror, again literally, did not lie. "You look a real mess, dear." Hermione had snapped back that she was on a date with a dragon, and that personal appearance would not count for much. Offended, the mirror restricted itself to sporadic tutting.

After paying Crookshanks more attention than usual, Hermione arrived for breakfast. The Great Hall was still sparsely populated at that hour. As she walked past the foot of the House tables she drew some intrigued glances from fellow early risers.

She was equally intrigued to find Harry up at that hour. She suspected he was waiting for her, so that she would not have to eat breakfast alone on this of all days.

Appetite was a problem, as Hermione found she had completely lost hers. Harry reminded her that he had felt exactly the same way before his first Quidditch match, and that she had all but forced him to eat then. Claiming to be "your Hermione," Harry promised non-stop badgering until she ate something to keep her strength up.

Recognising the rationale behind his words, and a little peeved at having her own instructions turned on herself, Hermione had tried some toast and a rasher of smoked back bacon, but in her mouth the normally tasty Hogwarts fare appeared to turn into ashes.

It was worse than the hours before any examination. Idly Hermione wondered if Harry experienced this sickness in the pit of his stomach and the unbearable dryness in the throat before he played Quidditch. She rather doubted it, since he liked the sport so much - and was so good at it.

As the Hall started to fill, Hermione was more than aware that she, like three similarly situated individuals, was the subject of intense interest from the student fraternity. In some ways, she hoped the hours would pass quickly, as the experience of waiting was nigh-on unbearable, yet the other half of her wished she had her Time Turner back, so she could defer the moment of truth indefinitely.

Ginny and Neville joined the two friends, and bought into the unspoken pact to leave the great issue of the day dormant. Yet it was impossible to ignore it completely. To Hermione's considerable surprise the odd Gryffindor, up to now almost universally antipathetic to her travails, came up and quietly wished her good luck. Dean Thomas and Seamus were amongst the first, then the Quidditch trio of Angelina, Alicia and Katie had approached, rather shamefaced, apologising for not offering their support earlier. Hermione was perceptive enough to notice that all of them glanced at Harry to her side. Had he told them about the dragon?

Fred and George were rather more effusive in their encouragement, radiating confidence that the Gryffindor Champion had nothing to worry about. Hermione's nerves, already jangling, worried about their overconfidence in her abilities but knew that their support went beyond mere words.

One notable absentee from the goodwill stakes was Ron, who crept in and sat as far away from Harry and Hermione as he could. Hermione was not surprised that in her nervous state Ron's actions still caused her a pang of pain.

She dealt with that by reminding herself that, even though Ron knew full well what she would face in a few hours, he still had not bothered to offer her an apology. She wondered what exactly Harry had told him, but if Harry was not volunteering to divulge that information, she would not press him. That reasoning did not abate the pain.

Following still more gentle coaxing from Harry, Hermione was tackling a boiled egg when one of the younger Gryffindors, Natalie MacDonald, cautiously approached her. Hermione had coached her, along with other First Years, on homework at the start of the school year. Natalie tentatively handed over a sealed envelope before turning tail and fleeing back to the safety of her contemporaries.

Hermione stared at the envelope as if it was a Howler. "Why don't you open it?" suggested Harry, a smile starting to break out on his face.

When she did so, she heard the tinny resonance of charmed voices that had yet to break puberty shouting "Good luck Hermione!" Withdrawing the card, she saw on the front a wizarding picture of the youngest Gryffindors, all smiling and waving their best wishes.

"My idea!" a breathless voice announced. Hermione glanced up, and Colin Creevey was standing there beaming, clutching his camera. "Well, Dennis and me!" In a snap the camera was raised again, and by the time Hermione's eyes had cleared from the bright flare, Colin had gone.

Her emotions were already running high, and her as eyes started to water, not just from the photographic flash, Hermione rose quickly to her feet. "Thanks," she mumbled, feeling overcome. She wiped her eyes and clutched the card to her chest. Then, before Harry or anyone else could react, she fled the Great Hall, walking at first, but gradually picking up the pace, seeking the anonymity of a classroom in which she could find refuge before her real lesson of the day started.

Unfortunately, that first class was History of Magic, and Professor Binns could not compete against her impending meeting with a dragon. With a free period after the mid-morning break, Hermione dreaded having nothing to fill those hours except her fears.

Instead Harry almost dragged her into a free classroom, where he spent the next two hours talking through Hermione's plan, point-by-point. He even produced his father's Invisibility Cloak, once again pressing the offer of a loan to Hermione, but she was unmoved. Still, the preparation gave Hermione something concrete to focus upon.

She also obtained Harry's reluctant agreement not to interfere in the First Task in any way, shape, or form; specifically that there would be no appearance by Prongs. She found it both unsettling and profoundly comforting that she doubted his ability to keep on the sidelines if her life were threatened. Still, she reminded Harry that is was her decision to make. That hung Harry on his won petard, as he had delivered an almost identical message to her only a few days ago. Grudgingly he professed to accede to Hermione's wishes. Two could play at role reversal.

Hermione also found herself perturbed by the reversal in roles. Harry had been a constant in her life for over three years. Always, if there had been someone standing anxiously on the sidelines in the past, it had been her. Now she knew he would be experiencing that unique mixture of dread and distant support, so familiar to her, but unable to interfere.

Did she envy him? Having been frequently in those shoes, Hermione could not say for sure.

Lunch was more of an ordeal than breakfast, as now the Great Hall was filled to capacity. For every visiting Gryffindor wishing her all the best, there was a sneering Slytherin looking forward to her being brought down to earth with a resounding crash. Her appetite remained notable only through its continued absence, the cottage pie she had selected escaped untouched.

