Hermione Granger and The Goblet of Fire

All characters belong to JK Rowling - I am merely borrowing them for the time being. This chapter picks up her story “Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire” from the start of chapter 16 and is analogous to “The Goblet of Fire” and “The Four Champions.”

Chapter 1 - An Unlikely Champion

“The Hogwarts Champion is Cedric Diggory!”

Applause erupted around the Great Hall, especially from the Hufflepuff table where Cedric, mobbed by his housemates, finally emerged to make his way, grinning broadly, towards the chamber behind the teachers’ table.

When Dumbledore could finally make himself heard without the use of a sonorus spell, he started speaking about how important it was to give each champion support. Hermione strained to listen, trying hard to ignore Harry and Ron, who were earnestly arguing over the merits of Angelina and why Diggory had been chosen. When she realised the headmaster had suddenly ceased addressing his audience, she looked up.

The Goblet of Fire was no longer inactive, giving out a curtain of red flames and sparks. Dumbledore was staring intently at it over his half-moon glasses. As silence fell over the Great Hall, Hermione could sense something untoward was about to happen.

A stronger tongue of flame rose from the Goblet, and then, just as suddenly, it fell quiet again, as a single piece of parchment floated down towards Dumbledore. He caught it with a minimum of movement and unfurled it. Some second sense made Hermione catch her breath; she didn‘t notice the vast majority of those present doing likewise. Dumbledore gazed at the scrap of paper for what seemed an eternity, then mumbled something under his breath in seeming disbelief. With all eyes upon him, Dumbledore glanced up, towards the Gryffindor table.

‘Oh no! Not Harry!’ thought Hermione.

Clearing his throat, aware he was once again the centre of everybody’s attention, Dumbledore seemed to be looking for someone in the crowd. Hermione saw his eyes fix seemingly upon Harry at her side.

“Her … Hermione Granger.”

There was a split second of stunned silence. Hermione thought she heard her name called, and shook her head slightly. Then she saw that the headmaster was staring directly at her.

“Hermione Granger,” Dumbledore repeated, clearly and concisely.

The silence was broken by the buzz of a hundred whispered comments and conversations. Hermione sat frozen in place. The headmaster was calling her name out - her name! She was dimly aware that every head was now turned in her direction, everyone seeking out this fourth-named champion. She shook her head. “No,” she said quietly, then realising the import of those two words spoken by Dumbledore, repeated herself more vigorously. “No!”

Dumbledore looked strangely sad. “Miss Granger, please come forward.”

Hermione felt a hand tightly clutch her shoulder. She looked up and saw Harry, his face white and open-mouthed with confusion. “But … I didn’t …” she muttered.

Harry swallowed nervously. He let go of her shoulder and limply pointed towards the head of the Great Hall. “I think you’d better …” he said, his voice slightly wavering.

Hermione saw Professor McGonagall sweeping down towards her. She looked beyond Harry to Ron, who was tight-lipped and equally ashen.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall was rapidly changing from exuberance through confusion towards anger. Students were standing now to get a better look. She was being pointed out to those Hogwarts’ pupils who didn’t know her, whilst the parties from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang seemed to be fuming impotently.

“Miss Granger?” The stern visage of her Head of House loomed over her.

Hermione twisted in her seat and looked up. “It can’t be,” she said.

“Just follow me and we’ll sort this out as soon as possible.”

Scarcely aware of what was going on, Hermione rose to her feet and started the long walk up the space between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. As the volume rose in the Great Hall, Hermione couldn’t make out individual words or comments, just a wall of disapproval. And, when she reached the teachers’ table, she noted that, for once, Albus Dumbledore wasn’t smiling. “Well, just through the door, Miss Granger.”

As if her legs possessed a mind of their own, Hermione felt herself move towards the door behind the table, opened it, and entered a smaller chamber. As the door shut behind her it cut off the background hum of conversations.

Ahead of her, grouped around a roaring log fire, were the three chosen champions: Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum. Fleur gave her a dismissive glance.

“What is it? Do zey want us back in ze hall?”

Hermione just stood there, rooted to the spot. How could she reply - for once in her life she hadn’t a clue what was going on. Before she could do anything, however, her arm was once again grasped, this time by Ludo Bagman as he entered the room behind her, and led her forwards. “Extraordinary!” he muttered under his breath. “Quite extraordinary.”

When Bagman let go, Hermione felt like she’d been cast away. Her head was still spinning, and she barely took in his next words to the other occupants. “May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?”

As they closed in around her, Hermione registered how small she was compared to the older students.

Viktor Krum looked darkly at her, with an expression of grim appraisal. From what she knew of him, this was his emotional equivalent of running screaming from the room.

Cedric Diggory was looking from her to Ludo Bagman with an air of bemused disgust. “You are joking, Mr. Bagman?”

Fleur Delacour looked down her nose at Hermione with a superior air. “Ah oui, Monsieur Bagman, a vairy funny joke, ne c’est pas?”

Bagman looked very embarrassed. “It’s no joke, I can assure you,” he said hurriedly. “Miss Granger’s name came straight out of the Goblet of Fire. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes!”

Krum raised a sardonic eyebrow. Cedric looked affronted - after all, he was the Hogwarts’ champion! And, if possible, the look Fleur flashed Hermione was even more contemptuous.

“But evidently zair ‘as been an erreur,” the Beauxbatons champion began. “She is only a girl - she is far too young to compete.”

“Look, I don’t know wha -” Hermione started to protest but her words were overridden by Bagman, who looked down at her with a rather dazed expression.

“Well … granted it is amazing. But as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure, And as -” He turned to Hermione. “It is Hermione, isn’t it?” Dumbly she gave a curt nod. “Well, as Hermione here’s name came out … I don’t think there’s much we can do,” he finished lamely.

“But I don’t want to compete,” Hermione interjected.

Bagman’s worried frown was replaced by a scowl. “Well then, you shouldn’t have entered your name, should you, young lady, hmm? It’s all down in the rules - you’re obliged to comp -”

Before Hermione could launch a tirade at Bagman, they were both interrupted as the door back to the Great Hall was opened, and that blanket of noise sounded even more agitated than before. Dumbledore came in first, giving Hermione a long searching look, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Madame Maxime, and Professors Karkaroff, Snape and McGonagall. Last in, the Head of Gryffindor closed the door firmly, then moved to stand beside Hermione.

Fleur’s whining complaint broke the uneasy silence. “Madame Maxime!” She moved over to face her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little girl is to compete also!”

Hermione was taking an instant dislike to this French tart; by the muttered imprecation from her side, she guessed that Professor McGonagall wasn’t taking it too lightly either.

Towering over everybody, Madame Maxime demanded of Dumbledore the meaning of this, and was joined in her complaints by the icily formal Karkaroff. Both insisted to know by what right Hogwarts could be allowed to claim two champions.

Before Hogwarts’ esteemed headmaster could reply, Professor Snape interjected. “I doubt it’s anyone’s fault but Granger’s,” he said softly but clearly. Hermione glared at him. “She’s a know-it-all determined to prove herself. She’s probably done it just to get the attention.”

“Severus!” McGonagall’s sharp response echoed through the chamber.

“Now look, I never -” Hermione’s retort was cut off with a gesture from Dumbledore.

Fixing the Potions Master with an authoritative glance, Dumbledore‘s voice was clear and firm. “Thank you, Severus.” Snape fell quiet but remained glaring at Hermione.

Dumbledore switched his attention to his young student. “Miss Granger, did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?” he asked, not unkindly.

“No.” Hermione’s reply was crystal clear. “I mean, I know all about …” She trailed off as Dumbledore gestured that she should stop. In the background she could make out a grunt of disbelief; probably Professor Snape, her subconscious registered.

“Did you ask an older student to put your name in the Goblet of Fire for you?” Dumbledore ignored the looks from the others present.

“Of course not!”

Dumbledore sighed. “Miss Granger, did you in any way cast a spell, curse, hex or any other form of magic on the Goblet of Fire?”

“Absolutely not!” Hermione’s ire was rising as she could see disbelieving glances between the professors. Snape was shaking his head.

“But of course she is lying!” cried Madame Maxime.

“Do you have any Veritaserum?” Karkaroff enquired of Snape.

Dumbledore’s response was sharp. “We do not use Veritaserum on our students, Igor.” Snape seemed to be vaguely disappointed.

Hermione bit back a retort as she felt McGonagall’s restraining hand on her shoulder. “I will have you know, Madame Maxime, that Miss Granger is the top student in her year.” Hermione thought her professor’s Scots burr was thicker than usual in her indignation. “She is also completely trustworthy. If Hermione -” Hermione was a little shocked at the use of her forename “- says she had nothing to do with her name appearing, then I for one believe her.” Her sharpness returned. “After all, we all agreed that the Age Line could not be crossed by an underage student.” She ended by glaring at Snape. “Veritaserum indeed!”

“Dumbly-dorr must ’ave made a mistake wiz ze line,” said Madame Maxime, shrugging her huge shoulders.

Dumbledore was conversational politeness personified. “It is possible, of course,” he said politely. Of course, no-one believed he had made any such mistake.

Karkaroff’s voice was like sugared honey. “I believe this should be the responsibility of our unbiased judges.” He gave Crouch and Bagman an unctuous smile. “For an objective judgement, of course. Surely you will both agree that this is most irregular?”

Before either could reply, Hermione’s patience was exhausted. She’d stood here, been accused of lying, had some French tart look at her like she was something picked up on the sole of a shoe, and Snape was far too self-satisfied. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” she yelled. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime actually took a step back, so seemingly surprised that such a little girl could shout so loud. “I didn’t enter my name, I don’t want to enter the tournament. People have died in it, you know? I’m not stupid!” When she realised all eyes were on her, Hermione suddenly felt isolated and extremely humbled, despite McGonagall’s presence close by. “I’m not taking part, and that’s that.”

The response she received surprised her, given that she’d just given them the way out of this predicament, and avoided a damaging dispute between magical schools. Cedric and Fleur looked a little pale - probably thanks to the mention of the deaths of past competitors. Snape just clucked his tongue in knowing disapproval. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked at her as though she was stupid, whilst Dumbledore just looked sad.

It was Barty Crouch who stepped forward and fixed her with a hard stare. “I’m afraid that it very much matters what we have to say, young lady,” he said reproachfully. “The rules are clear, and must be followed at all times. Those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.”

In the seconds of heavy silence that followed, only the crackling of the log fire could be heard. Then Snape’s voice, quiet but deliberately pitched for everyone to hear, carried dismissively. “To think that Granger didn’t know that,” he observed heavy with sarcasm.

Bravely Hermione shot a dirty look at the Slytherin head. “Doesn’t matter,” she stated firmly. “I withdraw.”

Bagman gave Crouch an anxious look, then turned to Hermione. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Crouch drew himself up. “Entrance to the Triwizard Tournament is acceptance of a magically-binding contract,” he stated, clearly annoyed with this turn of events.

“What?” shrieked Hermione.

Crouch’s mouth was a hard, firm, cruel line. “Withdrawal from the Tournament is the equivalent of breaching a Wizard’s Oath. Are you prepared to face the consequences if you follow that course of action?” he demanded.

Hermione’s head was spinning. She knew all too well what retribution would follow should she decide to withdraw. Her magical abilities would be ripped away. She’d never again be able to enter the wizarding world. Everything she’d set her heart on for the last five years would disappear, never to return. She’d lose Ron. And Harry. There was only one immediate decision she could make.

“No sir,” she muttered.

Ludo Bagman clapped his hands. “Good, good … well, as Barty knows the rulebook back to front, that’s all settled then.”

Hermione was still in shock, and the arguments between the two invigilators and three headmasters just did not register with her. She was still standing there alone, as McGonagall joined in the arguments, when she was grabbed roughly from behind, and spun round.

“How in the name of Merlin did you do it, girl?” Moody’s electric blue eye bore into her as he shook her by the shoulders.

“Professor Moody!” McGonagall’s sharp cry cut across the buzz of conversation, but the ex-Auror ignored her.

“That must have been a powerful spell, Missy!” He was angry with her, and Hermione tried to shy away, but his grip was too strong.

McGonagall had grasped Moody’s right arm firmly but couldn’t make any impression on him. Hermione just stared fearfully at the battered face.

“Alastor!” This time it was Dumbledore, all quiet authority, who placed his hand on Moody’s left arm. This act seemed to snap Moody out of his angry mood.

“Sorry Albus.” Moody let go of Hermione and turned to face the rest of the room.

“What did you mean, Alastor?” Dumbledore enquired.

Moody cast a bitter look in Hermione’s direction. “How did Granger’s name come out of the Goblet, eh? That’s the question no-one’s answered yet, have they?” He glared challengingly around the circle of faces. “It would take a highly-skilled and powerful wizard - or witch -” again he shot a sharp look in Hermione’s direction “- to manage that.”

Karkaroff threw up his hands. “Ah, what evidenze is zere of zat?” scoffed Madame Maxime.

“Because they hoodwinked a very strong magical object,” replied Moody. “I’m betting on a powerful confundus to bamboozle that Goblet, perhaps into forgetting there are only three schools competing.”

“A fourth name, “ whispered Hermione to herself, then found everyone was staring at her. Nervously she continued. “A fourth school. With me as the only entrant.”

Moody gave her an appraising look. “That’s probably right, Granger,” he said grudgingly. “No-one else in that category.”

“Is that how you did it?” Karkaroff demanded of Hermione.

It was McGonagall who stepped between her student and Durmstrang’s headmaster. “You’ve already heard Miss Granger deny any involvement. And I think we all agree that any such charm is well beyond the ken of any student, let alone a fourth year one. Wouldn’t you agree, Professor Moody?”

Moody looked deep in thought. “Almost certainly. But its not the ‘how’ that worries me now. It’s the ‘why’.”

Karkaroff was growing even more aggressively upset. “I think we all know why, Moody. To allow Hogwarts double the chance of success!”

Moody gave him a sour look. “From Miss Granger here?” He shook his head, his magic eye remaining fixed on Karkaroff. “Not likely, Karkaroff. No - there’s got to be another reason.” He gave Karkaroff a cold smile. “Who knows how Dark wizards think - but you should remember, shouldn’t you, Igor ..?”

Karkaroff was fuming. Hermione thought he’d most likely storm out and take Krum, who had watched the whole scenario from a point by the fireplace with a detached air, with him. Then she realised that the Durmstrang representative was as trapped as she was. He’d also entered a magically binding contract. Krum couldn’t be pulled out as much as she couldn’t. The same applied to the French tart and Cedric Diggory, neither of whom looked ecstatic at the turn of events.

“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Moody acknowledged Dumbledore with a dismissive wave of his hand, and turned away, taking the opportunity to have a sip from a large hipflask.

Dumbledore turned back to face Hermione. “Miss Granger, I’m afraid you’re committed.” Hermione nodded her head sadly; she knew she couldn’t face the alternative.

“Right.” Dumbledore looked almost as melancholy as Hermione did. Then he turned to address the room. “How this situation arose, we do not know.” Hermione thought she heard snorts of disgust, probably emanating from Karkaroff or Snape. “The reason why will almost certainly become clear in the fullness of time. It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric Diggory and Hermione Granger have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do …”

He waited to see if anyone wanted to interrupt at this stage. Hermione sneaked a look at the faces. Karkaroff was apoplectic; Madame Maxime severely irritated; Snape was livid; McGonagall looked just a little shaken; Moody was ruminative; Bagman excited; Barty Crouch just looked ill; Cedric and Fleur were both betraying a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation; whilst Viktor Krum’s expression remained unreadable in its surliness. One choice they all shared was to remain silent.

“Good, good …” Ludo Bagman cried. “well, shall we crack on, then?” He was rubbing his hands in glee, if anything more excited than Cedric and Fleur Delacour. He smiled around the room, ignorant of the fact that no-one else outside those two seemed to share his enthusiasm. “Better give our champions their instructions, haven’t we, Barty?”

* * * * *

For someone who was keen to soak up as much information and knowledge as possible, Hermione found that barely a word spoken after that remained fixed in her memory. The first task would be sometime in November, but no clues had been given as to what the four champions would confront. Her mind was still trying to process the stunning fact that she was expected to compete in this ridiculous Tournament. She racked her mind to think how her name had been given out from the Goblet of Fire, going over and over the events of the night, but nothing came to mind.

As Barty Crouch finished his briefing, and was joined by Ludo Bagman for discussions about a nightcap, Hermione found she didn’t know what to do next. What was expected from a Hogwarts’ champion? The two visiting headmasters were departing with their charges, unwilling to accept any more of Hogwarts’ hospitality after the way the whole evening had turned out. Cedric - the real Hogwarts’ champion, she reminded herself - had shaken hands with both Ministry officials and was on the point of exiting the room; he seemed to wait for a moment, looking in Hermione’s direction, expecting something, before shrugging his shoulders and leaving for the Hufflepuff common room and the celebrations that were surely only awaiting his appearance.

It was McGonagall who tapped Hermione on her shoulder to attract her attention. As Hermione turned, her Head of House bent forward and looked her student over. “I think you’d better come with me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione followed, more out of instinct than anything else. The Great Hall was empty now, and their steps echoed as the two Gryffindors walked across it. But instead of taking the marble staircase back towards her common room and dormitory, McGonagall headed towards her office, opening the door and ushering Hermione inside.

McGonagall gestured to an upright chair. “Take a seat, Miss Granger.” Hermione did as bidden, her mind still a whirl. McGonagall summoned a tea tray, laden with a tea pot, cups, saucers, a milk jug, slices of lemon on a china plate, and a sugar bowl. “Tea, Hermione?”

Hermione was shaken out of her reveries by the second use of her forename by the usually stern Head of Gryffindor in one evening. It was all too much to take in. Her eyes started to brim with tears, and try as she might she couldn’t stop her bottom lip from trembling. Hermione couldn’t help it. It had been all too much. She started to cry . “I didn’t do it,” she whimpered between deep breaths. “Why me?”

McGonagall handed Hermione a napkin. “Dry your eyes, Miss Granger. Remember, above all, you are a Gryffindor!” she exhorted. Hermione sniffled, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. She felt thoroughly miserable and lost.

“There. That’s better,” McGonagall said encouragingly. She poured some tea into a cup and then passed it over to Hermione. “Milk? Lemon?”

“Lemon please,” Hermione mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

McGonagall gave her a brief smile. “I’ll let you add sugar if you want.” She then poured herself a cup, sat thoughtfully for a few seconds, then pulled out a thin silver flask and deposited some of the contents into her cup. She gave Hermione a knowing grin. “After tonight’s events …”

Somehow the fact that McGonagall was sharing a guilty secret with her made Hermione feel a little better.

“We need to think this through, Hermione,” McGonagall reverted back to business. She took a sip of her fortified tea. “You told us all that you had no part in putting your name in the Goblet or bewitching it -” she held up her hand to forestall any repeat of previous protests of innocence “- so that leaves us with the same two questions: who and why?” McGonagall sat back, deep in thought.

“Professor, I don’t want to take part.” Hermione felt slightly better for the warmth of her lemon tea.

McGonagall nodded her head, back to her businesslike approach. “Don’t take this to heart, Miss Granger, but I don’t blame you.” She took another sip. “Frankly, the Tournament is dangerous enough for experienced students, which is why the Headmaster insisted upon the restricted age regulation being adopted.” She gave Hermione an appraising look. “You will be a fine witch, but this sort of thing …” her voice trailed off, and when she spoke again Hermione gained the impression she was speaking to herself. “Far too early. It’s far too soon for you.” Then she turned back to Hermione. “So, if you are not responsible, and don’t know who is, the question of why may well lead us to whom.”

Hermione had nothing to offer. “Why would someone do that?”

McGonagall gave Hermione another searching look, then seemed to decide that she could speak her mind. “Only someone with evil intent towards you would gain from this - assuming, of course, it isn’t a plot to ensure Hogwarts’ success in the Triwizard Tournament. Or to disrupt the efforts to build international links by causing the Tournament to be postponed.”

That brought a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “But … but - who’d want to …”

McGonagall grimaced. “There are enough rabid Purebloods around who would resent a Muggleborn being Hogwarts’ brightest student,” she admitted, then gave Hermione another small smile. “You know you’ve got the chance to record the highest academic scores in Hogwarts’ history.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would see me as that much of a threat,” Hermione muttered.

“I tend to agree with you.” McGonagall stared down at her cup, as though wishing there was more single blend malt. “Professor Moody was right: it would take a very powerful wizard to do what was done tonight. If someone had a grudge against you, there are simpler and more effective methods of …” Her voice trailed off as she decided not to vocalize the rest of her thoughts. “Now if it had been Mister Potter sitting here …”

That gave Hermione a nasty start. Dumbledore had asked if she’d put a spell on the Goblet of Fire itself, or deliberately set out to produce her own name as a champion. Of course, she’d done nothing of the sort.

But she had cast a charm in the summer.

“Professor, I think there’s something you should know.” McGonagall looked askance at Hermione. “It involves Harry …”

McGonagall put down her cup and saucer. “You think its germane to the matter in hand.”

Hermione nodded. “Could be,” she admitted. “It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Well, please continue, Miss Granger.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “You know how Harry’s relatives treat him?” she asked.

“I know they’re not perfect, even for Muggles,” McGonagall responded.

“It’s worse than that,” Hermione sighed. “Harry doesn’t speak about it, but when Ron and the Twins broke him free at the star of second year, they saw how he was treated.” McGonagall’s interest was piqued, evident as she leaned forward to hear the whole story.

And when Hermione had finished, two bright spots of crimson burned high on McGonagall’s cheekbones. She turned away from her student, rose to her feet and strode around her office. “I told Albus,” she muttered. “I warned him. ‘The worst sort of Muggles.’ I never thought …” She trailed off, and now her words were tinged with self-reproach. “To think we entrusted James and Lily’s baby to those … Oh, it makes my blood boil!” Hermione could see her fists clenched. “I will be having words with the Headmaster, I can assure you!”

It took her professor a few minutes to regain full composure. “I’m sorry, Miss Granger,” she apologised. “But what does this have to do with tonight’s events?”

Taking another deep breath, Hermione confessed. “In the summer I cast commendo praemonitus on Harry.”

McGonagall looked aghast. “You did what?” she demanded in a shocked voice.

Hermione couldn’t help but feel guilty. “I was worried about how Harry’s relatives would treat him, so I cast commendo praemonitus. If he was in danger, then I’d know about it. Then I could warn someone or get there myself,” she explained.

McGonagall didn‘t seem appeased. “Miss Granger, that is an incredibly complex spell, not one to be attempted by any but the most experienced of wizards. I must admit to being surprised that Mister Potter was complicit in this.”

Hermione stared at her shoes. “He didn’t know,” she mumbled.

McGonagall sat back heavily in her seat. “I do not believe it. You cast commendo praemonitus without the beneficiary being aware? Do you know how dangerous that can be?” She shook her head. “For such a clever girl you can be remarkably lacking in common sense.” Hermione hung her head. “What exactly was the incantation?”

“It was ‘mone me si meus amicus, Harry James Potter, est in periculum.’ I thought it would be better as a warning charm.”

McGonagall fixed her with a gimlet eye. “Well, that at least seems to be in order. We will have to have a long talk about this some other time, Miss Granger.” She sat back and pursed her lips. “So, you think this is connected with Mister Potter?”

Red-faced, Hermione faced McGonagall. “It’s the only thing I can think of. He’s been a target before.”

“True.” McGonagall made a steeple with her fingers. “So you think its possible that it was Harry’s name that was illicitly put into the Goblet.” A thought struck her. “You don’t think that Mister Potter put his own name in, do you?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m pretty certain that he didn’t.”

“Hmm.” McGonagall’s eyes had a faraway look. “I’ll have to discuss this with the Headmaster - and Professor Moody. If his theory about a strong confundus charm being used on the Goblet is correct, then perhaps it interacted with your spell and could have produced your name as a form of warning.” She focussed on Hermione again. “And I’ll speak with Potter as well. Just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.”

“You won’t tell him about …” Hermione wondered.

“The commendo praemonitus?” McGonagall gave a wintry smile. “That’s between you and him, although I recommend you do talk to him about it.” Hermione nodded but inside pledged to keep that little secret. Harry could be so … damned protective. “But as to the Tournament … I’m worried about this.”

‘Not half as much as me,’ thought Hermione. “What should I do?” was the question she vocalized.

McGonagall looked grim. “The best one can, Miss Granger. We’re not interested in your case in winning, its more the coming out in one piece.”

Unwittingly, her professor had just lampooned the Olympic motto. Hermione, tired and emotional as she was, thought this through. Then a thought struck her. “Professor, what’s to stop me just turning up and playing safe - or -” her voice rose in excitement “- getting myself disqualified at the earliest opportunity!”

McGonagall’s bleak expression didn’t waver, something that didn’t fill Hermione with confidence. “Unfortunately the Tournament rules cover that - there were early occasions when competitors were bribed or enchanted to give a fellow champion a better chance. The rules regarding disqualification, either voluntary or at the behest of the judges, are quite clear: expulsion from the school.” She glanced at Hermione. “That is one way out, Miss Granger.”

Hermione nodded absently. “Hobson’s choice,” she muttered. McGonagall raised an interrogative eyebrow. “A Muggle saying. No real choice. It’s compete, or lose my magic or be expelled from Hogwarts.”

McGonagall inclined her head in tacit agreement. Hermione replaced her cup and saucer on the tray. She was tired, but doubted she’d sleep a wink tonight - or, she thought, this morning as it must surely be by now. “I’d like to see if there are any legal alternatives to stop this charade,” she ventured. “Mister Crouch might have overlooked something …” She gazed up at the ceiling in thought. “Perhaps something in the Muggle world?” she mused, speaking almost to herself.

“It’s possible,” McGonagall observed. “But don’t build up your hopes. The Triwizard Tournament has lasted for centuries unchallenged. True, there’s been changes over that time; the Headmaster’s suggestion about raising the entry age for competitors is purely the latest. And Barty Crouch is a stickler for the rules and regulations, I can assure you of that.” Seeing Hermione’s downcast expression she softened her approach slightly. “But there’s no harm in exploring every avenue.”

Hermione was deep in thought. “I’d need a lawyer whose practice spanned both the magic and Muggle legal systems, of course. And I’ll have to look up the relevant child protection laws.”

“Whatever you need to do so, I’ll ensure you have access to it - within reason of course.” McGonagall’s thin smile was rather forced. “The Ministry won’t take kindly to any injunctions being brought against them; they’d probably have a seizure if the Tournament was postponed, given the amount of political and personal reputations invested in it.”

“If it keeps me alive, I won’t worry,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

“There is one other factor to take into account, Miss Granger.”

Hermione looked up sharply. McGonagall looked as tired and worried as Hermione felt.

“If someone is determined to use this to attack either you or Mister Potter, then this may force their hand. Otherwise, they may find a different way, one we’re not aware of.” McGonagall looked down at her empty cup. “I’ll discuss these options with the Headmaster tomorrow morning.” McGonagall stood, Hermione following suit. “As it’s past midnight, I’d better see you back to the common room. Wouldn‘t do to have a Hogwarts’ champion in detention for being out late, would it?” She gave Hermione a fond smile. “Hermione, we can see this through successfully. I’ll do what I can to help you - within the rules, of course.” Hermione gave her a brief smile of amusement. “And your friends as well, of course. They’ll help.” McGonagall held open her office door.

“There is one last thing I must insist upon, though.” Hermione waited. “Remove the commendo praemonitus from Mister Potter. I’m not happy with your casting that level of magic unsupervised. Especially without Mister Potter’s consent.”

Hermione grudgingly agreed to accede to this request.

* * * * *

Hermione stood facing the Fat Lady.

It was well gone midnight. Sounds of Hufflepuff revelry had drifted down the corridors a bit back, but there wasn’t a sound from behind the painting.

“Well, well, well. Who’s been chosen as school champion, then?”

Hermione wasn’t in the mood. “Cedric Diggory, if you must know,” she bit back. “Balderdash!”

The Fat Lady gave her a haughty stare, but had no option but to swing open at the password.

Well, if there had been a party, then the house elves had already been busy, as there wasn’t a trace of one in the common room. In fact, in the low light of the fire, it seemed empty. Hermione couldn’t figure out if she was relieved or disappointed at putting off meeting her colleagues.

She had taken but a step when she was assailed from both sides by the Weasley Twins. “You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellowed Fred (or was it George?). He seemed both annoyed and impressed.

“Yeah,” George (or was it Fred?) yelled in the opposite ear. “All that gumf about following the rules, Granger. How did you do it?”

Fred looked hard at her. “No trace of a beard, George,” he said (well, that sorted out who was who).

“I’d steer clear of Angelina”, George advised. “She’s well pissed off. Nearly bit my head off earlier.”

Hermione blanched. She’d thought the odd nose might be put out of joint by her ‘selection’, but if one of Gryffindor’s favourites was annoyed with her …

The Twins pulled her forwards and sat her down on a sofa. “Now, come on, tell us how you did it then?”

Tired, Hermione just wanted to get it over with. “I didn’t,” she mumbled.

The Twins shared a look. “Come on Granger, you can tell us. We think its brilliant - how you outfoxed Dumbledore.”

Something snapped within her. “I didn’t enter!” she screamed. The Twins jerked back. “Why should I want to enter a stupid Tournament.” She turned on Fred (or George). “Do you know how many competitors have died?”

“But think of the glory!” George (or Fred) exhorted her.

“Bugger that,” replied his twin. “Think of the prize money!”

“Shut up” Hermione cried, covering her ears. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!”

The Twins looked on in exasperation. There was movement in a dark corner of the common room. “Fred. George. Leave her be.”

Harry stepped into the light. He looked in need of sleep as well, pale with dark bags under his eyes.

“He’s right … “ said one Twin.

“… As usual,” the other replied. Then they both put an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Sorry Hermione,” they chorused.

As they left Harry sat down in one of the vacant spaces at Hermione’s side. She looked up at him in irritation.

“Aren’t you going to ask as well?” she snapped.

Harry didn’t flinch. “No,” he replied quietly. “I know you didn’t put your name in the Goblet.”

“How?” Hermione squeaked.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Its just … well, you’ve never lied to me, Hermione. Not even over the Firebolt.” He looked into the fire. “You’d have said if you did. You were as spooked as the rest of us this evening.”

Hermione was perplexed. “Do the others think that?” she asked, then noticed someone was missing. “Where’s Ron?”

Harry looked away awkwardly. “He … he went up earlier,” he replied, careful not to catch her eye.

“And does he believe I cheated?”

“He … um, he … didn’t say, exactly, Hermione.” She saw Harry was wringing his hands, nervous as hell.

“I see” she said flatly.

“Is there any way out?”

Hermione sighed and leaned back, resting her head on the soft cushioned sofa. “They don’t think so, but I’m not going to take their word for it. Perhaps they’ve missed something …” her voice trailed off. “But I don’t think much of the alternatives.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “As it stands, if I don’t compete, I can be expelled or worse,” she continued in a small voice.

“Worse?”

Hermione could see Harry was upset. “I could break a Wizard’s Oath,” she said gently. “That means …”

“You’d lose your magic,” Harry muttered grimly. He was clenching and unclenching his fists.

They sat for a few minutes in an awkward silence. Finally Harry spoke up. “What are we going to do, Hermione?”

Hermione was a little heartened by the ‘we’. “I don’t know Harry. Frankly, I’m terrified,” she admitted. “I’m not a Hogwarts champion.”

Harry looked hard at her. His green eyes sort of glittered in the firelight. “You can’t get out of it?” he ventured. Hermione shook her head, and he sighed.

“I’m too tired to think straight right now Harry. I’m going to bed.” She got up. As Harry stood up a question popped into her mind. “Harry, why’d you wait up for me?”

Harry shrugged, as though he hadn’t thought about it. “To see if you were alright. And because … well, you’re always there for Ron and me; just fair, I suppose.”

She was impressed by his casual nobility. She was also a bit irked at part of his answer: if she was always there for him and Ron, then where was the third part of the Trio?

Exhausted, her shoulders slumped, Hermione Granger headed towards the stairway to the girls’ dormitories. Tomorrow - no, today now - was Sunday, and a long day in the Library beckoned.

Author’s Notes:

My thanks to beta reader George (gti88) for all his help.

The Commendo Praemonitus and it’s casting were suggested by Craig Weinstein (“Quillian”) - thanks for the help with the Latin.

I have always considered Hermione Granger to be the most interesting major character in the series, and have often wondered about the large plot holes in Book 4, so I thought I’d have a go at changing the personnel around a bit and exploring those holes - so this story will centre around Hermione.

As this is posted on Portkey, it will be an H/Hr story but this will be very slow burning.

All characters are belong to JK Rowling. Of necessity, much of the plot will remain familiar to those who have read “Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire.”

Chapter 2 - The Morning After

Hermione Granger didn’t think she’d ever been so glad she was waking up on a Sunday morning. For over three years she’d borne a little resentment towards the Seventh Day, as it didn’t have any scheduled lessons. It would have been a good day to finish off any homework, but Hermione - as in many other ways - differed from her contemporaries and had almost always finished that by Saturday evening.

Firstly, she did not have to rise at the crack of dawn, which, as she had not really slept, came as a bit of blessed relief. She lay in her bed, shutting out the noise of her dorm mates, collecting her thoughts. Last night hadn’t been a dream; instead it had proved to be a waking nightmare.

The second benefit Hermione could take from the last day of the week was that it offered an uninterrupted spell of research in the Library. She could set everything else aside and concentrate upon her most pressing matter today: finding a way to invalidate her entrance into or participation in the Triwizard Tournament. She would have to hope that Hogwarts carried details of the current Muggle child protection legislation, as she held little hope that the wizarding laws would be of any great assistance to her. And whilst Barty Crouch might proclaim himself the world’s greatest living authority on this tin-pot event, he could well have overlooked some loophole or other that had not been spotted for a century or two.

Just a little more calmer about her prospects now, partly as a result of actually planning the opportunity to do something rather than be lectured at, Hermione drew back the hangings from her four-poster. The curtains around Lavender Brown’s bed remained drawn closed, and judging by the very unladylike snores emanating from that direction, its occupant was seizing the chance of a later lie-in than usual. Oppositely Lavender’s, Parvati Patil’s bed was empty.

The mirror in the bathroom was rather scathing in its comments this morning, and Hermione couldn’t do anything but concur. All her tossing and turning had left her hair even more dishevelled than its normal waking state, and her eyes were both red-rimmed and decorated by dark rings around them. Her expression still wore vivid signs of exhaustion and sleepiness. After diligently brushing her teeth and taking a refreshing cool shower, Hermione refused to use magic on her hair, and struggled to pull her hairbrush through the tangles.

Once she felt she was relatively presentable, Hermione dressed in her casuals and made her way down the spiral staircase to the common room. As she reached the bottom step she took a deep breath; from what the Twins had said a few hours earlier, she was unsure about what sort of reception awaited her. She recalled all too well how her housemates had treated her and two of her friends in their first year, when they had been to all intents and purposes been shunned by the entire Gryffindor common room after the loss of one hundred and fifty house points. Then she, Harry and Neville had been eleven or twelve years old, unsure about Hogwarts and still finding their feet at Hogwarts, yet that had not saved them from the cold shoulder. They had not treated Harry, their new star Quidditch seeker, any better the following year. Hermione was under no illusions about her own popularity. As long as her intelligence and hard work earned a pile of enchanted rubies for Gryffindor, then she was considered acceptable to Gryffindor society. Outside that, she had the feeling that her presence was tolerated at best. Not because of her upbringing or parentage, but because she really still did not fit into life outside classes. Her friendship with Ron and Harry gave her a little more acceptance, and Ginny did perhaps look up to her a little, but apart from possibly Neville there wasn’t anyone else in Gryffindor who would willingly choose to spend non-study time with Hermione Granger over someone else.

There was little conversation going on at that time on a lazy Autumn Sunday morning, but as soon as those few inhabitants became aware of Hermione as she moved out of the shadows, a sudden silence settled on the Gryffindor common room. Every head turned or eye swivelled in her direction, followed quickly by the soft breeze of snatches of whispered comments.

Acutely self-conscious, Hermione looked for some friendly faces. Expectantly, Ron and Harry were missing - it was far too early for them to stir on a Sunday. Angelina and Alicia, stony-faced, were staring hard at her, almost challenging her to make a comment and start a fight. Fortunately Hermione spotted Parvati sitting in a corner, trying to look inconspicuous, and made her way over.

“Hi, Parvati,” she said.

“Go away…” The response was so quietly spoken that Hermione wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

“Sorry..?”

Parvati rose to her feet. There was a look of anguish and fright in the Indian girl’s eyes. “Leave me alone, Granger,” she muttered, and pushed past Hermione, making towards the staircase at an increasing speed without a backwards glance.

Stunned, Hermione felt confusion and indecision cloud her judgement. She just stood there, in the middle of the common room, lost for words. Parvati Patil was most definitely not a close friend of hers, but perhaps more of an acquaintance. She resembled Lavender Brown a bit too much in her approach compared to her Ravenclaw twin Padma, but that did not stop her spending some study time with Hermione.

Looking up, Hogwarts’ smartest witch was even more aware than everyone was watching, waiting to see how she would react to this public rebuff. Some glares were hostile, some dismissive, and the first years seemed downright terrified.

‘I can’t take this,’ Hermione thought. There was one place where she could find a sanctuary until everyone came to his or her senses - she was sure that once she had had the chance to explain herself…

As she made her way towards the portrait hole, Hermione caught a stage whisper that made her doubt her last over-optimistic thought. It seemed to come from Angelina, and she was sure that it was deliberately pitched, so she could hear it.

“Know-it-all bitch!”

* * * * *

She thought perhaps she would feel safer behind her usual barricade of books, but even ensconced at her usual quiet table, Hermione was aware of the wave of antagonism towards her from the other students in the library.

She had known that last night’s events would only deepen the Slytherins’ hatred of her. Her Muggle blood just multiplied their anger over her annoying habit of answering every question, and often single-handedly keeping Gryffindor’s stock of house points in credit. She had no illusions how they would react.

The Hufflepuffs would have a justified sense of grievance towards her, even if she was innocent of any involvement. They were the least-considered of the four houses, as their forte lay in achieving an overall level of excellence rather than shining in specific fields, like the Gryffindors and Slytherins in Quidditch, or the Ravenclaws in academic subjects. Cedric Diggory was a hero to the Hufflepuffs, having led them to a rare Quidditch win over Gryffindor, and this would have been their moment in the sun. Hermione didn’t really know Cedric; his reputation was as a fairly straightforward, honest lad who was also quite good looking as she did not fail to notice, and she thought that he might well sympathise with her if he knew her side of the story. But until then, the frosty reception she’d received from Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan as she entered the library was a fair indication of how they saw events unfolding.

What did surprise her was the reaction of the Ravenclaws in their natural habitat. She’d expected cool deliberation, a studied response to events. After all, she’d spent study time with plenty of them; she thought they knew her. Instead there was a freezing indifference shown to her, with the exception of that strange blonde second year who waved to Hermione in the corridor. The others deliberately turned their backs on her as she passed. Hermione was a little surprised to find out how much that rejection hurt her.

Annoyingly, Viktor Krum was also present in the Library. That meant that various gaggles of his ‘groupies’ would turn up; girls of all ages, but especially those who’d made it to adolescence, who hung around the stacks, sneaking admiring looks at the Bulgarian seeker before hiding themselves away and giggling. Normally they just disturbed the natural peace that Hermione adored, the quiet that allowed her to concentrate on her studies. Now the stolen glances at Krum tended to be accompanied by haughty glares of disgust aimed at his now direct competitor. Hermione Granger realised that although she might be a Hogwarts’ Champion - by whatever means - there would be a sizeable part of the female community that would be supporting the brooding Krum, along with most of Slytherin.

As usual, Hermione tried to bury her feelings away under a great block of studying and shut out the rest of the world. Her initial efforts were directed towards the rules applicable to the Triwizard Tournament. Unfortunately despite poring over dusty old volumes Hermione hadn’t been able to find any loophole that she might use to wriggle out of taking part. The organisers had a wide level of discretion of movement, but essentially once a competitor’s name was produced from the Goblet of Fire they were committed to take part, and there was nothing short of disqualification, severe injury or death that could break that covenant. Hermione shuddered at the thought. Despite the competition’s past, she doubted that nowadays Professor Dumbledore would allow anything that would place a student - of any school - in fatal jeopardy; then she recalled the events of her last three years at Hogwarts, and swallowed hard. Exclusion from the Tournament would mean exclusion from what had become to define her life. She’d been ribbed enough by Ron and Harry about her even worse, expelled! comment from back in the days when she was still a bossy know-it-all, but there was an underlying current of truth in that. To be ripped away from the magical world would seem like a death sentence to her.

Even the Ministry of Magic was powerless to intervene once the competition itself had started. They could redraw the rules in advance - as Dumbledore had done with the age-limit this time, unavailingly as it had turned out - and had a role as official overseer, with final authority vested in Barty Crouch this time. His interpretation of the rules had been made quite clear last night. No, Hermione couldn’t see anything in the Wizarding world on her side short of a complete abandonment of ministerial policy; given how slowly any slight hint of reform seemed to progress throughout magical history, she did not hold out any hope on that score.

It took her some time to locate details of the relevant Muggle child welfare legislation, especially as she had to research the laws applying to both Scotland, and England and Wales, given the two separate legal systems that existed within the United Kingdom. The primary legislation that existed was The Children Act 1989 which provided protection for anyone under the age of seventeen. There was some information on that, and the duty of care entrusted to school authorities, held in Hogwarts’ library, but Hermione was vaguely aware that there had been a very recent law introduced in Scotland that could well take priority over the older regulations. She searched high and low but couldn’t find anything on it. Her frustration was starting to show as she thumped books down on the table, muttering under her breath and scowling at those who came to gawp at the muggleborn interloper.

As she delved through the current wizarding journals that were supposed to carry the latest news from the Muggle world - and her heart fell at the continuing correspondence regarding what exactly this ‘electricity’ thing was that those ignorant Muggles had come up with lately - she became aware that someone was standing in front of the table currently laden with books.

‘Another onlooker,’ Hermione thought. ‘If I ignore them, they’ll go away.” She resolutely kept her head buried in the publication, even paying no heed to a not-so-subtle clearing of the throat. ‘Why don’t you take the hint and push off,’ Hermione thought to herself.

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione jumped in her seat, knocking a pile of magazines to the floor.

The tall, thin shadow of Madame Pince loomed over Hermione, her expression moving from one of grim disapproval to shock at seeing anything containing the printed word hitting the floor.

Hermione tried to gabble some sort of apology to the stern Librarian. “I’m sorry… so sorry, Madame Pince!”

The Librarian was too busy shifting the fallen magazines from the floor with a sweep of her wand to accept any apology. “Really!” she said under her breath. “Typical students - no thought for the possessions of others!”

A scolded Hermione tried to bluster an excuse. “Sorry - but you startled me.”

Madame Pinch fixed her with a glare usually reserved for those who had defaced one of her precious books. “A proper student would pay attention when approached by one of the faculty,” she replied haughtily.

Hermione could see some younger students edging around the corner of the nearest bookshelves, peering around the stacks as though observing some dangerous magical creature. This was all she wanted: an audience to a dressing down by a member of staff.

“Pay attention, girl!” The Librarian’s sharp words rapidly brought Hermione’s attention back from the attentions of her fellow pupils. “If you had done that in the first place…” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “The Headmaster wants to see you.”

“Me?” Hermione gasped. “Now?”

“Yes, now!” Pince was not too patient at Hermione’s obfuscation. “Well, get along then. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“But..?” Hermione indicated the heaps of books on the table, in well-ordered piles with fluorescent plastic tabs tucked away between pages, and her own colour-coded notes covering every remaining spare inch of the surface.

“Go! Now!” Madame Pince barked. “I think after all these years I know the homes for these!”

Hermione decided to go and swept up her own papers, full of notes, summoning her little coloured tabs from within the pages they marked. Fully aware of the scrutiny she was under from less charitable fellow students, she decided not to slink away but to leave with her head held high; that was she could ignore most of the eyes, as well as the barbed comments and insults muttered under breath. It did not stop her noticing that Krum, slouched round-shouldered at a nearby table, was watching her carefully.

‘Moody bugger,’ she thought, throwing back her head as his fans parted to let her through. Merlin, sometimes she despaired about the other female students…

* * * * *

Rather surprisingly, given the number of scrapes Hermione had been involved in - no, she reminded herself, that Harry and Ron had dragged her into - during her time at Hogwarts, this was the first time she’d had occasion to successfully visit the headmaster’s office. Even though she knew she had done nothing wrong - again, she reminded herself, this time, as Dumbledore had either been unaware of or ignored her infractions of the rules over the last three school years - she was by instinct a follower of regulations and respecter of authority, and as she approached the stone gargoyles Hermione felt no little trepidation.

She stood before the two granite guardians. They returned her looks with unblinking stares. Hermione knew full well from Hogwarts: A History that she needed to speak the password to gain access to the headmaster’s study. The only problem was she didn’t know what it was. Finding herself speechless was a relatively new phenomenon for Hermione Granger.

The gargoyles’ heads twisted slowly on their necks and they shared a look. “It’s that smart kid,” one rasped to the other. “Shall we let her in?”

If a statue could be said to wear an expression of disdain, his partner could. “If she’s that clever, then she should be able to work it out,” came the gravel-voiced reply.

“Bit harsh.”

“But fair.”

Hermione glared at the gargoyles. There was a hint of the Weasley twins about them. “Look, the headmaster’s sent for me. Shouldn’t you just let me in?” she demanded, just stopping short of stamping her foot on the floor.

Both pairs of unseeing eyes fixed on her. “That’s not our job,” the one that had seemed more sympathetic to her replied slowly.

“You have to tell us the password.”

“Can I give her a clue?”

Hermione’s temper was saved from approaching boiling point by the approach of Professor McGonagall. “Ah, there you are, Miss Granger.” She stopped with a look of mild reproach on her face. “Why are you waiting down here?”

Hermione jerked her head towards Dumbledore’s guards. “I don’t know the password, and these two won’t let me in,” she complained.

McGonagall’s glare switched to the gargoyles. Hermione could almost imagine they recoiled slightly before her stern visage. “Now you know the Headmaster is waiting to see Miss Granger,” she stated, her tone brooking no argument, but still they remained immobile. “Oh tosh! Caramel shortbread.”

The stone figures moved slowly aside, revealing a spiral staircase behind them. “That’s the password?” Hermione looked a little abashed that she’d vocalised her thoughts.

McGonagall just gave her an old-fashioned look, one that said ‘you don’t question the wisdom of your elders.’ “You shouldn’t keep the Headmaster waiting,” she said clearly. “Off you go.”

Suitably chastened, Hermione stepped onto the staircase, and was not surprised to find it started to slowly revolve and carry her upwards; after all, this was in Hogwarts: A History.

When the staircase stopped moving, Hermione found herself facing a closed door. As she reached out to knock on it, seeking admittance, she heard clearly the remnants of an argument from the room within.

“She’s just a slip of a girl, Albus. What chance does she have?” Hermione immediately recognised the words as coming from Mad-Eye Moody.

“Nevertheless Alastor, we examined all the possibilities last night.” Dumbledore sounded just a little weary.

“Damn it all, just call the whole thing a four-way draw. Then reselect the competitors for a new tournament.”

Hermione knew that eavesdropping wasn’t honourable or fair on her part - very un-Gryffindor-like in fact - especially not on the Headmaster and her Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, but there was a sudden thread of hope in Moody’s argument. Unfortunately it was only momentary, as Dumbledore’s reply quashed that chance.

“You know as well as I do that once a student’s name is revealed by the Goblet of Fire, they are deemed to have entered an irrevocable contract to compete. It cannot be cancelled, even if the political will existed to do so. And the Goblet will not be active again until a new Tournament is properly arranged following the successful conclusion of the current event.” There was a moment’s silence. “And even if it did,” Dumbledore continued, “where would it end, Alastor? Would we keep redrawing the names until we were happy with the Goblet’s selections?”

“Then the Granger girl is committed” Moody’s grim words made Hermione catch her breath.

“It would seem so,” Dumbledore’s reply sounded equally depressed. “However, have you given any thought to Minerva’s news?”

“Granger’s bright,” Moody conceded grumpily, “but I think she’s flooed to the wrong fireplace on that one.”

Dumbledore sounded mildly surprised. “You do not think her idea has any merit?”

“Even if her little protection spell was powerful enough to interfere with the workings of the Goblet, there would be easier ways to get to Potter than trust to the Tournament to finish him off. Even for a suspicious mind like mine!”

“I am not so sure,” Dumbledore replied. “Miss Granger is an intelligent young witch. “ Then his mood seemed to brighten. “And, unless I am very much mistaken, she is just outside. Come in, Miss Granger!”

Guiltily, Hermione opened the door and peered inside. The Headmaster was seated behind his desk, whilst Professor Moody was standing by the fireplace, his one good eye glaring at her whilst its magical twin swivelled unceasingly around the entire room.

“Take a seat, Miss Granger. Professor Moody and I are nearly finished.” He leaned forward, offering her a bowl of yellowish-white sweets. “Lemon drop?”

Being a dutiful daughter of dentists, Hermione gracefully declined, taking her seat, aware of being under Moody’s close scrutiny.

Dumbledore returned his attention back to the conversation he’d been having with Moody. “Alastor, I would like you to look into the possibility that this could be an attempt to compromise Harry’s safety here.”

Moody looked disgruntled but nodded his head in acceptance. “Alright Albus. Best to check out all the angles.” He moved off out of Hermione’s sight.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

The shout from right behind her made Hermione jump in her seat, her heart thumping inside her chest. Moody had doubled back and stared critically at her. “Where’s your wand, missy?”

“Now, Alastor,” Dumbledore gently admonished Moody, who returned his look unabashed.

“They need to learn,” Moody replied grumpily. “They all do.” He returned his attention to Hermione. “You more than most, Granger. You’ve got to up your game if you’re going to survive this year!”

“That is quite enough, Alastor.” This time there was just a hint of sternness underlying Dumbledore’s statement. Moody muttered something under his breath and departed, leaving behind a severely shaken Hermione.