Hermione could not be sure if she was relieved or fearful when a pinch-faced McGonagall arrived, hovering close. "Miss Granger, the Champions are to retire into the grounds now. You must prepare for the First Task."

The butterflies that had spent the entire morning fluttering about her stomach disappeared, to be replaced by a heavy sinking feeling. Hermione rose to her feet, just a little shaky. She glanced across the Great Hall to see Professor Sprout collecting the much taller Cedric Diggory. Viktor and Delacour were nowhere to be seen.

Harry, Ginny, Neville and the Twins had also risen to their feet, and gathered around Hermione. She made out "You'll be fine" and "Good luck" but the whole experience seemed rather remote to her at the moment. Her out of body experience ended, and Hermione snapped back into reality, when a familiar face stepped in front of her.

"I'll see you later," was all Harry could say in a voice rather thicker than normal.

Hermione found her throat so constricted that even if she had found the words she could not say them. Abandoning words she impulsively hugged Harry tightly, both arms thrown about his neck. Then, after releasing the surprised boy, she picked up her book bag and turned to face McGonagall. The professor's expression had been schooled into an impressive neutrality.

As the two Gryffindor women, generations apart but so similar in other ways, made their way into the December afternoon, Hermione was not sure who was the more nervous of the two. McGonagall was the opposite of her usual impassive self. She chattered continuously, reminding Miss Granger that she would be all right as long as she kept a cool head; that if anything went wrong Miss Granger was not to panic as they had plenty of trained wizards on hand; that Miss Granger should re-check to ensure she had everything she needed; that it was not too late to pull out…

The weather was, as McGonagall put it, rather driech - that miserable winter combination of cold, lowering clouds and precipitation that managed to be neither mist nor drizzle. It rather matched both women's mood. A pessimist would have described it as funereal. An optimist would have dispensed with any description and focussed on something else.

For Hermione every step dragged and every moment hung. She spoke not a word in response to McGonagall's torrent. Before her mind had attuned itself to the reality of her predicament, Hermione found herself at the entrance to a large tent at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. In the background a massive wooden enclosure rose towards the heavens. In the analytical part of Hermione Granger's brain that remained operational even in times of great stress, it registered that there had to be magical protection in place, otherwise dragon fire and wood was a more than combustible combination.

Suddenly silent, McGonagall stood as though lost. She seemed unwilling to look at Hermione for a moment. "I must leave you here, Miss Granger," she said in a very strained fashion, quite unlike her normal voice. "Mister Bagman will be…" She broke off and turned to her star pupil. "Remember, if you are in real trouble, assistance will be at hand. You don't have to see it through. The dr-" McGonagall stopped herself, took a deep breath, then carried on in rather more hushed tones. "Please, Hermione, be careful."

Hermione still could not quite believe this was happening to her, so distant did reality appear. "I will," she replied shakily. Then she remembered there was one last matter. "Professor McGonagall?" She reached inside her school robes and withdrew a sealed scroll of parchment. "If I… if something happens to me, please give this to my parents."

McGonagall appeared stricken and initially seemed to recoil from the scroll, but she husbanded her emotions and took the proffered document.

"It explains everything," Hermione added. It had been the most difficult letter she had ever had to write, and she had been quite pleased that Parvati and Lavender had respected her privacy the previous evening. She hoped that if her Mum and Dad did have to read it, they would understand, but she harboured her doubts.

McGonagall seemed to catch something in her throat, then swallowed. "The best of luck, Miss Granger. I will return this to you later this evening." Then, seemingly reluctant to abandon one of her own Gryffindor cubs, the austere Transfiguration teacher turned and walked away, her step nowhere as steady as usual. Hermione watched her disappear into the mizzle and shivered involuntarily, a reaction that was only in part due to the wintry Highlands' weather.

Inside the tent, she found the other three champions. Cedric was pacing up and down; he only offered a perfunctory nod to acknowledge her existence. Fleur Delacour was no longer the unflappable avatar of cool Gallic chic, but a quite nervous and pasty-faced teenaged girl. She did not acknowledge Hermione at all, but because of heightened anxiety rather than any measure of contempt.

Viktor Krum sat emotionlessly on a small wooden bench, staring hard at staring at one small patch of canvas. Hermione did not dare interrupt his mental preparations, regardless of their fledgling friendship. She pondered whether Viktor was the same before the Quidditch World Cup Final… Her irrelevant thoughts were interrupted when Ludo Bagman, dressed incongruously in garish old Quidditch robes, addressed them with rather mis-placed good humour.

"Right! Now that we're all here, time to fill you in…"

* * * * *

If Hermione was tormented by morning hours, then the next hour or so stretched out into an interminable purgatory.

After Mr. Bagman had explained that they would be facing dragons - "Nothing to worry about, plenty of trained handlers in attendance" - and that their task would be to collect a golden egg, Hermione could tell by the lack of reaction that both Cedric and Fleur had not been caught unawares. At least her assumptions had been correct, and her plans had proven relevant, an achievement that brought her only a brief spark of reassurance.

A significant flaw in her strategy was revealed when Bagman informed the competitors that possession of an intact golden egg was a prerequisite for participating in the Second Task. Failure would result in immediate disqualification. Hermione blanched at that. The consequences in that event had been made crystal clear to her.

On the principle of ladies first, and hospitality towards visitors, Fleur, the Beauxbatons' representative, would draw first, with Hermione second. Nothing at all to do with her part-Veela charm, a small feminine voice in the back of Hermione's mind bitched.