Dumbledore sought to reassure her. “He means well.”

It was not Moody’s demeanour that had upset her. “Professor…” she replied shakily. “You wouldn’t let a student…get badly hurt.” She gulped. “Or even… killed?”

Sighing deeply, Dumbledore settled back in his seat. “I will not lie to you Miss Granger. The upper age limit was introduced for a reason. The dangers that competitors face in the Triwizard Tournament are both real and serious. Its nature has not changed over the centuries and neither has its aims. Once a task commences, there cannot be any outside interference, although every effort is being made to control the risk.”

“But surely, in this day and age..?” Hermione could not believe that Dumbledore - of all people - would willingly place his won students in peril.

The Headmaster looked slightly more discomfited. “You will have noticed, Miss Granger, that the wizarding world lags behind the non-magical in many aspects. The Tournament is seen as a means of bringing our world’s most shining lights to prominence. Any move to interfere in its workings would be anathema to the vast majority. To become a Champion, the competitor must face challenges that will test physical, intelligence and mental limits to the utmost.”

“Barbaric,” Hermione muttered.

Dumbledore nodded his head in absent-minded agreement. “To a degree I must concur with you. But the playing field has been set.” He looked at her sadly. “And in even your short time at Hogwarts you will have realised that there are dangers that not even the staff and I can protect all our charges from.”

That shook Hermione as she recalled the troll on her first Halloween, the Voldemort-possessed Professor Quirrell, the Basilisk and the Dementors. “But you could have done more…” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Sorry,” she apologised, fidgeting uneasily.

Fixing her with an enquiring look, Dumbledore did not seem angered by her remark. “I am sure I could,” he replied equably. “We must all do what we think best in the circumstances.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on their tips. “There have been too much in the last few years.”

Hermione was a little perplexed. “Then why hold the Triwizard Tournament, here and now?” she asked.

“It was a decision made by the Ministry. It was seen as a means of uniting the wizarding communities in Europe, partly under the pressure of the non-magical governments. They are moving towards greater levels of co-operation within the European Union, and both they and their magical counterparts believe we are once again trailing behind.”

Hermione considered this, and then rejoined. “And, of course, there are plenty of political points to be gained by the Minister of Magic.”

Dumbledore inclined his head in agreement. “Very true. It cannot be said that Cornelius Fudge is not a politician to his very wand tip. The feeling of goodwill that follows a successful Tournament could well ensure he remains safely in office.”

“And what do you think, Professor?” Hermione asked quietly. “After all, you looked enthusiastic when the announcement was made.”

“True, true,” conceded Dumbledore, and bowed his head in affirmation. “After all, there is something about the event that enthuses everybody. But there is more.” Hermione leaned forwards, interested in hearing the arch-operator’s thoughts on the matter.

“Rumours abound about the rise of Voldemort.” Hermione couldn’t help but give a light shudder at the name. “Following the events at the World Cup, with the open appearance of the Death Eaters and the casting of the Dark Mark, there is even more importance attached into forging strong links with our fellow schools, ensuring that they remain allies when the inevitable conflict arrives…”

Hermione was a little shocked at the last revelation. “You think that… there’s going to be another war..?”

Dumbledore glanced at her over the top of his spectacles, a sad expression on his face. “All the signs are present,” he replied slowly but enigmatically. “Which brings me to the point you made to Professor McGonagall last night.”

For a second Hermione was once again a little confused.

“About Harry…” Dumbledore prompted. “As you did not enter your name in the Goblet” - Hermione as glad that he’d accepted her word on this without demur - “and did not ask someone else to put it in on your behalf, then we are left with two options. Either someone else entered your name without your knowledge or permission…” He trailed off. “You do not think someone purposefully performed a prank on you?” he asked enquiringly.

Hermione gave this a few seconds thought. “The only students I know who could have done it - or would have tried to do it - are Fred and George. And if they were capable, then they’d have put their names in, not mine.”

Dumbledore once again nodded his head, in agreeing with her assessment. “Yes, that’s what I believe as well. And, I do not believe that - capable witch though you are - that you would be the target of such an attempt. I mean no disrespect when I say that you would hardly register with the Pureblood fanatics, and it would take an immensely powerful wizard to cast such a spell, as well as one with the opportunity to do so. No, I tend to agree with you, Miss Granger. Despite Professor Moody’s doubts, both Professor McGonagall and I tend to lean towards the conclusion that Mister Potter would have been a more likely target of any such enterprise. Professor Flitwick has also confirmed that your spell could well have reacted with any attempt to subvert the Goblet of Fire, and it’s a perfectly plausible scenario.”

“Then it’s Harry,” Hermione muttered. “It’s always Harry.”

“Alastor may have his own opinions, but I know that he will prosecute any enquiry to the utmost,” Dumbledore said, trying to reassure her. “I have asked him to keep a special watch on Harry, but not to say anything to him.” He saw Hermione give him a quizzical look. “Harry has gone through enough these last three years. And I would rather try to draw out whoever is behind this plot, rather than drive them away where they can make further plans.”

Hermione nodded, signifying her own agreement. “He does tend to blame himself for things that happen around him.”

Dumbledore peered at her over his glasses, as though seeking a window into her soul. “So I believe. You may be interested to know that Professor McGonagall has brought to my attention certain matters relating to Harry’s life away from Hogwarts.” He gave a brief self-deprecatory smile. “If ‘brought to my attention’ could in any way be related to a quite severe wigging I received at her hands.”

Hermione had the good grace to redden a little as her words with her Head of House had worked their way into the Headmaster’s office.

“I feel that I may have been far too trusting in the Dursleys’ familial relationship with Harry providing him with a stable home life,” Dumbledore continued. “Rest assured, I will be making personal enquiries into the situation.” Hermione squirmed a little under his gaze; she had hoped that her role in this little interference in Harry’s life would have gone unnoticed, even if the ends justified the means.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and regarded his student. “But that still leaves the problem of your participation open.” He leaned forwards. “If you seek to withdraw, I will do all I can to protect you from the traditional consequences you will face, but I do have to warn you that the matter will almost certainly be out of my hands.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “I don’t want to compete,” she admitted. “To be honest, I’m terrified, when I think about how severe the history is.”

“You cannot be forced to compete,” the Headmaster observed.

“No, but the alternatives…” Hermione shivered. “I’ve worked so hard to be accepted here. It hasn’t been easy.”

“Assuredly not,” Dumbledore echoed her sentiment quietly.

Hermione steeled herself. “If this was intended for me, then I’m not going to give them - whoever they are - the satisfaction of driving me out without a fight.” She could feel the tears welling up. “I won’t be driven out of the magical world.”

“Spoken like a true Gryffindor.” Hermione smiled briefly at that comment. “But, considering alternative avenues, have you made any progress in the Library?”

“Some,” Hermione admitted. “But so far nothing decisive.”

“And what of your parents?” Dumbledore gave her a searching look over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione flinched. “I’d… I’d rather they didn’t know about developments at this time…” she replied slowly. The Headmaster’s expression was inscrutable. For a second Hermione thought a dagger of ice had impaled her through the chest. “You haven’t told them, have you..?” she asked, fearful as to the answer.

“Given past events that have befallen you, I thought it best not to alarm them at this stage,” Dumbledore replied kindly. “But I would not let them rest in ignorance. It is quite possible that other parties might see an advantage in being the bearers of this news.”

Hermione felt nauseous. Somehow she had managed to keep news of most of her endeavours that had happened to her over the last three years - or at least the gruesome details - away from her parents for fear that they could pull her out of Hogwarts. Petrification had been recorded as a mere school-related mishap where she’d never really been in danger. Sirius Black, the encounter with the werewolf version of Remus Lupin, and the meeting with the Dementors had never been mentioned in any letters or discussions at home either.

Yet she knew that there was an essential grain of truth in the Headmaster’s advice. Better that she controlled the information flow back chez Granger. “Yes sir,” she replied as penitently as she could, drawing an understanding nod from him.

Dumbledore rose and walked to one of the many windows that gave him a view of the Hogwarts’ grounds. He gazed across the Quidditch pitch towards the lake. “Miss Granger, I must re-emphasize the political aspects to this affair. There are many reputations and careers tied up in Great Britain running a successful Triwizard Tournament.” He glanced up at Hermione. “Not least those of the Minister himself.”

“I’m aware of that,” Hermione responded a bit tartly.

“I will, of course, provide you with any aid and advice that the School can legally offer.” And then he gave her a wry grin. “And perhaps a little more, beside.” Then he turned back towards the window, once again his expression grave. “You will be fighting an uphill battle against the full panoply of ministry regulations and established procedures. Undoubtedly there will be factions that would welcome an excuse - any excuse - to remove those that they consider beneath them from the halls of Hogwarts.”

Hermione shifted uneasily in her seat. “You mean because I’m muggle-born?”

“Yes, unfortunately I do. A legal battle over your participation could well add fuel to their fire.” He turned back and moved towards her. “Do not consider this to be advice to abandon your rights. But be warned. Although I doubt those interested parties have had any role to play in events so far, I am sure that if there is a chance of removing you from Hogwarts, there are people in high places who could well take advantage of your seeking to use the common law against the Ministry.”

With a sweep of his wand, Dumbledore conjured a comfortable armchair opposite Hermione. He lowered himself into it, and leaned forward as though sharing a confidence. “I will do as much as I can to protect you, Miss Granger. The Ministry of Magic jealously guards its high level of independence from the rest of the country. Any attempt to enforce non-magical laws on the wizarding community will be heavily opposed. You do understand that by taking this stand you risk a large amount of disdain and anger directed towards you.”

“Difficult for it to get any worse,” Hermione sniffed.

Dumbledore wore a wry grin. “Your friends will come round eventually.”

“Friends?” Hermione was not a little upset. “Not one of them has had a good word to say to me since last night,” she expostulated.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows were raised. “Not one?” he queried.

Hermione grimaced. “Well Harry did, of course.” She thought for a second. “And the Twins weren’t that bad,” she conceded.

“They are just confused. Some of them find themselves feeling threatened by your intellect,” Dumbledore advised. “But the real threat lies without. From those in high places who may well have their own agenda. And, of course, whoever did try to confound the Goblet.”

“We’ll see,” Hermione replied warily. “For the time being if I can extricate myself from this mess, then I’ll do so, whether by magic or muggle means.”

“That, of course, is your right, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore turned to his desk and summoned a large bound publication and a card. “Then you will find these might be of help.”

Hermione took the proffered articles from the Headmaster. She gasped. The large tome was entitled The Children (Scotland) Act 1994, a copy of the brand-new legislation passed that Spring. The other was a business card, bearing the title MATRIX with a London address and contact details. She gave her headmaster a querulous look.

“One of the best Chambers in London, one that specialises in human rights’ cases,” Dumbledore advised. “They have a very competent wizarding contact who’s a registered European lawyer, so she can practise under both English and Scottish law. We have used her before. Name of Cherie Booth.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with recognition. “The Cherie Booth? Married to Tony Blair?” she gasped.

“I believe so.” Dumbledore smiled. “A muggle politician, so I hear.”

“Leader of the Opposition,” Hermione breathed. Perhaps with these sort of contacts there was a chance…

“Then I will allow you to continue with your research, Miss Granger.” Hermione recognised a polite closure to the conversation, and she rose from the chair, ready to leave. She had taken but a few steps when she heard the Headmaster gently clear his throat.

“When exactly did you cast that spell, Miss Granger?” he asked conversationally, as though the matter was of little importance.

Hermione took a short intake of breath. She had hoped that her little breach against the laws pertaining to underage magic might have sneaked under the radar with everything else that had happened since the Summer.

“Was it at The Burrow, or the World Cup?” the Headmaster enquired.

Hermione turned to face him. “At the World Cup,” she admitted truthfully, seeing no mileage in lying. She had chosen that time and place as there was far too much magic in the air that it would mask her own illegal use. Harry had not even noticed in all the pre-match excitement after they arrived at their tent.

To her surprise the Headmaster just gave her an approving wink. “I had thought as much. A very wise choice, Miss Granger.” and with that he obviously considered the matter closed.

* * * * *

It was early evening by the time Hermione left the Headmaster’s office so she headed straight for the Great Hall and an early supper. She did not feel quite ready to face the entire student population of Hogwarts, and mealtimes on Sunday’s were generally quite elastic to fit in with the lack of a timetable on the weekends. All the signs pointed to a hostile reception of sorts, so the longer she could put that off and the fewer students she had to face tonight the better. So with the tome safely stowed away in her ubiquitous book bag she ignored the pointed looks and whispered comments as she made her was through the corridors.

As soon as she became visible to the Hall’s occupants the normal good-natured buzz of conversation fell away to be replaced with an uncomfortable silence. Just as last night Hermione felt every eye, from the most naï ve Hufflepuff first year all the way up to the staff table at the top of the Hall, turn towards her.

Keeping her head high, Hermione strode purposefully past the foot of the Ravenclaw table and turned up the aisle separating it from its Gryffindor cousin. There were still plenty of empty seats where the Gryffindor fourth year students usually sat. Ron and Harry weren’t there, but she guessed it would not be long before the prospect of an early dinner would summon Ron forth from wherever he was preoccupied.

Choosing a place with plenty of spare chairs around her came naturally to Hermione. Whenever she was at a meal without being in Ron and Harry’s company, she usually had a book propped up so she could engage herself in some quiet reading, and her housemates knew she preferred to be left undisturbed on those occasions. It wasn’t that Hermione Granger was unsociable - although no-one who knew her could truthfully claim she was the life and soul of common-room parties - just that she tended to value the knowledge gained from the written word rather than indulge in the usual schoolgirl gossip that was one of the staple diets of weekend mealtimes: who had been seen disappearing with whom and where; what had been worn down at Hogsmeade; who was hot in Quidditch robes this year.

And, as she picked at the steak and kidney pie, if she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the copy legislation provided by Professor Dumbledore, she did not have to meet the hostile stares she knew were directed her way.

There was movement behind her as some more Gryffindors made their way to the benches. Hermione glanced up and saw Fred and George, following Angelina and Alicia. Fred made to sit near her but stopped short when Alicia let out a low growl of disapproval as the girls swept haughtily past Hermione and sat down near the head of the table. With an apologetic shrug of the shoulders from Fred, and a wry grin from George, the Twins moved away from Hermione and trailed after their putative girlfriends. Hermione reddened at the slight but otherwise made no outward show of emotion; after all, she had half expected something like this would happen after her experience in the common-room that morning.

There was movement and the sound of someone sitting down opposite her. She looked up and found Neville staring back, seemingly nervous.

“You alright, Hermione?” he asked quietly. She nodded. “Only we hadn’t seen you since…” His words trailed off as though he was embarrassed at bring up the subject of the feast last night.

“I’m fine,” she replied off-handedly, surreptitiously keeping a quiet eye on the doors so she’d spot Ron or Harry as soon as they arrived.

“Oh… good.” Neville seemed clueless about what to say next. Perhaps he recognised Hermione was in one of her more tense moods, so he decided to pick at his own dinner.

Hermione was starting to miss her friends’ presence. They almost always ate dinner together, showing a public solidarity with the other members of the Trio. It often took something out of the ordinary, like petrification or the latest Quidditch-induced injury, to prevent that evening ritual, and even then the three of them would be found in the Hospital Wing, the two uninjured ones gathered around the bed of the third.

The boys often rooted Hermione back in the less academic aspects of school life, bringing the rare sound of her laughter to the Gryffindor table. Although not a tomboy, she was different to the other girls, less interested in her appearance than her achievements, and she didn’t find anything wrong in the fact that her two best - probably only real - friends were boys. What had started in a girls’ bathroom three years ago had deepened into strong bonds. Perhaps, Hermione sometimes considered in the moments before she fell asleep at night, there was the chance that she might be feeling it was time for something a little less platonic…

But now, when she really wanted to lose herself in their normal dinnertime banter, they weren’t there, and Hermione was starting to feel their absence more and more. So it was with something approaching heartfelt relief that she finally saw them walk into the hall.

She watched as Harry searched for her at her usual spot at the Gryffindor table, then spotted where she was now sitting, tugged on the sleeve of Ron’s robe and pointed her out to their friend. A smile of relief started to break out on her face.

Ron looked straight at her, then looked away. Hermione felt a tightening around her chest as the lanky red-head strode purposefully towards the benches occupied by his brothers. Her mouth hung half-open in dawning dismay as she watched Harry, his face an essay in indecisiveness, dither before catching up with Ron and launching into an urgent whispered discussion.

Ron sat down so that his brothers were between him and Hermione, and deliberately made sure he didn’t look in her direction. Harry cast a look that was a plea for understanding her way, standing next to Ron as the latter started to dig into his pie and mash.

“Ron”, Hermione hissed, trying hard to attract his attention without drawing notice to herself. Two or three Gryffindor heads swivelled in her direction, and judging by the way Ron concentrated even more than usual on his next mouthful, and the pink tinge that coloured the tips of his ears, she knew he’d heard her.

Hermione was frozen in disbelief. It was crystal clear where Ron’s loyalties lay. Harry seemed agonisingly torn between his two friends and was fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. Ginny had come in, looked between the two apparently competing camps at the table, given Hermione a helpless shrug of the shoulders, and sat down with the rest of her family, before leaning over the table and starting an insistent conversation with her errant sibling, full of sharp gestures and anxious looks down the table.

With a rising emotion of the betrayed, Hermione began to tense up. The overwhelming desire to confront Ron caused her to tremble with suppressed fury. She started to rise, ready to unleash a torrent of invective on her so-called friend’s head.

“Hermione!” A harsh, urgent whisper from Neville. She halted for a second, then saw that nearly every pair of eyes in the hall was on her. A glance at the head table revealed a pinch-faced McGonagall and a very interested onlooker in Snape. The hall was almost silent, with several hundred interested onlookers watching the drama play itself out in front of them.

No, she would not play out this drama in front of the whole school, no matter how immediate the recompense might be. She would not give the other houses that satisfaction. No - she’d get her own back on Ron Weasley on their home ground.

So, summoning up all the suppressed anger she could in one searing glare down the table to the seemingly oblivious Ron, she started towards the exit. As she went, the hubbub of conversation started again, and she made out the distinct guffaw of laughter that could only have come from Draco Malfoy.

* * * * *

Hermione Granger had almost worn a furrow in the carpet as she paced up and down the Gryffindor common room. Nearly thirty minutes had passed since she’d stormed in past a dazed fat Lady, and with every step on the path from fireplace to one of the bay windows her temper showed no signs of abating. The younger Gryffindors had quickly disappeared, seeking the sanctuary of their dormitories, scared off as she muttered dire implications for the continued good health of Ronald Bilius Weasley under her breath.

To be truthful, she hadn’t been very surprised by Ron’s attitude. After all, a year ago he’d fallen out with her over his accusation that Crookshanks had killed Scabbers, and she was sure that her estrangement from Harry over the confiscated Firebolt wouldn’t have lasted so long without Ron stirring it up, the latter’s love of Quidditch overrode their friendship. She had hoped that he might have matured, that perhaps they might be ready to explore taking their friendship on a step. But now…

Some of her peers had started to drift back now. They recognised all the warning signs of an impending Granger storm, and whilst some of the braver ones prepared to watch the show, settling down and trying hard not to catch Hermione’s eye - or, rather, her ire - the others also quickly headed for the staircases or back the way they had come.

Finally a gaggle of Weasley red-heads made their way through the portrait hole and into the common room. The twins, even though they were laughing and joshing, were always very alert, and were the first to spot Hermione as she bore down on their unsuspecting younger brother. “Uh oh,” one of them muttered. “You’re for it now, Ronniekins!” And they swiftly moved to one of the sofas, taking Alicia and Angelina with them.

Ginny gave Ron a look that clearly said ‘you’re on your own now’ and headed towards the girls’ dorms whilst Harry had that nervous air he always wore when his two friends were about to launch into one of their ‘little’ disagreements.

“A word, Ronald Weasley,” Hermione breathed between gritted teeth.

Ron’s face went sallow. Hermione thought one of his better traits was that although Ron rarely hid his fright, he wasn’t a coward and would often show through when the chips were down. It was one of the reasons she had thought she was beginning to become attracted to him.

“What exactly is your problem?” she seethed.

A bit of colour returned to Ron’s cheeks. “You should know, Granger.”

The use of her surname stung Hermione.

“Um… Hermione -” Harry tried to interject and defuse the argument before it started, but Hermione coolly waved him away and stepped forward, purposefully invading Ron’s personal space.

“No, Harry. I’d like to know what Ronald -” she made sure that his name dripped with sarcasm - “- here has to say for himself.”

Drawing himself up to his full height - an act that only reminded Hermione of how Percy had acted as Head Boy - Ron now towered over her. If it was intended as an act to intimidate the petite Gryffindor, it crashed and burned.

“You and the Triwizard!” he spat back.

Hermione trembled with suppressed rage. “You really think I entered my name?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice level.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron replied with vehemence. “You always think you’re better than us, don’t you. It’s ‘Oh, you mustn’t enter, it’s against the rules’ when it’s us.” His voice mimicked her higher prissy tones, then it dropped bitterly. “But then the rules have never applied to you, have they?”

Hermione shook her head. “You’re an idiot, Ronald Weasley,” she muttered.

Ron barely heard her. “You always have to be the best, don’t you? Top of the class; teachers’ pet.”

Stamping her foot in frustration, Hermione ground out her reply. “I did not enter my name.”

“Come off it! The perfect way to prove how cleverer than us you are. You could have let me or the twins know how its done, but no, it’s always about you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, grow up, Ron!” Hermione shouted, losing all control and feeling her own cheeks burning with anger. “Why would I want to take part in such a dangerous tournament?”

“Because you can!” Ron shouted back with equal volume. Those left in the common room were riveted by the drama unfolding before them. One of the Seventh-Year prefects stated to make his way towards the arguing pair, but George intercepted him and prevented a possible dual hexing.

“Because you can show everyone how clever you were.” Ron continued. “And think of the prize.” He flung his arms out to encompass the whole common room. “Everyone here would have liked the chance.”

“Damned right,” Angelina grumbled before being shushed by Fred.

“You could have helped Harry and me. We wanted to take part. You could have shared - like a true friend would.”

“Ron…” Harry was looking agitated and uncomfortable but they both ignored his hurt look.

“I thought you would have told us. Why are you lying to us?”

Hermione was almost dumbstruck in her irritation. “I did not lie!” she snarled.

“A thousand galleons! And exemption from the end of years tests - I bet that hurt, but then all you want is the fame and the glory!”

“Do you really think that?”

“We all do!” Ron cried. “Every single one of us!”. He turned and saw the number of people riveted to the scene. “Ask any one of them.”

Hermione’s shoulders were really shaking now. She could feel tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. “You listen to me, Ronald Weasley,” she almost screamed in frustration. “I did not put my name in the Goblet! I do not want to take part in this ridiculous competition!”

“Then why don’t you withdraw?” Ron sneered.

“I can’t, you idiot,” Hermione fumed.

“And you expect us to believe that?” Ron replied full of cynicism. “Someone as brainy as you can’t find a way out?”

“It’s a damned Wizard’s Oath!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Oh yeah?” Ron was breathing heavily now. “Well, you should have thought of that before you jumped in with both feet.”

Hermione blinked away the tears.

“Now, why don’t you piss off and do whatever Hogwarts’ champions do?” Ron turned his back on her, and without thinking Hermione whipped out her wand, ready to cast an angry hex or jinx on his unprotected back. Harry stepped in and grabbed hold of her arm as it started to stretch out, forcing it down.

“Harry!” she cried in frustration, so full of anger she could hardly speak, barely aware of the amazed looks she was drawing from several of her housemates. But his grip was like iron, and she couldn’t draw a bead on Ron. She was also oblivious of the measured and unusually sober looks on the faces of the Weasley Twins.

Finally, she let her arm drop, and Harry let go. Her face was wet with tears and she felt indescribably miserable. She looked up at Harry. “Is is true?” He looked confused. “That they all believe … what Ron said?” she clarified.

Harry gave an unknowing grimace. “I wouldn’t really know, “ he temporised, then sighed. “I suppose,” he muttered with a pained expression. Then he looked her in the eyes. “I believe you, though,” he said quietly but firmly.

Author’s Notes:

Again, my thanks to beta reader George for his rigorous editing and willingness to allow ideas to be bounced off of him. The very best sort of beta!

Also my thanks to Craig (‘Quillian’ - the author of “Harry Potter & The Tower of Pime”) for his help.

The Children (Scotland) Act does exist, but was actually passed in 1995, a year later than this fic is based. I found out about it whilst researching British child protection laws in my capacity as beta reader for Bexis (“Harry Potter & The Fifth Element”), which is set in Harry & Hermione’s sixth year. I’m claiming artistic licence in brining it forward a year.

I do not own the characters & settings: those belong to JK Rowling. Because if I did I would be writing this on a beach in the Caribbean. Actually, no, that’s untrue. I would be sipping a long, cold, alcoholic drink on a beach …

Chapter 3 - Between The Lines

Strangely, for an unfathomable reason, Hermione wasn’t feeling very cheerful on the following Monday morning. She had experienced another disturbed night, her brain ticking over with possibilities and stratagems. Even the prospect of a full school day, something that normally had her up with the lark, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, had taken on a more sombre hue. Instead of rising early Hermione had unavailingly tried to grab a few more minutes of sleep, and now found her normal early morning schedule rather more condensed than usual.

The argument with Ron had taken its toll and just added to her general sense of depression. Hermione had no illusions that the story of their heated confrontation would already have made its way along the legendary Hogwarts’ gossip grapevine, although severely distorted by the very nature of its mode of operation. The Great Hall would be nearly as full that morning as it had been on Saturday evening, and there had been another thirty-six hours for the rumour mill to process the events that had passed since then.

In addition there was her growing realisation that, if any legal process were to be successful in halting her participation in the Tournament, then her parents would have to become involved. Hermione had tossed and turned in her bed, worrying about how she could break the news to them without having them pull her out of Hogwarts, something she had feared ever since her spell in the hospital wing two years ago. She had penned several letters in her mind, only to discard each successive version as too leading or inviting of further questions she would rather not have to answer. Still, she resolved to write to Matrix Chambers at Gray’s Inn and see if there was any way she could launch some form of a legal restraint against the Ministry of Magic without parental participation.

Her roommates had the good sense to steer clear of Hermione as she brushed her teeth, showered, and once again vainly tried, and failed, to tame her unruly hair. When she descended the staircase to the common room, those few Gryffindor students that were tarrying and yet to take themselves down to breakfast immediately stopped all conversations that were in progress as soon as they were aware that a Hogwarts’ champion had arisen. With an exasperated sigh, and without meeting any of the gazes challenging or questioning her, Hermione cruised across the common room and haughtily departed out through the portrait hole.

The scene repeated itself when Hermione arrived at the Great Hall. The early morning murmur of half-hearted conversations between students yet to wake fully, and unwilling to admit they were facing another five days of lessons, gradually subsided. Instead it was rapidly replaced by an eerie quiet, broken only by whispered comments that, although the words remained indistinguishable, the subject matter was quite easy to deduce. For the third time in less than two days Hermione could feel herself under universal scrutiny, and although she had been expecting such treatment, it still made her shudder inside.

Approaching the Gryffindor table, Hermione noted that there was still a choice of seats even at this later than normal hour for her. For once both Ron and Harry had beaten her down to breakfast, and there were some empty spaces on the benches in their vicinity. As soon as the unnatural hush had settled, Harry’s head had popped up and searched out Hermione, who was moving between the tables in the direction of that occupied by the Gryffindors. She watched as he turned and spoke agitatedly to Ron, who looked up, flushed red, and then returned his attention to his plate, stabbing the eggs with more force than was needed..

Hermione could feel a hot flush building on her cheeks, and turned away from the other two parts of the trio. She had no wish to replay last night’s events afresh before a wider audience. With a determined air she chose a spot towards the far end of the Gryffindor table, and settled herself down in the space between the First Years, who were rather startled at the appearance of this rather exotic and reputedly formidable visitor to their somewhat isolated dining space, and the older students.

‘I don’t care,’ Hermione thought. ‘I can do this all by myself.’

Conversations started anew all around her with the rapidity of a forest fire. She glanced up and unfortunately caught Draco Malfoy’s eye. Hermione had never thought someone could laugh with such disdain, but as he pointed at her, and leaned in to whisper a no-doubt sarcastic comment to Pansy Parkinson, it was all too easy to theorise on what exactly was passing through his tiny pure-blooded head. It was far safer to turn her attention to the toast rack in front of her.

As Hermione finished buttering her first slice, and just as she reached for the raspberry jam, there was the scrape of a bench on the flagstones, and the light thump of a plate being dropped on the table opposite her. She looked up, anxious to see who was interrupting her state of glorious isolation, and found herself staring into an inquisitive pair of emerald green eyes.

She sighed, and tried to keep a tremor out of her voice. “What are you doing, Harry?”

He seemed a little confused at this, but sat down resolutely with his plate full of sausage, bacon and fried eggs. “Having breakfast,” was his light response.

She looked around sheepishly, hoping her exchange with one of her best friends would proceed unnoticed by the masses. “Harry, I know you’d rather sit with Ronald,” she said quietly, an ever-so slight note of forceful calamity present in her tone.

Harry winced a little at the use of Ron’s full moniker, but was not about to be put off. “I’m your friend too, Hermione,” he chided her gently. “And, at the moment, I think your need is greater than his.”

Hermione glanced up the table. Ron was staring back at the two of them with an expression of surprised incredulity, apparently frustrated at the turn of events. She could almost feel the palpable anger, and could not help but give a little shiver as Ron attacked his plate, spearing a banger viciously with his fork.

“He’ll come around, eventually,” Harry tried to convince Hermione quietly, although he did not sound too confident in his own words.

Hermione glanced at him, and then back at Ron, who was staring intently at his plate, silently fuming whilst tackling his Full English in an angry silence, to the curious looks of Parvati and Lavender. “Not today, I think,” she muttered, and cast an anxious look at Harry, who was equally discomfited.

“No,” he assented slowly. “Perhaps not …”

Hermione was in a quandary. She knew how important Ron was to Harry: his first friend; and one who had dared partner him in facing Aragog and being prepared to face the Basilisk. They spent so much time in each other’s company, having fun, sharing both good and bad times together …

Although she knew she should not make Harry choose between her and Ron, her need for someone to publicly stand by her was almost overwhelming, but she also felt she could not - should not - coerce her friends either …

“Harry, I won’t mind if you sit with Ron.” Her words were so hushed that he had to lean forward to capture them. He looked down at his plate, and for a few seconds she thought he was going to leave. Hermione was surprised to find that the possibility of being left alone by her peers once more almost caused her real physical pain. Slightly shaking, she held her breath.

Then Harry looked up, a strangely purposeful expression on his face. “For now, its about you Hermione. I’m not going to let them treat you the way they treated me back in Second Year.”

There was a lump in her throat and a tightness in her chest, similar to the moment when they’d made up over the Firebolt last year. Her hands were trembling, so she put them in her lap to hide how relieved she was.

Before she could thank Harry, a shadow loomed over them. “Is it alright to sit here?” the somewhat squeaky voice that belong to Neville enquired cautiously.

They both nodded, Harry more authoritatively than Hermione.

“Oh good, “ an obviously relieved Neville told them as he sat down next to Harry. “I wasn’t sure …” He trailed off and he seemed more intimidated than usual. “Just that … last night, I didn’t mean to - you know?” He gave Hermione a pleading look. She was confused, and cocked her head as she looked at him.

“Know what, Neville?” she asked curiously, in spite of herself.

Now he looked very unhappy. “I thought … after you’d stor- erm … left dinner early last night …” He looked like he wanted to be put out of his misery soon. “It wasn’t me, was it?”

“Wasn’t you what?” Hermione was just a tad frustrated at not being able to grab a hold of where this conversation was going, if indeed it was headed in any particular direction.

“Upset you?”

“Upset me?”

Neville nodded. “I’d thought you might need company, but perhaps I was wrong ..?”

Hermione tried hard to ensure her cautious smile appeared welcoming rather than nervous. “Of course not, Neville,” she said, as graciously as she could.

“It’s just you seemed so wrapped up in your thoughts,” Neville continued, gabbling fretfully. Hermione thought it was quite sweet, so very much in Neville‘s understated kind character that he placed other’ s feelings ahead of his own.

“No, I was just a little … distracted.” Her smile was a little more genuine this time.

“Oh, good.” Neville gestured to the seat next to Harry, who had been watching this interesting exchange with the beginnings of a smile fluttering at the corners of his lips. “May I join you?”

Hermione nodded and Harry shifted just a little so that Hermione could see both of the boys sitting opposite her without having to move her head more than a little. Neville merely looked relieved.

She had just taken a bite out of her first slice of toast when Neville spoke very quietly. “What are you going to do, Hermione?”

Hermione took her time to digest the mouthful of food, giving herself time to marshal her thoughts and gauge the views of both Neville and Harry. “I don’t intend being forced into taking part in the Tournament,” she said quietly but firmly.

Neville nodded. “Good,” he answered in his usual, modest, manner. “I never thought you entered,” he added.

Hermione was humbled by Neville’s simple admission, and felt a small wave of relief and gratitude wash over her. Harry was not alone in believing her, and she appreciated how difficult it could be for anyone to openly back her stance from within the student body. “Thanks Neville,” she replied quietly. “That means a lot to me.”

Embarrassed, Neville turned his flushed face and attention back to his breakfast, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“So, what are you going to do?” Harry asked uncertainly, echoing Neville‘s earlier question.

“Well, there are some Muggle child welfare laws that I need to read up on. There might be something in them that could help; after all, the legislation exists to protect children like us …” Hermione’s voice trailed off as she realised what she had said and to whom. It was with a sudden uncomfortable sensation that she looked up at Harry, to see how he had reacted to her comment of a rather too personal a nature.

Harry was sitting rigidly in his seat, his two hands gripped tightly around his knife and fork and resting either side of his plate, upon which his gaze was firmly fixed. Hermione cursed herself mentally for her unthinking comment. Of course, from what she had gathered from Ron and the Twins, no legislation seemed to exist that forced the Dursleys to look after their nephew, and with a slight tremor of fear Hermione wondered what Harry’s reaction would be if he found out that she had brought the matter to the attention of McGonagall, and indirectly Dumbledore.

Neville, who had not noticed the sudden drop in emotional temperature, then unknowingly contributed to the awkwardness of the situation. “And what about your parents, Hermione?” She watched as Harry blinked, manifestly trying to silently suppress his inner feelings of anger and injustice.

“Um … err … well, to be honest, they don’t know yet.” She did not want to raise the fact that they knew little of what really had happened to her over the last three years at Hogwarts. She still was not sure how she could broach the subject without risking an immediate parental demand for her withdrawal from what she had come to regard as her second home.

“You’ll be writing to them, then?” Harry asked woodenly, raising his gaze to meet her eyes.

Hermione nodded. The hurt in his expression did not escape her attention, nor did it help her current depressed mood.

“You can use Hedwig then, if you like,” Harry added, a bit more kindly.

Hermione felt relief wash over her, for the second consecutive time that morning. She really should have known that, regardless of his own circumstances, Harry would proffer her unconditional support. He would have known that she could use a school owl, but the offer of his own Familiar emphasized that he would stand with her. It meant so much to her at this time that, without thinking, she stretched out her right hand and for a second rested it on top of his left, still grasping the fork. Harry blushed slightly and she felt his grip on the cutlery relax.

This private moment seemed almost to last an eternity. Hermione stared deep into Harry’s emerald green eyes, seeking - and finding - reassurance, along with an element of something, something, but it disappeared before she could contemplate what it was.

The mood was rendered asunder as someone else dropped down on the seat alongside Hermione’s with a thump and an exaggerated sigh from the said visitor captured her attention. Hermione jerked her hand back as though she had contracted an electric shock, her face suddenly flushed, whilst Harry fixed his eyes on the rapidly congealing fried breakfast before him.

“My brother is an unthinking, ill-mannered oaf!” Ginny exclaimed as she finally settled in on Hermione’s left. To emphasize the point, she glared back up the table towards Ron and scowled at her sibling. Then she took in Hermione and Harry’s strangely guilty-looking demeanours. “What’s up with you two,” she enquired quietly.

“Nothing!” Harry replied quickly.

“Oh, just … you know?” Hermione chipped in quickly, not adding much to Ginny’s understanding and drawing a rather surprised look from Neville, who had not really been paying attention.

Ginny nodded as though she understood. “Hey, that’s hardly news, you know. He’s been an idiot all my life - and probably all of his,” she added as an afterthought, as though spilling a Weasley family secret.

Harry grinned a little, but then his mood sobered. “Ron has taken this really quite badly,” he observed, venturing forth to test the waters of the sensitive subject that was his best friend.

Ginny shrugged her shoulders. “It’s probably the fact that they’ve cancelled Quidditch for the year that’s made him so grumpy.” Again she looked towards her brother, and when she caught his eye she mouthed something rather obscene in his direction.

“No, it’s more than that,” Hermione said sadly.

Ginny looked sympathetically at the older Gryffindor. “Look, Hermione, he’s always been an argumentative sod. He’s just jealous. It‘s normal for him - you two will be friends again before you know it,” she said confidently, before taking a familial hungry bite out of her pork sausage - Neville’s attention had, for reasons unknown, also been captured by the youngest Weasley’s actions.

Hermione shook her head. “No, he really doesn’t believe me.” And that’s what’s hurting me, she added in her own mind.

“In time he’ll come round,” Harry tried a second attempt at reassurance, but it ended up sounding as bland as the first.

Hermione watched as Ginny tucked into her own breakfast plate, seemingly without a care in the world. “Ginny, I’m grateful that you feel it’s okay to sit with me.”

“Humph!” Ginny swallowed her food quickly - was this a Weasley trait, Hermione’s mind idly wondered - and followed it with a mouthful of pumpkin juice. “I wasn’t going to sit down there with him moaning and groaning and bad-mouthing you all the time.”

That last part of Ginny’s response particularly stood out to Hermione. “What’s he been saying about me?” she asked fearfully, feeling the need to know but afraid of the answer.

“Oh, nothing you haven’t heard already,” Ginny replied, waving her hand dismissively, but Hermione noted that the younger girl did not look her in the eyes. “All this ‘she think’s she’s so clever’ rubbish.” She stopped to take another sip from her goblet. “He really believes that you entered your name in the competition.” She shook her head sadly in disbelief. “He thinks you’re something called a ‘hippo-light’, whatever that is.”

Hermione felt her blood go cold, and for once it was not over Ron’ s mangling of the Muggle language. She had hoped she had been wrong about Ron, that it was just a moment of the jealously which she had noted before in his behaviour. “And what about the others?” she asked in a slightly quivering tone. “What do they think?” Hermione knew that if anyone had her finger on the pulse of the Gryffindor common room opinion, it was the youngest Weasley.

Ginny looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, from what I’ve heard and what the Twins tell me, most of them think you did find a way to enter.” She looked up at Hermione as though pained to pass on such news. “I’m not really sure about Fred and George - or, rather, I don’t think they’ve made their minds up. I reckon at first they did think you’d found a way past the age line.”

She halted uncertainly for a second, before continuing. “Which, they think, was a great piece of magic, if you did do it. But after last night they’re not so sure. The girls -” Hermione thought Ginny was referring to Alicia and Angelina “- well, they’re just jealous because they weren’t chosen, but from what George said last night I think the two of them are a little fed up with the bitching.” Ginny took another drink. “They’re probably veering a bit more towards you.”

“And you, Ginny,” Hermione asked gently. “What do you believe?”

Now looking very uncomfortable and nervous, Ginny cleared her throat, and looked hard at Hermione. “Honestly?”

Hermione nodded, fixing Ginny with a hard gaze, and silently communicating her need for honesty, although she knew Ginny‘s frankness could be painful to hear at times.

“Well, at first I thought you must have got your name in the Goblet somehow.” Ginny faltered as Hermione looked a little stricken at that news. “But after yesterday, well, it’s bloody obvious you didn’t.” She leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “To be frank, Hermione, you’re not a very good actress. Any one but an idiot -” she purposefully raised her voice as Ron had just risen from the breakfast table and was making his way out of the Great Hall “- could see that.”

Hermione relaxed a little. At least there were a handful of people who believed in her. In the face of overwhelming public opprobrium that would sustain her.

“I always believed you,” Harry put in quietly, just as Ginny‘s attention was diverted elsewhere for a moment by her brother‘s retirement. Hermione couldn’t help but smile gratefully at her best friend. And, for the second time that morning, the rest of the Great Hall might not have existed, as the world seemed to narrow down to just Granger and Potter.

“Umm … I think, well, you’re right, as well,” Neville stammered.

Her reply was heartfelt. “Thank you,” she said almost inaudibly. And if they hadn’t been in the Great Hall, she would have hugged all three of her friends.

* * * * *

Her potential estrangement from the vast majority of the other three Houses was quickly emphasized immediately after breakfast, as the first subject for the week was Herbology, typically shared with the Hufflepuffs, and under the tutelage of their Head of House, Professor Sprout. She was not that surprised that the Hufflepuff students were squarely behind their own champion in Cedric Diggory - after all, they were renowned for their sense of loyalty. That their cold attitude, however, extended to the remainder of the Gryffindors did catch her by surprise to an extent, and made her no more popular with the likes of Seamus and Lavender. Professor Sprout, who Hermione had hoped would have been tipped the wink by McGonagall, somehow managed to ignore her up-stretched arm every time a question was asked, and for the first time in Herbology, Hermione failed to garner a healthy haul of house points.

Her own immediate situation was exceptionally uncomfortable. Her partners were Ron and Harry, and in a diplomatic move that surprised Hermione with his insight, Harry seated himself between the two warring parties. Ron had adopted a resolute policy that Hermione did not exist that Monday morning, and whilst she tried hard to control her tongue when Ron made the odd error when re-potting Bouncing Bulbs, once or twice she lapsed back into what Ron had termed her ‘bossy know-it-all’ persona, and received a glare of such freezing hostility that she cursed her inability to hold her tongue.

The break came as a blessed relief for all three of them. Hermione could tell that Harry was under the strain of trying to keep a foot in both camps, and maintain good relations with both Ron and her.

Her red-haired supposed equal best friend sloped off to join Seamus and Dean, muttering something about being glad that was over. Neville had lingered behind to discuss some plant-related matters with Professor Sprout, and Harry cast soulful looks towards the three boys; Hermione felt a little guilty at his predicament.

Unfortunately there was no immediate improvement in affairs, as although Hermione believed there would be no such indifference shown to her by the next teacher, the Gryffindors did share Care of magical Creatures with the Slytherins. Naturally loathing Gryffindors, and implacably hostile to Muggleborns, their attitude towards her had only been reinforced by her selection. The catalyst that was Draco Malfoy could only lead to an angry confrontation sooner rather than later. Hermione just hoped that if it occurred here, it would be something Hagrid could handle.

She and Harry lagged along at the back of the small trail of students heading away from the Castle, seeking to postpone the moment of confrontation, but there was no avoiding the Slytherins. Malfoy and his two ever-present goons, Crabbe and Goyle, were waiting for them as the hillside flattened out a little, and were backed up by Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Nott.

“This would never have happened in the old days,” Malfoy sneered. “As my father said, Dumbledore has really let this place go to the dogs.”

“Ignore them, Harry,” Hermione said quietly to her companion, feeling him determined to stamp on any argument before it could get going.

“A Mudblood as Champion?” Pansy simpered. Hermione tightened her grip on Harry’s arm.

“Not for long,” laughed Malfoy. “Granger thinks she’s so clever, but from what my father says, she’s in over her birds-nest head this time!”

“Do you have your own opinion, Malfoy?” Harry seethed. “Or are you just a parrot repeating your father’s words?”

The insincere smile was wiped from Malfoy’s face, and he stepped forward, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. “At least my father’s words mean something, Pott-Head,” he snarled.

“At least you have a father,” Pansy added slyly.

Hermione thought it lucky that Pansy Parkinson was a girl and Harry had some idea of chivalry, as she had to hang on hard to prevent an immediate escalation. “Harry, don’t!” she whispered in his ear, seeing the fierceness in his expression and bright crimson spots appear on his cheeks. She was ever so glad when Neville finally arrived to at least reduce the odds.

“Problem, Harry?” Neville muttered in his soft Lancashire accent.

“Look, another failure,” Zabini observed coolly.

Hermione’s patience snapped. “Harry and Neville are worth more than all of Slytherin put together!”

There was a fumbling for wands as Nott started towards Hermione, and she found herself protectively placed between the two boys, both with wands drawn. It was with some surprise that she found her own wand in her hand, ready to cast a protective spell.

Malfoy, looking at the business end of three drawn wands, backed off only a little. “Granger, a Triwizard champion?” he mocked. “You can’t even fight your own battles!”

“Really?” Harry replied. “Hardly ever see you without your two gorillas as bodyguards.”

Hermione pushed her way between Harry and Neville to face Malfoy. “I’m perfectly capable of fighting for myself,” she said. “As you should remember from last year.”

Draco’s pale expression took on a slight tinge of red, and his jaw hardened, as he obviously recalled the punch Hermione had thrown last year, at virtually the same spot. He started to take a step forward, and for a millisecond Hermione believed the fight would start here and now.

Luckily for all involved, a giant shadow was cast over them. “Summat I should know about?” he enquired.

Malfoy derided Hagrid’s intervention, merely turning his ominous step forwards into a casual straightening of his robes. As the Slytherin wands began to lower, Hermione and Neville sheathed theirs’ although Harry took a second longer, until certain the immediate danger was over. “Just a little disagreement, Hagrid,” he muttered.

“Right.” Hagrid didn’t seem convinced but as all the wands were now safely put away, he did not overly concern himself. He returned his attention to the teetering tower of crates that he had just brought out from behind his hut, before abandoning them as it seemed half his class were about to start throwing spells and hexes. All of the class seemed horrified when the contents were revealed to be a succession of bad-tempered Blast-Ended Skrewts.

As Hagrid began to explain the reason why they were in a foul temper and had begun to turn on each other, even killing their own kind, Hermione noticed that Malfoy still had his attention fixed on her. As she caught his eyes, he returned a sickly smile, and then drew his finger across his throat in an unmistakeable gesture.

Unnerved, looking away, Hermione tried to find Ron. Usually he would have been in the forefront of any confrontation with the Slytherins, but had been conspicuous by his absence. She finally found him on the far side of the student group, his attention fixed on Draco Malfoy, his expression fierce and full of loathing. Hermione pondered this for a moment, until her train of thought was derailed when a giant hand landed rather heavily on her shoulder. Caught out, not paying attention to the one teacher who was also her friend, she looked up with a hint of remorse.

“You alrigh’ , Hermione?” Hagrid asked gently. She nodded as she heard Malfoy start to complain about putting a leash on the Skrewts and accomplishing their task of taking the dangerous creatures for a walk - or whatever the Skrewt equivalent of this exercise could be called.

“Roun’ the middle,” Hagrid called back, not bothering to turn back, his eyes sizing Hermione up. “But don’ ferget yer dragon-hide gloves.”

Hermione was just a little put out. “Honestly, Hagrid, I’m fine.”

Hagrid just gave her a small, sad smile. His next words were deliberately loud so that most of the class would catch them. “Why don’ yeh come an’ help me with this big one, Hermione.”

Hermione glanced back at her friends. Harry was watching her closely, and then gave her a brief nod before flicking a glance towards Ron. Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about that - there was a little piece of her that screamed ‘abandonment’, but she understood Harry’s quandary. “Okay, Hagrid.”

Carefully positioning the large Skrewt so that the two of them were out of earshot of the rest of the class, but Hagrid was still able to keep an eye on how they were handling what he would undoubtedly consider something of a housetrained pet, Hermione waited for him to start.

“Blimey, Hermione!” Hagrid shook his head impressively. “It always happens to yeh three, don’ it.”

Hermione started to open her mouth to protest her innocence, but soon found that was unnecessary. “No idea how yeh name in came outta it, then?” Hagrid asked patiently.

Hermione expelled a sigh of pure relief. “At least you believe me.”

Hagrid looked just a little affronted. “Course I do. I believe yeh when yeh says you didna put yer name in fer it.” He leaned down - quite a long way as Hermione was half-kneeling over the Skrewt - and in a surprisingly soft whisper confided in her. “Dumbledore and Minerva believe yeh as well.”

His attention was caught as, with an alarming bang, the Skrewt being exercised by Harry and Ron released an explosion from its rear, and shot forwards, dragging Harry along with it on his backside. Hagrid shook his head.

“I wish some of my other friends -” Hermione put a fair bit of meaning and emphasis into that word “- thought the same.”

Hagrid looked alarmed. “What do yeh mean, ‘Mione?”

Hermione was staring at Ron through narrowed eyes. “Ronald Weasley,” she said, in the expectation that this would be explanation enough.

“Ah, Ron,” Hagrid nodded his head wisely as though Hermione had just stated a universal truth. “I be guessin’ that he don’ believe yeh?”

Almost stamping her foot in frustration, Hermione let off a little steam. “I’m caught in the middle, looking at taking part in some damned tournament that could result in maiming or worse, or possible fights with the Ministry that could see me expelled, and just when I need the support of my friends, he goes and does just what he did last year.”

“Boys’ll be boys,” Hagrid observed sagely. “They can be real mean at times.”

“I would have thought he’d have learned that lesson last year, when he accused Crookshanks of killing Scabbers.”

Hagrid ran his fingers through his unkempt beard. “Ah jus’ don’ know, Hermione. It seems everythin’ happens ter you three.”

Even the sight of Malfoy finding his robes with a muddy coating following an incident with a particularly obstreperous Skrewt did not cheer Hermione up. “To be honest, Hagrid, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Yeh writt’n ter yer Mum and Dad?” Hermione shook her head guiltily. “Yeh outta, yeh know. They deserve to know what’s goin’ on.” She nodded in agreement; she still had to tackle that particular task. “But yeh know,” Hagrid continued, “that if yeh ever have anythin’ yeh want to talk about, yer more than welcome to come down here.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Hermione replied with heartfelt appreciation. The tiny band that believed her was growing, and who knew what dangerous creatures she might have to face if she could not get out of competing.

* * * * *

Lunch had been another rather draining experience. Ginny chose to sit with her brothers, although Hermione guessed that was more to gauge the Twins’ current mindset and to put a bit more pressure - or abuse - in Ron’s direction. Harry and Neville joined Hermione but barely a word was exchanged, as Hermione tried hard to read some more about the existing Scottish laws; the two boys knew well enough to leave her undisturbed, and Hermione actually left the table early. She was finding it a constant pressure to be present in the Great Hall when the students were there in numbers, always aware of the odd taunt from the Slytherins, and worrying in case she reacted badly and caused a scene. Better to absent herself and seek sanctuary in the Library, where she could concentrate on her researches.

Monday afternoon also meant that she would be on her own in the classroom, as whilst the rest of the Fourth Year Gryffindors suffered Divination with Sybil Trelawny, Hermione was taking Double Arithmancy. The rest of Professor Vector’s class was mostly made up of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, with the exception of Blaise Zabini, the sole representative of Slytherin. For the first time in her academic career at Hogwarts, Hermione really missed Harry’s company.

The Ravenclaw group attitude seemed to be that Hermione Granger had cheated the system, and whilst they appreciated the cleverness of her means, they disapproved of the end to which she had corrupted the system. Her disavowing of her actions were not understood either, so they had lapsed into a sullen dissatisfaction with her. So, although Professor Vector had no obvious House sympathies and treated Hermione’s participation in the class as normal, Hermione was aware that instead of earning the intellectual admiration of her peers, there was an air of censure about each house point she gathered in.

Normally the intricacies of Arithmancy kept her mind busy, but today she had to admit that for the first time, other matters were impinging upon her studies. In previous years she had managed to cope with the search for Nicholas Flamel, investigations that had determined a Basilisk was loose in the School’s plumbing, and her seemingly unavailing effort to draw up a legal defence for Buckbeak, as well as maintaining her academic record. But now there were other issues filling her head: the research for a legal loophole that would invalidate her participation in the Triwizard Tournament; what would happen if she did have to take part; how she could break the news to her parents and obtain their support without running the risk of being summarily withdrawn from Hogwarts and possibly the magical world; and the tensions that had rendered asunder the Gryffindor Golden Trio.

As a rule Hermione was so accomplished at compartmentalising her life. For the first time she felt this aspect was starting to come apart, and that just multiplied the deterioration, as she was unused to not being in total control of her brain. It took a great deal of effort to keep her mind on the properties of numerology.

Dinner was equally difficult. Hermione ate but a little of the chicken casserole, equally determined to get on with her research and get away from prying eyes. Harry looked worried when she rose from her seat and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, but did not try to interfere.

At first the Library was a blessed relief. With almost all of the students at their evening meal, Hermione was able to retrace her steps from the previous afternoon, and ignore the scornful looks she incurred from Madame Pince. Viktor Krum was quietly sitting in his normal seat, within view of the table Hermione had commandeered. Every so often Hermione would turn her attention away from The Children (Scotland) Act 1994 and glanced towards the Bulgarian. She was sure he was trying to watch her unobtrusively, and she found that a little unsettling.

After about an hour, Hermione was convinced she was on the right track. There was no doubt that Scottish Law took precedence as she was habitually resident at Hogwarts, and that she could appeal to the Scottish Court of Session as she was under the age of responsibility which was set at sixteen. She had started to mentally compose her letter to the lawyers when events took a turn for the worse.

Viktor’s groupies had finished their evening repast and had come in search of their quarry. The giggling and whispering of girls who Hermione thought should have known better - ‘I mean, there are Seventh Years amongst them, as well as one prefect!’ - caused a disturbance far in proportion to the actual noise. It often broke her concentration, and pointed stares and annoyed intakes of breath earned her nothing but withering looks from girls who should have been acting in a more mature fashion.

Every so often Hermione would take a peek in Krum’s direction. To her surprise, and a little thrill of schadenfreude, he looked uncomfortable at being the object of such attention. She thought that a little surprising, given he was reputedly the world’s best Quidditch player, and his apparent aloof persona encouraged her belief that he did not really care about anyone else.

None of the gathering seemed in any hurry to approach the star Seeker, whether too embarrassed at a potential rebuff in front of the others or just lacking the courage to hunt singly instead of part of a pack, so they just stood around the book stacks, moving around to try to gain a better viewpoint of their pin-up or try to catch his eye, actions which just added to Hermione’s irritation.

Finally someone other than her had had their patience stretched beyond breaking point. “That’s enough!” Madame Pince loomed above the gaggle of giggling young ladies. “This is a Library, not an exhibition hall. Now, unless you have any intention of reading a book at one of the tables, you will leave now!”

Hermione put her head down and smiled inwardly to herself. She knew full well that the Library was Pince’s temple to the art of reading, with books present to be venerated, and not a host for social gatherings. As she heard the girls drift away, muttering unfair accusations about the Librarian, Hermione glanced up to see if Krum was disappointed at the loss of his admiring audience.

To her horror, she found he was already looking in her direction! She drew in a sharp breath of surprise, ducked her head back down, astonished to find herself blushing, then looked back over her arm.

Viktor Krum seemed quite happy sitting there without an adoring crowd, To Hermione’s amazement, he was still gazing at her. As soon as he noticed she was looking at him again, there was the briefest appearance of a small smile - the first time she had ever seen any emotion on his face - and she could have sworn there was the briefest shake of his head towards her.

A little flustered, Hermione, cheeks burning for some unfathomed reason, buried her head back into her books, all the time trying to figure out what that momentary exchange had portended. Perhaps this was the normal courtesies extended to a fellow competitor. But Hermione had gained the belief that Viktor had not only agreed with his headmaster, Karkaroff, who had opposed - quite rightly - her late entry into the competition, but also that she was responsible for suborning the Goblet of Fire through nefarious means.

In her opinion, this was not the action of someone who believed she was a cheat and a liar.

To test her theory, she decided it was time to fetch another reference tome from the bookshelves. As she rose from the table, she occasionally flickered her gaze in Krum’s direction, She was just a tad disappointed to see that he wasn’t taking any obvious interest in her actions.

‘Oh well, perhaps it was just a trick of the light,’ thought Hermione as she made her way through the stacks, unencumbered by Quidditch fans.

The reference work in question was not easy to find, and it took a few minutes to locate. As she started to leaf through it, seeking confirmation the contents would be of use, she heard a slight noise behind her. ‘Perhaps Krum was watching me,’ she opined to herself.

Before she could turn around, Hermione was rudely pushed face-first into the bookshelf. Somehow she grabbed her wand from its temporary hiding-place in the waistband of her skirt, but before she could utter anything her right arm was forced up and behind her, hard against her shoulder blades. The pressure on her wrist increased and she felt her wand slip out of her fingers.

“I remember what you did last year all too well, Mudblood.” The voice chilled her as she recognised the silky tones of Draco Malfoy. Her arm was forced even higher up, making her eyes water from the pain.

“Did you really think I would leave such an insult unpunished?” Malfoy scornfully demanded.

Hermione did not look at him - she could hardly turn her face away from where her nose was jammed against dusty tomes - and instead tried to reason with him, all the while doing her best to ignore the pain. “Malfoy, please …”

There was a short, unpleasant, laugh. “Please what, Mudblood?”

She gasped involuntarily at the hurt inflicted. “Let me go.”

There was a moment’s silence. The pressure slackened just a bit and Hermione was able to squeeze her face to the right, so that her cheek was forced against the spines of ancient volumes; it helped relieve the pressure on her right shoulder just a bit.

“Goyle!” The force was reapplied and Hermione found herself stretching on tiptoes to alleviate the stress on her arm.

Malfoy sounded so cocky. “Oh no, Granger.” There were three of them, she could tell, as Malfoy’s voice came from safely right behind her, and another pair of hands was keeping her left shoulder flat against the shelving. Goyle, she guessed, rationalising the situation; the three of them were almost as indivisible as the Trio had been. “And just in case …” Before she could cry out - “Silencio!”

Now she was helpless.

“Now, let’s see …” Malfoy was almost purring in his enjoyment. “No point doing something with your hair, as any hex could only improve its state.”

There was a harsh, guttural laugh from one of his acolytes. Where was Madame Pince?

From the corner of her eye, Hermione could just see Malfoy staring at her with a calculating gleam in his eye. She tried to flinch away as he leaned in towards her, but she was held so securely that she could not budge an inch.

“You reckon you could be a Triwizard champion?” Malfoy breathed maliciously into her ear. Hermione was beginning to feel very uneasy about what Malfoy could do to her. “This will be nothing compared to what you face.”

“Vot is this?” A foreign accent from somewhere away to her left. Immediately the pressure on her arm and back slackened slightly.

“Ah, Viktor,” Malfoy replied haltingly.

‘Thank Merlin,’ Hermione thought with relief.

“Just a little inter-house disagreement,” Malfoy continued, regaining some self-confidence as he spoke. “Keeping the rabble in their place, you know?”

There was a pregnant pause. “You vill let her go,” Krum finally demanded in a voice that, whatever its limitations in a foreign tongue, was firm and brooked no disagreement.

The strain on her arm lessened a little more, and Hermione was able to turn her head from right to left. Viktor Krum stood there, his face emotionless but his stance determined.

“Look, Krum, this is nothing to do with you.” Malfoy sounded a little disconcerted. “After all, Granger’s up against you, so what’s the harm, eh? In the end, she’s only a dirty little Mudblood.”

“Sega! Let her go now,” Krum demanded in a threatening growl, taking steps towards the little group.

Hermione could tell that the Bulgarian meant business. She thought that Malfoy was underestimating his man, perhaps because he spoke so little. If so, Hermione was firmly of the opinion that the blond Slytherin was making a serious error in judgement.

“You’re a guest here, Krum.” Malfoy replied in a most condescending tone. “This is none of your business.”

And then Malfoy reached for his wand.

Hermione had never seen anyone draw a wand so fast. In a flash Krum’s wand was drawn, Malfoy disarmed in one peremptory command, and the Slytherin pinned against the opposite stack at wand-point. Crabbe and Goyle, moving faster than Hermione had ever seen them do so before, released her and abandoned their putative leader, running towards the exit. In a state of nervous exhaustion, she slumped forward against the shelving, afraid that her legs would give way.

From behind she heard only two words - “ Oteeda! Go. Now!” - and the urgent patter of panicked footsteps. Then a strong hand, surprising in its gentleness, pulled her to her feet.

As she turned to face her rescuer, Hermione knew her face was a mess. Her eyes would be red and puffy; there would be the salty tracks of tears down her cheeks; and the left half would bear the imprint of books and a wooden shelf where it had been pressed against the stack.

Krum was looking carefully at her with little or no visible emotion. Hermione stated to thank him but found no words issuing forth; she had forgotten about the spell cast by Malfoy. She gestured to her throat and thankfully Krum understood the situation, intoning Finite Incantatem.

The first thing Hermione did was gasp for air. Before she could even stammer her thanks, Krum had bent down and retrieved her wand, handing it back to her gracefully. “Ve have not been introduced,” he said. With a formal little click of his heels as he brought his feet together, and an odd little bow of the head, he held out his hand. “Viktor Krum.”

It was in a state of some confusion that Hermione took the proffered hand. “And thanks awfully -”

“Herm… Herm-own-ninny. Herm-own-ninny Granger?” Krum looked more concerned over perceived mispronunciation than facing three Slytherin assailants. “Is that right?”

“Her - My - Oh - Nee,” she enunciated.

“Hermy-own-ninny?”

‘Close enough’ Hermione thought.

“I remember from … we haff meeting, da?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Dimly Hermione recalled some arcane fact that Bulgarians nodded their head to indicate disapproval, and shook their heads to signify agreement. “I do not understand. Vot vere they doing? You are Champion, Yes?”

It was difficult to explain, even to someone in their own language. “It’s complicated, but no, I’m not a Hogwarts champion.”

Krum’s thick eyebrows merged in a universal sign of confusion. “You said so dveh … two days ago.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I must go now.” And with that he turned on his heel and marched from the Library, leaving a very flustered and equally confused Hermione Granger in his wake.

* * * * *

Hermione wasted no time in returning to Gryffindor Tower; the Library was too deserted late evening on Sundays, and she did not feel the need to tarry just in case Draco Malfoy and his goons returned. She was confused by Viktor Krum: less so by his actions - she would have hoped anyone would have interceded when she was being threatened - than by his words, or lack of them.

When she arrived in the Common Room she walked in on what was obviously the tail-end of an argument between Harry and Ron. They were facing each other only a few inches apart, Ron’s chessboard lying on the floor and the pieces spilled across the carpet, continuing their struggle off-board. Several Gryffindors lounged around, attention centred on the warring pair. It was the second night running they had been provided with this form of entertainment.

“You’re a bloody idiot!” Ron yelled, the veins in his neck standing out.

“For what, Ron? Standing up for a friend?” Harry was seriously angry, something she had not seen for some time.

“She’s lied to us. How can you not see that?” Ron was exasperated by Harry’s failure to grasp that simple concept.

Harry’s next words were not shouted but the coolness and determination in his words chilled Hermione. “She has never lied to us.” Hermione hoped that he would never have to speak to her like that. It was far more impressive than simply raging at one. “Hermione has always stood by us.”

“Oh yeah?” Ron was puce in pallor now. “Remember last year when she ratted about your Firebolt to McGonagall?”

Harry wiped a hand across his brow. “She never lied about that, did she?” he said wearily, taking a step back and half turning away from Ron. “She told us up front what she had done.”

Ron stepped up, closing the space and standing toe-to-toe with Harry. “I reckon she’s been jealous of the attention you’ve got the last few years.”

“Well, she’d be welcome to it,” Harry retorted. “Is this about me or Hermione now?”

“You should show some backbone Potter and stand up to her. Don’t let her run your life.”

“Has someone replaced your brain with jelly?” Harry was riled now. “Hermione has never done anything but try to push us. Do you really think she wanted to enter this bloody competition.”

“Well, you did,” Ron replied, truthfully enough. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want a shot at ‘eternal glory’, just like me, or Fred and George?”

“Ron, Hermione is not like you or me.”

“No, she’s bloody clever and too bloody proud.” Ron’s frustration was showing. “How can you be so blind? She’s tried to prove how smart she is and she’s got caught out.”

Harry stood, quietly fuming. “That’s enough, Ron.”

Breathing heavily, Ron halted for a moment. “So that’s the way it is, is it?” he observed. “You and her. Leave poor old Ron Weasley on the sidelines.” He stooped to gather up his recalcitrant chess pieces, and tucked the board under his arm before turning back to Harry, who hadn’t budged an inch. “Just remember, Harry, when she drags you into this, whose fault it was.”

Harry’s response was pithy and to the point. “Sod off, Ron.”

Ron raised two fingers in response as he stormed off. “Up yours, Potter.”

From her viewpoint Hermione could see Harry’s shoulders slump as soon as Ron disappeared up the staircase to the Fourth Year boys’ dorms. She knew how much Harry valued Ron’s friendship, as he had been the first boy of Harry’s own age that had been at all kind to the scrawny young wizard from Little Whinging. So she realised how much that argument must have hurt Harry. She moved silently to his side. “Harry?” she asked, nervously.

He squared his shoulders and turned to face her, emotion writ large on his face. The sight nearly moved her to tears. She gestured him to one side, away from the risk of being overheard, and ended up by the mantelpiece near the warmth of the roaring fire.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she found herself saying.

He look confused at that. “You’re sorry?” he replied quietly. “Why?”

“For making you choose between me and Ron.”

Harry shook his head. “No, Hermione, you didn’t force anything on me. You know you have my support, no doubt about it.” He sighed. “Ron often sees things in black and white. He can’t understand how I can remain friends with you at this time.”

Hermione hung her head. “I never really thought him that much of an idiot.”

Harry gave her a wintry smile. “Oh, come on, this is Ron Weasley we’re talking about.”

“I struggle to understand why he’s so annoyed with me - after all, it’s not as if I’ve done anything to him,” Hermione reflected. “But you - Harry, you’ve tried to stay friends with both of us. Why does he insist its him or me?”

“I don’t know.” Again that bleak smile. “Perhaps he’s got a Blast-Ended Skrewt up his arse!”

Hermione shook her head sadly. “Whatever.” Then she was aware that Harry was scrutinising her.

“Never mind me. Are you alright?”

“What?” Hermione recalled how she must appear, hair mussed up and blatant evidence of tears on her face.

Harry stepped closer. “What happened, Hermione.”

Hermione hesitated. Given Harry’s mood, if she told him about Malfoy and his cronies, his innate sense of protectiveness would kick in, and he would be seeking revenge at some stage. Much as she would sympathise with that viewpoint, she believed she should fight her own battles, and Harry did not really need another run-in with the Slytherins and Snape. “It’s nothing, Harry.”

His eyes bore into hers, and for the first time she felt that he was able to gaze on her very soul. “You’re sure? You’re okay?”

She nodded once, hoping the matter was closed. She had a difficult letter to write that needed to go tonight. And much as she did not want to tell Harry about the near assault earlier, and wanted to stand on her own two feet, she did not really look forward to a lone trip through the corridors tonight. “Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“You remember you said I could borrow Hedwig?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, I need to finish it off, then will you come with me to the Owlery?”

Harry glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s close to curfew, Hermione.”

“I won’t be long.” Hermione turned towards the girls’ staircase, before a thought struck her and she changed direction back to where Harry was staring at the fire burning in the hearth. “Harry?” He just looked up at her. “Why didn’t you choose Ron?” It was an easier question than asking why did he choose her.

“It wasn’t a question of choosing between you and Ron,” he replied honestly. “You’re in trouble and need our help at this time. If Ron is too thick to realise that, then that’s his problem.” He turned his attention back to the flames.

* * * * *

Sega = Now

I have absolutely no claim of ownership on the characters; they all belong to JK Rowling, although if she is hiring out Hermione… And I denied myself the opportunity to split this chapter in two, so it is a nice long one to make up for your wait.

Chapter 4 - Lessons to be Learned

Hermione dreaded the start of Tuesday afternoon’s Potions class with the Slytherins. Usually any sensible Gryffindor would shrink away from attending one of Severus Snape’s lessons, but this would be the first class where the Trio’s split asunder would be on full display, above all before the Potions’ master. Worse still, the setting would put her in the awkward situation of her first confrontation with Malfoy and his cronies since their intimidation - or worse - in the Library. Throughout the morning’s History of Magic class, Hermione, much to her dismay, found her thoughts drifting away from Professor Binn’s lecture about the Seventeenth Century’s Goblin rebellions. Instead she worried about her prospects for that afternoon. She paid her lesson no better attention than did Harry or, she supposed, Ron – and it showed in her notes, so ordinarily impeccable, but today just a mixture of half-hearted jottings.

But in reality the whole affair proceeded much better than she had anticipated. All day she had told herself in no uncertain terms that it was pointless to fear Malfoy. So when the platinum-blond Slytherin tried to catch her eye in the corridor outside the Potions’ dungeon, she challenged his gaze resolutely, stared back at him, through him even, and kept her head held high. She knew it was important not to betray the slightest hint of fear, although her heart simultaneously beat quite madly like a jackhammer in her chest. With the whole of the Slytherin pack behind him, Malfoy was confident past the point of arrogance, but Hermione drew her own assurance from the sure and certain knowledge that Harry, at least, would support her if she needed him.

Malfoy turned and addressed his housemates almost smugly in theatrical tones. “You know, my father says that the likes of her shouldn’t be allowed to enter a prestigious magical competition like the Triwizard.”

For a second, Hermione pondered this information. She wondered whether Draco Malfoy was just invoking Lucius’s name just to make a point, or if news of her participation had really reached those exalted circles so quickly as to allow time for a paternal response. She suspected the latter, and mentally filed that piece of information away just in case it would turn out handy one day. Outwardly she kept her cool, aware that Harry was flanking her right shoulder and would immediately be straining to throw Malfoy’s intended insult back in his smug face.

“Good,” Hermione replied.

At that Draco Malfoy’s smug attitude all but disappeared, as suddenly as if he had taken a wallop in the gut from a troll club, to be replaced by momentary confusion. “What did you say?” he spluttered, all trace of mockery in his voice now gone.

Hermione kept her eyes tightly fixed on his grey pair. “For once, I tend to agree with Lucius Malfoy,” she replied coolly, trying hard to keep a smile from breaking out as Draco looked lost for words. “I should not be allowed to compete,” she declared, internally satisfied at her blond nemesis’ predicament.

At this point, with the Slytherin campaign of intimidation thoroughly, if only temporarily, derailed, Professor Snape arrived to find the corridor blocked. “What precisely is going on here?” he intoned menacingly, a dark eyebrow raised. Hermione glanced behind her and was heartily surprised to find not only Harry in close support, but Neville as well. Dean and Seamus also hovered in the immediate vicinity, and she felt a little guilty thrill of relief to see that Ron had not entirely abandoned her. He was behind her too, albeit well behind, standing near the back and glaring at the Slytherin crowd.

“Sir, it seems that a blind pig just found a truffle,” she answered Professor Snape. That little smile that tugged at the corners of her lips at the sound of her own joke at Malfoy’s expense froze in place when she found Snape glaring down his long nose at her.

“Charming … drawing a new crowd of sycophants, are we, Granger?” he said quietly, his eyes glittering with silent menace. “A fan club for -” he almost gagged on his next words “- a supposed Triwizard Champion?” He straightened. “Ten points from Gryffindor for impeding movement in the hallways.”

Hermione’s smile died away altogether. She thought of protesting, as several other Gryffindors did, that it was the Slytherins who had actually blocked the corridor. There was something in Snape’s mien, however, that quelled the idea. At the same time Malfoy’s baffled expression also vanished, to be replaced by a smirk born of petty triumph.

As they entered the Potions’ classroom Hermione took her normal seat, next to Neville, and quietly unpacked her textbooks. She could not hide her surprise when she looked up to see Ron standing uncertainly at his usual place by Harry’s side. Unfortunately, Snape hovered nearby.

“Is there a problem, Weasley?” the intimidating professor inquired with a quiet coldness.

She couldn’t catch Ron’s indistinct reply, but she did see Snape’s lips curl up in a menacing leer.

“Fallen out with Potter, have you?”, Snape went on carelessly. “Well, I have no time for intramural Gryffindor squabbling in this class. Take your seat immediately.” He turned away, then swung back to face the two supposed friends. “Oh, and five points from Gryffindor for delaying my class,” he added, as though the thought had nearly escaped his attention.

Bile rose in Hermione’s throat. She could not help but feel culpable for Ron and Harry’s current fractured state of friendship. Raising her hand, she volunteered: “Sir, if it’s no trouble, I could swap with Ron …”

At the sight of Snape’s predatory expression, Hermione realised she should have kept her mouth tightly closed. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to speak,” he replied silkily. “Another ten - no, let us make it twenty points from Gryffindor, for interrupting a class unnecessarily.”

Hermione became uncomfortably aware of the irate glares from her housemates, who only a few minutes ago had seemed to be ready to back one of their own against the Slytherins. Thus she kept her peace. She knew that there was no chance of retrieving any of those lost points in this class, especially as Snape for the rest of the double period consistently ignored her raised hand, instead seeking responses from those “not lucky enough to be called a ‘Hogwarts’ Champion’”.

* * * * *

After dinner that evening, Hermione retreated once again to the Library. All the lost points had even earned her house a mild rebuke from Professor McGonagall during a brief visit to the dinner table, which had done nothing to improve her relations within Gryffindor.

Much more wary this time, she kept her wand firmly gripped under her robes and looked surreptitiously about her, just in case Malfoy sought to repeat his attempt to add physical threat to verbal abuse. To her relief, it proved unnecessary, as there was nothing but the usual quiet Tuesday night. Hermione was quietly relieved that Madame Pince had apparently banned the crowd of young, female Krum-stalkers from her book-filled sanctuary.

Hermione took her seat at what she regarded as ‘her’ table. She started to compose her first communication with the firm of lawyers recommended by the Headmaster. From the information made available to her, and from the results of her own research, she had been able to identify several points of law - both magic and Muggle - that offered her some hope of avoiding taking part in the competition whilst still retaining her place in the magical world.

Nearly three quarters of an hour passed before Hermione noticed Viktor Krum had also crept into the Library. Krum had an athletic build and was rather graceless on the ground, in contrast to his fluid mastery on a broom. Hermione was thus somewhat surprised that he had moved so quietly on his feet as to enter without her noticing. She supposed that he might soon disappear once he found that his adoring fans were nowhere to be seen. Still a small part of her was glad he was there, just in case any Slytherins were contemplating another series of foul play.

She resolutely ignored him. It was not difficult for her to concentrate on her parchment, absorbed as she was in wording and rewording her missive. Hermione was also barricaded behind the source works, case histories and legal precedents from both judicial systems that she consulted, and sometimes quoted in her copious notes. She hardly noticed the time pass. It was with a minor degree of surprise and subsequent irritation that she had to pause as a shadow passed between her light source and her now rather full parchment.

“Excuse me?” It was Krum’s slightly halting English.

Hermione, who had reason enough to be grateful to the shambling Bulgarian, replied politely. “Can I help you?”

Krum looked uncertain, and a little abashed. “I am haffing trouble with some vords,” he stated. In his giant Seeker’s hand he held a large volume, but one so familiar and dear to Hermione’s heart: Hogwarts: A History.

“You’re reading this?” Hermione blurted out, rather impolitely, she immediately reflected.

Krum shook his head, then stopped, seeming mentally to upbraid himself. Finally, he nodded. “I like to learn about Hogvarts,” he stated simply.

Hermione was a little abashed as she realised that her surprise was based on prejudicial stereotyping based on Viktor’s sporting prowess and seemingly brooding personality. His long fingers pointed out a particular passage on page 967. Of course, Hermione could have recited the words off by heart - although she would never claim to do so within Ron’s hearing.

“I do not understand,” Viktor said simply. “Vot is this ‘Royal Charter’?”

“Ah,” Hermione smiled. “That means that in the year 1700 the then King of England, William the Third, gave the School royal protection. It was occasioned by the creation of our Ministry of Magic.” She wondered briefly if that explanation would mean anything to the Bulgarian, but he looked hard at the page, and she could see his lips move as he silently mouthed the words to himself.

“I see,” he said slowly. “My English is not very good.”

Hermione blinked. “You are speaking and reading a foreign language quite well,” she replied, with not a little admiration in her voice. “I’d hate to see myself having to learn Bulgarian,” she added, hoping she did not sound patronising.

Krum looked glum, a not uncommon occurrence. “I come here; not you go there. My English could - no, should - be better.” Almost shyly, he indicated the empty chair opposite Hermione. “Can I sit … here, please?”

Much as Hermione might crave a little privacy, she knew it would be rude to a foreign visitor - no, she reminded herself, a guest of the School - to refuse. “Please, take a seat,” she replied, and prepared herself for a conversation that would divert her from the goals she had set for herself that evening. But, Viktor surprised her again. He just sat down and quietly recommenced reading from the very substantial tome. Mentally Hermione chided herself for falling once more for her inaccurate stereotype, a failing that she had often accosted Ron for.

So the two Champions, one willing and the other emphatically the opposite, sat together in a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of pages being turned.

Hermione’s mind wandered. She was frankly amazed that an internationally renowned sporting star would be content sitting in the peace and quiet of a school library. She had gleaned a bit from Ron’s oft-stated desire to follow in the footsteps of the Chudley Cannons - or, as Seamus had suggested at considerable risk of physical retaliation, a half-decent Quidditch team. Apparently top players lived in a cosseted world of luxury and excess, broken only by short intense bursts of energy when involved in matches or, less so, training sessions and practise. Hermione had gently chided Ron at one point, without effect, that what was printed in Quidditch Monthly was not necessarily the truth. She knew how hard athletes in the Muggle world had to train to achieve the top ranks of their professions, and doubted that matters would be any different for their Wizarding counterparts.

With a start Hermione realised that she had lost her train of thought. She had not made any notes for several minutes. Mentally, she reprimanded herself for her lapse in focus, due to interest in an athlete of all things. Redoubling her research effort, she ploughed ahead. Still, a little voice at the back of her head kept piping up, she needed to find out more about the enigma that was Viktor Krum.

As evening curfew approached, Hermione started returning the bricks of her hardbound fortress to their appointed place on the shelves. Her copious notes rustled as she gathered them together. Only then did Viktor looked up from his own reading.

“You are finished, yes?”

Suppressing a smile, Hermione nodded her head. “Yes, for tonight, anyway.”

Viktor rose to his feet, an old-fashioned courteous gesture. “If I may ask, vot are you learning?”

Hermione hesitated, then decided that in this instance honesty was a better policy than obfuscation. “I’m not studying schoolwork,” she admitted. Viktor looked a little non-plussed. “I am searching for a way to avoid having to take part in the Tournament,” she expounded a little.

Truth can be stranger than fiction – at least this truth just made Viktor’s brow furrow more in confusion. “Molya, explain to me … please?”

With a little sigh, Hermione sat back down in her chair. Viktor resumed his place opposite her, only now he regarded her intently.

“You are named Hogvarts champion, da? But you say you are not. I do not understand.”

Hermione guessed from his demeanour that this was an honest attempt at gaining understanding of her most unusual situation, - not some clever attempt to play a mind game with an opponent. “It is complicated,” she admitted.

“To be champion is great… honour?” He simultaneously declared and questioned. There was more than a little uncertainty in his eyes as he regarded her. “Is right word, neh?” Hermione nodded. “Then those boys … they attack you.” Viktor nodded his head this time; Hermione interpreted this gesture as proof of his negative reaction to the Slytherins’ attempt yesterday evening . “I not understand,” he repeated. “How you say, houses. It is not like this at Durmstrang,” he observed quietly.

Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. That was just about the only form of Muggle technology that worked at Hogwarts, and then only because it was an old-fashioned wind-up piece of clockwork. There was not time to explain the labyrinthine ways and politics of Hogwarts to a foreign guest . Nor was she prepared to burden this stranger with her quite solid reasons for refusing a chance to take part in the Triwizard Tournament, and she was not altogether sure she really wanted to.

Thus she ended the conversation. “I’m sorry, but I must get back to the Common Room.” Quickly, she gathered her papers in her arms and held them tightly against her chest.

Viktor, unsurprisingly, had risen to his feet once again. Hermione watched him watching her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion - and was that a little bit of regret?

Contributing to her urgency was a profoundly unsettling insight – that, if he felt regret, it was something they shared. Turning on her heel, she started to rush towards the exit. “Goodnight,” she called over her shoulder.

She barely caught Viktor’s softly spoken reply. “Leka nosht, Hermy-own-ninny Granger.”

* * * * *

The following days were almost a return to normality for Hermione Granger.

Wednesday passed peacefully enough. Hermione had a free period immediately after breakfast, and used it to précis her notes and summarise the salient points into letter form. Returning from the Owlery she felt a flood of relief. There was a school owl winging its way south towards London and the recommended law firm. It bore not only a letter, but a load off her mind.

The Charms class with Professor Flitwick was fairly free of stress. Hermione was able to focus her attention on academic matters more firmly than at any point since that dreaded note had risen from the Goblet of Fire. Having regained her normal poise and composure, the healthy harvest of house points she gathered from the diminutive Flitwick finally began to make a dent in the deficit she had run up of late. Flitwick, at least, was one of the staff who remained aloof from the furore over her participation - or not - in the competition. Not incidentally, the additional house points helped restore some goodwill towards her from those Gryffindors wavering between the extremes of Ron and Harry’s positions on the matter in question.

Ancient Runes in the afternoon was equally helpful in easing Hermione back into a semblance of normal routine. Again she found her concentration in this exacting subject much improved over what she had managed earlier in the week in Arithmancy. Afterwards she wondered whether this was partly due to the absence of Harry and Ron’s feuding presences. Both of ‘her’ boys had dropped the subject as soon as they had the opportunity.

The evening ended with Astronomy, which had the additional benefit of reducing the amount of time spent in the Common Room and thus the potential for awkward confrontations with Ron. It also served as an excuse for once to avoid the Library and the disconcerting presence of Viktor Krum.

As she lay in bed later that night, Hermione idly wondered about the Bulgarian Seeker. She doubted that he was personally interested in her, which was a shame, as she would have been secretly flattered. No-one else amongst the male occupants of Hogwarts, permanent or temporary, seemed to notice her as a girl. Despite her bookish reputation, Hermione Granger would not have minded a little attention, no matter how much she might deny it to herself or any of the other girls, if they had bothered to ask her, that is.

With just a touch of wistfulness, Hermione put that idea firmly aside. It was obvious to her that Viktor Krum could have had almost any girl at Hogwarts as a companion if he so desired. Her own opinion of her fellows on the distaff side had dropped steadily as the Durmstrang champion’s female following around the Castle and grounds increased. She shook her head when she noted how many supposedly mature senior girls had succumbed to his name and sporting reputation. Yet none of them seemed capable of summoning up the courage to approach the Bulgarian, instead seeking the safety and anonymity of the pack.

No, Hermione decided: Why would an international Quidditch star, one with the exalted status of Viktor Krum, be interested in a fifteen year-old bushy-haired bookworm such as herself? That simply made no sense. The only thing about her that might possibly intrigue him was her putative status as an ersatz Hogwarts’ champion, and what he must see as her oddly negative reaction to that. Undoubtedly he saw her as a competitor, much as he had the other seekers in the recent World Cup. And it was said you should know your enemy.

Hermione sailed through Transfiguration on Thursday morning, so she was a little surprised when Professor McGonagall told her to remain behind at mid-morning break. She wondered if her Head of House had any further news from Dumbledore or Moody, but McGonagall’s usual stern expression did not give away any clues.

“Sit down, Miss Granger.” That in itself was unusual; students were not normally invited to take a seat by a teacher’s desk. As Hermione did as she was bidden, McGonagall gave her a searching look over the top of her glasses.

“I understand that there has been a falling out between yourself and Mister Weasley.” It was not a question, but a statement, even if carefully phrased.

Hermione did not initially know how to respond to such a personal question. The only time she had ever approached her Head of House over what went on behind the Fat Lady’s portrait had been the previous year. Harry had received a gift of a Firebolt which Hermione rightly suspected had come from Sirius Black, even if there had been no harm intended. Everything else, from her early struggles to fit into this strange new world, to how miserably lonely she had been last year during the last major rupture in her changeable friendships with Harry and Ron, had remained a secret, subject to the old rule that thou shalt not grass up your classmates.

“You don’t have to say anything, Miss Granger.” McGonagall looked just a little disappointed; whether with her or matters more general, Hermione could not fathom. “A blind wizard could tell, given the tension that is apparent between the two of you. But you should know that I am not the only member of staff to have noticed.” For a second Hermione thought she saw a brief expression of sadness cross McGonagall’s face. But just as quickly it was gone, replaced by her usual businesslike approach. “Indeed, only this morning Professor Snape took great delight in informing me that Mister Weasley had fallen out with both you and Mister Potter.”

Hermione just sat as still as she could. So far, she had not been asked anything that could be taken as a question requiring an answer. What was more, she wondered why her personal relationship with Ron, or any one else for that matter, could be the concern of the faculty.

“And I understand that there have been … disagreements in the Common Room.” Again came that pointed look above the spectacles - the one that made Hermione want to squirm in her seat. Resisting the urge, she just met the Professor’s gaze with her own quiet resolution. McGonagall gave a knowing shake of her head. “I want you to know that I am far more aware of what occurs in the Gryffindor Tower than most of your cohorts believe.”

That was a point to ponder. It was unlikely that anyone, even the prefects, would report back to their Head of House for anything short of an act of physical violence. Otherwise how would the Weasley Twins have escaped censure for their habitual testing of new practical jokes on unsuspecting First and Second Years? No, it had to be something else ….

‘The pictures!’ Hermione’s dawning realisation must have shown on her face as McGonagall gave her a brief smile. Of course! There were at least two magical portraits in the Common Room that Hermione could recall - probably more. She made a mental note that next time she visited McGonagall’s office she should check if any of the portraits had matching characters on the canvases in Gryffindor Tower.

McGonagall bore the look of the proverbial cat that had just stolen the cream - highly appropriate given her Animagus form. “I can see you have made the connection, Miss Granger.” She sat back, back ramrod straight. “I would be grateful if you could keep that little secret between us.”

Hermione nodded her head in agreement.

“It is not a perfect arrangement,” McGonagall continued. “The portraits are not expected to maintain a round-the-clock watch, but it enables me to keep a finger on the Gryffindor pulse.”

Considering what had happened within the Common Room in the last three, and slightly more, years, Hermione was less confused than she was put out. “So why have you never stepped in?” she blurted out, before covering her mouth with her hand. Hermione was horrified at her impertinence with her favourite teacher - and so soon after having been taken into her confidence.

McGonagall once again returned a prim stare. “Young wizards and witches are expected to make their own way to a great degree. If the staff were to interfere every time there was an argument, the students’ social development would be set back.”

‘So, all the coldness Harry, Neville and I faced in the First Year, and Harry again the next,’ Hermione thought but did not vocalise, ‘you knew what was going on. How unbearably lonely I was for the first few months at Hogwarts.’ She schooled her face to remain impassive but McGonagall was quite the expert at interpreting emotions.

“Consider how matters turned out,” the Professor observed. “Were your problems resolved without resorting to the teachers?”

Looking back, Hermione slowly had to agree that McGonagall’s point was valid. Somehow all her problems with Ron or Harry, and also the tensions within the Gryffindor ‘family’, had been sorted out internally without bloodshed, or other lasting damage -except perhaps to Ginny Weasley’s psyche. “So,” Hermione said quietly, “you think that they’ll come round to me eventually?”

McGonagall gave her a wintry smile, which surprised Hermione. “It may take some time, but haven’t some of your friends already backed you? And publicly, in the Great Hall, not only hidden away from others’ eyes?”

“Most of them don’t believe me,” Hermione responded. “They think I’ve cheated; Angelina thinks I robbed her of a place.”

“Miss Johnson would do well to remember that Cedric Diggory was chosen fairly and squarely to represent Hogwarts. The unexpected announcement concerning you did not change that as far as we can tell.”

Hermione cast her eyes downwards. She had not noticed that her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “Ron won’t …”

McGonagall sighed. “Mister Weasley will always have his own views - and his own issues.” She went silent for a moment, and then continued in slightly hushed tones. “If this is truly distressing you, would you prefer me to have a quiet word with him?”

Hermione shook her head. “No thank you, Ma’am.” She doubted being seen as a teacher’s pet would do anything to salvage her friendship with Ron from the rocks.

“A wise choice. Remember, Miss Granger, true friendship will persevere regardless of the odds. Now, have you contacted your parents yet …?”

* * * * *

With a different viewpoint to mull over, Hermione was fairly quiet over lunch, and was still sunk in thought as the Gryffindors entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. For the second time in as many lessons they found the floor was cleared of the bulky old wooden desks. She vaguely wondered if Moody was again going to put them under - or try too hard, in Harry’s case - the Imperius Curse. They certainly were facing another practical session.

Within a minute Hermione caught the distinctive clunking footsteps that betrayed Mad-Eye Moody’s approach. The door flung itself open and, although she was used to his gnarled and battered appearance, there was something indefinably ominous about his demeanour. Today that something hinted at memories of violent and bloody encounters.

“Right,” Moody snarled, his magic eye rolling in its socket, taking in all the students in one complete rotation. “No need for the books today.” His remaining original eye appeared to be sizing up his class, measuring them against some unknown, and probably unattainable, index. “Dark times may be a’coming, and Dumbledore believes yeh need a bit more experience in facing down a wand!”

He turned and made a lurching march up the length of the classroom. Then he reversed himself, all the time regarding his charges with what Hermione could only describe as barely restrained anger. When his stare fixed on her, she felt an icy drip of fear travel slowly down her spine. She shuddered perceptibly despite the perfectly comfortable room temperature.

“Right! Any of yeh ever taken part in a duel, hmm?”

Hermione’s gaze turned towards Harry, as did, she noted, everyone else’s. Tentatively, he half-raised his hand in the air. “Umm … well, I did … sorta …” She easily recalled his abortive duel with Malfoy in their Second Year, under Lockhart’s dubious tutelage, which had touched off all the rumours of Harry as the Heir of Slytherin.

“What do yeh mean, ‘sorta’, Potter?” Moody demanded. “Yeh either did or yeh din’t.”

The rest of the class stayed resolutely silent. Their reaction then, and now, hardly endorsed Gryffindor‘s reputation for unassailable bravery either.

Harry squirmed under Moody’s harsh glare. “Well, it involved a snake … er, which Professor Snape got rid of,” he hastened to add.

“Humph!” Moody seemed singularly unimpressed. He turned away from Harry, who was a little red in the face. “So, none of yeh have actually duelled?” He limped up to the top of the room, shaking his head in exaggerated despair. “Okay, that means no-one’s got a real edge on the others , so we’ll start with a clean slate.” The electric blue eye zoomed in and out. “So, who wants to be first, eh?”

There was a noticeable reluctance amongst the reputedly brave Gryffindors to volunteer. Hermione stifled a giggle as she noticed Neville and Parvati shrink away from Moody’s scrutiny. It was not until she turned her head back that she realised how many of the others around her had as well – making it appear as if by not moving, that she had stepped forward. The room had gone eerily silent as both Moody’s organic and magical eyeballs were trained on her.

“Miss Granger, usually so quick to raise your hand,” Moody observed a little roughly. “Yet yeh hesitate … why?”

Her throat suddenly dry, Hermione struggled to find an answer.

Moody took a couple of steps towards her as the rest of the class crept further away, lest they catch their teacher’s attention. “Well, that’s right, we do have a Hogwart’s champion among us.” His smile lacked any warmth and Hermione suppressed a reflex urge to shiver. “Step forward, Miss Granger, and show us what champions are made of.”

Uncertainly, reluctantly, Hermione edged into the cleared floor space. She dreaded the prospect of once again being singled out in front of her fellow students for anything linked to her being a Triwizard competitor. She could almost feel a burning sensation on the back of her neck as she imagined Ron’s fierce glare. Then she stood warily, her wand drawn but held loosely at her side.

Moody grunted in satisfaction. Hermione glanced at her classmates, wondering who would be her opponent. She just hoped it was not Ron; she had a horrible feeling that his participation would only further fuel his sense of betrayal and resentment. That could get nasty.

It was not until Moody pivoted to face her at a rough distance of ten yards that she realised the once Head Auror and renowned punisher of Dark Wizards intended to test her mettle personally. She felt her breath flutter with nerves.

Moody half-turned to face their audience. “There is an etiquette to be followed in a Wizards’ Duel … Reducto!”.

Before Hermione could react, Moody had spun startlingly quickly for a wizard in his apparent condition. His Reductor curse, thrown with some force, slammed into the parquet flooring in front of her feet. The next instant she was flying backwards through the air. That progress was halted abruptly as she crashed bodily into a cabinet, shattering its glass doors. The back of her head struck the rear panel, knocking her silly. As she slid down to end up atop splinters of wood and glass. Hermione’s ears were ringing with the consequences of the blow. Above that and the sound of the cabinet falling apart about her, Hermione could just make out slightly muffled exclamations of shock and amazement from the other Gryffindors, as though they were at the other end of a long tunnel.

With an uncertain motion, Hermione lifted her left hand to the back of her head, feeling something damp and sticky in her hair. When she brought it back in front of her face, she woozily considered the blood dripping from between her fingers. It did not seem real. None of this seemed real.

“What do I always tell yeh?” she dimly heard a voice resembling her DADA professor exhort. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

Dazed and confused, Hermione looked up and saw Moody standing a few yards away, both his wand and his human eye fixed on her from his relative position of elevation. The other eye was scanning his remaining students.

“That’s rule number one,” Moody’s gruff voice brooked no disagreement. “Rule number two: Dark Wizards do not play by any rules!”

“Bloody hell.” Hermione could have sworn that was Ron, tremulous and awed. As she struggled to regain her footing, she could feel small cuts and abrasions down her forearms, where her school blouse had not offered much protection, and proliferating on her hands.

“So, Missie, think yeh’re fit to be a school champion, do you?” Moody taunted her. “There’s more to it than books and questions.”

Slowly, shakily, Hermione rose into a half crouch before trying to straighten up. Her back felt stiff and as her mind started to clear she could foresee all the bruises that would be developing. She would look black-and-blue from top to toe.

“Mind yeh, still kept a grip on her wand,” Moody observed, with what Hermione thought was a slight menacing undertone. Perplexed and befuddled, she looked down; her grasp might be a little unsteady but her wand remained somewhat insecurely resting in her right hand.

“Good basic wand procedure,” Moody said with a grudging hint of praise.

Once again with the agility befitting a man much younger and more whole than himself, Moody leaped forward into the classic spell-casting pose.

“Expelliarmus!” his gruff voice rang out.

Hermione’s wand was ripped from her unsteady hold. The sheer magical strength of Moody’s Disarming spell flung her back into the wrecked cabinet, knocking the last remaining pane of glass to the floor where it shattered in an explosion of crystal.

Moody turned his back on her, although his magical eye swivelled to keep a track on his bloodied and battered opponent. As he stomped in a small circle, Hermione could just make out the shocked faces of the rest of the class. They seemed so far away, visible only through an indistinct reddish haze.

Moody continued to berate them but they hardly seemed to notice.

“Rule number three: yeh’r enemy will never give yeh a second chance - so neither should yeh! Guard your wand as though it was yeh’r life - because, one day, it might just be.”

Lavender Brown appeared on the point of throwing up. Neville looked on the verge of passing out.

“Never, ever, stay in a fight yeh cannot win!” There was real fury in Moody’s declarations now. Despite the groggy feeling inside her head, Hermione could not miss the underlying emotions, but she just was not in any condition to rationalise his apparent antagonistic attitude. “Don’t hang around for the Aurors or yeh‘r mates; get out as fast as yeh can!” He thumped one of the desks at the side of the room hard enough that it boomed louder than his voice. “That’s rule number four.”

Hermione crawled forward a little, not feeling strong enough yet to attempt to stand; the splintered remains of the cabinet beneath her sliced into her hands and knees, even through her robes. There were smears of her blood all over the floor.

“Rule number five,” Moody stated firmly. Once again he spun round and Hermione found herself looking at the business end of the greatest Dark Wizard catcher’s wand. “Never play fair.”

For a split second, Hermione stared straight into Moody’s organic eye. There was something - something malevolent - in there that made her shiver …

“Stup -”

“That’s enough!” The interruption was loud, but the words that followed were even more completely unexpected. “Expecto Patronum!”

Moody ‘s casting spell was cut-off by the anxious shout. There was a flash of light as the brilliantly white figure streaked by, or even through, Moody. The glowing stag came to a halt between the professor and his target.

Hermione could barely see anything, the Patronus was so bright. Moody had whirled around at the sound, and Hermione almost fainted with relief to have his maniacal glare - and his wand - no longer directed at her.

Everyone else joined Moody in staring at the source of the disruption.

Hermione didn’t need to look. She knew who was the person responsible for a timely interruption. After all, she had been at his side when he had first summoned up ‘Prongs’ down by the lake.

Harry stood there in his best approximation of the duelling position, his wand drawn, the tip of it still glowing with the residue of his spell. His face was white with nervous tension and he appeared to wish he was anywhere else but here and now. “That’s quite enough,” he repeated, in a voice a little more restrained but higher-pitched than normal. It was a strange, almost unnatural, mixture of firm intention and anxiety, of menace and distrust. He took his breath in as though he had just run a mile.

“There … there are some things worse … than rule number four…” Then a thought seemed to strike him. “Professor,” he added in a slightly more respectful tone, lowering his wand just enough to signal that he was no longer a threat - so long as Moody was not one either

Moody stared hard at Harry, as though seeing him for the first time, before casting his eyes around the class, before almost spitting scornfully.

“Yeh all think this is some sort of game, huh?” He thrust his face in Harry’s, towering over the student. “That a good education and fancy wand-work will keep you alive?”

“No …” Harry drawled through gritted teeth. “But I’ll try to keep her alive.”

The two of them stood there, facing off, for an uncomfortably long time. Harry trod a fine line - remaining just enough of a threat that Moody wouldn’t turn his back on him again to launch any more spells at Hermione - but not a sufficient threat to cause Moody to attack him. Gradually, Harry’s Patronus dissipated, along with Mad-Eye Moody’s almost irrational rage.

“All right, then … Professor,” Harry said at last, making a show of sheathing his wand.

Moody wasted no time, whirling around to glare at Neville, who visibly recoiled from the old Auror’s battered visage. “Think that the worst that could happen is the Cruciatus Curse,?” A whimper issued forth from Neville as he looked on fearfully at his teacher.

By now Hermione felt she had to try to stand, and pushed herself off the floor. The sound of the debris under her feet brought Moody’s attention back on her as she stood swaying unsteadily on her own two feet.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught Hermione’s attention. Harry fingered his wand, but did not pull it.

“And yeh! Miss Granger.” Her attention was abruptly caught as the contempt behind Moody’s words was plain. “Yeh’re not going to last five minutes in the Triwizard. They’ll be sweeping what’s left of yeh up with a broomstick!”

Hermione reeled at those words, as though she had been slapped in the face. Parvati Patil cried out something unintelligible in horror, and was comforted by Dean Thomas, who looked as shaken as the rest of them.

“Tell me, Miss Granger.” Moody snarled. “Could yeh take a life?”

This time Lavender did not manage to keep back the vomit, and deposited her lunch on the floor.

Horrified, Hermione could only stand there, mouth agape.

“If it was necessary to save yeh’r life, could yeh kill another person?” Moody continued implacably. “To save yeh’r parents, for example? Or even yehself?”

“Professor …” Harry’s warning was virtually growled, but this time Moody ignored him. He was, however, careful to keep his wand stowed.

To Hermione, the whole world had closed in, and there was just her and Mad-Eye left.

“Could yeh?” he goaded her, speaking with horrid glee at the prospect of murder. “Take another’s life, snuff it out? Cast it aside?”

Around the room students were sobbing audibly; Hermione‘s eyes prickled with hot tears too. At the edge of her hearing Hermione caught some swearing - from Ron, she thought as though it were important, or Seamus. Her vision was filled with Moody’s face, a reminder of the world’s violent past … and possibly violent future.