Hermione drew a tiny dragon that stretched its wings and burped out a ring of smoke that formed the number four. She barely took in Bagman's comment that it was a Hungarian Horntail, important though that information was. In her current state of mental stress, Hermione was unsure if delaying her moment of truth worked any advantage or comfort. The competitive shard of her psyche insisted that the sooner the better, for good or ill.

After the selections were completed, Bagman had withdrawn. The Champions each had a small closed section of the rectangular tent as a changing area. Going about her business, Hermione heard the first of the crowd start to arrive. Their nervous excited chatter and shouts were clearly distinguishable above the thump of feet on a mixture of damp pathway and hard earth that was fast turning to mud underfoot

Dobby had delivered the emerald-green Basilisk-skin singlet and bottoms to Hermione's bedside the previous evening. There had been enough hide to cover her from ankle to neck, with full length sleeves, although her head would remain unprotected. It was quite a snug fit, and Hermione was not used to clothes that clung to her figure with such dedication, although the importance of there not being any layer of air between her skin and its protection was clear. For the same reason she had to discard both her knickers and her bra.

Worried about being underdressed, she surprisingly found that she was neither too hot nor too cold, a comfort that she ascribed to the magical properties of the hide. To avoid appearing ridiculous in what amounted to a green snakeskin catsuit, over the top she pulled on an old Radio Oxford sweatshirt and a thick pair of jeans. Then she laced up a rugged pair of hiking boots. Finally, Hermione tied her long hair back into a ponytail, and tucked it inside the top of her sweatshirt.

There were two more objects that Hermione had spent the morning double, triple and quadruple-checking were still present in her book bag. Glancing around, paranoid that she might be observed, she shrunk these down so that they fitted inside her jean pockets. Finally she secured her wand between the belt on her jeans and one of the front belt loops.

The wait did nothing for Hermione's shredded nerves, which far eclipsed even her worst pre-exam experiences. Despite the empty pit now residing where her stomach was supposed to be, she experienced nausea that made her regret eating anything at all that day. As ready as she would ever be, Hermione stood at the doorway of her changing room, watching the other Champions.

Cedric's pacing betrayed his own level of anxiety. Fleur was even more ashen-faced than before, with her now bloodless complexion approaching the silvery sheen of her hair. The atmosphere was one of palpable tension. Even Viktor's impassivity managed to scream that he was jumpy. The sound of multiple footsteps as the advanced party of the crowd passed outside the tent had now changed into an indistinguishable rumble as the main body arrived in their hundreds.

When Cedric's name was called, Hermione tried to wish him good luck, but found her throat too dry to emit anything except a squeak. It was enough for Cedric though, who turned and tried to smile at her clear good intentions. His smile was an equally pallid effort by the Hufflepuff favourite. The tent flap swung back as he disappeared from sight.

Seconds later a roar from the crowd behind the enclosure walls shook the tent, and made both Hermione and Fleur jump. There was not enough water to quench either Hermione's thirst or her fear. A river would not have sufficed.

At the sound of the first scream, even the stolid Viktor flinched, interrupting his intense study of that exact same patch of canvas. Hermione scrunched up her eyes and covered her ears with her hands to shut out Bagman's inane and bombastic commentary, and to ignore Fleur, who was now pacing up and down the tent like an angry tigress, muttering dire imprecations under her breath in French.

It seemed hours passed until there was a tremendous cheer that penetrated even Hermione's embargoed hearing. She blinked and uncovered her ears, for a second confused. Then she realised that Cedric must have been successful and gained the golden egg. Bagman's ecstatic commentary ascended to even more overblown heights as he called for the judges to deliver their verdicts. At that, even Viktor showed some minute amount of interest.

Cedric did not re-enter the tent. Instead, the running commentary had ceased, and the reason soon became clear. Ludo Bagman reappeared, holding the tent flap open. "Mademoiselle Delacour, s'elle vous plait."

That instruction seemed to put some more heart into Fleur. From trembling from head to toe for the past twenty minutes, she composed herself. With a haughty flick of her impossibly blonde hair, she departed with head held high.

Soon the roars of the crowd and Bagman's immoderate hyperbole once again penetrated the sanctuary of the tent. Hermione glanced at Viktor, and was mildly astonished to find his state of apparent meditation had changed subtly. Instead of staring intently, his eyes were closed. He now sat calmly, his hands resting on his knees, his lips moved as he silently mouthed words and phrases, presumably in his native Bulgarian. Hermione speculated idly if Viktor were like this in the locker rooms around the world. Thinking about Viktor helped keep her mind off what was happening beyond the wooden stockade.

As soon as the crowd erupted in rapturous applause, signifying a positive result for La Belle France, Viktor's eyes snapped open. Taking two deep breaths, he was on his feet before Bagman appeared in the tent entrance, striding towards his fate. But Viktor stopped just before leaving, turned back to Hermione, and reached inside his tunic-like shirt, holding in his fingers what appeared to be some small charm on a cord tied loosely around his neck. "Blagodarnosti, Hermy-own-ninny Granger," he called out, then raised the shiny object, brushing it briefly against his rather colourless lips. "Dobur kusmet!"

"Good luck!" Hermione's words drifted out as Viktor disappeared beyond the canvas veil. She was alone now, with her fears closing in on her. If she had felt isolated when her name had been called out in the Great Hall on Halloween, or even when left behind by McGonagall barely an hour ago, Hermione felt totally abandoned now.

"Good luck, Hermione."

Her head jerked up and her back stiffened. Was she hearing things? She turned in the direction of the sound.

"No, don't," the familiar voice whispered. "I'm not supposed to be here, but I wanted to tell you that I believe in you, and I know you'll be okay."