“N-no …” she stammered. “I … I don’t kn - know.”

“No?” Moody grunted. “Then would you give yeh’r life?”

“I … I … I -” Hermione’s higher mental functions were fused. She could not grasp where this line of questioning was taking either her or Mad-Eye.

“Three ‘I’s in one sentence. Makes yeh sound like a very egotistical young witch,” Moody commented as he scrutinised her, then turned away. Whether he was satisfied with his own performance, or simply found hers wanting, Hermione couldn’t tell, and cared even less to find out. He stood with his back to the shaken class, then addressed them all the same, his voice carrying clearly.

“Yeh know my history - or yeh should. I have killed - legally, in the course of my duties. And I was prepared to die if necessary. … As yeh can see, I’ve come close …”

Now Hermione could see that Parvati was in a spate of tears, whilst Neville was sobbing quietly in the background, trying to hold himself together.

“I tell yeh these things because yeh need to know.” Moody turned slowly to face them. Absent-mindedly, he scourgified the small pile of puke at the pale-as-moonlight Lavender’s feet. “I have been brought in here with the Headmaster’s explicit direction to teach yeh to defend yehselves against the Dark Arts. Yeh’ve seen the Unforgivable curses. Yeh need to be prepared to defend yehselves against these.” He seemed to gaze at his artificial leg. “That may mean that yeh have to use - intentionally or not - spells that can have lethal outcomes.

“Potter,” Mad-Eye growled, “I see yeh’r Patronus is indeed up to scratch, but yeh’ll have to learn to do far worse too before yeh can expect to face Death Eaters and live to tell of it.”

He turned back to Hermione. Her head was painful, with an ebbing and flowing of dull, heavy pressure. She stared unbelievingly as Moody stooped to pick up her wand, and then offered it to her as though it was a flower he had just picked. Instinctively, she accepted it. Then she wondered what she was supposed to do or face next.

“Those I have killed deserved to die,” Moody said, almost conversationally. “I feel no sorrow for them, and would do it again if I had to.” He looked around the class, fixing each student with a searching stare in turn, ending with Hermione. “Yeh need to know what yeh might face, and how to deal with it.”

The silence in the classroom was intense and palpable. Mad-Eye seemed to have sunk into a reflective lethargy. No-one else dared to move. Hermione was visibly unsteady, almost ready to drop. Her head pounded and her body ached all over. Her exposed skin - and quite a bit that was not - was pockmarked with tiny lesions caused by various splinters of wood and glass.

“Professor …? Professor Moody?” Again it was Harry who dared to break Moody’s reverie. Moody glanced up with an enquiring look.

“Hermione?” Harry both asked and pointed out.

Moody’s quizzical expression betrayed his mind, which must have been far away. Then his magical eye blinked and he appeared to return back to the present. When he turned to face her, Hermione thought it was as if it was the first time that afternoon he had noticed she was there. He nodded slowly to himself. “Yes, Miss Granger, better have Poppy take a look at yeh.” His voice gained some measure of command. “Miss Brown, Miss Patil? Would yeh be so kind to take Granger to the Hospital Wing?”

The two girls were grateful to be allowed to leave the class. As they prepared to help her out, Hermione saw Ron wincing as he caught site of her injuries. Harry was looking on with equal concern. His confrontation with Moody left him shaken and his face drained of almost all colour. Nevertheless he moved to her side with two strides. “Here,” he said softly, pressing his handkerchief to the back of her head. Hermione moved her own hand to take hold of the cloth, her fingers brushing against Harry as he relinquished his hold. She started to say thank you but her throat was dusty dry. Harry just gave her a nervous rueful half-smile, but as he turned away, back towards the grizzled ex-Auror, she saw a cold, hard expression come across his face.

As she left, Hermione was trying to figure out exactly what lesson Professor Moody had tried to teach them that Thursday afternoon.

She was also trying to figure out what lesson Harry had learned.

* * * * *

Madame Pomfrey absolutely refused to let Hermione out of the Hospital Wing and back to her own dormitory that evening. Bumps and cuts had been swiftly dealt with, but: “What tosh, young lady,” the school nurse had exclaimed when Hermione, the wooziness and muddled feeling in her head gradually clearing, expressed a desire to get away from the antiseptic environment. “You took a nasty knock to the head. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve a mild concussion. These things take time to show up under a wand.”

So, Hermione was separated from her homework, not that this stopped her from worrying over the six feet of parchment assigned by McGonagall in Transfigurations that morning. She was also divorced, save a five minute visit, from her friends. That was all Madame Pomfrey allowed, muttering about her patient requiring full peace and quiet, and that a good night’s sleep was nature’s way … Then she disappeared to deal with her other patients: a Hufflepuff who had suffered an accident in Charms, and two Ravenclaws who had disabused their House reputation by causing a cauldron explosion that was only marginally less spectacular than Snape’s own reaction to it.

Harry and Ginny had popped in after dinner. Harry had tried to smuggle a book to Hermione, but was caught red-handed and threatened with dire consequences if the nurse’s charge was found reading later that evening. Ginny had come along to assure Hermione that she would look after Crookshanks that night.

Truth be told, Hermione headache had not quite dissipated. The hard-edged pounding had been replaced by a low throbbing ache that ebbed and flowed like the tide. Trying hard to banish the pain from her mind, Hermione had but a few moments to quiz Harry about his views on what had occurred that afternoon: what was he thinking during her rather one-sided “duel”, when he put a stop to it, and after she had left.

But Harry was unable to add much more to the hazy picture. He had no idea what had caused Moody to act as he did, although Ginny observed that he had not earned the name “Mad-Eye” for nothing. He was very tight-lipped about what happened next, tersely ascribing his interposition of his Patronus between her and Moody to “instinct.” Following the vanquished Hermione’s departure, there had been a pregnant silence, broken after a minute or two when Moody had dismissed the remaining students.

After her friends had finally been shooed out of the sickbay by the possessive Pomfrey, Hermione had lain back on her pillow, and tried to make some sense of the disordered thoughts that cluttered her normally disciplined mind. The dull persisting pain did not help. Harry’s actions – and his blunt statement to Moody – were at once profoundly disturbing and immensely gratifying. The rest was terrifying. She did draw one conclusion from the day’s events: The brutal outcome had slashed to ribbons any confidence she had in her abilities regarding the Triwizard.

Moody had been right: She would not last five minutes. If she could not find a way out of the competition, then it would take a great deal of luck and her magical abilities just to stay alive…

But … what was it Harry had said …?

Hermione was not sure if the growing feeling of nausea was due to the headache or the trail of her own conclusions. She gratefully accepted a light dose of Sleeping Draught as Madam Pomfrey fussed over her.

Waking early next morning, Hermione convinced her nurse that she was perfectly hale and hearty after a good night’s rest, although the pain in her head had not disappeared. The bruising had come out, her back was stiff as a board, and for the first time Hermione imagined she could feel colours: black and blue. Stiffly, she returned to her own dormitory, anxious to clean herself up before breakfast.

Lavender and Parvati, eyes still full of sleep, had made some perfunctory comments about how good it was to see her back, and would she mind awfully turning off the light and letting them sleep for a little while longer. Crookshanks, delighted to see his mistress return, made more of a sincere fuss, rubbing around her legs and purring loudly as Hermione tried to banish the tangles in her hair. He, at least, seemed none the worse for yesterday’s events.

As she came down to the common room, Hermione was a little surprised to find Harry up and dressed, sitting in a chair that faced directly the staircase up to the girls’ rooms. His stony face broke into a heartfelt smile as he rose to greet her.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Hermione mumbled something non-committal in reply.

“Me neither,” Harry replied enigmatically. “Hungry?”

The denial on the tip of her tongue was quashed by her stomach, which gave a most-unladylike rumble. She had missed dinner last night and, feeling nauseous, had avoided the opportunity to be fed in her hospital bed.

Harry smirked good-naturedly, and for the first time in what seemed like hours Hermione felt encouraged to give him a brave little smile. “Come on, let’s go down then.”

They were among the first into the Great Hall that morning. Some seriously studious Seventh-Year Ravenclaws had beaten them down, anxious to accomplish some early N.E.W.T. revision. The Gryffindor table was empty.

Although her stomach was making it’s feelings on the status quo quite clear, Hermione sill did not fancy the idea of food. Every mouthful she took appeared to encourage the dull ache in her head to pound away, so early on she decided to give the Full English a miss and tried some toast. She decided that, if her appetite improved, she might try some of the delicious looking croissants that had appeared, probably in a effort by the elves to make the Beauxbatons’ students feel at home.

However, as the Great Hall began to fill up with complaining students, reluctant to begin another day, the background noise started to grate in Hermione’s ears. The general hubbub seemed to cut through her head and amplify the pain. She could not shut it out and the pressure seemed to grow.

Harry noticed. He had stopped his own assault on the fried bread and scrambled egg mountain on his plate. Quietly he asked Hermione once again if she was alright; she decided to nod her head, unwilling to mention anything in front of the other Gryffindors. But the background noise was now just a blur, closing in on her.

She couldn’t take it. She had to disappear. She had to -

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked up. Professor McGonagall was standing over her, a concerned look on her normally strict features.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Hermione swallowed, trying hard to suppress the bile in her throat. “Just a little … my head’s a bit …”

McGonagall looked hard at her. “Do you want to return to the Hospital Wing?”

Hermione hesitated. She was aware that Harry was trying hard not to appear to be trying hard to scrutinize her too closely. The other Gryffindors were torn between paying some attention to their Head of House, whispering about Harry casting a Patronus at a teacher in the middle of class, and demolishing the best that Hogwarts’ house-elves could provide. Hermione did feel off-colour, but after all it was only a headache. She could not afford to miss History of Magic or Charms that morning; she could not fall further behind.

“No, I’m fine,” she lied, as much to convince herself as well as the Gryffindor’s Head of House.

McGonagall looked doubtful, and then gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Very well. Come and report to me after you have finished eating.” She made to return to the Head Table.

Casting a glance at the unappetising sight of congealed fried eggs and smoky back bacon on the platters before her, Hermione decided to escape the cauldron of noise that assailed her senses. “If it’s alright with you, Professor, I’m finished.” She ignored the frankly disbelieving glare from Harry as she rose to her feet.

Once again McGonagall subjected her to a cool appraisal, then nodded, and led the way out of the Great Hall.

It was almost a delight to be back in the relative cool and quiet retreat that was McGonagall’s office. She was invited to sit by the stern-faced Professor, who offered her a cup of tea from a swiftly conjured silver teapot. “With a little honey and lemon,” she suggested in her Scots’ burr.

Hermione sat primly on the edge of the chair and accepted McGonagall’s suggestion. She awaited whatever news her teacher had, but McGonagall gently gestured that she should taste her tea, so she sipped gently and was not that surprised to find it had a soothing, calming effect.

McGonagall was watching her student closely. Finally she broached the subject. “Miss Granger, when I heard that one of my students had been hospitalised following a class, I was duty-bound to make enquiries about the circumstances.” She sighed. “Professor Moody was unavailable. However your classmates made it clear that you were in no way to blame for events turning out as they did - nor do I blame Mister Potter for his courageous and timely response.”

Hermione felt it incumbent on her to say something, but McGonagall forestalled any attempted interruption with an imperious open hand. “It seems that Professor Moody, for an unfathomable reason, stepped beyond the bounds of acceptable tutorial standards. I have to ask you if you wish to make an official complaint.” McGonagall looked a little sick as she spoke the last few words.

Hermione hesitated. Her mind still was not turning over at optimum efficiency, but the request struck her as strange. It was not as if this was the first time that a teacher’s methods had caused students to present themselves to Madame Pomfrey. Three and a bit years of Professor Snape’s rather crude partiality and unique teaching methods had seen to that. Now, the first time the hierarchy at Hogwarts appeared to take an interest in the students’ views, it involved a hero of the war against You-Know-Who.

“I cannot understand why Alastor acted this way,” McGonagall commented off-handedly. “Miss Patil was in tears when I spoke to her yesterday evening. Miss Brown was in no better shape. And if Mister Longbottom thinks that shrinking away is the behaviour of a Gryffindor, he has much to learn. Now, Mister Potter …” Her voice trailed off.

“No.” Hermione was surprised at how calm and quiet her reply was.

“No?” McGonagall stared at her student. “I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but did you say ‘no’?”

“That’s correct,” Hermione said as clearly as she could.

A little baffled, McGonagall questioned her student‘s approach. “You do not wish to make a complaint?” Hermione shook her head, a move that reminded her how fragile she felt this morning. “Would you mind explaining why? Your friends were most upset at what happened.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “I shall not make a complaint, as long as Harry is not punished for what he did. He did not attack a teacher. He used his Patronus only to protect me. Beyond that, it was as much my fault as Professor Moody’s,” she rationalised. “It was a duel, and I never thought to enquire about the rules of engagement.” McGonagall looked a tad confused at this, so Hermione tried to explain. “I was not ready, which was, I suppose, the whole point of the exercise. I can recall that while he was … duelling, Professor Moody was stating some sort of rules. That Dark Wizards don’t play by the rules, that sort of thing.” Hermione gently shook her head, trying to brush away the cobwebs. “I can’t recall much of what he said, but the gist was quite clear.”

McGonagall looked intrigued. “And what, pray, would what Mister Weasley described as ‘a hell of a beating’ - ” McGonagall looked uncomfortable at repeating Ron’s mild epithet “ - have accomplished that a more moderate approach could not have done so?”

Hermione contemplated her reply. She had given it some thought in the silent hours after Harry and Ginny had been shooed out yesterday evening, and finally falling into an assisted sleep. She had been unable to come up with any reason why Moody would single her out for personal reasons. But he had referred to her status as a ‘champion’ whereas if he had wanted a fight then Harry was more than ready to give him one - even, she recalled, one that Harry was certain he could not win.

“It was a lesson. A lesson that none of us will forget,” she observed quietly.

‘And especially not me,’ Hermione added unspoken to herself. She had a fair bit to think about. Perhaps that had been the reason Moody had been so hard on her, to make her realise that she needed to raise her game, to toughen herself up. She had to heighten her skill and resilience in practical magic.

McGonagall looked highly dubious about Hermione’s stated reasons. Finally she accepted the situation. “Very well, Miss Granger. But this is a school, not a military establishment. I will be having a word or two with Professor Moody about the way our charges are treated when in class.” Hermione had to suppress a snort when she imagined the same law being laid down to Professor Snape.

‘That what Moody’s here for anyway,’ Hermione thought to herself. ‘To show us what we could face?’ Thus she stilled her tongue. “Is that all, Professor?”

An unreadable expression crossed McGonagall’s face. “Not quite, Miss Granger.” She held up an envelope that had been resting on her desk. “This arrived through the Ministry’s Muggle Post Liaison Office.” She held it out for Hermione. The girl immediately recognised the handwritten address. Professor McGonagall’s last words were superfluous. “From your parents, I believe.”

* * * * *

* * * * *

Hermione sat down at the lunch table trailing a big black cloud with her.

There was no doubting her parents intentions. She had often thought they were a little lukewarm about her withdrawal from the academic path that had been mapped out for her before she had discovered the existence of magic and that she was a bona fide witch. A public school education - the Grangers were moderately wealthy middle-class professionals, and Hermione had little doubt that any financial burden would have been alleviated to a great degree by any one of many scholarships she could have - no, would have - qualified for. Then, after her A-Levels, a university education, probably specialising in one or more of the sciences, immediately setting her on a path of perpetual success. Her parents had occasionally dropped hints that they would not mind another medical professional in the family.

If Professor McGonagall’s visit had opened Hermione’s eyes to the possibilities of a whole new world, then her parents had seen their vision of her future fade just as quickly. And, she guiltily acknowledged, she had begun to drift apart from her parents. When she returned home for the holidays it took her weeks to shake loose the idea that she was an outsider. Straddling two worlds was often an emotional issue for a young witch.

As a result, Hermione had tended to be economical with the actualité when it came to relating events at Hogwarts to her family. She quite rightly feared that if they knew what dangers she had faced in the last three years - three-headed dogs, a basilisk, Dementors - they would have withdrawn her from school without a ‘by your leave’. After all, she was their only child, and subject to the whole force of parental protectiveness.

Things were even worse now. If her parents learned of the bloody history of the Triwizard Tournament, then she had no doubt that they would seek her immediate withdrawal from Hogwarts. Then, if the Ministry followed through with its threats, she would forfeit her magical abilities. For a second she wondered if that were possible, depriving a wizard of magic, and mentally earmarked it for some library-based research that evening.

And so, Hermione had agonised over her choices that morning, to the extent that she thought she had barely taken her seat in History of Magic when Professor Binns swam back through the blackboard. Her spell work in Charms had been uncharacteristically sloppy by her exalted standards, and the sympathetic Flitwick had graciously put it down to her unfortunate experiences yesterday afternoon.

Now, as she sat in the Great Hall, barely taking a glance at the toad-in-the-hole simmering away in its batter, Hermione rationalised her alternatives. Harry and the other Gryffindors had tried to involve her in conversation, but she had tuned their voices out, in part due to the headache that had not yet disappeared. Like the diminutive Charms professor, they had charitably ascribed it to the after-effects of Moody’s lesson, as Hermione had not wanted to enlighten anyone else about the existence of her letter from home.

She did not want to take part in the Tournament. Yesterday’s lesson had only underscored that she would have to be both remarkably fortunate and at the peak of her magical ability just to make it through without serious injury or worse; something she did not yet want to contemplate.

Nor was she about to bow to the Ministry’s warped sense of priorities, and be driven out of her world, as she now thought of it.

The only route that would avoid either possibility was a strong legal case. Of necessity, that had to include the involvement, active or merely as a matter of form, of both Doctors Granger. Otherwise she might as well give up now, pack her bags and snap her own wand. That also ruled out the possibility of bluffing her way through a discussion with her parents. Hermione knew she could be a little manipulative at times, but there were way too many questions on the table at the moment for her to brush this affair under the carpet.

Much as Hermione feared what her mother and father might discover during a visit to Hogwarts, she was even more afraid of the other alternative. If she were to gain permission to leave Hogwarts during term time, and return to Oxford, she would almost certainly not be returning. Her parents would demand that she not depart for Scotland. Nothing short of a series of memory charms, which Hermione briefly considered but ruled out on both moral and practical - she knew too little to even attempt them with any degree of safety - grounds would call off a battle royal between daughter and loving parents. They were already increasingly lukewarm about her choice to learn to be a witch. Indeed, they had repeatedly dropped hints at how well her contemporaries were doing at Roedean or Queen Ethelburga’s College when she was home for the holidays.

If she were going to speak to them at all, she had to do it on ground of her own choosing … Hermione knew that her parents were always a little timid about the magical world, and had felt increasingly out of place whenever they had visited Diagon Alley with her. If she had any advantage, that was it. With some support, be it actual or moral, from either Dumbledore or McGonagall, perhaps she could manage her parents into providing her with their backing without an awful lot of awkward questions. Professor McGonagall, she thought, would go the extra mile to keep her at Hogwarts. The headmaster, as always, was a cipher

Hermione knew she was grasping at straws but felt that she was increasingly being painted into a corner. There was no perfect solution; each one had major flaws. Having made her decision, Hermione glanced up at the Head Table. Professor McGonagall was present, currently engaged in a conversation with Professor Sprout. If she could catch her before the end of lunch, perhaps wheels could be put in motion before the weekend …

Returning her attention to her meal, Hermione was grateful for the house elf magic that had kept her toad-in-the-hole warm and fresh, with fluffy batter and strong Cumberland sausages in savoury onion gravy. As she started to tackle that gastronomic delight, she also thought to strike up a conversation with Harry. She stopped in her tracks when she noted that he had a dreamy expression on his face, and was paying as little attention to either his own lunch or her, as she herself had been doing up until now.

Surreptitiously, Hermione followed his faraway stare, which appeared to focus upon the Ravenclaw table. Something had attracted his attention, but Hermione could not ascertain what. Mentally shrugging her shoulders, she was about to restart the assault upon her plate when Ginny caught her eye. The youngest Weasley was also watching Harry with what to Hermione seemed to be a rapt mixture of concern and curiosity, and then flicking her gaze towards the same target as Harry’s. Becoming aware of Hermione’s scrutiny, Ginny flushed pink for no reason that Hermione could fathom, and deliberately turned to her other side to make small talk with Neville.

Something was going on. Hermione wondered what else she had missed whilst trapped in her own thoughts earlier that lunchtime.

Having finally finished off her meal, Hermione waited for the right moment to grab a quiet word with her Head of House. Just then one of the Sixth Year prefects delivered a note to Harry, interrupting his reverie. Hermione’s perplexity continued as Harry also gained a little colour in his own cheeks, as though embarrassed at being caught out at something. As Harry digested the missive, Hermione had a closer look at the Ravenclaw table. The rather unique Third Year - ‘Now, what was her name?’ - was sitting in her own little world at one end, but Harry’s attention had appeared to be drawn further towards the middle.

“Dumbledore wants to see me,” Harry declared in a rather flat tone of resignation, as he dropped the scrap of parchment next to his empty plate. “It would have to be right before Potions.”

There were sympathetic murmurs from the little group of Gryffindors.

“Do you need me to go with you?” Hermione asked him, not caring who overheard. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Harry turned her down, and for once Hermione was glad he did, as she noticed that McGonagall was preparing to quit the Great Hall. Thus she rose to her feet at the same time as Harry. “I might be a little delayed as well,” she informed Neville, who looked absolutely terrified at the prospect of having to explain away both Potter and Granger’s absences to the predatory Professor Snape.

The two Gryffindors separated as they exited the hall, Hermione hurrying to catch McGonagall before she started her own afternoon’s classes. When she explained her decision, and her suggested course of action, to her Head of House, McGonagall gave her a doubtful look, but promised to do the best she could.

As Hermione made her way through the corridors and headed towards the dungeon that held the Potions’ classes, she felt an odd mixture of both relief and anxiety. At least she had made a decision, but now she would have to face the consequences. She started to hurry along, apprehensive at being late and wary of incurring Snape’s wrath. He now had all the more reason to despise her so.

And her headache still showed no inclination to quit harrowing her already overwrought mind.

As she approached the last corner, Hermione heard sounds of a scuffle and the sudden shouts of students who were apparently shocked or outraged. Hastening a little more, she was herself surprised at the scene before her.

On the floor was a pitiful looking Draco Malfoy, lacking any of his normal insouciant haughtiness, one hand covering his nose but failing to stem the crimson flow that dripped down his fine robes. Pansy Parkinson was fussing over him, whilst the other Slytherins looked on with emotions that ranged from Ted Nott’s obvious anger to Blaise Zabini’s casual indifference.

The cause of Malfoy’s distress was rather obvious, and was being restrained by Dean and Seamus in front of the shocked Lavender and Parvati. Ron stood over the grounded Malfoy, in a posture reeking of further threatened violence. His fist was clenched and reddening. His face flamed nearly as red as his hair.

Before anything could develop further, there was a peremptory command from the dungeon doorway. “Stand aside! What is going on here?” Snape’s menacing form carved a way through the Slytherins and pulled up short at the tableau before his eyes. “Weasley! What in the name of Merlin ..!”

“He attacked Draco,” Pansy simpered between sniffles.

Snape seemed to Hermione to grow in stature at this news. “Well?” he demanded. “Is this true?” There were murmurs of assent from the Slytherins. “Right!” he barked. “Weasley - one month’s detention - with me.”

Ron just continued to glare at Malfoy. Snape seemed positively to savour his next words, which were far more drawn out and silkily smooth. “And one hundred points from Gryffindor for attacking a fellow student.” He leaned over Ron so it was impossible for the younger man to avoid his semi-hypnotic stare. “And I will be having a word with your Head of House. Imagine how delighted she will be to hear this news.”

With that Snape spun on a sixpence, his robes billowing out. “Parkinson, take young Master Malfoy to see Madame Pomfrey. The rest of you, inside.” He glared at the rest of the assembled crowd. “Now,” he drawled in a low threatening growl, before disappearing back into his lair, followed by the Slytherin students.

The Gryffindors, all seemingly stunned, were more dilatory. Both the appalling turn of events and the grim punishment meted out to both Ron and their meagre total of house points left them reeling. It was then that Hermione snapped.

“Ron Weasley!” All her house comrades’ heads swivelled round to stare at her. “How could you? That was so …” she was frustrated for words for a second “… so, immature and irresponsible!”

Ron, who had hardly budged from his fighting stance, flinched as though physically struck,, then also turned to face her. His face drained of it’s so recently vivid colour. Although his only other movement was the twitching of a muscle in his cheek, he stared at her as though it was the first time he had laid eyes on her - such was the look of utter disbelief on his face. Then his body started to shake slightly but perceptibly. It seemed he was fighting an inner conflict with his emotions. Hermione prepared herself for a full blown Weasley-Granger pitched battle, when Ron shocked her by repeating Snape’s earlier trick and turning his back on her, before striding resolutely into the Potions’ classroom.

Uncertain what had passed, Hermione stared after him until she realised that the other Gryffindors were regarding her with a combination of uncertainty and scorn. “What?” she asked no-one in particular.

No-one answered, then Dean shook his head sadly, and Seamus moved past her so roughly that his shoulder unnecessarily bumped into her own on purpose. Lavender and Parvati seemed to despise her as well, while Neville just started at her open-mouthed.

“Neville, what happened?” she demanded quietly. “Why did Ron hit Malfoy?”

Neville’s voice was strained, his throat parched. “Malfoy … Malfoy said he would have paid good money to see Moody wipe the floor with …” He hesitated, and Hermione knew with certainty the word that had actually been used. “…with you,” Neville finished lamely. Then he quickly moved past a suddenly weak-kneed Hermione to escape any further interrogation on her part.

* * * * *

Fortunately for both the Gryffindors and Harry Potter, the latter had a note from Dumbledore explaining his tardiness, as Snape was on the warpath. Not one Gryffindor avoided losing house points for some minor infraction or lack of knowledge, but the favourite target was Ron, who had compounded his earlier offence with a lack of answers, no doubt due to his lack of preparation and studying without Hermione chivvying him on.

Harry seemed confused at the turn of events, as Ron was trying hard to avoid incurring Snape’s further wrath and remained otherwise determinedly silent. None of the other Gryffindors seemed particularly keen to enlighten him. Hermione tried to pass some form of message through meaningful glances and eye contact, but gained the impression that, whilst not actively disapproving of her as the other Gryffindors apparently were, he was distinctly cool towards her for some reason.

Finally that unique method of torture known as Double Potions brought the week’s lessons to an end. Hermione made to catch Harry as he left, trying hard not to drop any more points under Snape’s baleful eye, but it seemed to her that Harry almost deliberately ignored her. He moved off with such speed down the corridor. Her headache had grown steadily worse during the afternoon as she regretted her words to Ron. She tried hard to justify herself, with the excuse that she was not feeling too good, or was under stress. It did no good; her self-criticism only sharpened.

So it was a rather lost and lonely Hermione Granger who dragged herself into the Great Hall for dinner. As Harry, Neville or Ginny had yet to make an appearance, she sat in splendid isolation at the Gryffindor table, studiously ignored by her other peers.

A thump as someone sat heavily on the bench opposite effectively drew her attention momentarily away from her own plight. Across from her, Harry looked as if he had his own burdens to carry. He did not look at her, and instead glared at his hands on the tabletop in front of him. “You know,” he started conversationally, “it would be a change if my two best friends …” he stressed those words, implying that the relationship was rather strained “… would stop acting like complete prats towards each other!” He then drummed his fingers hard on the wood, and turned sideways on so he did not have to look at Hermione.

Hermione sighed pathetically. That Patronus seemed a million years ago, now.

Before she could excuse or defend herself, Hermione’s right shoulder was grabbed and she was turned to face an incandescent Ginny.

“Is it true?” she hissed.

“Oh, it’s true,” Harry added as though his thoughts were elsewhere. “Ron popped Malfoy, and Snape ripped him a new bunghole for it.”

Ginny bent at the knees so that her face was level with Hermione’ s. “Tell me you didn’t ..?”

Hermione, struck dumb with guilt, just nodded.

“Bloody Merlin, Hermione,” Ginny seethed.

“I didn’t know …” Hermione tried to say.

“No, but I bet you jumped straight down his throat, didn’t you, like you always do?” Ginny observed acidly. Then she sat as heavily on the bench as Harry had a few seconds earlier. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be so clever, you can be remarkably dense at times.”

Having nothing clever to say, Hermione just nodded her head. She glanced down the table and saw Ron, looking thoroughly miserable, pushing his fish and chips around his dinner plate. His brothers along with Seamus and Dean were trying to cheer him up. When Hermione caught Fred’s eye, she was a little dismayed to see what appeared to be an expression of censure cross the prankster’s face.

“Are you going to say sorry?” Ginny enquired as she doused her own chips with malt vinegar.

Hermione’s head whipped round. “Why should I? Ron‘s been beastly to me this week.”

Ginny’s response was as terse as it was accusative. “I wasn’t aware that you subscribed to ‘two wrongs making a right’, Granger.” Thankfully, further discussion on that topic was halted as Neville, who had quietly found the seat next to Harry, passed the salt cellar to the aggravated redhead. Hermione turned to see what Harry’s reaction was, and found herself under cool appraisal.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing,” he replied sullenly.

She could tell he was not being wholly truthful. “Harry, if you want to talk -”

“No!” Harry said with a little more force than he had intended, drawing worried and confused looks from Ginny and Neville. “Drop it, Hermione.”

A lot hurt and a little bemused, Hermione withdrew to her own counsel. Perhaps she had been far too hasty to have a go at Ron this afternoon, Hermione confessed to herself. Still, it was wrong to hit another student - even the deserving Malfoy. She had not thought Harry would be that upset, but perhaps it was just the strain he was under from losing, hopefully temporarily, Ron’s friendship. She hoped he was not having second thoughts about choosing to support her in opposition to Ron.

Losing Ron’s friendship was bad, but losing Harry’s as well was unthinkable.

Yes, she would apologise to Ron.

And there was the slim possibility that, if she did, he might just recant his own sins.

* * * * *

In the Common Room, away from prying non-Gryffindor eyes, Hermione decided to approach Ron. Harry had disappeared after dinner, and Hermione missed his moral support, but she confided her intentions in Ginny and Neville.

Ron was sitting at a table, his back to the rest of the room, with his brothers and friends, playing a haphazard and loud game of Exploding Snap. Hermione summoned up her courage and approached the table, ignoring Seamus’s disapproving glare. She gave a light cough to attract Ron’s attention, but nothing happened. It was not until a few seconds later, when George leaned over and prodded his younger brother, pointing behind him to where Hermione was standing, shuffling her feet as though wishing she were elsewhere, that Ron turned in his seat to face her.

“Ahem, Ron …” Hermione was surprised how guilty she felt, as though confessing her sins to McGonagall. “It’s about this afternoon…”

She stopped. Normally she could read Ron like a book. But now, his expression was inscrutable. His eyes narrowed slightly, indicating she should go on.

“Well, I didn’t know -”

“I thought so,” Ron muttered quietly.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Thought what?”

“That it wouldn’t be your fault.” Ron was clenching and unclenching his fists. Fred, who could tell what was happening, tried to lay a restraining hand on Ron’s shoulder, but was shrugged off.

“No, that’s not wh -” Hermione stuttered, fearing she had given Ron the wrong impression.

Ron stood suddenly, his chair tipping back to land noisily on the floor, only drawing others’ attentions to the two of them.

For one terrifying moment, she thought he was going to hit her.

He didn’t – at least not physically. “You know what I’ve missed this week?” Ron enquired rather unkindly. “Your bloody voice in my ear.” Hermione flinched. “ ‘Have you done your homework, Ron?’ ‘Don’t eat with your mouth full, Ron.’ It’s been such a blessed relief.”

“Ron,” Fred warned quietly, but without success.

“And then, when that bloody snake Malfoy tells us all how much he would have enjoyed watching you get thrown around a classroom, you don’t hesitate to jump straight down my throat!”

Aware of this being the exact same criticism that Ginny had thrown at her earlier, Hermione was stricken. “No, Ron, that’s -”

“Why don’t you just shut up and leave me alone? Then we’ll both be happier.” Ron pushed past her and stormed off to the boys’ dormitories, leaving Hermione once again standing forlornly in the middle of the Common Room. Sean was still looking at her with distaste, whilst the Twins looked more contemplative than she had ever seen them.

“Well, that went well!” Ginny declared with false heartiness as she threw a consoling arm around the older girl’s shoulders. “You can always rely on my brother to bugger things up.”

‘No,’ thought Hermione. ‘This was my mistake.’ And she recognised that there may have been a kernel of truth in Ron’s words. ‘I only hope I get a chance to fix it.’

Despite Ginny and Neville’s attempts to cheer up their evening, Hermione soon begged off. Ron had stormed back through the Common Room like a force of nature, en route to the first of his detentions, and no-one was willing to touch off the infamous Weasley temper for a third time today. After that, Hermione did not want to go to the Library again tonight, despite the weekend’s looming homework and the prospect of more research on the history of the Triwizard and the possibilities that the Ministry could actually strip away a wizard or witch’s magic, from both a practical and legal standpoint. Her head was still throbbing and there was a growing pressure behind her tired eyes.

As she walked into the Fourth Year girls’ dorm, being ignored by the still offended Lavender and Parvati, Hermione found some comfort in Crookshanks’s welcoming squeaks and purrs. There was a sealed envelope on her bedside cabinet. Drawing the curtains around her four-poster, she tore it open.

* * * * *

Thanks go to both my beta readers, George and Bexis, who have added real value to this chapter. Harry’s Patronus was Bexis’ idea which he freely offered (and I grabbed up and ran with as fast as I could).

Quillian remains an inspiration, and his idea is yet to come.

Again, the Bulgarian I use is the phonetic version from Chambers Bulgarian Phrasebook, so it is not a literal translation.

Leka nosht = Goodnight

Molya = Please.

Neh = No.

The “3 I’s” quote is among the first words spoken by the Sixth Doctor Who at the end of the regeneration story “The Caves of Androzani”, written by Robert Holmes.

“Economic with the actualité ” was a phrase used by the former Minister, Sir Alan Clark, in the Matrix Churchill case in 1992. Meaning a version of the truth that leaves out certain vital facts, it is of course a euphemism for lying.

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

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

Chapter 5 - The Prerogative of the Harlot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?” Hermione demurred, her mind on other matters.

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

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

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

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

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

“What is?”

“Him.” Ginny’s stare fixed on Harry. “He’s fallen for Cho bleedin’ Chang.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione shook her head.

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

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

Hermione shook her head. “No, I’m just an ordinary witch.”

“You are Champion,” Viktor stated calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

“But what about you?” Hermione asked.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione tugged on the sleeve of her father’s jacket. “Not the actual Government, Dad, just the Ministry of Magic.”

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

“We just can’t see why…” Her father’s words trailed off in obvious frustration.

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

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

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

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

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

“But you yourself have said you know she didn’t put her name forward,” Hermione’s mother protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not necessarily a bad outcome,” Mister Granger observed sourly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied.

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

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

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

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

“Why is there an age limit?”

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

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

“Is it considered dangerous?” Her father sensed some unease.

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

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

Hermione closed her eyes.

“I did,” Dumbledore acknowledged.

“How dangerous?” Dan Granger pressed insistently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite a few,” Dumbledore admitted.

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

“Dan!”

“Dad!”

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

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

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

“We have taken precautions -”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darling, we’re only concerned for your welfare,” her mother tried hard to sound sympathetic.

“No,” Hermione cried, trying hard to convince her parents of her line of thought. “I’m not leaving.”

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

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

“However,” interjected McGonagall. “I think it would be fair to hear Hermione’s views.”

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

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

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

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

“And who was selected as the true Hogwarts champion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No wonder you didn’t tell us all about the Tournament,” Dan Granger muttered.

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

“It certainly won’t,” her father shot back. “We’re taking you back to Oxford with us.”

“Dad, it’s not as simple as that.”

“Isn’t it? Seems bloody plain to me!”

“Dan!” Her mother gently reproved him over his language.

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

“No, dear, you’re our daughter,” her mother responded firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll never happen.”

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

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

“You’re leaving Hogwarts today, young lady!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about the Tournament?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muttering furiously, he did as he was asked.

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

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

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

“Twenty-five,” her mother muttered sadly.

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

“But the Headmaster said it was dangerous!”

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

“People have died,” her mother whispered.

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

“Dan..?”

Hermione’s father turned from his wife and looked hard at his daughter. “That’s a pretty slim argument.”

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

“Dan?”

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

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

“And she’d resent us for it for the rest of our lives,” she sobbed.

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

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

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

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

“Always further than you actually can,” he replied sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll come back home for Christmas this year?” her mother said in a constricted voice.

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

* * * * *

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

“I’m staying,” she said quietly, accompanied by a quiet sob from her mother.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” A pause. “Who?”

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

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

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

Rather than answer, she deployed the tactic of misdirection.

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

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

“No.” Hermione saw Harry’s disquiet dissipated with one word.

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

At least, Harry cared.

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

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

“I don’t blame them,” Harry muttered.

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

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

“Because you’re boys?” Hermione countered.

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, Harry, it doesn’t matter,” she apologized quietly. “Maybe I am different after all.”

Harry flushed just a little. “Of course you are,” he muttered. “You’re Hermione Granger.”

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

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

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

“I’m relieved you, at least, don’t see it that way …”

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

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

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

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

“Harry, you didn’t get into trouble over ..?”

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

“Then what did Dumbledore want -”

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

“Oh.” Then Hermione realised. “Oh!” Her eyes widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For stepping in between me and Professor Moody.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please sir, I’m supposed to take Hermione Granger upstairs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Daily Prophet, I think.”

Hermione was sure no good would come of this.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Hermione broke in again. “What is this all about.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rita hesitated. “Yes. One of the tools of the trade.”

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

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

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

“What? The Muggle way, you mean?”

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

“Well, it’s just so … Anyway, I haven’t got another quill.”

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

“Oh, how … fortunate.” Rita’s voice dripped with sarcasm and disdain.

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

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

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

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

“What!” Hermione nearly leapt out of her seat. “An ‘unfortunate’ background?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite.”

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

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

Rita stopped writing, and looked curiously at Hermione. “Terrible? Surely it’s a great honour?”

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

Rita shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

Spetsi = Special (contraction of)

Vyarno = True

Semeystvo = Family

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

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

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

I do own all of the characters mentioned in this chapter. Oh, I seem to be missing a “not” in that sentence…

Hermione deals with the results of the Daily Prophet’s articles, but faces her greatest challenge in the face of British magical politics.

Chapter 6 - The Mendacity of Ministers

With a reflection of sad irony, Hermione thought she now knew what Harry must have experienced when most of the occupants of Hogwarts had believed he was the Heir of Slytherin. She had not felt such an outsider since her first few friendless weeks after her initial arrival at Hogwarts. Although she had hoped and expected to cause that sort of reaction with some of her peers, by now she knew she had gravely miscalculated the degree of hostility that her expressed opinions would generate. In attempting to queer the field regarding her unwanted and unwarranted participation in the Triwizard Tournament, she had been just a little too clever by half. Maybe more than just a little, she admitted to herself. Thoughtlessly taking the bait dangled by Rita Skeeter and grasping the offered opening for pushing the ideals behind S.P.E.W. into the glare of publicity had only succeeded in adding more undesired fuel to the fire.

It had been bad enough being regarded as a clever little cheat. The fallout from the Daily Prophet article had increased her pariah’s status exponentially. A dash of ridicule and a generous measure of hostility had been added to the pre-existing loathing with which most of the student body and a fair percentage of the staff viewed her. ‘Who does she think she is’ was on the lips and in the eyes of the vast majority of students Hermione met in the classrooms, corridors and Great Hall.

And now it was not just the Pureblood supremacists from Slytherin. Since publication, Hermione had not heard a kind word from anyone whose background hailed from the magical world. Even the most charitable amongst them dismissed her views as stemming from a lack of knowledge, which stung Hermione’s pride, or from insufficient understanding of the way affairs simply were in the magical world. After all, how could someone brought up in the Muggle World possibly comprehend? Ravenclaws saw it as a failing in her education; Hufflepuffs viewed her agenda as misrepresented in the Prophet as an unjustified attack on one of the foundations of the Wizarding World, thus displaying a distressing lack of loyalty in the System.

There were even quite a few sideways glances from inhabitants of the Gryffindor Common Room. One older boy, Cormac McLaggen, had insistently poked fun at her, although Hermione could tell there was not much jesting involved behind the words. She had followed her own oft-stated dictum and ignored the oaf. Only he had not backed off, even when Harry stood up to defend her. While she could ignore McLaggen, it was impossible for her not to notice the surrounding Gryffindors’ alignment with his comments, as it was plainly written in the malicious glances they sent her when he jibed at her for the umpteenth consecutive time. McLaggen’s ragging had continued until the Twins stepped in and suggested the charm-less boy remove himself post haste from the vicinity if he wished to retain all his bodily parts in what passed for human form. By this time Hermione had eyes itchy with unshed tears.

The Twins had their own views on house-elf liberation, which related particularly to the quality and quantity of food they would be provided. Hermione wondered if this was a generic Weasley trait, but was grateful that for once their joshing of her was a touch more diplomatic than usual. After all, she told them, Molly Weasley coped with a household of nine and had not needed a legion of house-elves to feed and clothe her family. Despite her seeming insouciance, Hermione barely managed to keep check her emotions, which grew more intense and frustrating within her every passing day.

As Fred and George departed to find new victims upon whom to practise their latest fiendish concoctions, Hermione noticed Ron sitting quietly in a corner with Seamus and Dean, a look of quiet satisfaction on his freckled face. She still had a score to settle with him over his contribution to the Daily Prophet’s hatchet job on her character, and could feel her face start to burn with the injustice of it all. She began to rise to her feet, only to be brought back by a gentle but insistent tug on her arm.

When Hermione looked around it was Harry, a pained expression on his face. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Hermione,” he muttered.

Shrugging off his restraining hand, but resuming her seat nonetheless, Hermione affected an air of injured innocence. “What wouldn’t be?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry shifted his eyes from her and directed them across the Common Room towards Ron. “Starting yet another fight,” he replied with a hint of exasperation.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You saw what he said about me,” she responded waspishly.

Harry let out a sigh redolent of long-suffering resignation. “No,” he said slowly and clearly. “I read everything that was said about you; doesn’t mean I believe a word of it.”

“Well, so you shouldn’t” Hermione replied, her voice pitched slightly higher than was customary for her. “I should sue the Prophet for libel. I even checked her notes and all. Everything they printed was twisted or plain made-up,” she said bitterly. That was not quite the whole truth. Actually most of the article had emerged much as Hermione had expected it to.

“Exactly.” Harry was adopting the tone that Hermione habitually used when trying to explain something blindingly obvious to her two boys. “Every word,” he stressed.

“How do you know what Ron said to that woman?”

“Ginny told me,” Harry replied quietly. “She was there when that reporter cornered him.” This time Hermione found he was staring intently at her, to reinforce his coming message. “He refused to talk to her about you.”

“He refused to … oh, what?!” Hermione felt a flush of awkwardness colour her cheeks as her comprehension caught up with and then overtook the confusion. “‘ Ron refuses to have anything to do with me’ instead of ‘Ron refuses to talk about me’ ,” she said slowly, recalling the article. She looked across the room towards Ron, now involved in a desultory conversation with Seamus, and then a thought struck her.

“So why is he looking so pleased with himself?” she demanded.

Harry shrugged. “He’s still pretty annoyed with you. Probably got some strange sense of enjoyment out of what happened. Perhaps he sees it as vindication of his own position, or a comeuppance for you.” His eyes tightened as he spoke. Hermione was sure of his own opinions on Ron’s behaviour.

Hermione nodded slowly. Sadly Harry’s reading of the situation was probably true. She and Ron had really sacrificed their friendship in a mere matter of weeks, reducing it to a hostile indifference towards one another. Accepting that made her realise how important keeping Harry’s companionship truly was to her. With finality, she turned her head away from Ron and towards Harry. “And what do you think?” she asked softly.

“I think Ron is a right berk who - ” Harry started to respond readily, as if he had practiced those words, but found himself cut short by the brunette beside him.

“No,” Hermione interrupted him coolly. “What do you think about me?” As the question fell from her lips, she dropped her gaze towards her shoes.

There was the lightest touch of tentative fingertips on her chin, gently raising her face back up until she was once again looking straight at Harry. His arm remained outstretched, as though he was uncertain of what should be done with it now that it had brought her attention back to its owner. Hermione knew that look; she had noted it often enough when Harry was taking the measure of a problem.

“What do I think? Oh - I suppose I see a power-crazed revolutionary seeking to overthrow the government.” The twinkle in his eyes and the slightest upturn of lips at the corners of his mouth robbed his words of any offence. Unfortunately though, they provided precious little balm to Hermione’s sense of unease.

“That’s what most of them think.” She shook off his hand with a palpable air of dejection, before lapsing into an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. “And what about the elves? Do you think I’m doing the right thing with S.P.E.W.?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to seem uncomfortable. “Ermm..” he started awkwardly. “Well… your heart is in the right place, Hermione.” As if sensing that the situation could only deteriorate if they kept up this topic of conversation, he glanced around the Common Room. “Ah, Neville!” he called out rather too heartily.

‘My heart?’ thought Hermione, but she was for once unwilling to follow up on what Harry thought about the rest of her. ‘Where does it lie these days?’ The concept flitted annoyingly through her mind. ‘Why should I be concerned about that now?’

* * * * *

On the following Monday at breakfast, the first of the letters started to arrive. A veritable parliament of owls of all colours and sizes began a series of uncoordinated dive bombing attacks on the Gryffindor table, amidst some colourful language from the occupants being strafed. To Hermione’s unpleasant surprise, she soon realized that she appeared to be the main target.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Harry rather uncharacteristically swore as a departing barn owl nicked two rashers of bacon from his plate before winging its way out of the Great Hall, a flight path that required it to bank with surprising agility to avoid the rest of the incoming air armada. Ginny’s goblet had been knocked over, spilling pumpkin juice over the wooden surface. Hermione’s own morning repast was buried under a blizzard of nearly twenty envelopes as the owls jostled each other, each trying to gain priority for her personal acceptance of its delivery.

“But I never receive mail by owl,” she cried plaintively. “Only the Daily Prophet.”

“Well, you’re little Miss Popular now,” Ginny replied with more than a hint of asperity as she tried to banish her spilt drink with a rather ineffectual flick of her wand. “Or should I say Miss Unpopular?”

“What on Earth…?“ Hermione picked up an envelope from the top of the stack, narrowly avoiding having her fingers nipped by the beak of a particularly vindictive-looking eagle owl. Her name was written in block capital letters, and the missive was simply addressed, in a similar font, to ‘Hogwarts’. She slipped a finger into the small gap at one top corner and carefully slit it open.

The parchment revealed was covered in comparable lettering but in a vivid green ink. As she started to read, Hermione could feel a sense of injustice and disbelief start to colour her cheeks.

‘YOU ARE AN EVIL MUDBLOOD. AZKABAN IS TOO GOOD FOR THE LIKES OF YOU.’

“Oh really!” Hermione’s outrage came out as a rather high-pitched squeak.

Harry’s hand darted in from her right, coming to rest between Hermione and her collection of what was obviously hate mail.

“What is it?” he enquired, almost angrily, the concern evident in his tone. She weakly brought the letter to where his hand rested, and he took it from her, withdrawing his arm.

“It’s ridiculous…” Hermione, a little wary, had started to open a second envelope.

“Bloody Merlin!” The oath came from Ginny, who had come to stand behind Harry and was now reading the first letter over his shoulder.

Still smarting from her sense of furious injustice, not all of it now false, over Rita Skeeter’s actions and the slurs on her character, Hermione started to read her second letter.

“You low-born slut. I’d love to -”

Stopping abruptly, she slammed it down on the table, feeling a little sick and betrayed. Harry leaned over the table and gently removed this latest parchment from beneath her trembling fingers. As Hermione glanced up she saw his expression harden, the colour first draining from his face, before it started to flood back, more glowing than before. As his gaze flicked back from the paper to meet her eyes, she asked. “Why?” He shook his head and crumpled the insulting document into a ball, before throwing it to the floor and grinding it under his heel.

Neville had joined the little party. The owls had attracted most of the Hall’s attention and now it seemed everybody was straining to discover what was the latest gossip and happenstance involving that foolish girl Granger.

Something snapped inside Hermione. She started to tear at a third envelope, some inner demon driving her to take in all the insults.

‘You are nothing but an ill-bred iliterite bitch who should have been hexed at birth…’

“Can’t even bloody spell,” Hermione sneered derisively, chucking the offending parchment aside, a fevered desperation evident to all. “They can’t all be the same!”

Ginny, who was now reading the second discarded missive, having retrieved the crumpled paper ball and flattened it with a useful household spell. She had turned quite pallid. One of the Twins came up behind her and snatched the parchment from between her unresisting fingers.

In her fury, Hermione grasped blindly at another letter, but Harry’s restraining hand managed to close over her own. “That’s enough, Hermione,” he muttered quickly, as Fred - or was it George - ignited the other parchment and let the smoking cinder float to the floor.

“Harry, let go!” Hermione tried to regain control of her hand, but Harry had her wrist in a firm grip.

“No, they’re not worth it,” he replied insistently.

With her free hand, Hermione reached for another envelope before Harry could stop her. It was a little more bulky than the first three, and there were faint grease marks staining the vellum. There was something Hermione found profoundly unsettling about it.

Then her attention, along with everyone else’s, was distracted as one rather over-anxious owl glided in over their heads and deposited a red envelope in front of Hermione. Her eyes, as well as those of Harry, the Weasleys and Neville, were fixed on it as it emitted a small amount of whitish-grey smoke. The owl shot away from the immediate vicinity fast, straining to put distance between itself and its volatile payload.

“Wow, a Howler,” one of the Twins observed unnecessarily with what Hermione thought was a tinge of admiration. Idly she wondered how often those two had been on the receiving end of such missives from their formidable mother. She knew Ron had already received at least one since coming to Hogwarts.

“Better answer it, Hermione,” Neville, who also had experience of these communications, commented anxiously, as the corners started to burn up. “Before it -”

“Explodes,” Hermione finished off Neville’s sentence for him. “Yes,” she sighed, “I’d better.”

As her fingers ran over the crimson envelope, Harry took advantage of her momentary distraction and snatched the other envelope from her left hand.

“No! Harry, no!”

“Don’t open that, Harry!” Hermione’s warning shout merged with Neville’s, his warning made all the more urgent by the unexpected source. He grabbed a hold of the envelope before Harry could either take a firmer grasp or rip it open, then carefully held it under his nose.

“What is going on ..?” McGonagall arrived on the scene, irritated at the disruption to the week’s start caused by her own brood. “Miss Granger, Mister Longbottom, explain yourselves!”

Hermione had a damnably good idea of the contents of the suspicious envelope. Neville paled but kept an unyielding hold of the envelope. “It smelled of petrol …” he offered rather lamely.

McGonagall’s eyebrows met near her hairline before she recovered her poise. “Addressed to Miss Granger?” she asked.

Ignored and momentarily forgotten, the Howler exploded.

“You Have The Nerve To Call Yourself A Witch..?”

Hermione nodded sadly as there were murmurs of assent from the little coterie around her. “They all are,” she muttered, feeling on the verge of tears. After all she’d had to endure so far…

“… Ignorant Little Girl …”

“Put it on the table, Mister Longbottom,” McGonagall instructed calmly, then turned to the crowd that was growing around the seated Hermione. “Stand back.” As soon as Neville, Hermione and others had done as requested, she drew her wand and made a very tiny but precise movement with its tip. “Diffindo!”

“…Should Be Locked Away …”

A minute slit appeared in the parchment, then almost immediately the envelope split open and a viscous, yellowish-green liquid gushed out over the table top. Those Gryffindors who had been a little tardy jumped away from the foul-smelling fluid. Hermione was fascinated and it took George - or Fred - to drag her away from the fumes. Her eyes were fixed on the glutinous mess that enveloped the rest of her mail. Her mind had immediately identified it as -

“You Can’t Just Ignore Me!” The overlooked Howler seemed rather desperate to regain everyone’s attention.

“Undiluted Bubotuber pus,” McGonagall commented grimly. Then, with a more expansive wave of her wand: “Evanesco!”

Hermione’s unwanted ‘gift’ disappeared, although the rest of what could only be hate-mail remained piled up covering her breakfast plate.

“Oh, Bugger This, You Rude Child!” And with that, the disregarded Howler tore itself into a thousand blood-red fragments, each commenting sadly on how the morals and attention span of today’s children were further deteriorating, and that standards in society were definitely slipping.

McGonagall turned her attention to the crowd of students that were now edging back towards the site of the recent disturbance, now joined by the ever-more curious from further up and down the table, as well as the odd member of another House. “Back to your seats, everybody!” the Transfiguration professor’s commanding voice rang over the gathering crowd.

Most started to move away but the brave, or foolhardy, still remained, trying to make sense of what little they had seen. “Now, if you please!” The words may have been gentle but the delivery was from a voice used to being obeyed.

Starting to tremble, Hermione barely noticed the Weasley Twin release her before another arm snaked around her shoulders. “You alright?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper in her ear. She nodded, eyes still fixated on the letters spilling over the table. “Thanks. That was a close one.”

“Five - no, ten points to Gryffindor, Mister Longbottom.” The pride evident in McGonagall’s award just appeared to turn Neville an even paler shade. “A smart piece of thinking.” The Professor turned her attention back to the intended recipient. “And a further five for your timely warning, Miss Granger.” Her discerning eyes also took in Harry’s reassuring arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Thank you, Mister Potter,” she said quietly but firmly to Harry, as she passed on down the length of the Gryffindor table.

Reluctantly, Harry released his light hold on Hermione’s shoulders, but gave one of them a gentle reassuring squeeze with his hand before he stood aside. “It’ll be alright …”

‘But it isn’t alright yet.’ Looking up at her Head of House, Hermione could feel her bottom lip start to quiver as her vision went a little filmy through watery eyes, as her close escape from the consequences of coming into contact with undiluted Bubotuber pus suddenly struck her.

“You can leave this with me, Minerva.” Dumbledore’s quiet tones were as sure and certain as ever. Hermione had not noticed when he had arrived on the scene. With a swish of his wand the paper fragments, cherry-red and still grumbling, were banished. “But this requires a greater degree of study.” Wandlessly, Dumbledore summoned the envelope that had delivered the Bubotuber pus to Hogwarts.

“Come with me, Miss Granger,” McGonagall, with a nod, instructed Hermione firmly, following up with a hand to Hermione’s back that lightly steered her charge away from the shambles that the Gryffindor breakfast had become. Pale faced, Harry also started to rise, but a stern, pointed glance from his Head of House pinned him, however reluctantly, to his seat.

By the time the two Gryffindors, generations apart in age but strikingly similar in character, arrived at the Transfiguration Professor’s office, tears were streaming unchecked down Hermione’s cheeks. McGonagall gestured to her for-once wayward student to take a seat. Once again, Hermione found herself clutching at a napkin, drying her eyes in front of her favourite teacher.

“Take your time, Miss Granger.” McGonagall’s voice retained its coolness and efficiency, as if dangerous substances arriving with the morning mail were all part of Hogwarts’ daily routine.

Finally Hermione felt her throat clear enough to enunciate one simple question. “Why?”

“I would think that should be obvious.” McGonagall’s retort was not intended to be unkind, but it was telling nonetheless..

“That article …” Hermione’s eyes had dried sufficiently to see McGonagall nod in agreement. “Do people really believe ..?”

“I am afraid that they do.”

“But that interview … that Skeeter woman twisted everything I said!” Hermione was no longer having to fake outrage over the fallout of that episode.

“That I can believe. It is Miss Skeeter’s stock in-trade.” She picked up a copy of Saturday’s newspaper. “The Headmaster did try to warn you.”

Hermione shook her head, not at McGonagall’s comment but at the sheer unfairness of the whole event. She no longer felt exhilarated at putting one over that bloody reporter and the rag she wrote for.

“Miss Granger, wizards are notoriously suspicious of change, as you have surely noted.” McGonagall began as if she was teaching a recalcitrant child the first principles of Transfiguration. “Especially when that change is seen as coming from the Muggle World, which they take great pains to avoid., in the over-exaggerated fear of losing their identity.

“Now, this society bases great store on experience - which, of course, is measured most plainly in terms of age. More importantly, however, in terms of lineage; the importance of bloodlines is crucial to society’s perception of a witch or a wizard.”

“And gender?” Hermione muttered. McGonagall fixed her with a scornful glare.

“Although some of the more… well-connected families may prefer to believe so, in fact there has always been a greater equality between witches and wizards over the centuries than in the Muggle world.” Hermione knew that the first witch to become Minister for Magic, Artemisia Lufkin, was appointed at the end of the Eighteenth Century, nearly two centuries before Margaret Thatcher‘s election as Conservative leader and subsequent emergence as a General Election winner.

“Although …” McGonagall nodded as though conceding a point to her protégé, “… I am led to believe that matters have moved apace over recent decades,” she pondered in contemplation. After all, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was a witch, as had been several of the Headmaster’s predecessors. As was Millicent Bagnold, whom Minister Fudge succeeded, Hermione reflected.

“This explains most of the reactions to your selection to compete in the Triwizard Tournament“, McGonagall continued. “For someone without any magical antecedents to be chosen ahead of those considered to be more deserving through accident of birth was considered a grievous insult.”

The Deputy Headmistress leaned forward. “But what I do not understand is that, given the fight with the Ministry on that score, why an intelligent young lady such as yourself should choose to offer her opponents another stick with which to beat both herself and the Headmaster?” Her challenging tones spoke to Hermione of the frustration that had been building in her teacher since Saturday’s morning edition.

“I wanted to set the record straight,” Hermione responded defensively.

“I am not referring to your comments about the Ministry, although Merlin knows making that public can hardly help soften their stance towards your participation or no,” McGonagall responded acerbically. Inwardly Hermione smiled at that; after all, that had been the priority result she was seeking - a Ministry desperate enough to allow her to retire relatively gracefully and without penalty. “But you had to raise the issue of house-elves!” She threw up her arms in disappointment.

Hermione bristled inwardly at the open criticism. “They are treated appallingly, and deserve -”

“We are not discussing whether their cause is just,” McGonagall interrupted spikily. “To raise such an issue at this time was irrational to the point of being foolhardy!” McGonagall took a series of calming breaths. “Miss Granger,” she finally continued. “Those in positions of power are hardly likely to find themselves looking kindly on finding themselves lectured about the running of their own households and businesses.” She held up a hand to forestall Hermione’s imminent protest. “Regardless of how misquoted you were.”

McGonagall took another deep breath. “And to find that the source was an underage, muggleborn witch would only have encouraged an overreaction such as this morning’s events.”

Hermione was looking down at her shoes. “I thought by bringing this out into the open it would stimulate debate, open people’s eyes to the sad maltreatment that house-elves undergo,” she replied rather more sulkily than she intended.

McGonagall looked at her contemplatively, obviously weighing up her next words. “Miss Granger, while not wishing to deflect your crusading zeal, may I enquire on what basis you made your judgements?”

“Well, there was Dobby, of course,” Hermione responded. “Then there was Winky - Mister Crouch’s house-elf. Oh, she was such a sad case …” She trailed off as she noticed McGonagall staring hard back at her.

“Is that it?” McGonagall demanded. Hermione nodded. “Two elves? You based your attack on the Ministry - no, on wizarding society - on a statistical basis of two elves!” This time the Professor’s eyebrows lifted high in disbelief. Hermione had seldom felt smaller than she did now.

Apparently speechless at this stage, McGonagall finally regained the power to express herself. “I would have thought that a witch of your obvious intelligence would have been wary of basing a thesis on such a restricted sample size,” she stated, leaving Hermione smarting.

* * * * *

The interview with McGonagall had been one of the most embarrassing moments in Hermione’s life. To earn the disdain of the teacher she so admired made her feel almost physically sick. McGonagall had had intensely enforced her view that Hermione had enough on her plate so far without adding unnecessary battles to fight. To add to this sudden emotion of inadequacy, McGonagall had instructed the house-elves to screen all Hermione’s mail that was delivered by owl. She had brushed aside Hermione’s rather tentative position that she should have the right to make decisions about her own mail. McGonagall was not risking anything that might upset Hermione or distract her from the more weighty matters in question.

As far as Hermione was concerned, the whole philosophy and agenda of S.P.E.W. needed to be entirely rethought, although that was not a fact that she wanted revealed, especially not to Harry and Ron. To make matters worse, Hagrid had been, although admittedly far more sympathetic, equally dismissive about Hermione’s misrepresented views on house-elves when she turned up for Care of Magical Creatures.

“That’ll be all they know, Hermione. Nuthin’ else’ll make ’ em happy,” he shrugged.

She did not want to start another argument with someone who remained her friend as well as a teacher, so she let his comments slide. Hagrid was far more alarmed when Harry, who had enquired solicitously about her well-being when she had joined their Herbology class earlier, mentioned the incident with the Bubotuber pus.

“Blimey, Hermione!” Hagrid expostulated. “You ought ter be careful. Can’t imagine what people like that be thinkin’”

Despite his sympathetic response, Hagrid betrayed more than a little concern on his countenance, especially when Hermione and Harry had enquired why. He stared at the ground as he shuffled his feet, unwilling to look them in the eyes, and muttered somewhat unintelligibly about secrets and Dumbledore. After that, Hermione could have sworn Hagrid was trying to avoid her.

Following the near-disastrous incident with the Bubotuber pus, Harry had appointed himself as Hermione’s bodyguard, especially when the Slytherins were around. Barbed whispered comments were passed that drew fierce glares from Harry, although Hermione kept repeating ‘ignore them’ to herself. Even in Hagrid’s class, when Malfoy was careful not to incur the wrath of the half-giant through open insults, Hermione continued to feel lonely and avoided.

Aside from Arithmancy, Hermione found Harry at her side for the rest of the day. At first she found it just a little irritating, and suggested that surely he must have better or more enjoyable things to do. But Harry had just given her that enigmatic half-smile, told her that there was nothing else he had to do, so he might as well spend time with her. Oh, and could she look over his Herbology homework? Not, he insisted, that this request was pressing nor important.

However, the morning’s incident had shaken Hermione, even more so than Draco Malfoy’s past assault in the Library. That she could - no, should - have seen coming. To have persons completely unknown to her attempting serious harm was unnerving. And her faith in her own judgment had been severely dented both by having the tables effectively turned on her by Rita Skeeter and by having her eyes opened by McGonagall to the flawed thinking behind S.P.E.W. ‘At least,’ Hermione thought to herself, ‘the Ministry has food for thought.’

So, having Harry sit beside her at lunch and dinner, and keeping her company that evening had been strangely reassuring. The only downside had been when they had both visited the Library. Viktor had already been seated at what had passed from ’her’ to ‘their’ table, and for some reason Hermione could not fathom, Harry had been uneasy in the Bulgarian’s presence. Viktor had certainly been even less talkative than usual, and Hermione, unable to concentrate upon her research in such a strained atmosphere, had finally persuaded Harry that she could be left, and would be fine in Viktor‘s imposing presence.

Reluctantly, Harry had agreed to leave, then he turned to Krum and gestured that the Bulgarian should come with him. The two had stopped only a few yards away. From her vantage point, Hermione watched with a mixture of amusement and bemusement as Harry, with a series of grave gestures and some frantic but muted conversation, tried to make something clear to Viktor, who had finally shook his head. At Harry’s affronted befuddlement, that had quickly changed into a nod. She smiled: Viktor had not quite got his head, literally, around the positive and negative gestures away from the Balkans.

At that point Harry had left, although not without casting one last uncertain look in Hermione’s direction. Viktor, as usual, had taken his seat opposite her, and then opened Hogwarts: A History without even glancing at her.

With curiosity gnawing away inside, battling with the intention of not appearing over-anxious, it took a new record of all of ninety seconds for Hermione to enquire: “What was all that about?”

Viktor did not look up. Hermione was sure there was a hint of a smile twitching at his lips.

“Toy mnogo te haresva” he said with what Hermione thought could be a soupcon of amusement.

“Pardon?”

Viktor still did not look up. “Excuse me, please. Your… friend? He ask that ve go together at na kraia?” Now he did glance at her, looking uncertain. “End - vos that correct? Ven ve end I take Hermy-own-ninny back to him…”

Hermione’s brain processed Viktor’s tortuously constructed sentences. “When I have finished here, in the Library, you are to take me back to the Common Room, to Harry?” she interpreted.

“Da.” This time he looked pleased. “Is correct. Is good ..?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed with some well-disguised relief. “It’s good.”

* * * * *

True to his word, Viktor had escorted Hermione back as far as the portrait hole hiding the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room and dormitories. It was something else that would set tongues wagging. There had been one or two frankly disbelieving looks from the few students still prowling the corridors not long before curfew. Still, none had been as incredulous or as malevolent as those from the dwindling group of Krum fanciers who had lasted all night in the Library in the hope of being granted an audience with the sainted one. Romilda Vane looked as though she had swallowed a Flobberworm, so sour was her expression.

And, equally honouring his pledge, Harry had waited up for her. Hermione thought that rather endearing as she observed another awkward little exchange between the two men …

‘Harry, a man? When did I start seeing Harry as a man?’ Hermione smiled at her little realisation.

She purposefully did not remain long in the Common Room, and after a reasonable night’s sleep welcomed the start of a new day, nearly as much as Crookshanks did.

The following morning, Hermione descended to the Common Room, to find it almost completely empty, save for the gaggle of First Years, gathered together at one of the corner tables, and discussing something feverishly. Then, with a fleeting thought, she thought of Harry waiting up for her last night; she thought it a touching gesture, but Harry needed his rest as much as anyone else, as the logical part of her mind pointed out.

She found she had to agree; yet, she also wished Harry would retreat temporarily, and leave her to her own devices for a short time, when her eyes sighted him waiting for her at their usual seats on the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall…

By lunchtime endearing and touching were not the adjectives that Hermione would have used. It was as if she had a living shadow, and it was only her desire not to hurt Harry’s feelings that prevented her from requesting he drop the devoted bodyguard act.

Harry had even managed to stay awake during History of Magic, defying Professor Binns’ soporific drone and refusing to give in to the tiredness that threatened to overcome him. The free period that followed that morning had seen him dog her footsteps into the Library, where his presence was a peripheral distraction as Hermione reviewed her Potions’ homework. Viktor, as usual, was nowhere to be seen during the day. She wondered how he filled those daylight hours: if he was training, as she had glimpsed him striding or running across the grounds during the daytime? Or had he retreated back to the magical ship, where she had no idea of what his daily routine would be?

The interaction between Hermione and Harry in the Great Hall showed that he was following her every move. Romilda Vane had watched this second act with fury in her eyes. Ginny certainly picked up on it when Harry failed to pay any attention to the lunchtime happenings on the Ravenclaw table, and the youngest Weasley seemed a tad off with the two of them at lunch.

Hermione looked up at the Head Table. Nothing had been heard from Matrix or Ms. Booth following their visit to Hogwarts, and the most probable means of communication would come through Dumbledore or McGonagall. Yet neither was present. ‘Now, that is unusual,’ she thought idly.

Neither Hermione nor Harry were particularly looking forward to Potions after lunch. Hermione guessed that Harry was worried this would be the most logical place for any Slytherin-based insults, or worse, to be thrown at her. She was more concerned about Harry’s reaction, given the ever-present catalyst that was Professor Snape.

Hermione was about to start her raspberry trifle when McGonagall entered the Great Hall, appearing atypically flustered. Pale faced, she approached the Gryffindor table, unerringly homing in on Hermione and Harry. She stopped in front of the duo.

“Miss Granger, I must ask you to come with me.”

Hermione’s heart nearly came to a standstill. She had seldom seen her Head of House so ashen, and that was usually on Harry’s behalf. For a second all sorts of scenarios raced through her mind. Was it … Merlin, no! It couldn’t be her parents?

“Miss Granger.” The anxiety in McGonagall’s voice was clear. “You must come with me immediately.”

Fighting a mounting sense of nausea, Hermione climbed to her feet. “What’s this about?” she asked in a voice tinged with fear. Harry was barely a second behind her in rising from the table.

“It is the Minister himself.” McGonagall replied in a tone indicating a suspension of belief.

“Fudge? Here?” Harry sounded taken aback.

McGonagall fixed him with another of her ‘this is nothing to do with you, so go away now!’ stares. “Yes, Mister Potter. The Minister is here and demands to see Miss Granger.”

“Oh, bloody Hell!” Harry’s oath was uncharacteristically missed by the flustered McGonagall, whose mind immediately rejoined to the task in hand.

“Follow me, Miss Granger.”

With one last uncomprehending look at a dumbstruck Harry, Hermione turned and started to trot to catch up with McGonagall, who could move surprisingly sprightly for someone of her advanced years. As she caught up, she fought back an urge to tug at her teacher’s robes. “What is it? What does he want?”

McGonagall, still nearly as white as a ghost, and striding onwards, sounded just a little panicked. “He has arrived at Hogwarts with two Aurors. I believe he means to arrest you!”

* * * * *

The Headmaster’s office was normally a sanctuary away from the threats that faced the inhabitants of Hogwarts, However, as Hermione stood close behind McGonagall on the spiralling staircase that carried them upwards, she could make out the Minister’s highly indignant voice more and more clearly.

“… Just the sort of rubbish I’ve come to expect from Hogwarts these days!”

Those words came as no surprise to her, and neither was his apparent attitude. She alighted from the stairs with her anxiety level rising steadily, and followed McGonagall into the room. That was just in time to catch Dumbledore’s response. “Now, Minister, surely you don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers?”

Moving to one side, so she could peer around McGonagall, Hermione took in the scene before her with the marked hovering restlessness of youth.

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, seeming as unmoved by events as ever, a look of apparent unconcern on his wise old face. On the opposite side of the Headmaster’s desk stood the Minister himself, disdaining the chair behind him, his body rigid with barely-suppressed indignation. Fudge’s right hand rested on the desk’s wood and leathered surface. His left cradled what to Muggle eyes was the incongruous sight of a bright lime-green bowler hat. With his picture featured so prominently in every edition of The Daily Prophet, he would have been recognisable in any event, even without Dumbledore having just indicated his position.

Standing at the back of the room, positioned so that they could take in everything and everyone without too much effort, were two men. They both wore robes that indicated they were senior members of the Corps of Aurors, but there the similarity ended. One was a tough-looking wizard with very short wiry grey hair, but the rapid movement of his eyes around the room betrayed his own anxieties. The other was a tall, bald man of obvious Afro-Caribbean extraction, but one who radiated calm. He had immediately spotted the arrival of the teacher and pupil and was staring coolly at them, as though evaluating their threat potential. One odd feature that struck Hermione was the single gold hoop that hung from his left earlobe.

Seated on one of Dumbledore’s ubiquitous plush chintz armchairs was a squat woman dressed in various garish tones of pink. She Hermione did not recognise. Barty Crouch, pale and gaunt, stiffly occupied another.

The third seated presence made her heart skip a beat. She had seen that fine aquiline profile before, and the perfect coiffeur of silver hair marked him out only too well. With him present, she was in deep trouble. “What’s Lucius Malfoy doing here?” Hermione whispered to McGonagall. “I thought he resigned from the Board of Governors?”

“He did,” hissed McGonagall. “But he’s head of the Hogwarts’ Parent Teacher Association.”

‘Since when did Hogwarts have a P.T.A?’ wondered Hermione, almost out loud. Fortunately she caught herself, and then raptly turned her attention back to the action unfolding before her.

“I tell you, Dumbledore!” The red-faced Cornelius Fudge appeared on the point of foaming at the mouth from the rage that emanated from him. “Sedition and treason!”

“I am sure Miss Granger intended nothing of the sort.” Dumbledore’s reasoned reply was an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters. “As you will see when she arrives.” The Headmaster looked up. “And here she is.”

All eyes, except McGonagall’s and those of the already aware black Auror, suddenly turned onto Hermione. She swallowed hard in a reflex response. The other Auror was visibly fingering his wand. Was he expecting her to launch an assassination attempt on the Minister?

Fudge’s ruddy face was not a pleasant sight. “Yes, the young revolutionary herself!” He had not moved from his spot in front of Dumbledore’s desk. “You are in a cauldron of trouble, young lady!”

“I really think it would be better if we all took a seat,” Dumbledore interjected, and his wand produced a small two-seat chaise longue with red and gold velvet coverings. But his recommendation was ignored by both Minister and young witch.

Hermione moved clear of McGonagall. If she felt intimidated - and she did - she was not going to show it. “Really, Minister?” she replied, sounding rather more composed than rattled.

Fudge moved to face her directly. “Ever since you wangled your name into the Goblet of Fire you have been nothing but needless hassle and bother. I should never have allowed Barty to keep you in the Tournament!” There was a trace of spittle on his lips. Crouch’s demeanour remained implacable, as though the Minister’s rebuke had not been aired.

“I didn’t enter -”

“There you go again, telling lies!” Fudge was almost incandescent with anger, and some of it was rubbing off on Hermione, whose own temper was starting to climb against the bait. “I have had just about enough from you.” She could almost sense McGonagall’s hackles rise as her own student’s reputation was questioned.

“That bloody woman bombarding me with injunctions,” Fudge complained as much to himself as the assembled bodies, as he took his seat. Hermione guessed he was referring to Cherie Booth, and she smiled inwardly at the implication that the lawyers had made some inroads on her behalf. “Then I see this slip of a girl telling the world that she’s been forced into a ‘barbaric’ contest by me. And to cap it all she exhorts the house-elves to rise up against their owners!” The memory of that newsprint assault brought him to his feet again, staring at Hermione with an intensity that could well have ignited parchment.

“Minister.” Dumbledore had risen to his feet by now but his voice still radiated reasoned calm. “Would it not be better to discuss this in a more civilised manner? Over a cup of tea, perhaps?”

For an overweight man, the Minister could turn remarkably quickly. “Civilised! Civilised?” he spat. “You talk about civilised behaviour when your students proclaim rebellion against our own civilisation?” By now, Fudge had nearly flown into a fit of uncontrollable hysteria, where emotion at last clouded reason.

Steeping forward and interposing herself between Hermione and the Minister, McGonagall was icily correct. “There is no question of Miss Granger doing or saying anything of the sort,” she snapped.

Hermione noted that both Aurors had their wands drawn, although whilst one was covering the two Gryffindors, the other strangely seemed to be covering the group from the Ministry.

Fudge could not be mollified. “My patience has run out.” He turned to his two Aurors. “Dawlish, Shacklebolt. Arrest her!” He flung out his right arm and pointed straight at Hermione, who let out a shocked squeak of fear and outrage.

The grey-haired Auror took two steps forward before the other interrupted in a calm but deep tone “On what charges, Minister?”

“Treason!” Fudge replied dramatically. “Yes, treason and…ah, sedition. Yes, sedition.” Fudge stared wildly at Hermione. “Seeking the overthrow of the legally appointed Ministry.”

There could be no question now that Cornelius Fudge was beyond a reasonable state of mind.

Hermione could not fail to notice the hungry looks on the faces of Lucius Malfoy and the unnamed woman, who was obviously a Ministry functionary of some sort.

“I am afraid that you will have trouble proving those charges, Minister.” Dumbledore remained an oasis of calm amidst the recriminations being hurled by the Minister.

“What do you mean, Dumbledore?” Lucius Malfoy’s silky tones interjected into the dispute. “After all, Granger’s words are there for all to see in black and white.”

The mysterious woman turned towards Hermione and spoke for the first time. Her face appeared to have been squashed, being considerably wider than it was tall, and her mousy brown hair was tied in place with a black velvet bow. “Yes. It is rather a problem to deny it. I cannot see how the Ministry would have a problem.” Hermione noted the slightly high-pitched squeak appeared to be a perfect match for the woman’s appearance.

“Yes,” The Minister looked relieved. “Thank you, Dolores.” He switched his stare from Dumbledore to Hermione, and back again. “What have you got to say to that.”

Hermione started to reply, but Dumbledore managed to cut in with his response first. “I think you will find that whilst the words are most definitely published, they are not necessarily those used by Miss Granger.”

“Taken out of context?” Whoever ‘Dolores’ was, her faux sickly-sweet voice was already irritating Hermione’s overstretched nerves. “Mis-quoted?” She purposefully split the word, as if she was mocking Dumbledore. “That is a very poor defence, Headmaster, and the attempt to use it hardly speaks well of Hogwarts.”

“I did not say it was a defence, even if one were required, which it is not.” Dumbledore composure remained unruffled. He looked up at the door through which Hermione had passed through only a few short minutes ago. “Ah, I see we have another guest just arrived.”

Fudge looked a little perplexed. “What do you mean, Dumbled -”

Someone knocked on the other side of the door. “Come in, Argus,” Dumbledore called lightly, and with a little swish and flick of his wand conjured yet another comfortable-looking armchair into existence.

The door opened and Argus Filch’s rather unkempt head appeared. “Your visitor’s ‘ere, Headmaster.”

“Ah, thank you. Please, show her in.”

Fudge turned on Dumbledore. “Visitor?” To Hermione’s eyes he seemed to be struggling to maintain a tenuous grip on sanity. “This is supposed to be a closed meeting.”

“Oh, was it?” Dumbledore dissembled, as though accepting a mild chiding for forgetting to put sugar in the Minister’s tea. “I assumed that, given the Ministry’s approach to Miss Granger’s rather unique situation, this visitor would be able to offer invaluable advice and assistance.”

“I hope I’ve arrived here in time...” The cultured voice with just a twang of a Scouse accent, broke off as the dark-haired woman entered. Her eyes narrowed as she looked coldly at Fudge. “Minister.” There was no fawning admiration in this woman’s voice.

Fudge looked nonplussed. “I am sorry, you have me at a disadvantage.”

That drew a sarcastic “Quite,” followed by a dramatic pause, and finally: “I’m Cherie Booth.” Hermione saw Fudge’s flushed face lose just a little ruddiness. “Queen’s Counsel for the Matrix Chambers, representing Miss Hermione Granger.” She took in the little group, and gave a small nod of recognition, not friendly as Hermione noted, to ‘Dolores.’ “Undersecretary Umbridge. Always a pleasure.” Her tones indicated it was anything but.

“I take it this meeting has already started?”

“Now see here,” Fudge started to bluster. “You have -”

“Yes,” interjected McGonagall, almost pushing Hermione to the fore. “And the Minister has demanded Miss Granger be arrested on ridiculous, trumped-up charges.”

Ms. Booth took in this information with nary a blink of surprise. “Really,” she commented dryly, as though almost bored and slightly annoyed. “On what charges?”

“Would you like to take a seat?” Dumbledore offered mildly.

Fudge was flustered. “Well, um, we were just…”

“Hem, hem!” That strange interjection came from Undersecretary Umbridge. “Well, there were certainly libellous statements made in the reported interview…”

“Even if my client were correctly quoted, which I doubt,” Cherie Booth cut in, “or if the statements made were demonstrably false, defamation is not an arrestable offence nor one punishable by a custodial sentence, especially given that Miss Granger is under eighteen.”

“Still over the age of legal responsibility though,” Lucius Malfoy observed as if half-bored by the conversation already.

“Yes, quite!” Fudge jabbed his finger in Malfoy’s direction, emphasizing the point raised on his behalf. He appeared to miss, which Hermione did not, the look of sheer contempt with which Lucius greeted the Minister’s gesture. “Old enough to know better.” He turned to Hermione. “You cannot gad about accusing your elders and betters of all sort of trumped-up accusations.”

Finally, Hermione decided to be present in more than a decorative role. “That’s rich,” she observed quietly. “Given what you are trying to force on me.”

There was an overly dramatic intake of breath from Umbridge’s direction, whilst Fudge looked stunned at being on the receiving end of a barb from a fifteen-year old schoolgirl. “I’ve never … never been so insulted…”

“What would one expect from one with Granger’s upbringing?” Malfoy bared his teeth in a rather false smile.

Hermione shrugged off McGonagall’s restraining hand. “What exactly are you inferring?” she demanded, in her sudden outburst of rage forgetting she was facing one of the most dangerous wizards in Britain.

“Only that one cannot expect full respect for our great institutions from one with… such a lack of breeding.”

There was a moment’s silence as Lucius Malfoy’s words were taken in. “Mister Malfoy, I have seldom heard such insulting comments…” That was McGonagall.

“Well, these are the problems one expects when the student base is expanded to include the muggleborn.” Umbridge’s contribution was received in stony silence, although Hermione noted a nod of agreement from the Minister. “I have warned against this in the past, Minister.”

Ms. Booth was having a quiet word with McGonagall, The private communication she received from the Scotswoman made her cheeks burn with spots of high colour.

“True, true, Dolores,” Fudge muttered. “Well, why don’t we take her into custody and sort out the problems later?”

Hermione started to protest her innocence at the same time as McGonagall and Booth. Fudge ignored them and gestured to the two Aurors. Dawlish seemed keen to follow the Minister’s instructions, but he was held back by a cautious Shacklebolt. “I’m sorry, Minister, but we cannot do that.”

Fudge’s eyes bulged, unused to being countermanded by his own Ministry minions. “What do you mean, Auror Shacklebolt? As Minister, I order you to -”

“Without a serious arrestable offence being committed,” Shacklebolt intoned calmly in a deep bass, “we cannot detain a minor without either a warrant or explicit instructions from the Head of the M.L.E.”

“What?”

“That is correct, Minister.” Dumbledore appeared to be the only person present, save Shacklebolt, who had kept his composure. “As far as I can see, no offence has been committed.”

Fudge appeared on the point of exploding. “You mean this little …” He took a deep breath. “… girl can make all sorts of wild accusations… well, we’ll just have to find some evidence!”

“Evidence of what?” Hermione demanded. She ignored Booth’s silent plea to remain quiet.

“Treasonable behaviour… attempts to slander the Ministry,” Fudge rambled.

“I’ll tell you what I think of the Ministry!” Hermione yelled, surprising all present with the vehemence a slightly-built teenaged girl could bring.

Cherie Booth stood in front of her. “Keep quiet, Hermione, Let me deal with this.” A tense Hermione thought of ignoring her legal advisor, but then took a calming breath and nodded her head in acceptance. Booth turned to face Fudge. “Minister, you have no jurisdiction here. You have no evidence of any criminal offence being committed by my client. If you try to incarcerate Miss Granger, I will have a writ of false imprisonment served so fast you wouldn’t be able to tell your base from your apex.” The Liverpudlian twang was stronger when she was angry.

“I would also remind you that an application to the Scottish Court of Session under The Children (Scotland) Act of 1994 has been made, seeking a supervision order to be served by a sheriff of the relevant magistrates’ court as she is under sixteen years of age. I have also written to the Secretary of State for Scotland requesting that he prescribe an order under The Children Act of 1989 as my client’s parents have sought an application for an emergency protection order by Oxford County Council for a supervision order under clause 44.1 subsection c.”

“If I may…” Umbridge interceded. From her handbag she withdrew a raft of documents. “You will see here that the relevant local authority has ceded responsibility for the care of the underage pupils at Hogwarts to the authorities at Westminster.” She handed over one specific document to Ms. Booth, who took it and made sure Hermione could also see what it contained.

“I trust there is no concern over the … veracity of the documentation?” Umbridge enquired.

Hermione looked askance at Cherie Booth, whose professional certainty had been momentarily stripped away to be replaced by a worried frown. She pointed out the signature and its printed brother underneath. ‘Rt. Hon. Michael Forsyth, MP.’ “The Scottish Secretary,” Booth commented.

Hermione swore there and then that she would back Scotland’s campaign for self-government.

Cherie Booth handed back the papers. “There is still the pending application under the 1989 Act,” she commented acidly, her pride punctured by the early setback.

“Of course,” Umbridge intoned in her sugary voice. “This should set matters straight.” She passed over another, shorter document that contained far more white space and less print than the previous one.

Hermione saw Cherie’s eyes widen momentarily in astonishment. Wordlessly, she passed the paper to Hermione so that her client and McGonagall could read it together.

The Secretary of State for Education of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has accepted the proposal that the terms of The Children Act of 1989 as appertaining to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry shall be set aside for the period of the school year (September 1994 to July 1995) under the terms of The International Code of Secrecy, the Accord of 1699, and the Royal Decrees of 1700 and 1946.

Signed

Rt. Hon. John Major, MP - First Lord of the Treasury

Hermione looked back up at her lawyer, eyes wide. “How could he sign this..?” she asked haltingly.

“God knows,” Booth responded truthfully. “I may not like the man, but this seems out of character even for Major.”

Hermione leaned closer. “Could they have put him under a curse or spell?”

Cherie Booth shook her head. “I don’t think anyone would risk that. It would blow apart the agreements between the two worlds. More likely they slipped it to him with other papers during a match at The Oval,” she snorted in derision, before handing back the paper to the Undersecretary, who snatched it from her hand.

This time Hermione made an unbreakable personal oath to herself that, once she gained the age of majority, she would never waste her vote for the Tory cause.

“I trust that matters are now crystal clear,” Umbridge demanded in tones that dripped with honeyed syrup, but ones which only intensified Hermione’s feeling of disgust towards the woman.

All Hermione’s hopes had gone up in smoke. It seemed that her lawyers were stymied in their efforts, that the big battalions were lined up on the opposing side.

“Yes, well, there we are.” Fudge fiddled with his bowler hat, rotating it in his hands. “An accusation has been made against the integrity of the Ministry itself,” he muttered.

A very unladylike snort, which she tried vainly to suppress, from McGonagall showed how much she invested in the integrity of the Ministry.

Lucius Malfoy rose to his feet. “Damn it, Cornelius, this is getting us nowhere. I suggest you concentrate on the matter we discussed earlier.”

Hermione suddenly became worried at the sound of that. If a Malfoy was involved, it could only mean trouble.

Looking rather disappointed, as though his favourite childhood toy had been removed from him, the Minister backtracked. “Yes, well, if... well, if there is no question of arrest …” He almost quailed under the combined angry glares of Hermione, McGonagall and Booth. “Well, there’s ample proof that would support expulsion.”

‘Expulsion!’ Hermione suddenly paled. That had not been part of her plan!

“What do you mean?” Cherie Booth advanced on the Minister.

“Hem, hem.” All eyes turned once again on the toad-like Umbridge. “A student’s publicly calling into question the integrity and honesty of the Ministry would certainly be grounds for expulsion.”

“Quite,” added Malfoy. “Many of the parents have expressed their concern over the comments expressed in The Daily Prophet in particular, and at the approach that the School is taking in general.”

“Name them!” demanded Hermione shrilly.

Lucius Malfoy fixed her with a haughty glare, as though she were no better than something unpleasant you picked up on the sole of your shoe on a hot day. “I beg your pardon?” he enquired icily.

“Name them,” Hermione repeated, not quite as sure of herself as she had been.

“I do not answer to you, girl.” Malfoy brushed her question aside, icily dismissive in his expression.

“Let me guess,” Hermione pushed on with conviction. “Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott -” She ticked the names off on her fingers, her voice slightly fraying as she grew angrier with each word.

Lucius Malfoy did not respond, He just stared at her with his cold, grey eyes.

“The names do not matter,” Umbridge cut in. “The Ministry has received complaints about the outrageous ideas expressed in Miss Granger’s interview, and the failure of the School -” She looked hard at Dumbledore “- to instil discipline.”

“Quite, Dolores, quite.” Fudge turned his back on Hermione. “Well, Dumbledore. What do you say to that? I do have the authority to demand an expulsion.”

Hermione could not understand how Dumbledore was remaining so serene. “Who has the authority to request a student be expelled,” he corrected the Minister.

“And in this case,” Malfoy added quietly, “the offender will be Obliviated. All knowledge that she possessed, all her memories of ever being a witch, would be removed,” he said with cruel relish. “Her magical core would be bound with the strongest spells.”

McGonagall gasped in dismay. Hermione felt sick to the pit of her stomach. “You can’t do that,” she croaked, her throat suddenly dry.

“Oh, but I can,” Fudge responded, glad for once to be able to intimidate this irritating child. “In certain circumstances, if I consider her - them - a threat to the wizarding community.”

Hermione turned to Cherie Booth. “They can’t ... can they?” she asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

“They can try,” the barrister responded grimly. “But we will fight them every step of the way, no matter what dirty tricks they attempt.”

Hermione turned back to the Minister. “You would inflict on me a punishment you don’t even consider for Death Eaters!” she observed. “Those you send to Azkaban.”

“Of course,” Malfoy remarked. “To rob a Pureblood of their magical ability would be … barbaric.”

Hermione looked around. Fudge was nodding his head absent-mindedly, whilst there was a look approaching triumph on Umbridge’s squashed features. Dawlish looked ready to do his master’s bidding, while Crouch was watching the whole affair with a detached, uncaring air. He seemed to be away in a world of his own.

“I won’t let you do that,” Hermione replied, her mind full of determination. “I won’t let you drive me away from being a witch.”

“You can expect an injunction on your desk tomorrow morning, Minister,” Booth threatened.

Umbridge gave the silk another of her false smiles. “You may be able to win on appeal,” she commented.

Hermione tensely pulled her lawyer to one side. “I can’t be expelled,” she almost wailed in frustration, fixing her ally with an intent gaze.

“Why? The grounds for reinstatement would be excellent.”

“You know how long it takes for the Ministry for Magic to operate?” Hermione’s anxiety showed in her tremulous voice. “We’re not talking weeks here, more like months.”

“True,” Booth observed. Then the realisation struck her. “My God! If you’re expelled in the next few days, you won’t be able to take part in the competition. You would never be accepted back in time.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said quickly. “And by then I’ll have broken my magical oath. My magic will be stripped away from me anyway. There’d be no point in appealing as I wouldn’t be a witch anyway!”

“I can get an injunction served tomorrow,” Booth thought out loud. “That would prevent an expulsion.”

“But what if I’m expelled this afternoon?” Hermione pleaded. “As soon as I’m ruled ineligible to compete, I’ll break the binding contract. Tomorrow may be too late!”

Booth considered this information before turning to an ashen-faced McGonagall. “Has the Minister that power? To demand an immediate sending down?”

“He does if there are sufficient grounds,” the Deputy Headmistress replied.

“Who would judge those grounds?”

McGonagall glanced towards Dumbledore’s desk, where the great wizard was still talking with Fudge. “The Headmaster, with his decision subject to confirmation by the Board of Governors.”

Hermione exhaled with relief. “Then that’s okay,” she muttered.

Booth gave her a sharp look. “Are you sure that he wouldn’t?”

“I am sure Albus … the Headmaster would not take any such action,” McGonagall opined, although not sounding as sure as Hermione would have preferred.

Something was nagging away at Hermione’s mind. “But…” she started, trying hard to make sense of her thoughts. “But if the Governors were to review his decision… they could expel me during the Tournament,” she realised. “I’d still be disqualified and suffer the same fate.” She looked imploringly at McGonagall.

“Is that possible?” Booth demanded almost immediately.

“More so given the recent article,” McGonagall commented. “The Governors are not as conservative as they used to be, but they are not unalloyed liberals either. They may not view Miss Granger’s opinions as expressed in a favourable light.”

Hermione could see her future ebbing away with this conversation. She looked up and was infuriated to see Dumbledore, relaxed as ever, still sitting in his chair. ‘Damn you,’ she thought furiously: ‘Do something!’ her mind screamed…

The Headmaster looked up and gazed deep into Hermione’s eyes. She was sure she could see them sparkle. He cleared his throat.

“There is one problem with your request, Minister.”

“Oh yes?” Fudge seemed astonished. “And what would that be?”

“That no-one will be expelled from Hogwarts: Today, tomorrow, or anytime for that matter.”

Fudge reeled as though struck physically. “I can’t believe it!” he yelled. “This is just the sort of behaviour I’ve come to expect from you, Dumbledore. You seek to obstruct me at every turn.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, Minister, you misunderstand me. You see, there are no actionable grounds.”

Malfoy’s frosty response chilled Hermione. “No grounds, Dumbledore?” he questioned smoothly.

“What are you talking about, man?” Fudge rifled through a discarded briefcase and brought up a copy of The Daily Prophet which he slammed down on Dumbledore’s desktop. “It’s all there, in sixteen-point print!” His eyes shone with a self-justifying rage, as he looked on angrily at the placid old wizard.

“Oh, I do not deny that Minister. Only that nothing that is printed under that interview could be used to support any move to expel Miss Granger.”

Hermione was way ahead of anyone else in the room bar the Headmaster. “Brilliant,” she breathed, earning odd looks from the two women with her.

“Noth- nothing that could be … used?” Fudge was floundering. “Have you lost leave of your senses? It’s all in there, slanderous attacks on the Ministry, a sob-story denying she cheated her name into the Goblet … And all that rubbish about house-elves!” His countenance darkened further. “Nothing indeed!”

Dumbledore still looked in total control of the situation. “True, that is all there, Minister.” He leaned forward, giving an impression of confidentiality. “But I fail to see how the Ministry can take action over an interview that was positively sought and permitted by the Ministry itself.” He leaned back, a smile playing on his lips.

“Positively… permitted ..?” Fudge’s mouth flapped open like a beached fish. “What… what do you mean, Dumbledore?”

The Headmaster looked towards Hermione. “I believe the phrase used was: ‘Officially sanctioned by the Minister himself’, was it not, Miss Granger?”

Hermione was shaking, whether from nerves or sheer relief she could not tell. “That’s exactly what Miss Skeeter told us,” she confirmed, barely able to keep her voice level.

“What…? What..?” Fudge wheeled about. “I don’t believe … Dolores, is this true?”

Hermione thought Umbridge looked as though she had swallowed a fly. She remained quiet until the Minister hissed at her. “Err… yes, I’m rather afraid you - I mean, the Ministry - did give full permission for Miss Skeeter’s interviews.”

Fudge was rummaging through his memories. He evidently despised this new realization. “There’s no …” He turned beseechingly to Umbridge. “Did I sign anything, Dolores?”

Umbridge looked as sick as Hermione had been a few minutes ago. “The Editor was rather insistent upon it, Minister. He would only give full-page coverage if he were granted exclusive access to the competitors - all of them.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore added kindly, as though finding a silver lining in Fudge’s dark cloud, “you could always sue Miss Granger for libel …” He winked at Hermione, who grasped the significance and the opening immediately.

“But you would have to sue the Daily Prophet as co-defendant,” she breathed. Hermione knew Fudge could never entertain launching a legal action against the only widely distributed wizarding newspaper, and a major supporter of the Ministry line, without consigning his political career to the waste bin. “I’d like to see you try.”

Fudge’s complexion took on a very pasty aspect. “Im- impossible,” he stuttered. He turned to an equally stricken Umbridge.

“Perhaps… perhaps a - yes!” Umbridge was grasping for straws. “A private action… for slander?” She looked doubtful herself at that option.

Cherie Booth had heard quite enough. She marched up to the dumbstruck Minister. “If you make any move to take action against my client, I will have a writ served on you -” She jabbed her finger in Fudge’s face. “- And you -” She started to repeat the action in Umbridge’s direction, but stopped in mid-point and instead waved off the Undersecretary contemptuously. “- The whole bloody Ministry, The Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter and anyone else entangled in this sorry episode,” she fumed. “I don’t care what papers you are in possession of, signed or unsigned. You’ll be so tied up in legal actions you wouldn’t know where to start, let alone finish. And…” Now her Liverpool roots were showing. “…If we find any evidence that you were conniving amongst yourselves to send an innocent Briton to gaol then I will take this matter up with the proper - Muggle - authorities ! Need I remind you that my husband may well be take up the helm of the country next Spring?”

As Hermione watched, the florid colour drained from Fudge‘s face. She knew that the opinion polls all pointed to a Labour victory in the next General Election, which could only happen at the latest in early summer of 1997. And if Fudge were still around as Minister for Magic by then, he would be dealing with Cherie’s husband as Prime Minister. She smiled at the delicious irony.

“Erm… Yes, quite.” Fudge’s skin tone was that of a particularly sickly blancmange. Umbridge by now so reminded Hermione very strongly of a toad that she half expected her to croak her next sentence. Malfoy was quietly fuming; she looked away quickly, finding his glare rather disconcerting.

“There is still the question of that girl’s participation in the Triwizard Tournament,” Fudge growled, increasingly put out at missing two chances to nail Hermione Granger. “Well… It’s just that … certain irregularities …” he muttered, then pointed at Hermione. “She’s too young for a start.”

“At last, some common sense,” Hermione rejoined, earning her dirty looks from the Ministry’s representatives. Maybe her squeaky wheel strategy would even yet carry the day.

“But you somehow put your name in the Goblet of Fire!” Fudge accused her loudly, trying hard to find someone else to finger as the culprit. “That’s how this whole bloody mess started.”

Hermione looked weary. “I have told anyone who will listen, and plenty who have not, that I did not enter my name, ask anyone to enter my name, or cast a spell or curse or jinx on the Goblet that made my name appear.” She glared at Fudge, then Umbridge. “Is that crystal clear enough for you?” she said, hands on her hips in the intimidating arrangement of a double teapot. Her own boldness in addressing the Ministry officials so indiscriminately gave her wings of confidence.

“You didn’t?” Fudge said in wonder. “Then why didn’t you say so before?”

“I think, Minister,” Dumbledore responded calmly before Hermione exploded in frustration, picking up the newspaper, “that if you look beyond the rather lurid headlines and Rita’s rather unique, florid prose, you will find that Miss Granger has said so in a manner most public.”

Ms. Booth stepped forward. “My client has no desire to participate in this upcoming competition,” she declared.

“And many of us feel that Miss Granger should not be allowed to compete,” Lucius Malfoy put in. “You see, we feel that the Triwizard competitors should represent the cream of wizarding youth.”

Hermione glared at him. “Not a witch whose parents are both Muggles,” she shot back.

“You said it,” Malfoy drawled. “Not I.” For some strange reason his cold smile reminded her of a brass plate on a coffin lid.

Cherie Booth pressed harder. “If we could come to an agreement over the threat of disqualification from my client, then I am sure she would quietly withdraw. Isn’t that right, Miss Granger?”

“Absolutely,” Hermione confirmed.

Malfoy looked rather put out. He seemed to have lost his prey. “I still feel that expulsion is the only punishment that fits Granger’s misdemeanours but …” He looked straight at - and through - Hermione. “But if she were to pull out…”

Hermione was briefly thrown by Malfoy’s response. She had assumed that, if there were any plot behind her name being revealed by the Goblet of Fire, whether aimed at directly at her, or tangentially as a result of unknown parties seeking to harm Harry Potter, then Lucius Malfoy would have to be at the centre of that conspiracy. But, here he was, virtually admitting defeat. It just did not make any sense.

“Well…” Fudge was casting around for any alternatives, but failing. “I don‘t see how we can manufacture an opportunity for a withdrawal. Barty?”

For the first time Barty Crouch looked up. Hermione was struck by how ill he looked, far worse than he had at the Weighing of the Wands. With a tinge of regret, she thought he did not look long for this world.

“The Goblet of Fire is the final arbiter,” he announced in hollow tones, as if repeating a learned phrase emotionlessly from far away and long ago. “It is a Wizard’s Oath given by those who enter their names.”

“But I did not enter!” Hermione was on the verge of screaming. Desperation was beginning to extinguish any glimpse of hope she harboured secretly.

Crouch turned his cold eyes on her, but his gaze was empty and distant. “It does not matter. Your name being drawn from the Goblet is proof sufficient for the agreement to be binding on your part.”

“We’ll see,” Ms. Booth stated calmly but clearly. “Expect an application for an injunction as soon as the High Court is open tomorrow, Minister.”

“You can make whatever moves you care to,” Crouch observed neutrally. “There is no means to break a Wizard’s Oath without suffering the due penalty.”

“Loss of the person’s concerned magic, correct?” Cherie Booth asked. Crouch just nodded his head.

“I am afraid that Mister Crouch is correct,” Dumbledore confirmed. “If Miss Granger withdraws, even with the tacit agreement of all concerned, then she will be stripped of her magic,” he added sadly.