"Harry, what are you doing here?" Hermione hissed.

"Once they announced the order of participation, I didn't want you to be by yourself," he told her. "You can do this, I know it. You're the most brilliant person I've ever met, and that includes Dumbledore…"

"Thanks, Harry, but you really need to go," she told him. "They'll catch you."

"They'd have to see me first," he chuckled. Only Harry could laugh at a time like this.

Hermione, despite the circumstances, found herself grinning too.

But then there was a tremendous cheer from beyond, and a rhythmic chant in Viktor's honour broke out.

"Krum! Krum!"

"Time to go," Harry said. "I can't wait to see your golden egg." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw… nothing… slip out between two overlapping sheets at the rear of the tent. Even though she had seen - or rather, not seen - it before, it was still a slightly disconcerting experience.

Now truly alone, but feeling considerably better, and despite her own impending match with a dragon, Hermione strained to listen, and divine the events and Viktor's progress. Certainly Ludo Bagman appeared to be highly impressed. His voice approached fever pitch as he attempted to describe how Krum swooped and soared. So, Viktor had decided to utilise his own almost preternatural abilities on a broomstick. Despite being in her own tight spot, Hermione could not help but break into a brief, rueful smile of admiration for the Bulgarian. That made perfect sense: the World's greatest Quidditch star would have had to be an incompetent fool or an absolute oaf seriously to consider any other means. Hermione knew Viktor Krum was neither.

Then she shook her head. She was every bit as guilty as those ridiculous girls who traipsed around in Viktor's footsteps, stereotyping the intelligent Bulgarian. For all Hermione knew, Viktor could have been far more proficient in any number of other fields of magic besides simply zipping about the sky on a cleaning implement.

Despite her faith in Viktor's skills, he had not yet finished with the dragon. She found her own heart and stomach dipping and diving along with Bagman's voice. His commentary was breaking up in the heat of the moment. It provided a frenzied counterpoint to the sudden shrill screams and gasps from the gathered attendance, describing the Chinese Fireball take wing and -

"Oh my goodness! I thought he'd had it then! Damn fine flying! Right out of her jaws. Still, that Nimbus must have been singed - it's smoking like a fine cheroot!"

A nauseous sensation materialised as bile in Hermione's throat, and she bent down with her hand to her mouth, shaking like a leaf. She now wished Harry had stayed. In her preoccupation she missed the crescendo in Bagman's performance, but she could not miss the tremendous cheers from the crowd and the stamping of nigh on a thousand feet left the tent shaking violently, let alone the enclosure.

Ashen-faced, Hermione turned towards the entrance and the noise.

"He's done it! Krum the magnificent! Krum the indefatigable! Fastest of the three so far… Bloody marvellous!" There was a slight break, then he continued in a rather more restrained manner, one not intended for public broadcast. "I say, has any of you something to sooth the old throat?"

The raucous cries of Durmstrang in praise of their finest were as a tolling bell to Hermione. Now her own judgement hour had arrived.

Her legs were reluctant to move and her hands shook with tremors, even as Ludo Bagman announced her name. Hermione's whole world suddenly narrowed to that small pathway before her, only a few yards in length, through the trees that led to a gap in the wooden enclosure. She did not notice if anyone applauded her introduction.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to dispel a sudden light-headedness, Hermione forced her unwilling legs to move towards destiny. Unprompted, the lyrics of a song drifted into her head, and she found herself murmuring under her breath.

'When you walk through a storm…'

Somehow it gave her a greater degree of hope.

Stepping through the palisade and into the arena, Hermione's found her mind had almost ceased to function. Her senses were assailed by the sight, sound and smell of a crowd that was far too large to fit into such a limited capacity stadium. Stands towered above her, leading to the impression of an arena somehow foreshortened but simultaneously reached up to the sky.

It was the sudden silence, a tangible sense of expectation and anticipation from the gathered attendance, that brought Hermione back to what passed for reality. Just then, one corner of the crowd, marked by colours of red and gold, erupted unexpectedly.

Thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump, thump!

"GRANGER!"

Hundreds of throats roared their appreciation for their unexpected and discounted, yet newly found, favourite. Hermione had to blink a tear from her eye as she saw Dean and Seamus lead the Gryffindors in repeated choruses of an old football terrace chant. The feet and fists that slammed into the wood appeared to make that whole stand shake. Even Hermione felt it. The shock travelled through the hard ground and up through the soles of her feet.

She no longer wondered how Harry could appear so inspired when he played Quidditch if this support could put so much heart into her. She started to breathe again, and one hand crept down to her belt, brushing her wand.

Yet the crowd could not help her. She was rudely reminded of that fact when, attempting to spot Harry in the throng, her eyes latched instead onto a nervous looking Charlie Weasley, standing in front of the barriers protecting the crowd. His interest lay not in the entrance of another competitor, but was focussed on the opposite side of the arena.

A ferocious, blood-curdling roar drew Hermione's attention back to the matter in hand and drew her eyes in the same direction as Charlie's long-distance gaze. At the far end of the enclosure, across a rocky depression, she found her first real, live, fully-grown adult dragon.

The Hungarian Horntail was no elegant beast. Instead it showed its roots in far more ancient, indeed prehistoric, times. Massive bony plates and huge leathery wings spoke of an ancestry dating back to the dinosaurs, pterosaurs and other antediluvian monsters. As Hermione stared into its ferocious yellow-tinged eyes, the thought flashed through her mind that she should never have contemplated taking part.