“Probably for the best,” Fudge muttered. “Wouldn’t look good if one of the competitors dropped out before the show kicked off anyway.” He glanced at Dumbledore, as though seeking affirmation, but none was forthcoming from that quarter. “Calling into question the decisions of the Goblet. Undermine the whole ethos of the Tournament. It is an issue of solidarity and courage we‘re dealing with her, it seems.”

“Then I’ll seek an injunction to stop the competition,” Ms. Booth started, but halted when Umbridge waved a familiar piece of paper in her hand.

“I’m afraid that this would rule out any legal action to halt the Triwizard Tournament,” she commented with a dash of victory.

Hermione moved alongside her lawyer. “I don’t want to think so, but it seems all the legal avenues are closed down,” she muttered sadly.

“I’m afraid so,” Cherie Booth replied, equally downcast.

“There is one last alternative,” Dumbledore said, for the first time with a hint of urgency. He turned to the Minister. “Cornelius, I implore you, one more time. Please, cancel the Triwizard Tournament?” he pleaded.

Fudge looked at him as though he was mad. “Cancel it? Oh no, no, no!”

“It may be for the best, Minister,” Lucius Malfoy advised, again causing doubts to start forming in Hermione’s mind. Since when had she and a Malfoy - any Malfoy - been in agreement on any subject?

“I can’t cancel,” Fudge appeared affronted. “I’d look weak in front of the world.”

“Cornelius, put aside your political needs,” Dumbledore beseeched him. “Think of the laws of natural justice. Miss Granger is only fifteen years old.”

“No, no, quite out of the question.” Fudge looked to Umbridge for support. She did not disappoint her master.

“The Triwizard Tournament is just one step the Ministry is taking to reaffirm its leading role in Britain and in Europe. Cancellation would send out entirely the wrong message.”

“Sod the message!” Hermione was a little shocked at Cherie Booth’s language, rather unbecoming a Queen’s Counsel. “We are talking about a young girl’s life here!”

Fudge could not look either Hermione or her lawyer in the face. Instead he stared down at his lime-green bowler hat as he twisted it in his hands. “There must always be sacrifices on the road to progress,” he murmured.

“Besides,” Umbridge added. “Miss Granger does not have to compete. The final decision is hers, and hers alone.” She smiled that sickly-sweet smile. “Isn’t it, dear?”

Now all eyes were on Hermione.

“Yes,” Fudge added. “We need a decision here and now, don’t we, Barty?”

“The First Task was due to be held next Tuesday, the twenty-fourth,” Barty Crouch replied faintly; he indeed seemed to be very sick. “Due to extenuating circumstances, we can postpone by one week, but no later.”

“But that’s only a fortnight away!” McGonagall sounded shocked.

“Arrangements have been put in place and cannot be altered,” said Crouch without a trace of emotion.

Fudge turned to Dumbledore. “That’s true. We’ve already had to plan to bring in another …” His voice trailed off as he realised who could overhear. “You know …” he finished lamely. Dumbledore just favoured him with the look of a man severely disappointed with the outcome and the person standing before him.

“No allowances can be made, for anyone,” Crouch emphasized.

“No chance of a postponement? No? Then we need a decision straight away,” Fudge responded, turning back to Hermione. “It’s your choice, young lady. Are you going to compete in the Tournament or not?”

Hermione froze. She had replayed this argument over and over again since the meeting with her parents.

“Don’t rush, Hermione,” Cherie Booth said quietly. “We may still be able to fight it.”

As she looked at Dumbledore, appearing doleful for the first time today, then at a saddened McGonagall, Hermione knew that particular dog would not bark. “It seems that I am committed,” she said, half to herself. Pulling together all her reputed Gryffindor courage, Hermione nodded her head. “I will not withdraw - not willingly, with the alternatives before me. Therefore, under protest, I accept my entrance into the Triwizard Tournament.”

The room remained silent for a few moments. Then Fudge clapped his hands, full of false heartiness. “Good. Excellent. That’s all settled. Anything to add, Barty?” he asked Crouch, who just shook his head.

“Wait a minute,” Hermione protested. “No-one has told me what the First Task is!”

Barty Crouch rose to his feet slowly. “I should hope not,” he said pointedly, a spark of urgency finally evident in his voice.

“But how am I supposed to train for it?” Hermione added plaintively, with murmurs of support from McGonagall.

Crouch looked her straight in the eye. “As a Champion, you are assumed to be ready to face any task,” he stated, brooking no argument. “Good day, Miss Granger. We will meet again a week next Tuesday.”

As Crouch strode out, Umbridge was glaring triumphantly at Hermione. There was something distinctly odd about that woman, Hermione decided.

“Of course,” the Minister’s personal toady’s tones were rather professional, in contrast to the false sweetness of earlier, “any infringement of the rules will be dealt with severely.” The smile was forced and false though. “It is only fair that all the competitors fulfil their obligations in full. There will be no allowances made for anyone.” Umbridge emphasized the last word clearly.

“Well, that’s that settled then,” Fudge said with an inappropriate amount of bonhomie. “Apologies for the… ah, unpleasant business earlier on.” He nodded to Dumbledore and McGonagall. “Headmaster, Professor.” He halted as he came to Ms. Booth. “Dear lady,” he said sarcastically.

“I can’t wait until we meet again,” the barrister responded in kind, and Hermione was just a little glad to see the Minister fail to suppress a slight shudder.

“Hmm, yes,” Fudge responded uncertainly. “Come: Dawlish, Shacklebolt. I want to be back in London before the deadline for the evening edition of the Prophet. At least we have one announcement we can make” He bustled past Hermione, followed by the two Aurors.

Lucius Malfoy was the last of the Minister’s party to leave. As he passed Hermione he did not acknowledge her existence at first, but then turned back. “I do not pretend to understand your little game,” he hissed malevolently. “But you will not win.”

“I do not pretend to understand yours either,” she responded truthfully, as she found his motives more inscrutable than ever.

Then Hermione was left with Dumbledore, McGonagall and Booth, all looking defeated to some degree. For the first time, the two witches and one lawyer took the seats that had been standing empty all meeting.

Cherie Booth tried to express her sadness at the outcome, how personally she took the defeat, the perfidy of the Minister and his acolytes, and that she would not cease searching for a loophole that would allow Hermione her wish to exit the competition without leaving her newly-discovered world.

McGonagall tried hard to talk up the parties’ spirits, that no cause was yet lost, but her Scottish heart did not seem to be in it.

Dumbledore spoke of how this student had an indefatigable attitude to life’s obstacles.

But the words just washed over Hermione.

That was it. Her first battle had been fought and lost.

But that was only the overture.

The question now was not now whether she could escape being committed to taking part in the Triwizard Tournament.

It was whether she could survive the First Task.

* * * * *

My thanks as usual to beta readers Bexis and George. With the amount of work they have put in on this work, they really should be registered as co-authors.

The abysmal Bulgarian from my Chambers Bulgarian Phrasebook has been torn apart and reworked by George, who assures me that: -

Toy mnogo te haresva = “He really likes you.”

Na Kraia = At the end.

Of course, he could be setting me up - who can remember the infamous English / Hungarian phrasebook from Monty Python’s Flying Circus?

According to the Famous Wizard cards, Artemisia Lufkin was the first witch to become Minister of Magic in 1798. Margaret Thatcher was elected as UK Prime Minister in 1979.

Cherie Blair is of good Liverpudlian stock. Scouse is the regional dialect associated with Liverpool. Her husband, Tony Blair, became Leader of the Labour Party (& Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition) in July 1994 following the untimely death of his successor John Smith. His previous role had been as Shadow Home Secretary (basically the law and order portfolio).

As previously mentioned, The Children (Scotland) Act was actually passed in 1995, but I have backdated it by a year. The Secretary of State for Scotland did have the authority to defer to the Children Act of 1989 which applied to England & Wales - remember this is pre-devolution, and Scots law is different to “English” law. Scots law would take precedence given Hogwarts’ Scottish location, but the Secretary of State of Scotland could prescribe an order under the earlier existing English legislation. As Hermione’s home is in England, this is a plausible scenario; her parents would apply to their local authority. Details of the Acts as mentioned are genuine, although I may play a little fast & loose with their actual operation.

Clause 44.1 c of The Children Act of 1989 reads as follows: -

An emergency protection order can be put in place in the case of an application made by an authorised person where: -

(i) the applicant has reasonable cause to suspect that a child is suffering, or is likely to suffer, significant harm;

(ii) the applicant is making enquiries with respect to the child’s welfare; and:

(iii) those enquiries are being frustrated by access to the child being unreasonably refused to a person authorised to seek access and the applicant has reasonable cause to believe that access to the child is required as a matter of urgency.

The post of Secretary of State for Scotland was abolished, albeit briefly, on the 13 June 2003. The post had been abolished before, back in 1747, after the 1745 Jacobite rebellion, by the Hanoverian Government in London. The Scottish Conservative Member of Parliament the Right Honourable Michael Forsyth had been appointed to the post on the 6 July 1994 in succession to the Right Honourable Ian Lang MP. Note that the prefix “Right Honourable” is applied to all Members of Parliament who are also Privy Councillors.

John Major is a famous fan of cricket and has written books on the sport. He is a keen supporter of Surrey County Cricket Club and spends many hours watching them at their famous home ground, The Oval in Kennington, London, and also at Guildford. The day he resigned as Prime Minister (even though the Tories were crushed in the previous day’s General Election, he had to “resign” before Tony Blair could be “invited to form a government” - that’s us British for you) he went straight to The Oval to watch a county match. I would not put it past Fudge or his cronies to slip one past the Prime Minister when he is at his most easily distracted. First Lord of the Treasury is the official title now carried by the United Kingdom’s Prime Minister.

QCs (Queen's Counsels) are called 'silks' perhaps because their gowns were originally made from silk, not cotton.

To be expelled from University in England is to be “sent down”.

Roger Lloyd Pack, who played Barty Crouch Senior in the film version of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire”, also played John Lumic, the creator of the Cybermen, in the Doctor Who episodes “Rise of the Cybermen” and “The Age of Steel”. So it is no surprise that he reacts rather like an automaton in this chapter!

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

Chapter 7 - When Lightning Strikes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” he asked hoarsely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what do we do now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What would you have done, Harry?”

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

“Please, tell me about Harry Potter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, his parents were murdered by the Dark Lord -”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One answer seemed to recur in her conscience – Harry.

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

Maybe not just Hogwarts.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I thought …”

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

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

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

Hermione nodded her head eagerly.

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

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

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

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

Bemused, Hermione’s response was automatic. “I can’t even tell ..?”

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

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

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

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

It was a message lost in translation.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I remember now,” Hermione muttered quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She should be so lucky.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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

‘The ball … a secret … from Harry.

‘The ball … Harry.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you’ll appreciate these, Granger,” Malfoy said as he smirked.

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

Support CEDRIC DIGGORY

The REAL Hogwarts Champion!

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

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

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

FILTHY MUDBLOOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malfoy grinned coldly. “Like them, Mudblood?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now then, what is happening here?”

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

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

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

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

‘Usually that would be more,’ Hermione thought to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

“Your attention please!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She needn’t have bothered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s smile broadened. “That’s a date then.” Hermione nodded.

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

Of course not.

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

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

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

“We need to talk, Hermione.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was instructed to hand this to the proprietor.”

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

Hermione gave her the parchment.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermione?”

She stopped short at the sound of her name.

“Hermione Granger!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What brings you to Hogwarts, Bill?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anyway…” Bill leaned in closer. “Have you figured out yet how you’ll deal with the dragon?”

Dragon?!

* * * * *

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

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

Momche = Boy

Dobre = Okay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So - on with the show!

Chapter 8 - Do Not Meddle In The Affairs of Dragons

“Anyway…” Bill leaned in closer. “Have you figured out yet how you’ll deal with the dragon?”

Dragon?!

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

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

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

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

“Bill… please… tell me you’re joking?” she beseeched.

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione took a deep breath and nodded affirmatively.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again Hermione’s response was non-verbal.

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

“No.” There was a distinct frigidity in that monosyllabic answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you..?”

“Are you sure?” Bill appeared hesitant.

“Please. No need to keep it a secret from Harry.”

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

Harry looked at her. “What did…?”

“It’s okay, Harry.”

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

“Good to see you again, Harry. Shame it’s not under better circumstances.”

Harry looked quizzically at Bill, then Hermione. “It’s about Hermione then?” Less a question, more of a statement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, and Charlie didn’t mention anything, even if he did know.”

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

It was a bad job.

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

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

“Hermione?” Bill seemed confused.

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

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

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

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

“Hermione? Whoa!”

Her vision whipped into focus.

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

It was a most combustible combination.

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

“You treacherous bastard!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oooohhh!”

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

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

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

A dragon? A dragon!

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

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

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

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

“Come to gloat, Ronald Weasley?”

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

“Breath deeply and relax, Hermione.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to turn serious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True,” Bill observed quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what he said,” Bill affirmed.

“The eggs hadn’t hatched?” pressed Hermione.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Not rightly,” he replied.

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

Bill seemed a little confused about her request. “I don’t mind, but are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You assume correctly,” she told him.

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

Hermione never did get her solace that afternoon.

* * * * *

“Drakon? Po diavolite!”

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

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

“I’m afraid so,” Hermione replied earnestly.

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

He regarded her oddly. “Vy tell me?”

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

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

“Not directly, but I have arranged it,” she answered.

Viktor shrugged his shoulders, retreating into his usual nonchalance.

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

“What are you going to do?” she enquired quietly.

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

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

“Da, but vot can ve do about it now?”

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

“You can still not take part,” Viktor observed, not unkindly.

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

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

Hermione nodded her head. She could see Viktor’s problem. “You have books there in Bulgarian?”

“Da. Not so many. More Russki. But easier to read.”

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

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

Hermione wondered what he had forgotten.

Nothing, as it turned out.

“Do you haff partner for the…tants?”

Hermione tried to decipher Viktor’s question. “Oh,” she suddenly realised. “The dance? The Yule Ball?”

“Da.”

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

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

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

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

“An ambassador?” Hermione replied.

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

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

“Because I can get….”

“No. Not necessary.”

“Vell, then, leka nosht.”

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

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

“You can’t go in there,” Towler barked, almost making Hermione jump.

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

“It’s the Weasleys, Granger,” Stimpson informed her. “It’s not safe to be in there at the moment.”

There was a momentary spike of alarm. “What’s happened? Have you sent for Professor McGonagall?”

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

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

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

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

“Ron?”

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

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

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

It was Harry, grim-faced.

“Harry! What’s going on?”

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

Harry‘s reply was terse. “Let’s just say that Fred and George are encouraging Ron to see the error of his ways.”

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

That night Hermione hardly slept, her mind a mixture of drafts and re-drafts of letters home explaining about the dragon, and her own thoughts on the coming assignment.

Come Sunday morning, Hermione would have appreciated a lie-in, but she had far too much research slated to even consider wasting her own time on rest and relaxation.

At that early hour, there were very few other occupants of the Great Hall. A few Ravenclaws, who glanced up as she passed them by, and the odd Gryffindor, but Hermione was allowed peace and quiet in which to enjoy her porridge. At least she was until two lanky frames slammed down into the bench seats on either side of her.

“Good morning, Hermione!”

“Good morning, Hermione!”

The stereophonic welcome from the Twins was rather unusual. After all, they were hardly early risers. Beyond that, they seldom joined the younger Gryffindors for meals, especially not Hermione, whom they tended to treat with a mixture of wary respect for her abilities and irritation with her stick-by-the-rules attitude.

Hermione’s eye switched from one Twin to the other, and back again. “What happened last night between you and Ron?” she enquired.

“Ah, straight to business, Fred.”

“No time for pleasantries, George.”

Ignoring her query, they both started to load their plates with a veritable mountain of bacon, sausage, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and eggs, topped with black pudding, all mounted on a solid foundation of fried bread.

Hermione sighed. Sometimes obtaining anything out of these two was like pulling teeth, and this was one of those times. “Where’s Ron?” she sharpened her earlier question.

“No idea…”

“… At all.”

“Last time we saw him…”

“…There was a definite improvement in his appearance!”

The Twins stopped talking and started to shovel unimaginable amounts of food into their mouths, indicating to Hermione from whom Ron had learnt his table manners.

Hermione shook her head. It was too early for riddles. She was about to return to her own smaller meal when Fred on her right whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Dragons!”

“What?” Hermione jumped in her seat. With the amount of breakfast crammed into Fred’s mouth, she was not quite sure she had heard him correctly.

From her left, George joined in. “Dragons, Hermione.”

“We understand that there’s a distinct possibility of you‘re becoming… interested in dragons.”

Hermione looked askance at the two of them. “Where did that come from?” she asked quietly.

Fred smirked. “Harry was having a deep and meaningful discussion with our brother…” There was a certain sense of disdain vested in that word “… at wandpoint yesterday evening, and the matter may have come up in conversation, once or twice.”

“Harry?” Hermione stated quietly.

“The same, and he seemed most put out by Ronniekins for some reason….”

“… And when we found out that our younger brother had been keeping secrets…”

“…From us, his own flesh and blood…” George sounded mortally offended.

“… Well, we just had to point out to Ronniekins the error of his ways,” Fred concluded.

Hermione experienced a little thrill of revenge frisson through her that nearly, but not quite, overrode her sense of order. “And that secret was the dragons?”

“Oh yes! Bad form not to tell us when our own brother is coming to visit.”

She knew that not only were they were referring to Charlie, but also suspected that the Twins had been more offended by Ron’s failure to warn her rather than inform them about the First Task. Still, one should not look a Niffler in the snout. “Thank you.” The Twins smiled, and returned their attention to breakfast. “What did you do to Ron?”

The Twins looked at each other, then turned what they thought were beatific smiles on Hermione. That alone encouraged her never to find herself on their hit list.

As Hermione finished her breakfast, she started to leave before a gentle hand on her elbow from Fred persuaded her to keep her seat.

“Hermione, you know that if you ever…”

“…Need our help…”

“…In any way…”

“…Particularly if it involves hexing Malfoy…”

“…Then you can rely on us.”

Then they both winked simultaneously at her, before chorusing in a stage whisper: “Especially if it involves trying our hand against a dragon!”

* * * * *

Sunday was another marathon session in the Library for Hermione, continuing her efforts from the previous evening.

Dragons were difficult, if not impossible, creatures for a wizard, even an experienced one, to tackle alone. What price a fifteen year-old witch? The only example she could find of a wizard purportedly subduing a fully-grown dragon single-handedly turned out to be Gilderoy Lockhart’s supposed autobiographical Magical Me. Given the source, it was as useless to her current predicament as that fraud had ultimately proven to be two years ago.

The books on ‘her’ table already resembled an alpine range when she heard and felt, rather than saw, someone slump into the seat opposite. Raising her eyes over the hardback mountains, she expected to see Viktor. She was surprised to find a rather hassled Harry staring back at her.

“Harry?”

“Thought you might like some help,” he mumbled, reaching for one of the volumes.

“Don’t!” Harry’s hand jerked back as though touched by a live electric current, and he looked searchingly at Hermione. Rather abashed, she gave him a weak smile. “Sorry, Harry,” she apologised. “I’ve already gone through those.”

“Okay,” Harry drawled, rather tiredly. “What can I do, then?”

Hermione indicated the massive weight of tomes on the table. “These are all the obvious books about dragons. Can you look for any other titles that might contain something that would help us, however tangential they may be.” She started at Harry’s sudden look of befuddlement. “I mean no matter how off-topic they may appear…”

As the morning dragged on, the two Gryffindors scoured the Library for anything that might refer to dragons, or describe a spell that might aid a witch in these perilous circumstances. Unfortunately, and to Hermione’s growing frustration, their search was inexorably proving unavailing. As the titles became more and more esoteric, and less and less relevant to the immediate matter to hand, her aggravation manifested itself as audible running commentary. Hermione even began to entertain the heretical observation that, in this case, the Library was not proving itself up to the task, except insofar as to rule out each and every spell she was capable of performing. In fact, so far, her own diligent research had not thrown up anything that even an experienced wizard, acting alone, could have used to subdue a dragon.

Matters were not helped by the nagging little voice in her head not trusting Harry to carry out his tasks as diligently as she herself would. When Harry departed to scour the shelves for any likely titles with even a hint of promise, as soon as he disappeared around the nearest bookshelf Hermione would quickly rifle through the books he had just finished, just in case Harry had missed anything of use. She would quickly jot the titles on a scarp of parchment, ferret the list away in an inside pocket of her robe, promising herself to recheck those volumes later that coming week. Then she would reposition the tomes as near as possible to how Harry had left them. Each time she achieved her little deception just before her friend returned. She favoured him with a bright little smile, hoping that would throw him off any close inspection of those twice-delved into books. It seemed to work, as her smile seemed to disarm Harry. But she found herself being disarmed in return by the uncertain little grins he offered, reflecting pleasant surprise over what he could possibly have done to merit such a welcome.

Lunchtime came and went without complaint from either, although Harry’s stomach did register the odd rumble of dissatisfaction. Without any obvious progress being made, Hermione’s frustrations grew. Her smiles became more forced, and she started to find her eyes devouring the words faster than her brain could register them. That meant re-reading passages just in case she had overlooked any clue of sorts.

Uncharacteristically she slammed down the latest book she had been holding, as yet another tome proved unequal to her expectations. The sound echoed in the sepulchral Sunday afternoon stillness, drawing a start from Harry, who looked up from where he was slumped uncomfortably in the seat opposite.

“I never thought I would find myself saying this,” Hermione declared intones that matched her dissatisfaction, “but these books aren’t helping much.” She finished with a loud exhalation that shook her shoulders and glared angrily at bookshelves that were betraying her lifelong loyalty.

A weary looking Harry appeared lost for words. Rather less noisily, he placed the hardback entitled Magical Creatures: A Wizard’s Guide to Paranormal Pets on the desktop. “What then?” he asked, matching her lack of scholarly ideas.

Hermione’s mind had been playing with possible alternatives for some time. “I think it’s time we talked to an expert,” she declared.

* * * * *

“Dragons, ’ Ermione?”

Hermione fixed Rubeus Hagrid with her patented ‘Don’t play games with me!’ stare.

“Yes, Hagrid. Dragons.”

Hogwarts’ resident expert on Magical Creatures seemed to quail under that Gorgon-like gaze, despite his weighing easily as much as twenty Hermione Grangers. “Blimey, I don’ know wha’ ter say….” He sat heavily back down on his custom-made chair, which groaned under the sudden assault but held up surprisingly well, although parts of it turned blue.

“They’re the First Task, aren’t they?” Hermione demanded.

Hagrid looked this way and that. Mostly so that he did not have to look at her. Then he pulled out a tablecloth-sized handkerchief to mop his brow. “I don’ think I can say, ’ Ermione.” He avoided her stare. “I mean, it’s a secret.”

“Not any more it’s not,” observed Harry quietly, from his seat off to one side. “All the contestants know.”

Hagrid stopped to consider that. “No, in that case, I s’pose it ain’t,” he replied quietly. “Blimey, Dumbledore’ll ‘ave summat to say.” Bravely he turned his eyes back to Hermione, who was standing with her arms crossed, still glaring at her friend and second-favourite teacher. “I would’a told yeh, ’ Ermione, only I promised. Didn’ even tell Maxime ’bout ’em …” He broke off and stared miserably at the ground, looking thoroughly sorry for himself.

Alarmed at the prospect of a blubbing Hagrid, Hermione softened both her gaze and her body language. “I know you would,” she said consolingly, gently patting Hagrid’s elbow, which was about as far up his arm as she could reach.

“It don’ seem fair, really,” Hagrid continued, appearing not to have heard Hermione, who beamed at his first few words. “After all, they’re quite peaceable creatures really, very misunderstood.”

Hermione could not believe her ears. “Misunderstood?” she gasped, leaving her mouth open.

“No ’arm to anyone, ’cept o’course for ’em bein’ nestin’ mothers an’ all.” Hagrid stopped guiltily. “I shouldn’t’a said that,” he added even more guiltily.

Hermione took a calming breath. “Bill told us about the dragons. He said Charlie told him that they were all mothers who had recently laid their eggs.”

“Yup, that’d be right. Awful protective, the mums, see.” Hermione could have sworn Hagrid’s eyes glazed over. “Bootiful, really.” She guessed he was recalling Norbert, the dragon that had hatched in front of their very eyes three short years ago. She coughed, successfully trying to recall his attention.

“Do you know what the First Task involves, Hagrid?”

The half-giant rubbed his coarse beard with his left hand, glanced to either side to make sure no-one had sneaked into the hut whilst he had been day-dreaming about owning a dragon, then leant down to whisper in Hermione’s ear. “Well,” he began in confidential tone but at a volume that anyone outside the hut would have caught clearly. “There’s this egg, see.” Hermione cocked her head to one side and returned a quizzical look. “Special, like.”

“Go on.” Hermione disliked leading Hagrid into indiscretions, and always experienced a pangs of remorse and shame after having done so before. Not this time. This was information she needed badly - possibly life-and-death badly.

“This egg, it ain’ a real egg, see.” His voice grew softer, so even Harry had to move closer to catch the words. “But the dragon mum, she won’ know. She’ll try anythin’ to stop someone grabbing an egg from ’ er nest.” He straightened up. “An’ that’s all I’ll tell yeh.”

Hermione considered that information. “Thank you,” she murmured absent-mindedly. Now it all made sense. The Task could not have been to fight a dragon, given both their protected status and the sheer impossibility of a single wizard - or witch - bringing down a fully-grown adult of the species. The pieces fell into place: an object that needed guarding, and what more zealous a sentinel than a maternally outraged fire-breathing reptile the size of a lorry?

Hagrid looked mightily relieved.

“How can I disable a dragon?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Oh, yeh can’ do that on yer own,” Hagrid replied breezily. “It’d take six or seven trained ’andlers to ’old one of ’em down. It’d be silly to take one on by yerself…”

The sense of doom in the silence was palpable.

“I shouldn’t’a told yeh that either,” Hagrid ruminated, once again looked decidedly dejected.

“But there must be a way,” interjected Harry, vocalising Hermione’s own thoughts on the subject. “After all, they must expect the other Champions to stand some chance of success.”

“Well, yeh see, the trouble wi’ dragons is their ’ide. Very tough. Not many spells have any effect on a dragon.” Hagrid stroked his beard once again. “I s’pose yeh could risk a shot at the eyes or the claws; not so protected, yeh see. Still, be a pretty long shot. Might just rile the dragon.”

“But what sort of spells?” Hermione nearly wailed in exasperation.

Hagrid blinked. “I don’ rightly know.”

Hermione sat down and sulked, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip as they often did when she was under stress and tackling a thorny problem. “There has to be another way,” she muttered, more to herself than to her two companions.

“S’pose yeh could try an’ trick ‘em,” Hagrid speculated.

Harry was sitting with his elbow on the high surface of Hagrid’s kitchen table, his chin resting on the knuckles of his right hand. Hagrid seemed lost for words. Hermione stared out of the window over the pumpkin patch, where Buckbeak had been chained up less than a year ago. She felt a great deal of empathy with the Hippogriff’s situation - trapped with seemingly nowhere to turn.

And the Triwizard Tournament did not allow Time Turners, even if she could persuade an immoveable McGonagall to approach a bloody-minded Ministry.

Hagrid broke the uneasy silence. “Yeh’ll both stay for tea, then?”

Faced with a more immediate fate, Hermione snapped out of her reverie, and shared an alarmed look with Harry. “Umm… Hagrid,” she began to make their excuses. “I think we’d better get back …”

Harry’s stomach betrayed them both with an ominous rumble.

Harry looked mortified.

Hagrid beamed.

* * * * *

Hermione looked on as Harry picked at his Sunday roast dinner. She had admired his bravery, if not his sense, when he had dutifully tackled one of Hagrid’s homemade rock cakes. Her own appetite was pretty limited this evening, but for different reasons, as she turned her thought processes in full to the First Task, now barely a week away.

The problem now was more well-defined. The dragons were definitely guarding a prize, in the form of an egg, that would drive them to defend it to their utmost.

Plans to disable the dragon had so far proved beyond her own knowledge, and her ability. Since that was likely to remain remain so, as a result prospects for going through the dragon were looking quite bleak.

So, if one could not go through the dragon, one had to get past it. Around, over, underneath. And getting past it meant distracting it somehow - unless one fancied being a well-cooked, bite-sized morsel, good with ketchup, which Hermione did not.

Pondering on this, Hermione was oblivious to Ron’s first public appearance of the day, but not for long. Her attention was soon drawn by an outbreak of sniggering further down the Gryffindor table that gradually grew out into peals of laughter. Hermione peered down the length of the table but there were too many intervening bodies for her to identify the source of the mirth that was even now spreading to the Hufflepuffs next door.

Her attention was still fixed to her left when she felt someone sit next to her. Turning to her right she found Ginny, also staring in the same direction, but with a look of mildly amused knowledge instead of uncertainty. Hermione started to put the question in her head into words, but Ginny beat her to it. “It’s Ron,” she said, her smile growing broader. Hermione raised her eyebrows, conveying the message that this was insufficient information.

“Go see for yourself,” Ginny managed to respond before she joined with the gaggle of gigglers.

Realising that Ginny, in her current state, was an unlikely source of any further useful information, Hermione stood and took a few steps towards the group of Gryffindors who, their curiosity sated, were now starting to break up. That allowed the Hufflepuffs, some of the more intrepid Ravenclaws, and now Hermione, a good look.

Ron was sitting down, eyes fixed resolutely on his plate, trying to appear ignorant of his being the centre of attention. Hermione could not immediately see what everyone was so fixated on, since she wanted to keep her distance from her former friend. From that space her view was often blocked by the movement of interposing students. She found herself straining on the tips of her toes to obtain a good look.

“Oh my! Are they ..?”

“Horns?”

Hermione found herself lifted off her feet as two strong arms looped under her elbows and took firm but gentle hold on her shoulders. Said arms then turned her away from the sight of two little extrusions poking out of the thick red thatch covering Ron Weasley’s head.

“Could be!”

Too surprised to complain, Hermione’s head swiftly moved from side to side. She was flanked by Fred and George, and rather quickly found herself back in her seat next to Ginny, who appeared to find the whole event uproariously funny. Even Harry, on her other side, broke into a wide grin.

“Isn’t he sweet,” Ginny warbled. “Little devil!”

The Twins sat down opposite, both appearing delighted, and trying to look quite innocent, although that faculty Hermione believed Fred and George could never truly master. Comprehension dawned on her quite quickly. “You did that?” she declared, half in accusation, half in grudging admiration.

“Did we, Fred?”

“Couldn’t really say, George.” They shared a euphoric grin. The ‘butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths’ routine did not throw Hermione off the scent as they both leaned over the table towards her.

“Little blighter deserved it,” declared Fred.

“Too true,” George responded, not missing a beat.

Hermione wanted to question them further, but from the corner of her eye she noted movement at the High Table. McGonagall was on the prowl.

“Please, tell me you didn’t …” Words failed her and her left arm flailed in the general direction of the sullen Ron. “Not in the common room?”

The Twins once again betrayed their uncanny semi-telepathic thought processes when they chimed in unison: “Might have!”

McGonagall was now standing over Ron, scrutinising his scalp and demanding answers - answers which Ron, his head trying to sink lower on his shoulders, seemed unwilling to supply. Hermione groaned. “The portraits …”

The Twins looked at her as though she were mildly round the bend.

Hermione looked up again and with a despairing heart found a rather irritated Head of House bearing down on them. Realising that once again someone might be finding themselves in trouble on her behalf, Hermione dropped her own head into her hands.

The angelic smiles on the Twins’ faces fled as McGonagall arrived. “I see someone has practised their rather unique skills on young Mister Weasley,” she stated evenly, but her annoyance was clear from her stronger-than-usual Scottish brogue. “He would not reveal how he came about his new cranial adornments, but I will see you -” Her pointed finger jabbed quickly in the direction of Fred “- and you -” then George “- in my office immediately following dinner.”

Her summons complete, McGonagall turned on her heel in a guardsman-like manner, and marched off towards the High Table, muttering dire imprecations about declining standards of behaviour in her own House.

With a sinking feeling, Hermione raised her head, expecting to be the recipient of angry stares from the Twins, but instead she found the two of them still grinning, although admittedly not as widely as a few seconds earlier.

“I told you she’d be impressed,” Fred told George.

George took umbrage at that. “No, I told you!”

“No, I did!”

“Didn’t!”

Hermione ignored their argument, hardly able to comprehend their thought patterns. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

It still spooked her when they replied in chorus. “You’ve probably just earned yourselves a detention with Professor McGonagall. Why are you so ..?” She couldn’t find a word to describe their demeanour, and had to settle for waving her arms in a vague manner.

If their chorus was spooky, the Twins’ winking at her in unison was downright unsettling. “Little Ronniekins needed to be taught a lesson,” George declared. “And to take his medicine like a man, without making excuses.”

“Needs to treat his friends and his brethren with a touch more respect,” added George, a statement that caused Hermione to start and Ginny to choke a little on her roast pork.

“Well worth a detention with old McGonagall. Have to keep these youngsters in check, you know,” George added.

Ginny, a little red in the face, glowered at her brothers. “Try anything like that on me,” she observed with a rather unladylike growl, “and you’ll have Bat Bogeys coming out of your nose from now ’til Christmas!”

The Twins started to laugh at that, but something in the petite redhead’s mien caused them to stop and hastily assure their sister that they would never dream of daring to commit such an act. Hermione was rather impressed.

“So, how long will they last?” Harry asked.

George sat back, appearing exceedingly proud of himself. “We told Ronniekins it was until he apologised to Hermione here about keeping news to himself.”

Fred saw a brief flash of concern on Hermione’s face. “But knowing our dear brother, we felt that might take too much time. So they should drop off …” His eyes met his twin’s.

“Tuesday lunchtime!” They finished in perfect synchronicity.

George leaned over in a very obvious conspiratorial way to give his sister a stage whisper. “No need to give Snape such an obvious present!”

Hermione smiled. The Twins had worked out when Ron’s next Potions lesson was. At least that might mollify some of the blame that he would undoubtedly assign to her over this whole incident, not that she cared much at this point. In spite of what the Twins thought was her rather too rigid respect for authority, which had admittedly been strained by recent events, she felt some real admiration for the Twins’ approach. Although it did go against her instincts, she knew she had to warn the Twins about the portraits. This time it was her turn to lean forward to impart some confidential information.

* * * * *

With the Twins off on their sojourn to their Head of House, from which they unsurprisingly did not return promptly, the Gryffindor common room was rather quieter than usual. Ron had retreated to such refuge as he could find behind the curtains on his four-poster. Hermione learned from Neville he had spent most of the day there.

Candlelight and the red glow from the hearth provided plenty of secluded and shadowy nooks in the dark of a late November night. Hermione found herself in conclave with Harry, bouncing her concerns and thoughts off of him, a willing sounding board.

Having ruled out overpowering any dragon, or at least the possibility of a teenage witch finding both the means and the strength to carry out such a shocking act in just over a week, the problem had redefined itself.

‘How do I find a way past a dragon for long enough to steal an egg from its nest?’

“You could always fly past it,” Harry declared some time before eleven, when they were the last occupants of the common room. Hermione pinned him with one of her ‘You must be joking!’ glares. “On a broom, I mean …” He trailed off under her frankly disbelieving stare.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m Hermione Granger. Not Viktor Krum - or Harry Potter,” she added quickly. “I’m as likely to master the art of staying airborne on a broomstick in a week as Hagrid is to become a cordon bleu chef.”

Harry winced at that retort. Hermione immediately felt a stab of guilt. He was, after all, only trying to help her. His idea held as much water, albeit not much, as anything she had been able to come up with so far. And her ideas had all been rapidly discarded as well. She was curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, and he was sat on the edge of a nearby comfy armchair, so she leaned over and stretched out her arm to give his thigh a reassuring pat.

“I’m sorry, Harry. That was uncalled for.”

Harry shrugged. “I’d be willing to help you learn,” he muttered. “You know I would. You’d do the same if it was me.” His eyes took on a dreamy state. “It’s a whole new world up there…”

Although the image Harry’s offer conjured up in Hermione’s mind was pleasant enough, in a Disneyfied sort of way, it bore no relationship to Hermione’s reality.

Thus, she responded with a self-deprecatory snort of laughter. “I think you were at the front of the queue when they handed out flying ability, Harry. If it was you … maybe.” Her shoulders slumped. “But it’s me. Bloody typical!” Harry raised his eyebrows at the mild swearing. “Everyone has this image of the witch on a broomstick, and here’s me - a real, live witch - and I can’t even get my broom six inches off the ground.” That one flaw in her abilities occasionally gnawed away at her self-confidence. “Even if I could, I’m not sure I could conquer my fear of heights.”

Harry gave her a brief smile, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “There’s probably a potion for that.”

She smiled back at him, glad to break the tension that had been building between them as each of their ideas had been discarded as impractical for one reason or another. “Oh, and which of us will go and ask Professor Snape to brew it for us.”

Harry chuckled in that quiet, understated way of his. “That would be you, oh perfect pupil. I wouldn’t be brave enough.”

For a brief moment, Hermione caught Harry’s profile, the sharp contrast between shadow and orange-red firelight. ‘He’s becoming quite a handsome young man,’ she thought idly, then shook her head, trying to clear it of untimely girlish diversions. “I’d have a better chance if I sucked up to one of the Slytherins. Do you think Draco Malfoy would ask as a favour for me?”

“You’d be better off starting with that broomstick right now.” Harry’s gentle laugh momentarily warmed Hermione. Then he grew serious again. “Are you sure?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I think that idea’s a non-runner. Only a genius on a broom would stand a chance in the air against a dragon.” A genius with a death-wish, she thought gloomily. Glancing up, she saw Harry was deep in thought. She wondered what would have happened had it been his name that had been revealed on Halloween. She hoped she would have been as much a rock of support to Harry as he was trying to be for her. She grimaced as the vision of Harry on a broom being chased by an enraged dragon passed through her mind, and banished the thought from her head.

“What if…” Harry started quietly, staring at the fire, halted, then looked up. “What if… the dragon couldn’t see you,” he added slowly. Hermione wondered what he was on about.

With growing certainty in his voice, Harry seemed energised by an idea. “If the dragon couldn’t see you!” He seemed surprised that Hermione had not caught on yet. “My Invisibility Cloak!” He hunched forward, speaking more urgently now. “If you had the cloak, then you could hide under it, sneak up on the nest, snatch the special egg, and get clean away!”

The look of joy on his face, his belief that he had found the solution for his friend, touched Hermione. And she felt awful at having to deflate his mood.

“No, Harry.”

He looked shocked. “No? What do you mean?” He rose from his chair and came to sit on the floor in front of the sofa. “It’s perfect!”

Hermione was moved by the urgency in his voice. “It wouldn’t work, Harry,” she replied softly.

“What? Why not?”

She sighed. “Dragons have other senses other than sight. They can track prey sensing heat through their tongues. I’m pretty sure their sense of smell is highly developed as well.” The same factors ruled out the Disillusionment Charm, one that was too advanced for a fourth-year student but one Hermione was sure she could master ahead of schedule.

Harry shook his head. “It would give you a fighting chance, Hermione.”

“Harry… Harry,” she tried to calm him down. “No-one knows about your cloak - well, apart from Dumbledore and Hagrid, anyway.”

“What does that matter?”

Hermione tried to keep her voice even, but it hurt to have to quench his enthusiasm. “If I disappear in front of a whole crowd of wizards, then everyone will know that I’ve used an Invisibility Cloak.” She held a finger to his lips to forestall another protest. “There are people out there who still see you as an enemy, who might seek to hurt you. This is one big advantage you have over them. If Malfoy or any of the other Slytherins -” Snape’s name came to her lips but was quickly discarded “- see me using one, then they’ll know that you have access to one, and they can take precautions ... or try to steal it.”

She slid down to the floor next to Harry. With him, in the shadows, she found herself gazing into his deep green eyes from a distance of only a few inches. “We’d throw away any element of surprise.”

“That doesn’t matter -”

“It does to me,” Hermione replied with a forcefulness that belied her near whisper. “That cloak is irreplaceable, and I doubt it’s proof against a dragon’s breath.”

Briefly, Harry seemed so overcome with emotion that he could not look Hermione in the face. Instead he turned away to gaze into the fire’s glare. “You’re … you’re what’s irreplaceable, Hermione,” he murmured, a noticeable catch in his throat. “Sod the cloak!”

Both statements shocked Hermione, in different ways. Cautiously, she reached out with her hand, her fingertips brushing his cheek, causing his to turn back to face her.

“Harry, that cloak was your father’s. I couldn’t risk its destruction.”

She was rewarded with another wry grin. “I can’t force it on you,” he acknowledged. “But if you need it, it’s there. You don’t have to ask.”

At that, Hermione’s resolve broke down completely. She flung her arms around the surprised Harry, drawing him into a fierce hug of thanks for his constant solace.

“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. But she was so close to him, and her movement so quick, that he wasn’t ready for it. They toppled the short distance to the floor. Hermione found herself sprawled atop a rather thunderstruck Harry, their noses almost touching. She caught a scent that was uniquely his - a woody, peppery sort of fragrance. For a split second, and for the first time in her life, Hermione was aroused of the warmth of his wiry body. Perplexed, a blush started warming her own skin. He just stared back at her, a mixture of surprise and amusement clearly glinting in his eyes, overcoming the opacity provided by his glasses‘ lenses.

It was as if time was standing still.

The sound of the portrait hole opening abruptly brought both of them to their senses. Acutely aware of the extreme proximity of their bodies and how the situation might appear to others, they scrambled away from each other, making sure to stay hidden behind the sofa.

Hermione popped her head up, and saw Fred and George stride a little wearily, and fortunately single-mindedly, towards the staircase leading to the boys’ dormitory.

More than a little relieved at their close escape, and even more abashed by the unfamiliar emotions churning within, Hermione turned back to Harry. It was difficult to tell, given his resolute stare at the fireplace, and the orange filter of the firelight, but his complexion appeared brick-red. Horrified at their mutual embarrassment, Hermione made a decision.

“I think it’s time we went to bed.”

Harry’s head shot around. He gaped at her open-mouthed in amazement.

His reaction, and the obvious reason for it, utterly flustered Hermione. Blushing furiously, she stammered. “Sleep! I mean … I mean it’s time we - I mean I - went up to bed, er, to sleep.”

Harry nodded slowly but made no move to follow. “Goodnight then, Hermione.”

Her composure in tatters, Hermione made her way to the staircase.

As she changed into her nightgown, whilst attempting to placate an attention-seeking Crookshanks, Hermione considered Harry and his willingness to grant her access to the one heirloom he had from his father. It was typical of him, and she could not think of any other boy who would be prepared to give up so valuable an object.

But a dragon did not need to see her to track her…

But what if the dragon was not looking for her, but for something else?

* * * * *

Neither Hermione nor Crookshanks emerged on Monday morning refreshed. She had laid in her comfortable four-poster for some hours, her mind ticking over as what began as the germ of an idea evolved into the preliminary stages of a plan. But, after she had finally succumbed to slumber, her powerful mind was assaulted by visions of a broom-borne Harry being continually chased around the tower-tops of Hogwarts by a vengeful dragon.

More than once, she woke in a cold sweat, unsure if she really had cried out Harry’s name as the dream dragon’s jaws had closed around the hapless Gryffindor. It took some time for her pulse and breath to slow to anything near normal.

Crookshanks, whilst always solicitous of his mistress’s welfare, was rather put out that his sleep at the foot of Hermione’s bed had been rudely disturbed by her repeated thrashing about and moaning. After a few minutes where both witch and familiar had sat staring at each other, he had made himself scarce, debouching from the bed and slipping out through the drawn curtains, off to some unknown nocturnal pursuit .

So, it was a rather drained Hermione who came down for breakfast, her mind still mulling the putative plan. Her dreams had left her appetite diminished. By Hogwarts standard, she only selected meagre fare for her plate.

Some fifteen minutes passed, full of Hermione’s sharp reminders to herself not to worry over silly nightmares. Finally, to her well disguised relief, a rather sheepish looking Harry appeared. They both blushed as their minds simultaneously re-ran the concluding events of the previous evening. Neither seemed ready to start what might have proven a stilted, awkward conversation.

As she spread a crusty roll with butter, Hermione idly mused over what might have happened had the Twins had not chosen that exact moment to return to the common room. Would mutual disengagement have followed their mutual realisation of how silly the situation had become? Or would Harry have …?

‘No, best not to go there. Ignore those childish delusions and concentrate on what’s important.’ The voice in her head sounded determined yet strangely reluctant.

Besides, she was waiting for two specific members of her House to appear.

Ron had drifted into the Great Hall, desperate to remain anonymous. But that was difficult for a gangly red-head cursed with horns. With a look that Hermione translated as deferred loathing of both her and Harry, he chose to sit as far away from his former best friends as possible. She felt heaviness in her heart over that, more for Harry than herself, and pondered how the three of them had managed so thoroughly to cock up what had once seemed a friendship for life. Shaking her head wearily, she cast most of the blame at Ron’s feet, but wished she had acted differently on occasions.

Neville and Ginny arrived at the same time but not exactly together. Ginny seemed full of life, whilst Neville… Hermione noticed him trying to watch the youngest Weasley unobtrusively, as though she was a rather rare and fragile flower that needed close care and attention. Ginny, of course, was blithely unaware of this, and Hermione, having botched one friendship, felt no need or desire to enlighten her.

As the four of them - well, three really, with Hermione for once playing the silent partner - carried out the usual Monday morning banter. Hermione made sure to keep a careful watch on the late arrivals at the breakfast table. It was just as she spread some lemon and lime marmalade on her buttered roll that Hermione finally noted the arrival of her prey. She wanted to catch them at just the right time …

“”Hey!” Feeling a gentle nudge on her upper arm Hermione turned away and found Harry was giving her a rather speculative stare.

“Hmmm … what?”

This time he rewarded her with one of his shy little grins. “Mind elsewhere?” With the slightest movement of hand and finger, he drew Hermione’s attention to the bread roll that was now dripping with sticky marmalade.

“Oh! … Thanks”

Harry regarded her closely. “You’ve got an idea, haven’t you.” It was said with such certainty that it could not have been a question.

“I might have,” she admitted quietly. “How did you guess?”

Once again there was that momentary smile. For a second it made her insides hitch, and her mouth was suddenly parched.

“You have your ‘Hermione in planning mode’ expression on.”

This time it was her turn to smile. “Am I that easy to read?” she asked kittenishly.

Harry pretended to ponder a weighty decision. “Only if you are an expert,” he allowed.

It was as if the Great Hall had contracted, leaving just herself and Harry inside a bubble. “And when did you become an expert in the matter of Hermione Granger?” she returned just a little coyly.

‘Why do I feel the sudden need to flirt?’

“It’s a seven-year course. I’m prepping for my O.W.L.s.”

‘And is Harry flirting with me?

‘Don’t be silly. Why would he?’

With an abrupt and unusually constricted feeling in her throat, Hermione decided she needed to learn more …

“Hey!” This time it was Ginny, breaking the spell that shut out the world. “Don’t hog the marmalade!”

Hermione quickly cast her eyes down to her knife, still over-laden with fine cut shred, and missed Harry look away just as rapidly. Passing the jar across the table to Ginny, who seemed to regarding her with a calculating stare, Hermione took one final bite out of her roll.

How silly to become distracted! After all, she had more urgent matters to attend to. “Excuse me.” She wiped her lips with a napkin, rose from her seat, and moved a few yards down the table towards Fred and George. She started with an apology. “Sorry about last night,” trying to sound as contrite as possible.

“Nothing to worry about,” Fred replied, in seeming good humour.

“Yeah, McGonagall’s hard but fair.” George picked up where his twin had ceased. “Had us polishing the trophies again.” He frowned for a second. “Hardly original, but she did let slip she thought it a neat piece of magic, if ill directed.” He put on a wide grin and looked down the table towards Ron, greeting him rather ostentatiously wiggling both forefingers just behind his ears. Ron just turned a little to the opposite side, desperately ignoring his brethren.

“Didn’t trust us with our wands, though,” Fred enjoined. “Said she didn’t want the Quidditch Cup to turn into a gargoyle.”

“As if!” George sounded rather put out. “Quidditch is far too important to muck around with!”

“Yes… now, if it was the House Cup …” Fred’s eyes were shining as they considered what would be a new best-ever prank.

Hermione gave a small, polite cough, drawing their attention back to her. She would far rather they concentrate upon a different matter. “You know that you said … if I needed your help ..?”

George looked at Fred, who nodded, then they both turned to give full attention to her. “What d’you want, Hermione?”

* * * * *

It could honestly be said that never had Hermione Granger been so keen to finish a Herbology lesson. From what Neville was muttering, the Flutterby Bush she was attempting to prune was equally relieved when the class finally ended.

She bounded down the slope towards Hagrid’s hut and Care of Magical Creatures, making sure that she arrived before any of the Slytherins. Actually, there was never any danger that they would beat her to Hagrid’s class, as they regarded their teacher as a dangerous half-breed with little or no sense when it came to creatures that carried dangerous reputations.

“’Allo ’ Ermione! Yeh seem in a better mood today.” Hermione thought Hagrid also appeared to be happier, no longer burdened with keeping a secret from her, and perhaps from others. She moved closer to him.

“Hagrid, I need to speak with you.”

Staring down at her, Hagrid assumed what was often his natural state around her; bafflement. “Well, say what yeh’ve got ter say, then.”

Hermione looked over both shoulders, making sure none of her Gryffindor colleagues were close to hand. “Can you arrange it so we work on the same Blast-Ended Skrewt?”

Hagrid stared back through half-lidded eyes. “Summat yeh want no-one else ter ‘ ear?” She nodded. He thought for a few seconds, then replied with a nod of his own massive head. “Okay.”

A few minutes later, when the last of the Slytherins in Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had finally deigned to make a sullen appearance, Hagrid had paired the pupils off to see how the Blast-Ended Skrewts were faring, loudly suggesting to Hermione, for her classmates benefit, that she should accompany him and check up on one particular specimen that was skulking behind the pumpkin patch.