The Horntail uncurled itself from its protective stance around a nest of large, oblate eggs. From her distant standpoint, Hermione could not make out in the dim mid-afternoon light which was the golden egg. Instead her attention was riveted on the creature that was starting to unfurl its wings, and an enormous spiked tail started to peep out from behind its massive armoured flank. It was huge! How could she ever think she could…

Hermione froze. Her mind was overwhelmed by the raw majesty and fearsome power of the Horntail as it began a slow advance across the broken ground of the arena. Her nerves screamed at her to move, to run for her life, but her brain had simply seized up in the face of her quandary. The buzz of the crowd, the colours surrounding her, to all extents and purposes, ceased to exist.

Three very dissimilar sounds, coming in extremely quick succession, saved Hermione's life.

A high-pitched scream came from within the crowd as someone, later established as Ginny, first realised what was about to happen.

The Horntail roared its defiance at the gathered assembly and especially this rather small individual foolish enough to stand within striking range.

Last, and most importantly, was Harry's shouted exhortation. "Move, Hermione! Move!"

They had the sudden cumulative effect of an early morning cold shower. Hermione blinked, and saw the Horntail, now only forty yards away. Its ribcage expanded, indicating a large inhalation. She instinctively recognised what would comprise the exhalation.

With a rather inadequate squeal, Hermione flung herself to her right, crashing into the stony ground behind a small row of boulders just as a wave of magical flame burst all around her. Her face seared as currents of superheated air flowed inches above her head. The sense of heat was nigh on unbearable. Hermione screwed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her chest.

An unnatural silence followed, broken only by a gentle hissing, Hermione summoned up a soupcon of courage and slowly opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was the reddened skin on the backs of her hands. Her cheeks stung as though she had a mild case of sunburn, no doubt for the same reason.

The air surrounding her was filled with white vapour, as the fire had vaporized all the small puddles and rivulets of water from the rocks, as well as the airborne moisture in the cool Highlands' atmosphere.

Very slowly Hermione raised her head, and peeked over the top of the boulder which she serendipitously had landed precisely behind. Even that fraction of a movement caught the Horntail's attention. From the corner of an eye she caught a brief flash of flame and dived back under cover as a spurt of fire ripped into the space her head had occupied a split second earlier. Hissing and fizzing sounded in her ears along with a crackling sound. Superheated water deep in cracks and fissures boiled and started to open splits in the boulders.

The adrenalin now pumping through her veins, Hermione started to think rationally for the first time since sighting the dragon. The beast appeared no closer than when it unleashed its first attack. All it had to do was advance and either loom over or peer around the rocky barrier that was currently her salvation, and she would be burnt to a crisp.

This time, Hermione stayed low and edged towards the end boulder. Splinters of rock and small stones dug into the palms of her hands and poked through the denim protecting her knees. Agonisingly slowly, she crawled forward on her elbows until she had a line of sight around the rocks and towards the centre of the arena.

A curtain of whitish-grey mist covered the depression, but a substantial shadow shifting ponderously within marked the presence of the Horntail. Hermione could clearly hear its rasping breath, and the sound of its sharp talons scrambling for an effective foothold on the broken ground. Then, without warning, another burst of flame tore aside the mist, and Hermione cowered back behind the rocks.

It only took her a second to realise that the fire was aimed some yards to her left, at her original location, and that the Horntail had failed to make an appreciable move forward. It was effectively firing blind, with the mixture of heat and moisture acting as a smokescreen, providing some welcome, albeit unexpected, cover against the dragon's other sensory apparatus.

Its failure to advance indicated that it either could not, or would not, go further away from its nest than it was currently. She had not had time to tell if in addition it was magically tethered or restrained. Whether there was any sort of protective ward, to provide competitors with a safety zone as well as preventing the crowd becoming a late reptilian lunch, she had no means of telling - nor, if there were such a ward, how far it extended.

One fact was clear. She could either stay where she was, and await either a lucky strike from the dragon, or linger long enough to find if there was a time limit for disqualification. Her other option was to attempt to extricate herself from this predicament by following her plan and striking out after her goal.

If she chose the former, then she might as well snap her wand in two herself, and save the Ministry the bother.

If she chose the latter, then she needed to make her way around the thoroughly aware and riled Horntail.

Clarity of thought was welcome at this stage. Hermione had concocted a plan. Now she needed the bottle to follow it through.

Very carefully, Hermione raised her head above the rocky parapet. She was mildly surprised to find her hands, cautiously placed on the top of the boulder, came away blackened by soot. Beneath that dark layer the scorched rock was burnished and smooth. Now she appreciated the magical properties of dragon fire at close, personal, range.

The dragon was not so clearly visible now, but she could hear its great bulk moving within the haze, judging by the pops of smaller rocks being crushed beneath its weight.

The cover afforded her by the steam was a factor Hermione had not considered. The meant that she had the perfect time to put her plan in motion. In a reflex motion her right hand moved to her waist to take a hold of her wand…and found nothing.

With a sharp stab of panic, Hermione glanced down. Her wand was missing, a fact borne out when both her soot-smeared hands covered the same area as her eyes, with the same dismal result.

She looked frantically around. She was sure she had her wand with her when she entered the enclosure, certain she remembered feeling its reassuring presence.

What if she had dropped it? What if … it had been in the line of dragon fire? Was it burned to a frazzle?

Just as that suffocating blanket of nerves started to envelop her, Hermione was dimly aware that the dragon appeared impatient, judging by the sound of sharp movement and short gasps of breath. Some sixth sense made her look up.

Something was moving quickly out there, something cleaving its way through the mist, something far too fast to be -

With a sharp hiss it smashed into her face, the blow sending Hermione's head up and back. She reeled drunkenly backwards, tripping over her own feet and landing with bruising force on the unyielding ground.