Once he was sure the other pupils were out of earshot, he leaned over Hermione and stared intently at her. “What’s bein’ on yeh’r mind, then?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Is Charlie Weasley still here?” Hagrid looked bemused at this question. “Not here, at Hogwarts, I mean,” she clarified. “But with the dragons?”

Hagrid rubbed his beard. “I dunno if I should tell yeh, ’ Ermione.” He appeared a little crestfallen.

Hermione tried her best pleading look, eyes wide. “Hagrid, it’s important.”

Rather contrite, Hagrid straightened and once again checked that the coast was clear. “Well, I shouldn’a really say, but seeing as it’s yeh… Yeah, he’s here, out in a camp in the Forbidden Forest. That’s where they’re keepin’ all the dragons, see, outta the way of the Muggles.” Now he frowned. “Why’d yeh wan’ ter know?”

Hermione beckoned the half-giant that he should once again lean down so she could speak confidentially. As he did so, she took a sealed roll of parchment out from an inner pocket of her robes, and placed it into his massive palm. “Can you pass this to Charlie? You see, I need …”

* * * * *

It was a more at ease, if tired, Hermione, who made her way into the Great Hall for lunch. But before she could make her way towards the Gryffindor table, she was intercepted by an over-excited Ginny, who was literally bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I’m going to the Ball!” Ginny nearly squealed. As a Third Year, she could only attend as the date of an older student.

“Congratulations,” Hermione replied sincerely. Thoughts of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws passed through her mind. Maybe even one of the handful of Beauxbatons’ boys, who wilted in the company of their female counterparts, or another mysterious lad from Durmstrang, perhaps?

Ginny answered her unspoken question. “It was Neville! Can you believe it?”

Hermione glanced a few seats down, where a rather disbelieving Neville Longbottom sat as though shell-shocked. ‘Probably can’t figure out how he summoned up the courage to ask, or believe his luck she said yes,’ Hermione thought. ‘Or perhaps he just figured out how Ginny’s brothers might react.’

A beaming Ginny was continuing to babble. “… No idea. I mean, he’s not my first choice -” Ginny shrugged her shoulders. “- But at least he’s nice.”

Hermione could easily imagine just who Ginny’s preferred option would have been. ‘Exactly the same as mine’ she thought with just a little spurt of bitterness. But everything else aside, Harry appeared to have set his sights on a different table altogether.

And Ginny’s announcement, which the redhead was now repeating to a rather jealous Romilda Vane, had reminded Hermione of something else. There was that other little problem she had tucked away in the back of her mind whilst focussing on the thorny problem of the First Task. With the two obvious candidates ruling themselves out through their choices or actions, she faced the embarrassing prospect of being assigned a date, just like her new friend Viktor.

Those thoughts accompanied Hermione as she left her Gryffindor friends after lunch. The rest of them moved upwards towards the Divination classroom as she made her lonely way towards the world of Arithmancy.

Brooding on her own thoughts, walking slowly and making little sound, Hermione was only a few corridor corners away from Professor Vector’s lair, when she heard two students’ voices drifting through the dusty afternoon air.

“…Still no luck then?”

That was Ernie Macmillan. And if Ernie was there then -

“Nah! Jones and Abbott are spoken for.” Yup - that was Justin Finch-Fletchley.

“Well, Susan and I have agreed that I’m to be her date.” Ernie sounded as pompous as ever. Hermione wondered whether quiet, pliable Susan Bones had much say in the matter once Ernie had made one of his pronouncements. Still, it sounded to Hermione as if Justin had the same problem as she did.

“Well, there’s always Granger,” Ernie added.

Hermione stopped with a start. She was not someone to be bartered around by boys! Still, Justin was not that bad …

“You must be bloody joking!” Justin’s expostulation rather shattered that cosy little idea. “I mean, look at her. Girl’s a right mess, all hair and teeth. Urgh!” Hermione could picture his impression, much like Crookshanks trying to cough up a furball.

“I know what you mean,” Ernie chuckled. “She’s one reason why wizards conjure up paper bags.”

Hermione nearly dropped her overstuffed book bag. She was not vain about her appearance but that was just plain … spiteful!

“Well, would you?” Justin demanded, his voice coming just a little closer.

“Merlin, no!” Ernie declared,. “Not even for all the gold in Gringotts. I mean, could you imagine what being with her would be like?” She could hear their footsteps now, only just ahead of her, around the next corner. “It’d be ‘No, you shouldn’t do it like that! That’s not how the book says it should go! Put that there! And your other hand… there!’ Bossy cow!”

“Yeah, I know wha-”

Justin stopped as he turned the corner and found himself face to face with a rather fuming Hermione Granger.

“Er… Granger?” Ernie’s self importance deflated rapidly as he caught a glimpse of Hermione’s fierce expression. He seemed uncertain of how much of their derogatory comments she had overheard.

They had both witnessed her recent confrontation with Ron.

She did not trust herself to speak, and to her slight surprise noted that her wand was drawn. She had it gripped tightly, although at the moment it stayed down at her side in a hand trembling with barely suppressed anger. Both boys, whom Hermione had some previous regard for, found their eyes drawn to that wand, or - more precisely - to its brightly glowing tip. But it was her stony silence that really seemed to unnerve them.

“Umm… No offence meant, Granger,” Finch-Fletchley muttered, backing away and trying to keep Macmillan between Hermione’s wand and himself. “Only joshing, you know… Gotta go,” he muttered, then turned and, abandoning his supposed friend, ran.

“Going with Susan?” Hermione ground out between gritted teeth. Ernie did nothing but quickly nod in agreement. “Should I tell her to bring the paper bag, or will you conjure one up especially for her, along with the corsage?” There was quite some measure of venom in the almost whispered question.

Ernie seemed to whimper, then started to back away, until his back bumped against the corridor wall behind him. With a start, he turned, then glanced back at Hermione. “Must go!” he yelled, as he too retreated round the corner, his running footsteps echoing back.

Hermione stood there, her right hand fingers chalky white as her grip on her wand remained painfully tight.

* * * * *

Professor Septima Vector had appeared rather confused by the cooling of the atmosphere in her Fourth Year Arithmancy class. Hermione had refused to have anything to do with the two Hufflepuffs when they finally made their appearance, red-faced and anxious. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley almost quailed every time Hermione turned to look in their direction. The other students in the class seemed equally at a loss.

Hermione did not tarry once the lesson ended, her face burning with a mixture of righteous indignation and furious embarrassment. She had felt that, if not quite friends, Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley were at least fellow travellers. Now she had learned that they truly viewed her, and presumably other girls, in terms of beauty before brains. She shook her head.

That must explain why they were not sorted into Ravenclaw. And why Gryffindors did not go slumming with Hufflepuffs.

Hermione made her way up to her dormitory to freshen up before dinner. As she stood in front of the mirror, the cutting remarks she had overheard swam back into her mind.

Sadly, she had to admit, some of their comments were too close to home. Her hair had proven untameable. Hermione had come to accept that, short of several hours’ pitched battle with a hairbrush it would remain so. She did not wish to cut it shorter, as she rather liked the way it flowed down her back - and anyway, why should she? She liked her hair long.

The teeth … oh dear! At least she had persuaded her parents to spare her the indignities of braces, which she had worn at Primary School. That just provided the other girls in her class with another excuse for taunting her. But her two front teeth were just too long and prominent even when her lips were closed.

Hermione shrugged off her robes. She was carrying a little extra weight around the middle. Not much; she would not call herself podgy, but neither did she have the slim waistline that … Damn! Another adjective!

Her shoulders and upper arms were perhaps just a little less feminine with the extra muscle definition gained through heaving around that huge - but absolutely essential - book bag. But on the upside, she could pack a wallop, as first Draco Malfoy, and now Ronald Weasley, could attest.

And her breasts… well, her A-Cup bra was perfectly adequate for the task.

‘Let’s face it,’ Hermione admitted to herself. ‘I’m no oil painting. No wonder no-one has asked me out.’ Then she glared fiercely at her reflection, which just shook her head back at her. ‘And do I care? No! Because I’m happy with what I am…’

Only while that was what she said, something deep inside her could not accept it as the complete truth.

Sighing, Hermione trudged sadly down to the Great Hall. She really was not in the mood for much company, but as she approached the Gryffindor table, she found her cohorts in the middle of some humorous story. Unwilling to interrupt them with her doleful outlook, she quietly looked to slip past them.

“…Oh yes, that’s the first time ever!” Dean sniggered.

“What do you mean?” Ginny seemed bewildered.

Parvati seemed affronted at the others finding the subject a matter of fun. “That’s not true, Dean Thomas, and you know it!”

“Oh come on,” Seamus interrupted. “Every lesson since we started, that silly old bat has come up with the same old thing.”

Intrigued despite herself, Hermione edged closer, unnoticed by anyone else.

Ginny still appeared confused. “But what is it?”

Seamus turned to her. “Today was the first time that old fraud didn’t predict Harry here’s imminent demise!”

Hermione glanced to her side. A few feet away Harry was standing, looking extremely uncomfortable. Trelawny had often ‘foretold’ Harry’s gruesome death, even before Hermione had walked out on the entire subject. Her opinion of Divination was not improved any by the fact that Harry still lived and breathed.

“But,” a rather frantic Lavender interjected, desperate to protect her own favourite teacher’s good reputation, “she did make another prophecy!”

“Yeah,” snorted a familiar voice. Hermione saw Ron, now missing his head adornments, standing behind Lavender. She knew he had as much faith in Trelawny as she did. “Didn’t stop her predicting someone else would die, did it though?”

Just as Ginny enquired about the victim of this latest forecast, Hermione felt a hand land on her shoulder. She glanced sideways to see Harry looking anxious and earnest. “Come away,” he urged. “Don’t listen to them.”

Slowly, every pair of eyes turned towards Hermione. It was with a certain coolness that she realised who they were referring to.

“Me,” she said quietly. She pursed her lips, then addressed her next words to Parvati and Lavender. “So old Bug Eyes predicted my death, did she?” It was not really a question, and judging by the way both girls lost some colour, Hermione knew she was spot on. Neither would reply directly.

“That she did, Granger,” Seamus said, not unkindly. “But it’s all bollocks!”

Harry, Dean and even Ron muttered in agreement, but Lavender was not having that. “It is not ‘bollocks’, Seamus Finnigan! She said the Virgin -” She broke off briefly at an outbreak of immature sniggering from the Weasley-Thomas-Finnegan corner. Glaring at them made no difference, so with a huff she continued. “The Virgin will die before the Feast of Stephen,” she declared hotly.

“That could be anyone, Hermione,” Harry tried to reassure her.

“The Virgin,” Hermione muttered, suddenly experiencing the feeling best described as someone walking over her grave.

“Something you want to confess to, Granger?” Seamus snickered through his own laughter, earning a not-so-gentle cuff on the ear from Ron.

If Hermione had heard him, she gave no sign. “Virgo. My Sign of the Zodiac.” Suddenly Trelawny’s ridiculous foretellings did not seem so harmless as they had done before.

With the atmosphere thoroughly removed of any hilarity, the Gryffindor group broke up, and Hermione took her seat for dinner next to Harry.

“Look, Hermione, you’ve always said Trelawny was an old fraud,” Harry tried to break the sudden impending sense of doom that had enveloped the Gryffindor table. “She’s never been right before. Even McGonagall said so.”

The problem was, and Hermione was still loathe to admit it, that the old trout had managed one accurate prediction last year. Nagging away at the back of her mind was the memory of Sybil Trelawny’s prophetic interpretation of the arrival of the Grim in Harry’s tea leaves, unwittingly foreshadowing Sirius Black’s presence at Hogwarts.

Hermione shivered; even Trelawny’s repeatedly erroneous foretelling of Harry’s impending demise could pedantically be attributed to one recurring inaccuracy, instead of multiple mistakes. “I know. It’s just …” She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. “… Just that… with everything else going on …”

Hermione knew Trelawny only had to randomly repeat her success rate of one accurate forecast per year, and it could be her - or even worse, Harry - who paid the price. The Divination Mistress only had to be lucky once.

Harry laid a calming hand on her shoulder. “I know you’ll do fine.” His eyes shone. “I always believe in you, Hermione Granger.”

‘I wish I shared your belief in me,’ Hermione thought. Instead of replying, she tried to focus her attention on her pork chops.

Something was nagging away at the edge of her thoughts. An issue raised by news of that afternoon’s Divination class.

Her plan was sound, that was true. But what if it did not work? She recalled a dusty quote, by some old German Muggle general, that no plan survived contact with the enemy. So she needed reinsurance against that eventuality.

As she ate, Hermione turned that problem over in her mind. For inspiration, she looked at Harry. He had survived so many potentially fatal situations over the last three years, from Dementors to werewolves, to DADA professors who had not been quite what they seemed. And Ginny’s diary …

Hermione’s body gave a reflex little shudder. ‘That was possible,’ she admitted to herself. ‘All I need is Harry’s help.’

She turned to her side and started to whisper the outlines of another plan into Harry’s ear.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The origin of this chapter’s title seems lost in the mists of time, but has been used in several fan fics. The second line is: “For you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.” It is a variant of a quote from J.R.R. Tolkien: "Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." Rumour has it that the quote was first used in a ‘Dilbert’ cartoon and later bumper stickers!

From my cheap Bulgarian phrasebook: -

Trooden = Difficult

Tants = Dance

Leka nosh = Goodnight

From my kind beta reader George: -

Po diavolite = To the Devil (an oath similar to the English equivalent “Bloody Hell!”)

The idea about the host school arranging ambassadors if the visiting champions required them was suggested to me by reviewer Dan (Tank03). Of course, being the world of HP, it won’t turn out nearly as neatly as had been hoped.

The comment about Trelawny’s one accurate episode of fortune telling and the potential implications for Hermione (or Harry) is based on the IRA’s chilling but accurate statement after they narrowly failed to wipe out Mrs. Thatcher and the British Cabinet in the bomb blast at the Grand Hotel, Brighton, in 1984. "Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once; you will have to be lucky always.”

Hermione’s ‘German soldier’ was Karl Phillip Gottfried von Clausewitz, a Prussian who had fought against Napoleon, and whose “On War”, first published after his death in 1832 based on notes he left behind, is considered one of the great works regarding the politics of warfare. His famous quotation that: “No plan survives first contact with the enemy” is sometimes ascribed to the great Helmuth von Moltke, Chief of the General Staff and architect of Prussia’s victory in the Franco-Prussian War 1870/71.

Next chapter - finally some action. Hermione is eaten by faces the First Task.

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).

Disclaimer - I own none of the characters. JKR does. If she would like to sell Hermione Granger, I have a much-abused Bulgarian phrasebook in exchange!

“I really cannot understand this school! Dragons! Last year it was Dementors, now dragons! What next? A Nundu? … Oh, sorry dear, did that hurt?”

Hermione’s hiss of pain interrupted Madam Pomfrey’s rant as she tended to her patient’s assortment of wounds. The nurse was currently attempting to remove fragments of Hermione’s life-saving Basilisk hide singlet. The Horntail’s breath had not only incinerated her outer layer of Muggle clothing, but had made a pretty decent start at burning away the Basilisk skin. Despite its magical protection, some of the scales had partly melted under the extreme heat and had stuck to Hermione’s flesh, causing minor burns and proving difficult and painful to remove.

“How is she, Poppy?” McGonagall was standing outside the tented cubicle, watching closely through a flap in the curtain as the school’s medical authority carried out her duties.

“Well, apart from this blistering, Miss Granger has suffered third-degree burns to her hands, neck and face. Numerous bruises and abrasions as well.” The nurse dodged out from behind Hermione and entered the student’s slightly fuzzy vision. “Nose is broken,” she continued in her detached, professional manner. “And she’s lost a couple of teeth.”

“You needn’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Hermione butted in tartly, but the lisp caused by the gaping hole where her front teeth used to reside, as well as the slurring effect of a busted nose, made her protest sound slightly comical, not the effect she was hoping for under the circumstances.

Madam Pomfrey fixed her patient with a look that spoke of long-suffering experience with ill or injured Hogwarts’ students. “No sign of internal injuries.” Then she gently poked Hermione’s stomach with her wand. “But could do with losing a couple of pounds - in my professional opinion, of course.”

Hermione took the hint that she should keep quiet and let the nurse continue with her ministrations. Any commentary would be more than repaid in kind.

“Good, good,” murmured McGonagall.

In the background Hermione was sure she could hear other voices, muffled by the canvas. One she recognized as Professor Sprout’s. Cedric Diggory must still be confined, she thought, and wondered what injuries the Hufflepuff might have sustained.

“Ouch!”

Hermione flinched as a rather obstinate bit of Basilisk hide finally gave up the struggle and came away, taking some of her skin with it. That did not go unnoticed by either of the older women present.

“No point in making a fuss, young lady,” Madam Pomfrey observed. “It would have been far worse if you hadn’t been wearing this.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall said quietly. “I believe, Miss Granger, you should thank your lucky stars and whoever provided this clothing. It undoubtedly saved your life.”

Hermione bit back a sarcastic comment on how lax administration of the competition made that necessary. She did not want the next piece to be yanked out even more painfully than the last.

McGonagall was, of course, correct. After all, that was the whole point, wasn‘t it? Still, since it had proved as effective as she had hoped, she owed Dobby an extremely large favour, perhaps of the order of a life debt. She wondered idly if there was anything more she could do to further the aims of S.P.E.W? Perhaps later she would tell McGonagall all about Dobby’s role?

And, of course, Harry. There was another debt she owed that she doubted she could ever repay.

However, her wayward thoughts quickly returned to her present situation. Harry and Dobby would have to wait until this pain ended…

“What was the Headmaster thinking of, Minerva? Allowing students to go up against dragons?” The outrage was palpable in Pomfrey’s words, and for her efforts she received a look from McGonagall that Hermione interpreted as: ‘Not in front of the students’.

“Albus knows what he’s doing, Poppy. He arranged the precautions after the Ministry dictated what the tasks would be. After all, none of the students came to any real harm.” McGonagall’s reply did not appear to carry her normal conviction.

“Damned stupid idea, if you ask me,” the nurse observed, but did not continue to press the point. “I will be a while yet, Minerva.”

“Damned stupid, if you ask me, too,” Hermione chimed in, no longer fearing an overenthusiastic tug.

McGonagall blanched, then she appeared to come to a decision. “I will go back to the School then. I suspect there is much to be done.” She moved closer to Hermione, who winced as another remnant of Basilisk hide was peeled from her back, and reached inside her professorial robes.

Hermione immediately recognised the familiar scroll. McGonagall placed it gently atop Hermione’s book bag. “I had faith that this would not be needed,” the Professor said quietly, “and am exceptionally pleased and proud to be able to return it.” A wintry smile broke her normally stern visage. “Congratulations, Miss Granger. Some very impressive advanced spells out there. And applying magic to the environment instead of directly against the beast - a marvellous demonstration of the indirect approach.

“Once again you have proven that you are a worthy Gryffindor.”

Turning to go, Hermione’s Head of House halted for a second, but turned back. “I suspect there will be quite a celebration tonight in your honour. You deserve it, Hermione.” Hermione blushed, although between the purple and black bruising and the magenta of dried blood it was difficult for anyone to notice. “I believe someone is waiting outside to escort you back when Madam Pomfrey has finished.”

Hermione just knew that had to be Harry.

It was another half-hour until the nurse was satisfied with her work on Hermione’s torso. With gentle touches of her wand and a series of spells, the mild pain she was suffering, similar to sunburn, was relieved. Instead a gentle fresh sensation flowed around from her back, forwards to her stomach and chest, and upwards towards her neck.

The areas directly exposed to the Horntail’s fiery exhalations were a different matter.

Hermione’s unprotected left ear had been magically reconstructed. Her neck, her left cheek and both her hands had suffered full thickness burns. Her hair had also caught alight, and much of it was gone. Thankfully Hagrid’s immediate intervention had prevented more serious blistering. McGonagall, also arriving promptly upon the scene, had cast numbing and pain-killing spells to these badly burned areas, before Hagrid had carried an incoherent Hermione from the field and back into the Champions’ tent.

Shortly afterwards, Ludo Bagman had appeared, all effusive compliments and solicitous enquiries, before taking her hard-won prize into safekeeping. Hermione had been too shattered to inquire about this, or even how the judges had rated her performance. Frankly, she did not give a tinker‘s cuss.

Now Pomfrey applied a thick orange paste over the third-degree burns. “This will heal the burns, although with dragon fire there will almost certainly be some scarring,” she observed not unkindly. The paste had an immediate cooling effect, but Hermione still raised her hand to her cheek. She felt plain enough already and hoped the nurse would not be proved entirely correct.

“The paste must remain in place until tomorrow evening. I shall remove it after dinner,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “Beyond its unfortunate appearance, it should not be much trouble. It is waterproof so you can bathe or shower, and it carries a charm, so it will not come off and spoil your clothes. Now, let’s have a look at that nose.”

After ten minutes of very careful and precise wand work, Madam Pomfrey was finally satisfied. Hermione’s nose had been reset, which had smarted slightly, but the nurse assured her that no-one would ever be able to tell it had been busted. The ugly gash in Hermione’s upper lip had also been healed, along with some of the bruising around her jaw. A turquoise potion that carried hints of Deflating Draught reduced some of the swelling around her nose, albeit with a slight side effect. The nurse told Hermione that the remaining inflammation and bruising around her nose and eyes would take a few hours to go down.

“Great,” responded Hermione with yet another lisp. “So I walk around with two black eyes this evening just like a panda!”

“Hardly, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey replied without looking up. “I am not aware of any orange and turquoise pandas.”

Hermione mentally cursed the matron’s ability to repay criticism in full.

She thus suffered in silence as Madam Pomfrey dealt with the minor cuts, abrasions and bruises Hermione had suffered during her several hard falls on the rocky arena surface, and then finished repairing and re-growing her hair where it had been scorched or burned away. The last item on Madam Pomfrey’s agenda was the matter of Hermione’s missing front teeth. Fixing these was no obstacle to a practised healer but there was one unspoken question.

Would Hermione want her teeth restored to their prior rather prominent state, or would she prefer an improved version?

Hermione previously had scruples about having her teeth altered magically, especially since she doubted whether her parents could achieve the same results using normal - that was to say, Muggle - dentistry techniques. She also had her own insecurities, reinforced by years of adverse comment and even abuse from children of her own age. No, she would not revert back to braces or consider the even worse remedy of filing down to cure her malocclusion and associated bruxism. After all, her teeth had been broken by magical means; why should they not be repaired in the same manner?

Madam Pomfrey had made no comment when Hermione had asked her to stop when her re-grown front teeth matched those that remained and no longer stuck out like a beaver’s. Indeed the nurse colluded in this little conspiracy, commenting how nice her smile was, then left to allow Hermione to get dressed.

Hermione slipped into her underwear, then pulled out her book bag and delved into its depths, retrieving a compact mirror. Self-critically she examined Pomfrey’s handiwork.

The teeth were a definite improvement. Her nose appeared to be the same as it had that lunchtime, although the swelling and bruising across its bridge and around her eyes, now distinctly turquoise, gave her a battered appearance. The orange paste just appeared incongruous. Technicolor pandas indeed!

She was tired, emotionally and physically. For all the pain-killing potions Hermione still felt as if she had journeyed to Land’s End and back by tumble-drier. Every joint ached.

Putting aside vanity as beyond rescue, Hermione had just picked up her blouse when she heard movement and a cough behind her.

“Oh! Sorry, Granger!”

Hermione squeaked in surprise, and clutching her blouse to her chest, she quickly turned on the spot to present her back to the unexpected visitor. Squinting over her right shoulder, she tried to see who it was.

Cedric Diggory stood awkwardly in the tent entrance. He was half looking away, but his eyes seemed to instinctively stray back to the half-undressed Gryffindor. He looked equally embarrassed, but, to Hermione’s discontent, also appeared to sport a knowing grin.

“Shall I go out and come in again?” he asked, unable to stop smiling.

“N-no.., just t-turn around…” Hermione stammered. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Fine.” True to his word, Cedric presented Hermione with his back and stared up at the inside of the tent’s roof, whistling tunelessly. Swiftly, Hermione pulled on her school-issue blouse and skirt, then wrapped herself in her robes and turned back to face the Hufflepuff Champion.

“Right,” Hermione instructed Cedric, her voice still shaky. “You can turn around now. What do you want?”

Still grinning, Cedric slowly spun around slowly. “How are you?” he asked sincerely.

“I’ve been better,” Hermione muttered. “After all, these aren’t Gryffindor colours.”

“Hmm … Looks like your dragon got a bit closer than mine,” Cedric observed with a slightly detached air. “Still, I know what you mean.” Now she saw that the right side of his face was also coated in that same flame-coloured salve.

“I was lucky,” Hermione said quietly, knowing just how close a call it had been. “Extremely lucky.”

Cedric shuffled a little uneasily on his feet, which Hermione found strange given his prefect status. “Look, Granger, I didn’t have the chance to thank you properly before this afternoon. For the tip off, that is.” Now he looked distinctly uncomfortable, being humbled by the younger girl in front of him. “I owe you.”

“That’s alright,” Hermione muttered. “I’m sure you would have done the same.”

Cedric held out his right arm, palm open. “My friends call me Cedric,” he advised in a warm manner. “And I’d like to think I would’ve.”

Hermione took the offered hand and shook it. “Hermione,” she added in response to the unspoken but open question. “It doesn’t lend itself to any nickname I’d care to use.”

“I must admit I didn’t think you had it in you,” Cedric observed as he pumped her hand, but his ready grin robbed his words of any unintended slight. “Good one, Gra- Hermione.”

“There were times when I didn’t either,” she replied with what, for her battered visage, passed for a smile.

Although not totally immune to Cedric Diggory’s handsome looks and likeable personality, Hermione was never one for schoolgirl crushes… excepting that unfortunate episode over that old fraud Gilderoy Lockhart! She let her hand slip from his grip.

“Anyway, good luck, Hermione.” Cedric seemed a little uncertain at her distant expression. He turned but, just as McGonagall had, halted as he held the tent flap open. “Perhaps you could save me dance at the Yule Ball?” he stated in an unreadable tone, but before Hermione could even think of a reply, he was gone.

She wondered if Cedric was aware of the effect he had on the female half of the student faculty. Hermione had no illusions that he would ever ask her to the Ball, given the chemistry she had observed between him and Cho Chang. That Chang was a lucky girl… but she still preferred her Harry Potter! That started Hermione thinking about why she had paid attention those Diggory-Chang interactions in the first place. ‘A bloody lucky girl indeed,’ she thought ruefully.

With another mirthless smile, she chastised herself for worrying about such trivial matters, when the chances she might not live to see the end of the school year were quite high.

A few minutes later, a more sullen Hermione followed Cedric’s path outside, but not before packing away in her bag what little remained of her Basilisk tunic. It was a keepsake.

Darkness had fallen, and where there had been hundreds, if not thousands, of spectators an hour or so previously, the arena appeared to be abandoned. The dragons were gone, and the enclosure was as silent as a grave.

It was cold now, and Hermione pulled her robes tight around her aching body. She had taken barely a step when someone emerged from the darkness.

It was Harry.

“Bloody hell, Hermione! You were brilliant!”

The admiration that shone from his eyes as he bounced on the balls of his feet filled Hermione with a warmth that could only happen when he was around her.

“I was lucky,” she replied self-deprecatingly.

“That’s not true!” Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, and she was soothed by his calm voice. “The plan worked perfectly…well, almost. It‘s hard enough as it is, and the odd bit of luck only helps.” Then his voice died away. “But I was worried at the start. You didn’t move!”

“Umm …” Hermione could not explain the pure horror she felt when she first glimpsed the Horntail. She had just frozen. Harry wouldn’t understand. He never suffered debilitating fear. He was …

“Here, let me take that. You look… tired.” Too polite to draw attention to her beaten, burnt and colourful face, Harry reached out and took hold of Hermione’s book bag before leading her up the path back towards the Castle. As they walked, in an unusual reversal of roles, Harry told her how the other Champions had fared.

Cedric Diggory had also attempted to distract his dragon by transfiguring a rock into a small dog, but the dragon had not fallen for the bait. He had to resort to a Conjunctivitis Curse, which had briefly blinded the Swedish Short-Snout, but in agony from the spell the dragon had flared its fiery breath everywhere. One random blast came too close for comfort, and Cedric had suffered minor burns in the act of grasping his own golden egg.

Next up had been Fleur Delacour, who had successfully attempted to charm the Welsh Green into a Veela-enhanced enchanted sleep. In order to complete this, she had to close in with the dragon, which had set her skirt alight. Fortunately Fleur had succeeded in her spell casting. Just as the dragon dozed off she had doused her flaming garment in conjured-up water before completing the Task bare-legged. Personally, Hermione was a tad jealous that the French girl was able to create and execute such a simple plan.

Judging by Harry’s breathless recitation, Hermione gained the impression that that the men and boys, particularly Ludo Bagman, were more captivated by the latter achievement than the Beauxbatons’ girl’s successful capture of the golden egg. That jealousy flared just a little fiercer; the suspicion that Fleur had some Veela ancestry might just make matters easier for her all round.

Viktor Krum she already knew about, although the Chinese Fireball had almost lived up to her name. If anything, Harry was more taken with Viktor’s prowess on a broom than almost anything else. At least he seemed to enjoy explaining the technical intricacies of Viktor’s moves than discussing Hermione’s own actions. He was doing just that when another figure emerged from the shadows.

It was Rita Skeeter, wearing robes of an extremely unattractive shade of green. Her Quick-Quotes Quill was held ready for action.

“Well done, Miss Granger,” she simpered in oleaginous and false tones. “You look … relieved. What an achievement given your age and … upbringing.”

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her mouth hanging open at Rita’s cheek. It was Harry who interposed himself between reporter and would-be interviewee.

“I’m sure Hermione has nothing to say to you,” he stated, his voice ice-cold.

“Nonsense, dear boy.” Rita simply swept him aside. “I’m sure the world wants to hear the first thoughts of a successful Champion. Although perhaps the views of ‘The Boy-Who-Lived’ might be of interest… later.” Then she ignored him.

Hermione eyed the reporter with even less sympathy than Harry. “After what you wrote, do you really think I would give you another chance?”

Rita waved Hermione’s protests away. “Damned sub-editors. Anyway, a quick word?”

Hermione just regarded Rita with a jaundiced eye. “Alright,” she said slowly. She noticed Harry looking more than a little shocked at this development.

“Oh good!” Rita’s eagerness would have been humorous at another time and place.

From behind the reporter, Harry shook his head vigorously. She winked at him.

“One quick word?” Hermione clarified. “Then you’ll leave me alone?” Rita nodded greedily, her quill poised above the roll of parchment.

Hermione gathered herself together. “Okay,” she said, regaining some confidence, then spat: “Velocity!”

With that, the youngest Champion shoved a rather confused Rita Skeeter out of her way and marched off, resolutely refusing to look behind her.

By the time Harry caught up with Hermione, he was struggling to keep from chuckling. “Velocity!” he kept repeating with a chuckle under his quite visible breath.

Hermione smiled. Her accumulated nervous frustration begged for an outlet, and Rita Skeeter had provided her with one big, juicy, irresistible target. Harry saw her expression. “You’re priceless, Hermione. Absolutely priceless!”

I’m also getting rather cold,” she answered, sloughing off Harry’s latest praise. “Can we hurry inside?”

“Oh, sure,” Harry agreed, his expression a bit uncertain. Then, he seemed to make up his mind. “Here, take this.”

He took his heavy outdoor robes from around his shoulders and wrapped Hermione in them.

Too tired, achy – and cold – to complain about Harry leaving himself in shirtsleeves, Hermione accepted the additional warmth gratefully.

As they finally approached the Castle walls, Harry was informing Hermione of the judging. Krum, boosted by Karkaroff’s award of maximum marks, was leading. In Harry’s opinion this was quite right, as with the exception of a slightly singed broomstick, Durmstrang’s Champion had completed the First Task in the fastest time and with the relative minimum of risk. Fleur Delacour was second, just ahead of Cedric Diggory.

That obviously left Hermione Granger bringing up the rear. That fact mattered not a jot to Hermione herself. After all, she was not competing to win.

The two Gryffindors had now reached one of the sheltered courtyards. There was no-one hanging around in the cold December evening air.

“I mean, Karkaroff is obviously biased against you,” Harry said heatedly. “He gave you a lousy three marks. I mean, it was close at the end, and for one horrible moment I thought…” Harry swallowed back the last few words before starting again. “Oh, bloody hell! I was … so scared.”

It had been close, Hermione admitted. Three times she had cheated death or terrible injury in one afternoon. And that was only the First Task…

“I wish you hadn’t made me promise not to interfere,” Harry was complaining. “I couldn’t just sit by and watch… Hermione, what’s the matter?”

Hermione was trembling from head to toe, but not from the cold. The delayed shock of one narrow escape after another now filtered through her system as the adrenalin faded away. “Oh Merlin!” she moaned. As her legs started to give way, Harry caught Hermione in his arms and pulled her to a nearby stone bench.

Shaking, despite two sets of robes and Harry’s support, Hermione found it difficult to speak. How arrogant and conceited had she been to think that a mere fifteen year-old could take on a dragon and escape unscathed? The thought of how easily she could have perished under the Horntail’s flames shook her physically again. How much of her good luck had she used up? Crookshanks might have the benefit of nine lives, but she did not.

Harry was visibly uncertain, inexperienced in dealing with a shivering girl “Hermione?” he tried gently, placing his arm tighter around her.

Finally she could find the words between gulps of air. “That ... that was only the F- first Task, Harry.”

“And you made it through.”

“But a dragon. I nearly…” She could not vocalize her fears.

“I know.” Harry awkwardly squeezed her shoulder.

“It can’t get any easier,” Hermione moaned. “The tasks can only get harder.” She stared at Harry, her eyes now round in a battered mixture of white, red, black, purple, turquoise and orange. “Look at me. I’m a mess.”

“You seem to have come through better than I normally do from a Quidditch match,” Harry observed with attempted humour.

With all of her fears crowding in on her again, Hermione was not really listening. “I don’t think I can carry on,” she said shakily.

Harry’s expression grew serious. He remained silent for a moment, staring out into the night, then he turned on the bench whilst turning Hermione to face him. Putting his hands on both her shoulders, he looked her straight in the eyes. “Look, today’s been a big day. You’ve come through it when most people here wouldn’t have given you a snowball’s chance in hell. You’ve proved you are a remarkable witch - again.”

Hermione tried to shake her head, but Harry ignored her. “I want you to know this. Whatever you want to do, you know you’ll have my support. Anything.” Then he halted, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Hermione thought he was looking at her rather askance.

“What?” she croaked. Merlin, she felt so tired.

Harry looked curious, then slowly shook his head, as thought doubting himself. “There’s… it’s just … you look different somehow.”

Hermione smiled despite her tears, encouraging him to spot the results of Madam Pomfrey’s efforts.

Harry shook his head again, squinting. “Must be the weird colours,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

‘Honestly!’ Hermione was about to respond when there was the sound of wood scraping heavily on stone. They both jumped up to find Mad-Eye Moody regarding them closely. Hermione, inhaling sharply from being startled, was released from Harry’s grip as he manoeuvred himself in front of her.

“Potter, Granger.” Moody’s voice was studied neutrality. “Not too shabby a response. Potter, yeh could do with a cloak, though. I can see year wand.”

“Professor.” Harry’s reply was wary. Hermione noticed that he did indeed have a tight grip on his wand, and no robes in which to conceal it.

The electric-blue magical eye swivelled in its socket and fixed itself on Hermione. “Yeh did well today, Granger.”

Even in her emotionally-heightened state, Hermione was shocked. Those were the first complimentary words Professor Moody had spoken to her since he had bettered her in that one-sided duel.

“Yeh’ll have surprised a lot of people,” Moody continued. “Maybe some will have their eyes opened.” Then he grunted. “Still be some that are so blind they cannot see.”

“Thanks, P- Professor,” Hermione muttered, not without confusion.

“But yeh still let go of yehr wand! Twice!” Moody’s mood had switched in an instant. Now he raged at Hermione. “Would’ve cost yeh yehr life if yeh hadn’t been so lucky, ’specially there at the end.” He shook his battle-ravaged head. “Keep a’ hold of yehr wand at all times!”

As Moody shuffled around, Harry carefully kept Hermione shielded. She wondered if he really feared that the Professor would attempt another practical example of hard-won battlefield prowess. This did not go unnoticed by the gnarled ex-Auror.

“Think yeh can protect her, do yeh, lad? Takes more than a cloak… lots more …”

“Just being prepared,” Harry replied with a slight quaver in his voice. “Hermione’s been through enough today.”

“Do yeh need a protector, lassie?” Moody demanded of Hermione. “’Cos if yeh do, yeh’ll not come out of the competition alive! Yeh can only get lucky so often.”

Hermione could not help but shiver as Moody touched upon her most recent thoughts.

“That goes for yeh, too, Potter,” Moody added.

Harry, definitely ill at ease but with a protective arm now thrown tightly over Hermione’s shoulders, turned to follow Moody as he circled around them with that ugly gait of his. “We’d better be going now,” he said clearly.

As they turned away, Harry quietly withdrawing his arm, Hermione was convinced she could still feel that eye focussed on her.

The walk through the corridors was accompanied by an uncomfortable silence. Hermione’s consideration of withdrawal hung heavily between her and Harry. She also mulled over her obligation to inform her parents of her progress, and of her possible future plans.

That chill tranquillity was shattered the moment the Fat Lady swung aside with a cheerful “Well done, dear!” which made Hermione’s presence known to the Gryffindor common room. A cacophony of indecipherable cheers, shouts and yells combined with exploding Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous No-Heat, Wet Start Fireworks, seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation. The Gryffindors’ reaction could not have been further removed from their original response to Hermione being chosen.

As she stood gawking on the threshold, her mind overwhelmed by the multitude of celebrating Gryffindors, Hermione’s arms were grabbed in a pincer movement, and she found herself hoisted on the shoulders of the Twins, nearly six feet above the floor.

“Gryffindor Pride!”

“Good on you, Hermione!”

The Twins paraded Hermione all around the room, singing her praises, as the whole of Gryffindor House cheered and clapped and yelled. She had to duck underneath a banner, probably Dean’s handiwork, which proclaimed her a dragon tamer. She squirmed and tried to tell the Twins her legs ached and they should set her down, but either they could not hear her over the cheering, or more likely they just ignored her protests.

As the parade encountered one of the oaken tables in the middle of the common room, the Twins swung Hermione off their shoulders so that she stood above the admiring throng. While Fred - or George - called for silence, the other loudly demanded: “Speech!”

With surprising speed the crowd of students quietened down, until the common room was largely silent, save for the odd firework exploding or whizzing across towards the fireplace, or making the portraits dodge. Every face gazed expectantly up at Hermione, who was suddenly reminded once more of her battered, bruised and burnt face. One or two in the crowd pointed out her colourful appearance, which only reinforced her self-consciousness.

What should she say?

Part of her wanted to sound off, scream hypocrisy and rail against her audience’s sudden conversion into fervent supporters, and to chastise them for their almost total indifference running into sullen antipathy that she had endured over the last five weeks. And to be honest, the way she felt, and the way she was sure she looked to them, there was no awe-inspiring speech bursting forth.

That would be satisfying on a base emotional level.

“Umm…”

Yet the rational part of her brain warned her off that choice. Some bridges needed repair, not burning. Churchill had once advised magnanimity in victory.

“Come on, Granger.” One of the Twins nudged her leg.

Much as she was enticed, Hermione knew reason had to prevail; the philosopher’s choice. Making her mind up, she took a deep breath.

“Thanks for your support this afternoon,” she said. “It did mean a lot to me - really, it did.”

At that some of the students broke out once again into more unrestrained applause and cheers. Hermione had to call for quiet, motioning with her arms the universal gesture of: ‘Calm down.’

“But I really couldn’t have done it without the help of some who supported me from the start.”

That remark brought on a different kind of silence, a reflective quiet as most of those present considered their personal treatment of Hermione Granger since she was named a Champion. To their credit, not one of her housemates protested. To Hermione’s credit, she went no further in the direction of reproach.

Hermione turned to step down from her tabletop podium, only to find the same strong pairs of arms that had raised her up now lifted her down. Instinctively she hugged George (or Fred), tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Thanks,” she whispered, before releasing him and treating the other Twin to a similarly emotional embrace.

“Don’t mention it Hermione…”

“Although, if you were to endorse our own fireworks…”

Both Twins beamed and Hermione this time managed the feat of hugging them both at the same time, something she could only achieve on tip-toe.

Once released, Fred (or George) turned to face the now ruminative Gryffindors. “That’s all folks!”

“Let’s party!” yelled the other.

And with that, more fireworks exploded, and the voices of joyful Gryffindors joined the din. Now that the semi-official part of the evening had been dispensed with, the celebration took on a different, more joyous air. The tables groaned under mountains of food, a full barrel of pumpkin juice tapped at both ends, and a large wooden butt holding chilled Butterbeers.

Hermione moved through the jostling crowd, most of whom parted to allow her through. Lavender and Parvati enquired solicitously about her face, clucking away concernedly and commenting favourably on her new teeth; Seamus clapped her on the back; and Dean flashed her his bright smile.

Soon Hermione found herself seated on one of the sofas, watching the partygoers, still shocked at the sudden turnaround in her housemates’ temperament . Every so often, groups of First Years would dare to come close to the dragon tamer, point at her battered, bruised and bizarrely coloured face with accompanying fiery orange paste, before retreating, giggling and daring each other.

Neville quietly sat down on her left, whilst Ginny unceremoniously threw herself down like a sack of spuds on her right. “You let them off lightly,” Ginny observed in an off-hand manner. “I’d have told them exactly where I thought they stood.” Her eyes narrowed rather unattractively as she spotted Angelina chatting with Fred.

“No,” Neville countered quietly. “I think you did the right thing, Hermione. Sometimes turning the other cheek accomplishes something.”

Hermione turned and thanked Neville before being the victim of a fierce embrace from Ginny. “I swear I thought you were toast,” Ginny muttered into Hermione’s ear. “Merlin, we all did. I thought I was going to be sick…” Ginny released her friend from the hug and her eyes glittered mischievously. “But then, you covered that too, didn’t you?” She raised her eyebrow as she made that point.

Blushing at the reminder of her second-most embarrassing moment of the day - throwing up in front of hundreds of people could only be topped by her half-dressed encounter with Cedric - Hermione knew Ginny was only trying to banish her fears with humour. “It was remarkable,” she observed. “I really couldn’t believe my ears when I entered the arena.” She hesitated. “What made them all change their minds?”

“Harry,” Neville replied enigmatically.

“Harry?” repeated Hermione. Neville nodded.

“Last night,” Ginny added, causing Hermione’s head to swivel as though she were a spectator following a tennis match. She put down the Butterbeer she had been nursing, and her expression turned serious. “Basically he stood up in here and told the rest of us that we were all Gryffindors, and that the way they had treated you was disgraceful. Told ’ em that loyalty seemed to have flown out of the window. I was so proud of him.”

“Really?” That would explain the mood last night. “Harry did that?”

“That’s not all,” Neville replied.

“No.” Her eyes switched back to Ginny. “Harry stood there and said that if this was Gryffindor House’s idea of sticking together and supporting a friend, then they could find a new Seeker for next year as he’d have no part of it. Told Angelina and that lot to their faces that loyalty cuts both ways.”

Hermione knew little of and cared less about Quidditch politics, but with Oliver Wood having left Hogwarts that summer, there was a vacancy for the Gryffindor captaincy. It was expected to be filled by one of the more experienced members of the team, such as Spinnet, Johnson or possibly Bell. She was quite aware how precious victory in Quidditch was for Gryffindor House, including Professor McGonagall. And even more she knew how much the game meant to Harry.

“He didn’t?” Hermione breathed. And, come to that, where had Harry disappeared to?

“Certainly did,” Ginny responded effervescently. “Anyway, Fred and George decided to back Harry, said they’d do the same and withdraw as well.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide at that revelation. The Twins taking something seriously? She had never heard of the like.

“Well, Angelina looked like she’d swallowed Skele-Gro, what with a Keeper to find for next year, suddenly to lose two Beaters and a Seeker as well. I bet they all felt about an inch tall. Then you came in, just missing all that. After you went up so quickly, they decided that Harry was right and that they’d been a bunch of prats.”

That information actually hurt Hermione a little. She had rather hoped that her own bravery had finally caused her housemates to see the light, instead of Harry having put a wand to their heads. Neville appeared to catch her mood.

“Most of them were willing to back you, Hermione,” he said kindly. “It’s just … most of them don’t really know you that well, and were swayed by the opinions of others. Some believed the press. Others… well,” Neville shrugged, “jealousy, spite…”

Neville’s explanation, whilst undoubtedly true, did nothing to raise Hermione’s mood.

Ginny butted in, seemingly desperate to both change the mood and the direction of the conversation. “So, Granger, what’s it like to face a dragon?” She broke off and tilted her head slightly, as though examining Hermione from a different angle. “Like what you’ve done with the teeth,” Ginny observed in a much more calculating tone of voice, before continuing her original light-hearted line of questioning. “Anyway, fancy following in Charlie’s footsteps?”

Grateful for the change in subject, Hermione related what she could remember, or wished to recall, about her confrontation with the Horntail. When she reached the point of her realising that she had not the time to grab the egg and escape the dragon’s fiery breath, Neville interrupted her.

“Harry jumped up and tried to cast some spell when he saw the dragon close on you. We all thought the dragon would have you. But there was some kind of ward preventing those outside interfering with what was going on inside. Harry nearly got hit by his own spell!”

That made sense, thought Hermione. With a number of powerful and not necessarily impartial wizards in the audience, any one of them could have attempted to influence the result. And there had to be a powerful ward preventing the dragons from escaping or incinerating those in attendance.

“Harry was desperate,” Ginny observed excitedly. “He didn’t half swear when he couldn’t punch through. He sounded like Ron. I’m not sure who saw him try, but within seconds the flames had gone and Hagrid had pulled you away.”

Perhaps that explained the flash of light Hermione thought she had seen at the moment she felt she was doomed. She had dismissed it, attributing it to a trick of the conditions or the sheer terror of her situation. But, on second thought, something like that could also explain the dragon’s misjudgement of its own attempt at grilling a Granger. Had the Horntail been distracted?

Had Harry saved her life again?

As if summoned, Harry suddenly appeared in front of her, his hands full with a couple of bottles of Butterbeer clutched in one fist, and the other gingerly balancing a large plate crammed to overflowing with sausage rolls, pork pies, jam tarts and custard creams. ‘Definitely a boy’s choice,’ Hermione reflected. “Thought after that you’d want - uhnn!”

Speech became impossible for Harry as Hermione flung herself upwards and wrapped her arms around his neck. The plate spilled its contents, but Neville’s quick spell work vanished them before they could hit the carpet. Harry managed to keep his grip on the bottles.

“Thank you,” Hermione hissed tightly in his ear. “Thanks for everything, Harry!” Any prospect of her upbraiding him for breaking his promise not to intervene had dissipated as quickly as his spilled food.

She leaned back, the better to appreciate him, and saw that Harry appeared entirely confused and embarrassed. “Wha - what did I do?” he muttered innocently.

‘Just like Harry, so damned selfless,’ Hermione thought. ‘Can’t appreciate his own actions. He really hasn’t a clue why I’m so grateful.’ She hugged him again. “Don’t ever change, Harry Potter,” she declared fiercely. “Not ever!”

Shaking her head at the display, Ginny quickly made herself scarce. Neville also excused himself, stating he would fetch some more food. Harry, once released from the Granger death-grip, passed her a nice, cool, Butterbeer. It had seldom tasted sweeter than tonight as it slipped down her throat, reminding her how thirsty she was.

After a decent interval, Neville returned with a slightly more varied selection of food than Harry’s heavier choices. Nerves had sharpened Hermione’s hunger, and she tucked into red salmon and cucumber sandwiches, crisp celery sticks and cream cheese. Not only her hunger, but her thirst, also made up for her pre-Task deficit, and she finished off not only another bottle of Butterbeer but a couple of tankards of pumpkin juice as well. Thoroughly sated, although nibbling on cubes of Red Leicester and Double Gloucester combined with pineapple chunks on cocktail sticks, Hermione allowed herself to relax for once on the sofa with her friends, answering more questions about the dragon, her injuries, and conjecturing whether the orange paste would taste as hot as its colour suggested.

The party livened up as Lee Jordan produced a Wizard’s Wireless tuned to a station playing the latest in magic-themed pop. Fred was dancing with Angelina, and George had snagged Alicia Spinnet, both Twins giving it all with their usual individual style, if not grace. Hermione took everything in, her mood remarkably detached and mellow for someone not usually described as either.

Unqualified celebration of her achievements was a new experience for Hermione. And her academic achievements were hardly the stuff of Gryffindor legend. No matter how many points she garnered, they were often offset by those habitually lost by the likes of Harry, Ron, Neville - and especially Fred and George.

Even when she, Harry and Ron had won all those House Points back in her first year at Hogwarts, clinching the House Cup, that happened in the setting of the Great Hall, and the presence of all the teachers and the other three Houses precluded wild merriment.

Now, reflecting on it all, Hermione found that perhaps adulation was not all that bad.

How could she consider giving all this up?

How could she consider undertaking the next two tasks?

She was tired. It had been a long day and she had been tested to, and past, her limits. She could think over all those matters tomorrow. Anyway, there was one face notable by its absence from the jollities.

Excusing herself, Hermione rose from the sofa and tried to make her way through the celebrating throng It was slow going as she remained the centre of much attention. First she had to fend off an offer as partner for the Yule Ball from Cormac McLaggen, who had either forgotten, or more likely ignored, their last conversation.

Next Angelina sought her out to apologise, face-to-face, for being what she termed “a right bitch.” Hermione knew how much Angelina had wanted so much to participate in the competition, but the tall ebony athlete admitted that had she known about dragons would be involved, well…

Hermione reminded herself: ‘Magnanimity, Granger.’ Angelina’s apology and congratulations appeared genuine enough, and Hermione took them at face value, nodding her head. Both young women seemed relieved to have completed that conversation.