Dazed, Hermione emitted a low groan. Her mouth and nose were numb, a viscous liquid filled her oral cavity, and left a coppery taste on her tongue. Dimly she recognised the taste as blood; her mind took a second or two to process the fact it was her own. Then she started to gag, and spat out a large globule of blood, along with something rather more solid and substantial.

Through the fog in her own brain, Hermione wondered who had thrown that brick at her. She was having trouble breathing. Was this related to the blow?

Tentatively, she raised her hand to her face, fingers tracing the outline of her nose and lips. She was rather surprised that when she took her hand away it was sticky with blood, not immediately making the connection with the metallic tang in her mouth.

'What the Hell was that?'

Dragging herself to her knees, Hermione shook her head in an attempt to clear it from its current foggy state. The sharp pang of pain she created actually helped bring more of her senses back towards normality.

She had to breathe with her mouth open, as she found her nose was painfully blocked. The cool air drawn over open wounds in her gums was noticeable. Trying hard to calm her racing heart, Hermione started to try to make sense of what had happened to her in the last few seconds, and to inventory the injuries she had suffered.

With a little more forethought than before, Hermione's fingers returned back to her aching lower jaw. Nothing seemed out of place, but as her digits moved upwards they encountered a swollen and gashed upper lip. Her breathing sounded ragged, and a little further exploration found a gap where her over-prominent front upper teeth used to be. One was notable by its complete absence. The other remained as a bare jagged stump. That explained what she had thought was a small stone she had spat out.

Something was definitely amiss with her nose. It was gushing blood, and even in the absence of a mirror Hermione could tell by agonising touch that it appeared to be out of alignment. If the growing pain in her upper jaw and between her eyes was any guide, it was broken.

She still had no idea what had inflicted the damage.

Coughing out more blood, Hermione slightly stiffly and gingerly started to rise to her feet. Still somewhat shaky, she slipped and as her left leg shot out, her right hand went down to support her. Her fingers, instead of finding sharp stone, grasped at a reassuringly familiar object. She found herself seated inelegantly on her arse, staring at her wand.

That simple reunion with vine wood and, ironically, dragon heartstring finished clearing Hermione Granger's head. Rekindled hope and determination started to burn within the wounded Gryffindor. There may have been hundreds or more watching this contest, but her now razor-sharp mind shut out any extraneous element.

There was no point in using her wand to attempt to fix her injuries. Pointing one's own wand at one's own face was a dangerous act at the best of times. Hermione knew some minor healing spells but not enough to mend or reset broken bones. In her current state had no intention of risking missing her aim by a fraction and hitting herself in the eyes. No, that would have to wait.

The mist was starting to clear, so Hermione darted behind another soot-covered boulder. She found to her discomfort that she was shaking appreciably.

Still a short distance away, the Horntail was stalking around the centre of the arena, obviously irritated that it had not yet rooted out its rather insipid challenger. Hermione noted its spiked tail thrashing around, and the cause of her injuries became clear.

As did her good fortune. It could only have been a glancing blow. A full-on strike would have fractured her skull or broken her neck. If it had been one of the spikes… Hermione shivered, then shut those thoughts away for now.

It would only be a matter of time before the dragon located her again, and then she would either be finished or pinned down. She had to act now.

Strangely, in the instant Hermione made that decision, she found her hands ceased trembling.

In her research, Hermione had already strayed into NEWT-level territory. Now was the time to discover if her natural habit of reading ahead would bear fruit.

Unaware of gasps from the more discerning members of the crowd, that cognoscenti who recognised skills far beyond that of a fourth-year student, Hermione conjured into being a single sheet of mirrored glass. Ignoring the battered and bloodied visage it returned, she brought up her wand into the casting position.

"Geminio!"

Her reflection stepped out from the confines of her glass prison and moved to stand behind the flesh-and-blood original.

"Geminio!" A third Hermione Granger now stood ready, grimy and bruised but equally as defiant as her twins.

A fourth now appeared, then a fifth, then finally a sixth. The attendant crowd, peering through a mixture of mist and clouds of steam, soon lost track of whom was the original marquee and who were the illusions. That uncertainty soon vanished when one of the six identical witches cast a cushioning spell on the mirror and then carefully laid it down behind the protection of the small boulders that had saved her life. Hermione knew that were the mirror shattered, the simulacrums would disappear as quickly as they had come into existence .

Her left hand slipped into her trouser pocket, and bloodedly closed around a tiny pouch, which she withdrew into the open. A quick flick of her undamaged wand and it transfigured in a blink into a large cardboard box. This she put to one side.

Her duplicates would not fool a dragon on their own. They carried only the properties of a reflection, existing only in terms of sight. There was no corporeal presence, nothing she could even smear her own blood upon. Solid though they appeared, the images carried no scent and were as silent as the grave. More still was needed.

Hermione reached once more into her pocket. There was a second object, a dark-green moke-skin bag sealed with a drawstring. Loosening the string, Hermione removed four objects, smooth glass marbles, each opaque but bearing an element of colour. Three, those coloured red, green and blue, she placed back in the bag. They had been especially prepared for the Welsh Green, the Fireball and the Swedish Short-Snout.

The one that remained in her grimy palm carried a hint of gold. Gold for the Horntail. This was also subjected to a spell and expanded until it rivalled one of Trelawny's crystal spheres. This was banished away to Hermione's right quadrant, towards a point on the perimeter roughly equidistant between her own position and that of the nest. As it shattered on the rocky surface, a small cloud of rather more colourful vapour started to rise. Her trump card: Hermione silently prayed it would turn out to be the ace, and not the deuce.

Breathing heavily and raggedly, Hermione watched with rather more than professional interest as the Horntail's head jerked up. It may not have heard the glass ball smash, but its snout trained towards that same spot. Its forked tongue flickered in and out between its massive teeth, detecting something that interested it. With surprising grace and speed, it scrabbled around and started to dart towards its new goal and away from its duty.

Inside each globe had been male dragon pheromones, supplied via Hagrid by Charlie Weasley, and keyed to the four specific species that she might come up against. Hermione had hoped this would distract the dragon, and if her luck really held, the female might be in heat, increasing the attraction. With a quick flick of her wand, her doppelgangers started moving towards the dragon's position, some making their way straight across the radius of the arena, others at a tangent along the perimeter. The one and only original started to edge in the opposite direction, making sure that she had a direct line of sight to the now abandoned box.

The Horntail arrived at its destination, and went scuffling around in the rocks, obviously distracted by scents that tantalized its tongue. The cries it emitted sounded almost forlorn to Hermione's ears, but she shut out any emotion. That beast would happily kill and eat her.

By now Hermione was almost opposite the Horntail, nearly as close to the eggs as it was. With a muttered prayer, expressing faith she had never felt before in the Weasley Twins, she aimed her wand at the cardboard box, emitting a long stream of bright sparks.

With a loud crack, the box erupted into a kaleidoscope of light and colour. Fred and George had promised her their very best efforts at fireworks, with a little extra as their own special gift.

The Twins did not let her down.

Rockets shot into the sky, trailing silver stars before bursting in multi-coloured explosions with larger than normal bangs. A huge Catherine wheel rolled across the arena, leaving behind a trail of shockingly pink sparks and grey smoke. Firecrackers and sparklers burned ferociously, adding to the confusion as they appeared to gain in impetus and vigour the longer they blazed. A skyrocket arced high above the enclosure, bursting into the words: "Hermione Granger, a TRUE Hogwarts Champion," in shimmering and persistent red and gold sparks.

The Twins had, after all, promised something extra.

Hermione swore that if she came out of this in one piece she could never thank Fred and George enough for their pyrotechnical miracle.

Not even the dragon could avoid the fireworks, especially when a crackerjack bounced off its flank and landed at its feet. Its rather feeble efforts were extinguished when the irritated Horntail breathed on it.

Under cover of this further diversion, Hermione picked her way among the rocks, no longer keeping to the far perimeter. She had no idea how long this last feint would last, but the additional smoke combined with the fading late afternoon light and Scotch Mist provided her with additional cover to make her approach.

Now her small legion of mirror-generated Hermiones finally arrived on the scene. She was unable to control their movements individually, as that was far too advanced magic for one witch to direct six duplicates. Nor in any event were her powers of concentration up to carrying out not only such a feat but her own assignment as well. Instead she impelled them all towards the dragon with one command.

The Horntail's scent receptors were blanketed with the sulphurous emissions of gunpowder, and it was distracted by the flashing lights and booming explosions that surrounded it. As a result the dragon relied upon the sense of sight alone when it spotted first one, then another, of those pitiful bipeds that were tormenting it so.

The first disappeared under an incinerating breath, only to pop up once again afterwards.

The second seemingly succumbed to snapping jaws that would have severed steel, but stood there unscathed once they passed. In its distracted state, the Horntail hardly noticed the lack of flesh between its teeth or that there was no glorious taste of blood on its tongue.

It was incredulous that, not only did the others still stand, but that yet another had the temerity to approach.

The Twins' piece-de-resistance was a firework that generated a huge dragon made entirely of light and sparks, at least three times the size of the genuine article. The faux dragon soared into the air, emitting its own roars and flames of purple and gold. The Horntail took that as a challenge and prepared to meet it by unfurling its wings and rising up on its back legs.

Scrambling over the rocks, her solid Muggle boots making quick work of their sharp edges and abrasive surfaces, Hermione approached the dragon's nest. It was situated atop a small pinnacle, just too high for her to reach. She doubted she could climb up and reach over the nest's overhanging edge. In the gold, green and red flashes she could clearly see one egg that reflected the light.

"Accio golden egg!"

Nothing stirred. Hermione was not downhearted. Dragons were notoriously invulnerable to most magic, and their eggs carried some of that natural defence. If such simple a spell would have sufficed, it would not have been much of a challenge.

Intent on her goal, Hermione did not notice the unnatural lights fade away as the Weasley dragon breathed its last and expired in a rush of illuminations that shot out into the Forbidden Forest, and left behind in glowing letters the words: 'Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs!'

The dragon's nest was nothing more than an outsized version of a bird's nest, utilising branches rather than twigs. Hermione doubted that, even if she had the power to summon the whole thing, it would stay in one piece. She had no idea whether the golden egg would withstand being dashed onto the ground twelve feet below. Once again she deliberately aimed her wand, just as another of her simulacrums blinked out of existence under the crushing blow of that mighty tail, only to reappear immediately, further infuriating the Horntail.

With one Transfiguration spell, the nest changed into a very soft, large cushion.

Her attention fixed on her own task, Hermione did not see the Horntail turn away from the frustrating mirror images that its returned sense of smell revealed as insubstantial. Now free of distractions and warned by some ingrained maternal instinct that its hoard was endangered, the dragon turned away from the last of the fireworks and began a rapid advance across the arena, enraged at the intrusion.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" The cushion and its precious cargo levitated some feet above its perch. "Accio cushion!" Slowly, the Transfigured nest commenced a slow, deliberate journey some twenty feet towards a fiercely concentrating Hermione. She was being careful not to let her target slip and disgorge the eggs.

The dragon lumbered into her line of vision, nearly causing her concentration to falter. She estimated she had just enough time to complete her capture of the golden egg and make it to the safety of the field's perimeter. That line, well marked and glowing in the twilight, was still some seventy yards away.

The Horntail roared, attempting simultaneously to intimidate and warn off the transgressor. The earth-shattering bellow unnerved Hermione, but she held her ground.

It would be tight, but she would make it. Only another ten feet.

Eight feet.

Six feet.

Hermione's eyes thought there was the briefest of flashes, a millisecond of light glinting across the arena, before her higher brain functions ignored that information in favour of far more pressing issues.

An incensed Horntail projected a jet of flame that would incinerate both thief and nest just as Hermione's left hand closed around the golden egg. Her eyes reflected the raging fire travelling towards her at great speed.

Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, had miscalculated.

The cushion fell but burst into flame before it could strike earth.

The real dragon's eggs, being rather more than naturally protected, merely smouldered a bit, and then bounced as they landed, protected by both natural leathery shells and the magic inherent in their species.

Falling backwards, Hermione twisted her body sideways, grasping the egg to her chest with her left hand as her right arm, still gripping her wand, closed over her face, desperately throwing up an inadequate barrier. She took one deep breath, knowing that to inhale in the next milliseconds would result in cremation of her lungs, and screwed her eyes shut.

The dragon, too, had misjudged the movement of its intended target and aimed a fraction high.

Searing heat licked over her as Hermione hit the deck, curling up around the egg, less to protect her haul than to provide as small a target as possible. The impact on the hard ground knocked all of the wind out of her. The jolt weakened her grip on her wand, and for the second time that afternoon it spilled from her desperate fingers.

Soon the immediate heat disappeared, although the air was stultifying close. Her cheek and neck were in pain and there was the strong smell of something organic burning that she could taste on her tongue, if not through her battered nostrils.

Hermione opened her eyes a crack, rather surprised to find herself still alive, although that was probably a temporary state. Her senses immediately registered heat, and orangey-white flames licked all over her upper torso and legs.

Whatever relief she had found was extinguished as a huge shadow, even in this light, fell over her.

The Horntail had arrived to finish the job.

A small sob escaped Hermione's torn lips. She was out of ideas, out of hope, and out of strength. Lacking the power to make a move, she closed her eyes, waiting for the end. She just hoped it would be quick, preferring fatality by fire than to being torn apart alive by talons and teeth. She never relaxed her death grip on that damned golden egg.

Suddenly Hermione was plucked from the hard ground and lifted into the air. A huge pair of hands closed around her body, painfully beating at her smouldering clothing, smothering the flames.

"Blimey, ' Ermione!" Rubeus Hagrid looked as close to death as she felt. "Yeh left it late. I thought yeh're a goner there!"

As Hagrid returned her feet to earth, Hermione risked a glance back towards the Horntail. The dragon-keepers, led by Charlie, were struggling to subdue it with multiple restraining spells, and it was putting up a magnificent struggle.

For the first time in what seemed like years, Hermione became aware of the multitude now staring in various degrees of shock in her direction. From the corner of her eye she saw Professor McGonagall rushing towards her as quickly as her aged legs could carry her.

Barely able to stand on her own, Hermione glanced down. There, on the rocky ground, she saw a perfect reverse silhouette of herself, curled up, awaiting the coup de grace, clearly delineated in a sea of soot.

Just as clearly, she owed her life to her Basilisk hide outfit.

"Yeh sure yeh're alrigh', ' Ermione? Don' know how yeh did that… " In his own blackened hands Hagrid held the remnants of her old sweatshirt, its shrivelled cinders hanging from giant fingers.

With her nerves thoroughly in tatters, and with agonising pain from her broken bones, shattered teeth and assorted cuts, abrasions and burns too numerous to list, Hermione responded the only way she could.

She threw up.

* * * * *

The translation from Latin of the spell cast by Hermione is: "That spell which I once cast upon my friend, Harry James Potter, I now remove." The translation was kindly supplied by fellow author Quillian and if there are any mistakes in transcription then blame me!

I have slightly altered the discovery that Dobby and Winky are at Hogwarts, although the timing remains the same (the First Task having been postponed by a week compared to canon).

Driech (pronounced 'dreek') is a Scottish meteorological term which is best described as "slit your own throat grey & drizzly, with low grey clouds and a persistent drizzle, and is a less romantic name than the better-known Scotch Mist. A driech day is usually characterised by dull and depressing weather and some sort of permanent twilight.

Mizzle (from the Frisian mizzelen = drizzle) is a term used in Devon and Cornwall for a combination of fine drenching drizzle or extremely fine rain and thick, heavy saturating mist or fog, also known as Scotch Mist in the Highlands of Scotland. While floating or falling the visible particles of coarse, watery vapour might approach the form of light rain. .

'When you walk through a storm …" is the first line of the version of the Rogers and Hammerstein creation 'You'll Never Walk Alone' sung by the Anfield Kop at Liverpool home games. The original was written for the Broadway musical 'Carousel' in 1945 but the Kop picked the tune up from the version recorded by Liverpudlian group Gerry and the Pacemakers in the 1960s. It is reputedly best heard on great European nights, although my favourite version was that which ended suddenly when Andy Gray made the score 3-3 at Villa Park in 1990! Was that really nineteen years ago?

Finally, the First Task could not have been completed without the help of those whose suggestions added flesh to the bones: Bexis; George; Quillian; Tank03; and Fullmetal. Some of these date back nearly two years when this story was in its infancy.

Blagodarnosti = thanks; dobur kusmet = good luck (my cheap Bulgarian phrasebook again).