All the while, Hermione searched the happy faces, looking for one in particular. No luck. Thus she found herself at the bottom of the staircase leading to the boys’ dormitories. Glancing around, trying to escape before her admirers realised she was gone, she started up the stone steps.

She hoped that the afternoon’s events would open Ron’s eyes to the truth of the matter. Not that it really mattered to her anymore, she tried to convince herself, but that she owed Harry the attempt to at least patch things up with Ron. After everything Harry had done for her in the last few days - before, during and after the First Task - it was the least she could do for him.

The door to the Fourth Years’ dorm was closed but not locked. Hermione pushed it and despite its age the solid oak swung silently open on unresisting hinges.

One of the five beds had its curtains firmly drawn, as though to shut out the sound and even the sentiment of the revelries below. Approaching tentatively, Hermione spoke quietly, despite there being no-one around to overhear. “Ron?”

The slightest rustle came from behind the curtains of the four-poster, followed by a swift and heartfelt reply. “Piss off!”

Hermione sighed and grimaced. ‘Magnanimity’ her mind once again reminded her. With a quick flick of her wand and a muttered spell, the curtains flew open. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Ron, still fully-dressed, thank Merlin, gave her a fierce glare. After making his feelings clear, he turned his head away, to emphasize that he was ignoring her.

“We need to talk, Ron.” She took a step closer to the bed.

“What about?” Ron’s head swung around, and she was taken aback by the vehemence of his response. “Don’t you want to get back to your adoring public?”

She took a calming breath and collected her thought. Somehow Ron always managed to strike exactly the wrong notes when he argued with her, driving her away from reasoned discussion and into emotional battle. “Ron, you know that’s not what this was about,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice level.

“No?” Ron angrily bounded off the bed to face her, forcing Hermione back a half step. “You’ve just seen off a dragon before the whole frigging School! Make you feel proud, don’t it?”

There was a limit to Hermione’s patience, and he was testing it. “Ron, I nearly died out there!” she snapped. “Are you really that thick to continue to believe that I really wanted to take part? Are you? Seriously?”

Ron’s face was turning puce. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? You’ve turned my best mate against me. Punched me in front of most of Hogwarts. Even my own brothers prank me on your behalf!”

“I didn’t do that,” Hermione thundered back, vigour returning to shake her battered body one last time. “You did that yourself, not telling me about the dragons!” she nearly shrieked.

“I bloody would have, if you’d given me a chance.” She could tell Ron was on the point of exploding as he flexed his fingers, making and unmaking fists. She had no doubt if she were Seamus, Dean or even perhaps Harry they would be exchanging blows by now.

“When? Exactly when would you have told me?”

“Last Friday night, but you shot off without giving me the chance.” Ron seemed a mite less aggravated. “Thanks to you I had to wear those bloody horns for two days.”

Hermione had doubted Ron’s intentions that evening, but that was exactly when Harry had mentioned Ron had tried to tell her.

With the argument going nowhere, she tried to take some of the heat out of the conversation. “Ron...” she started, but he refused to let her gain the initiative.

“It doesn’t bloody matter now, anyway. I’m glad you’re okay, even if it hasn‘t done much for your looks. But now you’ve got what you always wanted, the attention of the whole wizarding world. Hermione Granger, a Fourth Year who can take on a dragon. I bet McGonagall’s already awarded you a gazillion house points.”

Speechless at Ron’s screed, Hermione gaped at him open-mouthed. How dare he accuse her of… Her own ire returned, exponentially increased.

Ron ploughed ahead. “You might have Confunded Harry into believing you’re the greatest witch in the world, but not me. Now, piss off back to your party before they find a new hero.” And with that he jumped back on his bed and firmly pulled the curtains closed once more.

That was it! The culmination of this roller-coaster of her day!

“You… you… Ooh! I never thought even Malfoy could be so spiteful and jealous, but you, Ronald Weasley…you take the biscuit!”

Furiously, she stormed out and down the stairs, almost bowling over a suddenly surprised Colin Creevey. Ignoring various confused and inquiring looks, Hermione shot across the common room, ignoring confused and inquiring looks, and ran up the staircase on the opposite side to her own dormitory.

There she stayed. As the sounds of music and fun and games drifted up, defying the closed door and drawn curtains, the subject of these celebrations laid face down on her bed, surprised to find that she could not hold back the tears.

* * * * *

Wednesday morning gave the Fourth-Year Gryffindors the chance of a lie-in, as their first class was not until after the morning break. Normally Hermione would not accept this opportunity of rising late, but not this time. After yesterday’s exertions, both physical and emotional, she did not feel the burning need to face the day so early. Anyway, it gave her the chance to ponder the letter she needed to send to Oxfordshire.

Her sleep had been disturbed, dominated by dragons rearing up and exhaling an inferno, or that tore at her with razor-sharp talons before ripping her apart with serried rows of teeth. Several times she had awoken with sudden starts, jerking upright in her bed, sweat poring off her fevered brow, her heart hammering against her ribcage, racked with nausea and bile trapped in her throat. Had she been screaming too?

Only when conscious could she avoid those nightmares, so Hermione laid there, trying hard not to reflect on yesterday’s close shaves.

She was in that nice, dozy period between first waking and finally gaining full measure of her senses, when the dormitory door was opened peremptorily, causing squeaks of alarm from the Brown and Patil four-poster beds.

Hermione glanced at her alarm clock, which insisted it was still only eight-thirty and not yet time for breakfast, then up at the doorway, which framed the familiar figure of Professor McGonagall.

“P-p-professor?” Hermione tried to blink the remaining sleep from her eyes.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall sounded just a little hassled. “Please dress as quickly as possible.”

Hermione pushed her upper half up from the bed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“There’s an official inquiry into yesterday’s events,” McGonagall replied. “Come, quickly now!”

Her still exhausted mind definitely did not welcome this new development.

Hermione jumped out of her nice warm bed and quickly pulled on her normal school clothes, not quite as smartly as normal, with her blouse mis-buttoned. She had no time to even attempt to tame her wild hair as McGonagall took her by the hand and literally pulled her down the stairs to the common room.

“What’s… what’s going on?”

McGonagall was muttering under her breath, words that Hermione could not quite catch. Some sounded like, but could not possibly have been, oaths. She thought the professor muttered “parchment pusher” once or twice, “scroll hoarder” and something about the anatomically impossible placement of a quill somewhere…

Hermione was still trying to pull on her shoes as McGonagall strode across the common room towards the portrait hole. She had to hop for a couple of steps before being able to fasten her shoelaces with one nifty domestic spell. McGonagall glared at the occupants who were treated to this unusual sight at this early hour, shook her head and stepped into the corridor beyond.

Once there, with the portrait firmly closed and the Fat Lady dismissed by the Head of Gryffindor, McGonagall paused and addressed a dishevelled and still orange-, but thankfully no longer turquoise, faced Hermione.

“There has been… I refuse to believe it… has been a complaint that you cheated in completing the First Task.” McGonagall appeared outraged at the mere suggestion.

“Cheated?” Hermione was a little taken aback. “How?”

McGonagall started, marching them both down the tower steps and through the corridors towards the main staircases, talking as she went. “The Ministry has received a complaint that you received advance notice of the nature of the First Task and that Hogwarts’ staff were complicit.” At this McGonagall turned and give Hermione a hard look. “It was quite obvious that all four contestants somehow knew they would be facing dragons, but for a School to be involved in aiding one of its own Champions is a very serious matter… according to Barty Crouch!” The last four words were spoken with added venom.

“Now, I will ask only once, Miss Granger. Did anyone from Hogwarts tip you off about the dragons?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head vigorously. “It was -” She paused, having no great desire to drag Bill Weasley’s name into this sorry little affair. “You’re right, I did know, but someone from outside the School told me.”

“Good,” McGonagall nodded her head in response, accepting Hermione‘s answer at once. “I was afraid that Hagrid might have let something slip.”

“So, what do they want to do? Throw me out?”

“Precisely, Miss Granger. And we know the consequences if they are successful.”

“Has that been their game all along?” Hermione asked her Head of House.

“I can’t say, McGonagall replied. “I, too, entertained that suspicion, but I honestly cannot believe that even your detractors would go through all this trouble, instead of just subverting your O.W.L.s directly.”

Hermione paused. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. After yesterday, I’m not sure that I want to compete anyway,” she admitted.

McGonagall paled. “Oh no, no, no - that won’t do!” she exclaimed. “I will not stand aside and see your name and that of Hogwarts besmirched!”

“And what about me?” Hermione dared to challenge her formidable and favourite teacher. “Forget besmirched and the School’s reputation. I nearly got myself killed facing that dragon yesterday? I was a fool to think I could get through unscathed. If it wasn‘t for …”

Hermione stopped. No, she would not drag Harry into this. After all, that could be delivering the very goal forces unknown were seeking.

Hesitating, McGonagall bent down slightly so that she could speak more closely to her star pupil. “Miss Granger… Hermione, you achieved something yesterday that will stand to your credit for the rest of your life. Even if Hogwarts’ reputation were not an issue, I do not believe that I could allow anyone to take that away from you. I believe you faced down that dragon and successfully passed the First Task on your own merits - even if there was a modicum of outside assistance.” Hermione was surprised to note a brief smile on McGonagall’s face at that last phrase. “If, after timely and advised consideration, you choose to withdraw - and I do not believe that you really want to - then let it be on your terms, not theirs!”

Hermione was astonished at the feeling evident in McGonagall’s statement. She was even more amazed when McGonagall straightened and looked straight past her. “Would you not agree, Alastor?”

Hermione spun. Professor Moody had appeared with unnatural silence, and she was now under the scrutiny of that strange magical eye.

Moody grunted. “Lass got herself into this mess. She’s big enough and old enough to get out on her own.”

“Nonsense,” McGonagall brushed aside her comrade’s ungracious response. “The poor bairn’s being victimized.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” This time Moody had kept his own natural eye fixed on Hermione. “Who raised the complaint?”

Hermione mentally stacked her Galleons on culprits with a Slytherin background, probably Malfoy Senior or Junior.

“Someone I cannot believe!” McGonagall expostulated. “Would you credit? It was one of my own Gryffindors. Percy Weasley!”

Hermione’s jaw dropped at that revelation. “Percy?” she enquired for clarification, her mental Galleons lost for good. “Percy was here?”

“As an official Ministry observer,” McGonagall confirmed with thinned lips.

“Hmmph! Boy was born with his wand all the way up his fundament,” Moody observed, ignoring McGonagall’s slightly hypocritical protest at the use of such imagery in front of an underage student.

Hermione was stunned. “But Percy? Why?”

“Boy’s climbing the greasy pole,” Moody responded. “Reckon it’s to impress Fudge, though that don’t take much nowadays.”

* * * * *

There had been no time to call for Hermione’s quasi-legal advisor, Cherie Booth, but McGonagall admitted that this was not a matter subject to law, magical or not. Instead it fell squarely within the rules of the Competition, and as such the relevant body to adjudge was the panel of four judges.

Hermione, who by now was less concerned with her future participation than indignant at being called a cheat, which was McGonagall’s intention, relaxed a little at that. Once the truth was known she would be free to consider her options, however unpalatable they might appear to be.

The inquiry was held in the same antechamber off the Great Hall where she had been called into on Halloween. The four judges - Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, Karkaroff and Barty Crouch - sat behind a large oak table. Ludo Bagman, looking as though he wished to find himself anywhere else but here, stood sweating profusely to one side. Seated to the other side at right angles to the judges’ table were Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour. Viktor Krum was conspicuous by his absence.

McGonagall motioned to Hermione to sit next to Fleur, who gave her a nervous smile as she sat down. McGonagall herself sat in a row of seats behind the three competitors, between Professor Sprout and a visibly anxious Hagrid. She brushed away an insect that had been hovering around the empty chair. Moody busied himself casting a series of unfamiliar spells on the room.

“Paranoid, Moody?” Karkaroff’s tones reminded Hermione of the unctuous Rita Skeeter.

“Still alive, aren’t I, Igor?” Moody replied in his no nonsense tone, before standing by the fireplace, his magical eye ceaselessly switching between the other occupants.

It was Dumbledore who rose. “Ah, Miss Granger, our apologies for dragging you here at this early hour. We wondered if you could assist us with a few questions we have?”

At McGonagall’s prompting, Hermione rose. “Of course, Headmaster.”

“Good, Good. Mister Bagman?”

The very uncomfortable looking Ludo Bagman stepped forwards. “Yes, well,” he began, before floundering. “There has been a complaint… a complaint raised regarding your efforts - magnificent as they were - yesterday. It is believed that you… well - the dragons, Miss Granger.”

“I think what Mister Bagman is trying to say, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore intervened smoothly, “is that you were made aware prior to the First Task that you would be facing dragons.” He turned towards Bagman. “That is correct, is it not?” Bagman nodded. “Well, then, Miss Granger, perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Yes, I did know in advance about the dragons - and so did everyone else.”

Dumbledore appeared unsurprised at that information, although Karkaroff immediately jumped to his feet.

“You see, she admits it!” he declared feverishly.

Ignoring the Durmstrang headmaster, Dumbledore continued. “I see. Now, can you tell us from whom you obtained this information?”

Hermione stared hard at the Headmaster. “I cannot tell you who told me, but,” she turned and looked at Hagrid, “I can confirm that the source was neither a member of Hogwarts faculty or its student body.” She had no idea what repercussions could befall Bill or Charlie if their roles became public knowledge.

“Good,” Dumbledore nodded.

Good?” Karkaroff seemed outraged, although Hermione thought his attitude was a little false, as though giving a performance. “I cannot accept the word of a self-admitted cheat! Who can believe that it was not one of you -” his finger slashed through the air from Dumbledore to McGonagall, then Hagrid and finally stopping aimed at Moody “- who did not reveal the task to her?”

McGonagall gasped behind Hermione at the imprecation.

His hand ostentatiously on his still-sheathed wand, Moody growled back, “I’d like to see what yeh’ve got up yehr own sleeve, yeh slimy ...”

Dumbledore raised one arm to quiet the more-or-less vocal complaints of his staff. Then he turned to face Karkaroff. “Whilst I do not believe impugning a young student’s veracity is the way forward, would the word of the Supreme Mugwump suffice?”

Karkaroff, muttering, subsided. Calling Dumbledore a liar to his face was not a wise move, especially for a former Death Eater.

“She was seen though,” Crouch interjected in his business-like tone, “visiting a certain Rubeus Hagrid the day before the First Task.”

Hermione could hear Hagrid’s gulp in nervous anticipation. “Mister Hagrid is Hogwarts’ teacher in the field of Care of Magical Creatures and it was an assigned class,” Dumbledore explained reasonably, then he turned his attention back to Hermione. “Did you discuss dragons with Hagrid, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded. Best to be completely truthful. “I discussed dragons twice with Hagrid...” She hoped his muttered “Oh blimey!” wasn’t as loud in others’ ears as it was to her own “… after I already knew that I would be facing a dragon, and not before.”

Karkaroff was less dramatic this time as he changed tack. “What does it matter then who told her? She knew and she is a cheat.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned at the mendacious accusation. She had not cheated, or at least she did not think she had. As far as she could tell from the history books, inside information, deception and swindling all played their part in the Triwizard Tournament in the past, although these had pretty much been stamped out before the competition was abandoned. Did obtaining advance information count against her?

“Igor, if you please, one can only cheat if one seeks to gain an unfair advantage over one’s competitors,” Dumbledore said reasonably. “Now, Miss Granger, when you heard about the dragons, what action did you take - apart, that is, from preparing your excellently executed plan?”

This time her cheeks flushed at this high praise, Hermione’s answer was simple. “I felt I had to arrange for all the others to be told.”

“And did you?” Crouch’s question was emotionless. Hermione nodded. Crouch turned to Cedric and Fleur. “Is this true? Were you informed of the nature of the First Task?”

Cedric stood. “Yes,” he confirmed in a loud and clear voice, “I was informed by a friend of Granger’s.”

“Oui, c’est vrai … tré s vrai,” Fleur added, a hint of a smile flickering across her face despite the seriousness of the situation. Hermione was grateful that the Beauxbatons’ representative did not elucidate by revealing the identity of Hermione’s messenger.

Dumbledore turned to the Durmstrang headmaster. “You see, Igor. There was no attempt to gain any advantage by Miss Granger, therefore there was no cheating.” He spread his arms wide. “Just a simple misunderstanding, dealt with responsibly.”

Karkaroff looked back bleakly. “There was a clear conspiracy to cheat Durmstrang though. Our Champion was not told.”

“That’s not true!” Hermione blurted out, causing Dumbledore to raise an eyebrow. “I told Viktor personally. Ask him if you don‘t believe me.”

Karkaroff shot her a look of pure hatred. “Are you calling me a liar, girl?” he demanded.

Dumbledore started to intervene. “I am sure that Miss Gr-”

“Yes!” Hermione shouted, “I do believe I am,” drawing another gasp of despair from McGonagall at her shoulder and a “Merlin’s Beard!” from Hagrid. Then, as everyone stared at her, she tried to backtrack. “I mean.. I suppose it could all be a misunderstanding…”

Karkaroff’s hand drifted dangerously close to his wand. “I have killed for less,” he stated menacingly. “You are lucky to be so young.”

“Yeh don’t want to be doing that,” came Moody’s voice as he stumped forward, wand drawn but at his side. He came to a halt directly between Hermione and Karkaroff. “Strange though, that Krum ain’t here to confirm the story,” Moody cogitated, making a show of false bewilderment. “And come to think of it, I know exactly how many men you’ve killed, Karkaroff - and why.”

The Durmstrang headmaster shot to his feet so fast his chair was sent tumbling. He responded with a vicious-sounding oath from Karkaroff in some unrecognisable Eastern European tongue.

“Don’t start what yeh can’t…”

“Enough!” Dumbledore bellowed, his voice shaking the antechamber. Everyone froze. “Alastor, put away your wand!” His command brooked no denial, and the ex-Auror holstered his wand. “Igor, please resume your seat.”

“Doubly strange though, now I think of it” Moody mused once again. “Is Krum in the habit of shrinking his Nimbus and wearing it around his neck?”

With a face bearing similarity to a thundercloud, Karkaroff turned his back on Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione thought that was either extremely brave or extremely stupid, or perhaps Karkaroff had supreme confidence in Dumbledore’s command. He smiled sickly. “Will the word of the Headmaster of Durmstrang suffice?” he intoned, throwing Dumbledore’s previous enquiry straight back at the great wizard.

Dumbledore looked shrewdly at Karkaroff, then turned sadly to face Hermione. “In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, we cannot accept your assurance at face value, Miss Granger.”

“But it’s not true,” she protested, her sense of injustice overriding her prior thoughts of bowing out of the Tournament. “I did tell Viktor, in the library.”

“That does not matter.” Barty Crouch’s flat voice cut across this latest dispute. “Although the original complaint cannot be proven either way, we now have a new issue raised by the Headmaster of Durmstrang, who is the ex officio representative of their Champion in the latter’s absence.” He turned to face Karkaroff. “Do you wish to make your complaint official, Headmaster?”

Karkaroff’s face split slowly into a wide lupine smile. “Oh yes, I most certainly do, Mister Crouch.”

Ignoring renewed protests from Hermione, McGonagall, Hagrid and even Cedric, Crouch’s eyes showed a flicker of life. “Then the motion to disqualify the -” He paused “- one of Hogwarts’ Champions shall be put to judgement.”

Dumbledore started to protest. “Mister Crouch, I think there is enough doubt -”

“That is for us to determine, Headmaster.” He fixed Hermione with his tired eyes; she felt like she was facing a living corpse. “The integrity of the Triwizard Tournament has been called into question by the actions of one competitor, one whose very presence has been protested. In order to continue, I vote for expulsion.”

As soon as Crouch’s judgement had been delivered, there came sounds of a disturbance from behind the door leading to the Great Hall. As Crouch hesitated, waiting to discover the cause of the noise, Hermione leaned back to whisper to McGonagall.

“There are four judges. Karkaroff is obviously going to throw me out. What happens if it’s a tie?”

McGonagall sounded anxious. “Then the Chair has the casting vote.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Don’t tell me, it’s Barty Crouch.”

“I’m afraid so,” McGonagall replied, but before the hushed conversation could continue any further, the door was blown open by a burst of magic, and Viktor Krum strode through the entrance. Although to most observers present he appeared unruffled, Hermione thought he seemed as incensed as she had ever seen him. He glowered at the scene before him.

Karkaroff once again leapt to his feet. “Kakvo pravish? Beshe ti naredeno da stoish v koraba!” he said loudly, sounding surprised.

Viktor betrayed no emotion, except in his narrowed eyes. “Moeto prisustvie kato edin or izbranite shampioni e neobhodimo.”

Then Viktor did something unexpected. He turned and made a point of acknowledging Hermione’s presence. “Dobro ootro, Hermy-own-ninny.”

Karkaroff’s emotions were gauged all too easily. His arm shot out, pointing at some unspecified spot beyond the walls of Hogwarts. “Tova ne e viarno; vrushtai se obratno vednaga! Shte si govorim za nepodchinenieto ti po-kusno,” he shouted angrily, although whether merely from Viktor‘s presence or from being apparently ignored, Hermione could not hazard a guess.

Viktor turned to face his headmaster, his heavily muscled arms crossed firmly over his equally firm chest. “Ti ne mozhesh, i niama da mozhesh da me spresh da kaja tova, koeto triabva da bude kazano,” he said calmly. Then he turned back to face Barty Crouch. “Vot is happening here?”

Dumbledore took a step forwards, earning a warning growl from Karkaroff, to which he replied laconically. “Mister Krum, it seems, no longer requires your representation.”

Then the Hogwarts Headmaster addressed the Durmstrang champion. “Mister Krum, we merely wish to ascertain whether you were informed by Miss Granger that you would be facing dragons in the First Task?”

Viktor raised one eyebrow, but before he could respond, Karkaroff intervened. “Preduprezhdavam te, Viktor, druzh si ezika zad zubite, ili shte si imash nepriatnosti!” he snapped in what sounded suspiciously to Hermione like a warning.

Viktor’s stare was cold, as was his voice. “Ako ne kazha istinata, ne zasluzhavam roliata si kato shampion.”

Karkaroff then pointed straight at her. “Naistina li si mislish, che tazi nechistokruvna si struva zhertvata?”

“Dori ako Hermy-own-ninny Greindzhur ne beshe moia priatelka, pak bih potursil istinata,” Viktor replied, glancing in her direction once again.

Hermione was fascinated. Her understanding of the whole conversation was confined to tone of voice and body language. Viktor compounded her difficulty, refusing to betray any emotion either vocally or through his expression. She supposed that Karkaroff had neither expected Viktor’s arrival, nor was he in the least happy about his sudden appearance. Obviously she was at the centre of their disagreement.

“Pak to preduprezhdavam – tova, che is izvesten, niama da te spasi,” Karkaroff’s tone was more reasoned, but his anger still evident. “Imam mnogo vliatelni vruzki, koito mogat s nai-malkoto deistivie da ti vgorchat zhivota -”

Whatever he said visibly angered Viktor. “Igor Karkaroff, napulno sum naiasno ti koi si, i kakuv si bil v minaloto.” For the first time Hermione heard Viktor’s voice rise. The rebellios Champion’s response was crisp and his right hand clenched around the edge of his robe, perhaps feeling for his wand. “Tezi zaplahi ot tvoiaia strana sa naprazni. Kakvo shte napravish? Shte me izhvurlish ot uchilishteto li? Kak mislish, che shte reagira ministurut?”

Whatever it was Viktor had said, it caused Karkaroff to explode, the veins in his neck and his forehead standing out in his heavily flushed face. He was livid. “Ti si beznadezhden. Mislish si, che sedeiki na niakava metla, shte se spasish. Preduprezhdavam te treti put, i ne samo tova, no ti i kazvam, che ne si prav. Nito nashia, nito tukashnia ministur mozhe da te predpazi, a i ne mozhesh da se oslaniash na zakrilata na Dumbuldor zavinagi. Kakvoto i da pravish, ne mozhesh da izbiagash or posledstviata. Az vdigam ruce ot tebe – s tvoite kamuni, po tvoita glava.” With a gesture that could universally be interpreted as indicating he would have nothing more to do with either Viktor or this argument, Karkaroff sat heavily back into his seat and slumped, feigning a lack of interest in proceedings.

Viktor refused to back down an inch. He responded with a forceful gesture of his own, pumping his forearm at the object of his anger, his fist clenched with his thumb clearly visible between his first and second fingers.

For a moment, Hermione thought Karkaroff would go for his wand in response to Viktor’s obviously insulting signal. Mad-Eye Moody certainly believed so, and had his own wand poised, looking ready, willing, and even eager to take down the Durmstrang Headmaster.

“If you please!” Dumbledore’s clarion voice rang out, smothering any incipient duel.

After everyone had cooled off for a few seconds, Dumbledore turned again to Viktor. “Well, now that that is sorted out, perhaps you could -”

“Da.” Viktor was not in the mood to waste time. “Hermy-own-ninny tell me about drakon. And she said others told as well … no advantage.”

The audible sigh of relief from McGonagall was drowned out by Hagrid’s exclamation: “Blimey! That’s torn it!”

“Ah.” His eyes twinkling, Dumbledore turned to face Karkaroff, who was careful to be found looking in another direction. “Just a simple misunderstanding the, would you not agree, Igor?”

Karkaroff, without turning, just waved dismissively to the room in general. “Yes, yes, carry on with this farce.”

From behind her, Hermione heard Professor McGonagall grumble. “Only he could call the truth a farce.”

“Good, excellent,” Bagman jumped in, hopeful of some kind of happy ending. “Well, I see no need to continue -”

“No need to continue?” Barty Crouch’s voice had all the warmth of an open grave. “Mister Bagman, a vote has been called. In fact, the vote has commenced.” He straightened his shoulders. “It is our duty to continue.”

Dumbledore moved closer to the Ministry’s representative. “Barty, are you sure? It seems that everything is in order, even if a little unorthodox.”

Even more emotionless that the impassive Krum, Crouch barely noted the Headmaster’s presence. “A vote is in progress; it must be completed.”

Hermione was trying to follow the logic. She was not a cheat, she had been proven to have informed all her fellow competitors, so she had gained an advantage over precisely no-one, unless you counted the Hungarian Horntail that was denied a late afternoon snack. As it stood, she could still be disqualified, then expelled from Hogwarts and the magical world. “No,” she muttered. “This isn’t happening.”

She missed Cedric rise to his feet. “Mister Crouch, headmasters and headmistress,” he began nervously, his face pale. “Let me make my position perfectly clear. The information I received from Hermione Granger allowed me to plan for and complete the First Task.” He turned and flashed her a grateful smile. “It may even have saved my life.

“If you remove Miss Granger from the competition, then I will have no alternative but to withdraw myself.”

That simple statement caused brief uproar. Sprout was talking urgently to Cedric, and Hermione caught snatches of conversation: “You know the consequ - … parents when you could be expelled … honourable but foolish…”

Dumbledore joined in. “Mister Diggory, much as I respect …” The rest was lost in the background noise.

Madame Maxime had also moved and was carrying on an equally rushed conversation in their natural tongue with a perplexed Fleur.

The din was brought to a halt when there was a magically enhanced retort of hand striking wood. All eyes turned to Barty Crouch.

“Very well.” He turned his lifeless eyes on Dumbledore. “Your vote is required, Headmaster.”

Before Dumbledore replied, Viktor spoke up. “I too will not take part.”

Karkaroff betrayed a flicker of interest at that news. “Krum, za suzhalenie ti vinagi si si bil, i zavinagi shte si ostanesh prosto edin glupak,” he said resignedly. Viktor appeared unmoved by Karkaroff’s observation. Hermione wondered what had passed between the Bulgar and his star student.

“Moi, aussi.” Fleur’s feminine voice was a pleasing counterpoint to the all male dominated conversation so far. At least Hermione could translate that statement with some ease. She glanced at Madame Maxime, and instead of the expected disappointment or shock, she noted the Beauxbatons’ Headmistress was beaming at her protégé. Fleur just grinned nervously at Hermione.

Then it struck Hermione. She was safe! None of the heads would vote to disqualify her now! Their own competitors would suffer the same penalties as she had faced.

“So be it.” Barty Crouch was unmoved. “Dumbledore?”

The great wizard took his seat. “Continuation, Barty,” he replied simply.

“Madame Maxime?”

The tall Frenchwoman appeared affronted. “Zis is seemply ree-deeculous. I vote with Dumbly-Dorr.”

Two votes against disqualification! Hermione now looked at Karkaroff, and as she did a cold river of fear ran down her spine.

Karkaroff was staring appraisingly at Krum. Slowly, an evil-looking smile broke out over his face. Very deliberately, he turned to Crouch. “Disqualification.”

There was a heart-beat of silence, then everyone was shouting again. Fleur was nearly Dulux emulsion white in shade, whilst Madame Maxime, her visage a vivid shade of fuchsia, was cursing in Gallic. Karkaroff, looking extremely satisfied, leaned back in his chair, shutting out everyone else. Viktor seemed unmoved, as though anticipating Karkaroff’s betrayal, but on closer inspection even he appeared paler than normal. Cedric had slumped back in his seat, his head in his hands. Ludo Bagman had fainted.

Barty Crouch, ignoring every enquiry and insult, rose to his feet, his cadaverous face completely expressionless. “Very well. Under the Rules of Competition, the casting vote in the event of a tie is cast by the Chair of the Judges’ Panel.”

Hermione knew what was coming next. He had already voted for her expulsion. He would not change his mind now, even though the Triwizard Tournament would be destroyed, along with the magical lives of four students.

“I cast the deciding vote for di-”

He cut off suddenly, appeared lost for a moment, then appeared to collect his thoughts. “Continuation.”

“What!” roared Karkaroff, but his complaints were soon drowned out by a fresh outbreak of relieved shouting and arguments.

“Gulpin’ Gargoyles!” Hagrid was mopping himself with a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth.

Crouch was struggling to make himself clear. “Mister Diggory. It is unwise to point your wand against the Ministry. We have long memories and an even longer reach. Your father may remind you of that fact.”

Hermione was utterly drained. She pressed all of her fingers into her forehead. This must be what it felt like after the close avoidance of a major accident. Hearing the clatter of an overturned chair or two, she glanced up just in time to see Karkaroff storm out of the antechamber in high dudgeon.

Cedric also appeared to have suffered a near-death experience. When she thanked him, he could only reply with a nod of his head and two muttered words. “Debt paid.”

‘With interest,’ thought Hermione.

Madame Maxime was alternately showering Fleur with praise and Karkaroff with more imprecations in her native French. The cacophony all seemed to wash straight over Crouch, who sat motionless.

Looking around, Hermione noted that McGonagall was reviving Bagman.

Dumbledore was strangely motionless. Only, when Hermione looked a little closer, she saw that was not quite true. He was staring in Barty Crouch’s direction with slightly narrowed eyes, as though pondering a problem. Hermione looked back to where Mad-Eye Moody was helping Crouch from his seat.

‘Something happened to Crouch,’ she thought. ‘Someone or something made him change his mind at the last second.

But how? With Moody standing guard? Was even Dumbledore that good?

Viktor’s arrival by her chair interrupted her ponderings. She stood up to thank him. “I’m grateful, but you shouldn’t have -” she started.

“Neh, I must speak truth.” He frowned. “It vill be.. trooden, how you say, hard…?” Hermione nodded. “It vill be hard for me now.”

Hermione shivered. If he was indeed a former Death Eater, then Karkaroff made a dangerous foe. Viktor seemed to read her mind. “I know of Karkaroff. But the Ministry vill back me.” He looked thoughtful. “It is not sudden. Ve haff disagreed before, but never…”

“What did he say to you,” Hermione wanted to know.

Viktor shook his head. “Is bad things.” He looked around. “Not here. Later. I see you in biblioteca?”

“Yes,” Hermione then lowered her voice. “If it gets too … hard, Dumbledore will help. I’m sure of it.”

* * * * *

* * * * *

The bruising had gone down as Madam Pomfrey had promised it would, and there was only a little scarring remaining on Hermione’s left cheek and the backs of both hands. Or it seemed little to most other people; Hermione was only too aware of it.

Apart from that, the rest of the week passed uneventfully, with one exception. Now the toast of Gryffindor, Hermione also received praise from Ravenclaws, and even some Hufflepuffs, although they made it clear they still wanted Cedric Diggory to win. That worried Hermione not a jot.

The Slytherins were a different matter. Their attitude remained one of ridiculing condescendence. If any of them had admired her performance, they either had the sense or had not the courage to say so.

The only incident of note occurred on Friday lunchtime as Hermione made her way from Flitwick’s class towards the Great Hall. Harry and the others had gone on ahead. She had asked the Charms Professor some questions relating to extra reading she would carry out over the Christmas holidays. Afterwards, while walking quickly along the corridor, Hermione had the misfortune to run into Draco Malfoy and his cronies.

“Oh look!” Malfoy feigned delight at this meeting. “Our vomiting Champion!”

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled as Hermione tried to push past them.

“Not so fast. I’m sure you want to see our new badges?” Malfoy’s glee was unmistakeable. “You see, I reckon the taste of Mudblood would make even a dragon sick!” He touched the small enamel badge on his robe, and four words flashed in fluorescent pink.

“MUDBLOODS MAKE ME PUKE”

Unable to make her way past the sheer bulk of Crabbe and Goyle, Hermione quickly glanced over their shoulders, then just as fast looked Malfoy straight in the face, schooling herself to show no emotion. “Wit without measure, Malfoy,” as she remembered the phrase quoted at her by Luna Lovegood.

“Good, aren’t they?” Malfoy was inordinately pleased with himself.

“Yes,” a clipped Scottish brogue replied from behind the Slytherin trio. “A remarkable feat of transfiguration, Mister Malfoy. A shame it has been wasted upon the expression of such disgusting sentiments.”

The colour draining straight out of his face, Malfoy turned and faced a tight-lipped Professor McGonagall, her arms crossed. The glacial look she was giving Malfoy almost made Hermione laugh. Putting one hand forward while still maintaining that severe expression, she demanded: “Please hand it over so I can determine exactly how clever they are.”

Audibly swallowing, his fingers trembling, Malfoy did as asked. McGonagall turned the badge over between her fingers. Without looking up she spoke. “You two, stay just where you are.” Crabbe and Goyle had started to edge away, but they froze at her words.

After a few long seconds of running the badge through her bony fingers, McGonagall looked up and fixed Malfoy with her icy stare. “That will be nineteen points from Slytherin, and nineteen days detention with Mister Filch. One for each letter of your repulsive slogan.”

Malfoy managed the incredible feat of turning even paler.

“And I will be having a word with your Head of House about your appalling choice of language.”

Having pronounced sentence, for the first time, McGonagall looked at Hermione. “Miss Granger, should you not be at lunch?”

“Yes Professor.” Hermione took the hint and left with a huge satisfied smile on her face.

“To think that one so educated would stoop…” McGonagall’s dressing-down drifted away behind her.

The Gryffindor table had rocked with laughter when Hermione regaled them with that tale. Harry laughed so much he nearly choked on his ham and chips, Ginny declared she would have paid a good many Galleons to see the look on Malfoy’s face, and Fred and George competed with each other in declaring their undying devotion to their Head of House.

Ron excluded himself from the general hilarity, sitting by his lonesome further down the table, shunned by most of his peers now that Hermione was little Miss Popular. Hermione noticed Harry casting the odd worried glance down the length of the table. She had not the heart to inform him of her most recent discussion with Ron.

The downside was the fifty points that Snape took from Gryffindor that Friday afternoon, thirty of which were deductions against Hermione for heinous crimes such as “moving one’s lips and making sound.” Nevertheless, Draco Malfoy’s smirk was a pale imitation of normal. Hermione was just grateful to make it through without incurring any detentions to further even the score. Even then, the story of McGonagall and Draco Malfoy’s badges kept the Gryffindor common room entertained that evening.

Hermione, heart lightened by having faced her dragon, felt happy for the first time in weeks. Even though she still pondered over her future, she looked forward to Christmas.

That fair mood lasted precisely seventeen hours, when Saturday’s Daily Prophet arrived. Hermione paid off the post owl only to be greeted by the latest Rita Skeeter “scoop.”

GRAINGER CITED AS CHEAT IN TRIWIZARD DRAMA

Saved By Pleas From Her Competitors

Hermione Grainger, the controversial fourth entrant in the Triwizard Tournament, faced expulsion from the competition and Hogwarts earlier this week, in the wake of an official Ministry complaint into her approach to Tuesday’s First Task. Accusations were laid that Miss Grainger, a Muggleborn, had come into possession of the details of the task by nefarious means. Despite her cheating, she barely scraped through when faced by a dragon, and many onlookers believed she was lucky to survive. One, the fragrant Miss Pansy Parkinson, commented that she felt sorry for the dragon, having to put up with such base company.

The panel of judges, headed by Barty Crouch Senior, was on the brink of disqualifying Grainger from the Tournament. It was only the pleas for clemency from her true wizarding competitors, Mister Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts, Mademoiselle Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang’s own internationally-renowned World Cup hero Viktor Krum, that swayed the vote in favour of leniency, thus proving that courtesy and good breeding is not something one can obtain overnight, but qualities one is born with.

When pressed for a statement, a Ministry official replied: “This investigation goes to show that the Ministry is totally unbiased in the running of the Tournament and ensuring fair play, to the extent that we were prepared to exclude one of Hogwarts’ own competitors, even if she is not a true Champion.” Professor Dumbledore, the ageing Headmaster at Hogwarts, refused to comment. Perhaps the strain of having one of his own students investigated for underhand actions on top of inveigling her way into the contest is too much for an old wizard.

Miss Grainger, when approached, refused an interview.

That story simultaneously deflated the Gryffindor balloon and put fresh heart into the Slytherins. Cedric Diggory tried to help by informing anyone who enquired, and quite a few who did not, of the true nature of events. But with another question mark against the legitimacy of her participation hanging over her, Hermione was once again aware of grumbles and whispers.

That did not necessarily worry Hermione, although she had much preferred the atmosphere of the previous few days.

Still, there was the option that Luna Lovegood had floated, that of an interview for The Quibbler to set the record straight. Hermione made a mental note to speak with the unorthodox Ravenclaw next time their paths crossed.

One issue did worry her, however. The article carried just enough information to lead to the conclusion that someone present in the antechamber had provided details of Wednesday’s hearing. The actions of the other three champions had not been made widely known, given that stress it put on everyone’s relations with the Ministry, and the closeness of the vote had not been publicly disclosed.

Someone had talked.

Hermione narrowed it down to three suspects: Barty Crouch; Igor Karkaroff; and Ludo Bagman. However none appeared to have both motive and opportunity. Crouch was so ingrained with establishment ideology that she found it unbelievable he would leak information to the press. Karkaroff would appear to gain nothing except a little petty revenge on her, which made no real sense. And Bagman had appeared so bewildered when he was finally Ennervated that Hermione doubted he could recall exactly what had occurred.

That nagged away at her all weekend, so it was with some consternation that when she was walking down the hill towards Hagrid’s hut on Monday, ready for Care of Magical Creatures, that she spotted Rita Skeeter loitering.

Marching straight up to the reporter, barely able to keep steam from blowing out of her ears, Hermione spat out a question. “What in the name of Athena are you doing here?”

Rita smiled that sickly, faux smile. “Charming as ever, Miss Granger. Did you enjoy Saturday’s story?”

That needled Hermione. “How did you get that information?” she demanded.

The smile grew wider. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, dear.” She turned her back on the patronised Hermione. “I’m here to speak to Mister Hagrid.”

“Why would you want to talk to Hagrid?” Harry’s question came from over Hermione’s right shoulder. He sounded only marginally less hostile than his friend. Rita ignored him just as said half-giant emerged from behind his hut.

“Who’re yeh?” He was holding a length of grimy rope, the other end of which was looped around the neck of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Rita beamed at him. “Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.” her voice lavished Hagrid with attention.

Hagrid’s eyes narrowed. “Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside Hogwarts?” The Skrewt, forgotten about for the moment, edged towards Rita, who jumped back. She landed in a puddle, splashing her bright maroon cloak with mud.

“Aren’t you the one who wrote that story about Hermione?” Neville sounded cautious. Rita effected not to hear his question. Hagrid, however, had.

“That pack o’lies, yeh mean!” He reined in the Skrewt.

“Nonsense. All true, every word. Must have been the editing.” Rita eyed the Skrewt warily. “Those dangerous creatures are allowed near children?”

“I think yeh’d better leave.” Hagrid’s low bass rumble sounded more threatening than his reputation allowed.

“Oh, but I was so looking forward to interviewing you. You see, the Prophet runs a zoological column -”

“I thought Hagrid said leave.” Harry’s words were cold as iron. His wand was drawn but resting uneasily against his right thigh.

“I got nuthin’ ter say ter the likes of yeh,” Hagrid grumbled. “Yeh’d better go afore I call for Dumbledore. I got a lesson ter ’ old, see.” He allowed the Skrewt a little more slack and it edged towards the brightly-clad reporter, who took two more clumsy steps backwards before slipping and falling on her rear in the mud.

Not a Gryffindor failed to laugh. Beaten, but not defeated, an embarrassed Rita beat a slow, slimy, trail of retreat up the hill.

“Well done Hagrid!” exclaimed Hermione. Hagrid beamed awkwardly in his own turn. The others just gingerly eyed the Skrewt.

* * * * *

Catching up on her course work, in which was barely six months ahead of the syllabus, Hermione found the next few days fly by. She was a little concerned for Harry over his missing Ron’s company, and told him more than once that she would not mind if he spoke to her former friend. Just as long as he did not expect her to follow suit. Harry simply shook his head. He did not even ask her for the gory details of her last failed attempt to patch things up.

They were finishing up in Transfigurations class on the Thursday morning when McGonagall asked Hermione to stay behind for a moment. Harry, who had maintained his seat alongside a sullen Ron, decided to wait at the door for his friend.

The professor primly finished marking the class’ stopping point in her lesson planner, and then looked up. “Miss Granger, I am arranging lessons in dance for those who are attending the Yule Ball,” McGonagall stated. “As you will be leading the dancing, I would suggest that you and your partner would benefit from participating. We would not want you tripping over one another leading things off, after all.” She looked shrewdly at her favourite student. “You do have a partner by now, do you not?”

It was her way of broaching a personal subject.

Finding her shoes quite interesting of a sudden, an embarrassed Hermione could only shake her head. Apart from McLaggen, no-one else had approached her, not even after she had proven her mettle in the First Task. She was damned if she would be found on the arm of a charmless oaf who acted as if he was granting her a favour!

Too late, she had thought of approaching a Ravenclaw contemporary, but Terry Boot and Michael Corner were taking the Patil twins, and that strange Lovegood Third-Year had somehow induced a baffled Anthony Goldstein into partnering her. Closer to home, Seamus and Dean had almost come to blows over Lavender, which pleased said girl no end. For her part, Hermione did not want to end up with one of Miss Brown’s cast-offs, and in any event the loser had not thought to ask.

“No? I am surprised, a good-looking girl such as yourself, especially after that display against the dragon.” McGonagall shook her head in mild disbelief.

‘You’ve obviously forgotten the way I looked after that date with the dragon,’ thought Hermione.

“Any ideas, no?” Hermione forlornly shook her head again. There had been a reason for her tardiness in considering the Ravenclaw option, but in present company, she was not about to give it voice.

McGonagall peered at her over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Well, that just will not do. A Champion must have a partner. Even though you persist in not so viewing yourself, I will not have you embarrass yourself or the school.” She lifted her gaze a fraction and peered at the classroom entrance, trying to make out who was loitering there. “Mister Potter,” she called out, summoning Harry to her. “Come here.”

Harry, blissfully ignorant of the conversation, walked up to Hermione’ side. McGonagall had no time for fripperies. “Mister Potter, do you have a date for the Yule Ball?”

Realising her Head of House’s intent a fraction before McGonagall pounced, Hermione thought: ‘Well, this is pointless, as he’s certain to have asked Cho Ch-’

“Umm … no.” Hermione turned and stared open-mouthed at Harry.

“Well, Miss Granger needs a partner.” McGonagall left it at that, expecting her Gryffindors to act accordingly. Harry just stood there, looking bemused, as if he could not believe what was happening.

McGonagall sighed, and then spelled matters out for the suddenly dumbstruck boy. “You are meant to ask her if she would like to accompany you to the Ball … as your date,” she added, throwing her hands up in despair at the general level of cluelessness on display.

“Oh!” Harry twitched. “Sorry, of course ... Umm, er … Would you, Hermione?”

“Of course she would,” McGonagall answered on her behalf, before the other half could muck things up even further. “Now with that settled, away with the both of you. Stop wasting my time.”

Shell-shocked, Hermione and Harry departed, only to stand looking back in bewilderment at McGonagall from the sanctuary of the corridor.

“I thought you were going to ask Cho Chang?” Hermione put to him quietly.

Harry looked discomfited. “I did,” he replied tersely. “She said no. She’s already agreed to go with someone else.”

“Oh.” Cedric, she bet. Hermione was a little disappointed for Harry, but his confession caused another little stab of pain. Not only had Harry wanted to go with another girl, but even when turned down he had not thought to ask her. “You know, Harry, you don’t have to be my partner if you don’t want to,” she said honestly.

“No, sounds like a good idea, although I can’t dance.” Harry stopped and looked strangely at Hermione. “I still can’t figure it out, but you do look different somehow,” he remarked. “Come on, we’re missing break.”

Hermione remained where she was for a moment. ‘Why, if I am going to the Ball with Harry, don’t I feel as happy as I was when I thought he was going to ask me before?’ she asked herself.

Shrugging the question off for later consideration, she caught up with Harry and they went on their way of the Great Hall.

* * * * *

Thanks to beta readers Bexis and George. They continue with their never-ending ruthless work!

McGonagall’s comment on Hermione’s policy of directing her magic towards changing the environment around the dragon, instead of directly against the beast itself, was inspired by a review from Newyn, who commented that the latter required several handlers to restrain the dragon.

The full quote from Sir Winston Churchill is: “In war: resolution. In defeat: defiance. In victory: magnanimity. In peace: goodwill” from the preface to his history of the Second World War. I had debated and, in some cases, been urged to allow Hermione to give the rest of Gryffindor House both barrels as suggested by Ginny. I am not sure that would be Hermione’s way, although she does consider it.

The idea for Harry threatening to withdraw from the Quidditch team if the Gryffindors did not support Hermione originally came from Quillian.

My thanks to the members of the Yahoo Group Caer Azkaban, especially Indigo Cat and Chris Hill, for their suggestions for McGonagall’s insults for Percy.

Dulux is Britain’s leading paint company.

Are the three other Champions too noble to risk sacrificing themselves for Hermione? My take is that the Goblet of Fire selects based not only on magical ability but also moral courage. Of course, if the Goblet had been suborned to select Harry, it is possible that the other choices have been interfered with, but as no-one in canon is surprised when Cedric, Viktor & Fleur are selected, it seems unlikely.

For those of you [yes, I mean YOU] who require a translation of the “conversation” between Viktor Krum and Igor Karkaroff, here it is, courtesy of my beta reader George (assuming you don‘t want the Cyrillic version, which he gave me originally, but I cannot use without reconfiguring my keyboard…)

Karkaroff: “You were ordered to stay in the ship!”

Viktor: “My presence as a Champion is required.”

Karkaroff: “Your presence is not required. Go back; you and I will discuss your disobedience when I return.”

Viktor: “No. I will speak, I will not be silenced.”

Karkaroff: “I warn you Viktor, remain silent or face the consequences.”

Viktor: “If I do not speak the truth then I will condemn myself as unworthy of my role.”

Karkaroff: “Do you really think this little Mudblood is worth the sacrifice?”

Viktor: “Even if Hermy-own-ninny Granger was not my friend, I would see the truth out.”

Karkaroff: “I warn you Viktor, celebrity will not protect you. I have many friends in high places who will -”

Viktor: “I know exactly who you are, Igor Karkaroff, and what you used to be. Your threats are worthless here. What would you do? Expel me? How would the Minister in Sofia react to that?”

Karkaroff: “You ignorant brat. You believe sitting astride a broom will save you. I warn you… no, I tell you, it will not. Ministers cannot save you, nor can you hide under Dumbledore’s skirts for ever. You cannot escape the consequences. I wash my hands of you. On your own head be it.”

And, finally, “Krum, za suzhalenie ti vinagi si si bil, i zavinagi shte si ostanesh prosto edin glupak” = You always were a fool, Krum.”

Oh, and dobro ootro = good morning; trooden = difficult, and biblioteca = library according to my cheap & cheerful phrasebook!

A Happy New Year to everyone! Finally, we make it to the Yule Ball.

My thanks to beta readers Bexis and George.

The characters & canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

“Keep still!” The voice in Hermione’s ear was impatient but slightly muffled by the hair clips held between the speaker’s lips. “If you keep fidgeting like that, we’ll be here all night, and I‘ve yet to get ready myself.”

Hermione half-smiled at Lavender Brown’s instructions. There were still a couple of hours before the Yule Ball began, but it seemed that Lavender had been struggling against the tangled lengths of Hermione’s hair for at least that long.

It was, Hermione admitted, not her natural habitat.

She had never spent hours preparing herself in front of a mirror, with other girls primping and chattering away in various states of dress and undress. Now the air was thick with perfume and other cosmetic substances, some magical and others magical. Parvati had proclaimed that no-one in Diagon Alley could produce a scent as fine as that of Coco Chanel.

When it became common knowledge amongst the Gryffindors that Hermione was expected to play a major part in the Yule Ball, Lavender and Parvati had thrown themselves with gusto into planning to turn this book-loving Belle into Cinderella - a real fairy princess. Hermione suspected that this was their way of making up for the distance they had kept from her between Halloween and the First Task. Even so, she had never felt particularly close to her two dorm mates.

Still, for the first time, Hermione felt like one of the girls. To her surprise it was not as awful as she had feared. While Lavender and Parvati had debated the benefits and detriments of various hair treatments, charms and spells, she had learned far more about their personalities in the last two weeks than in the preceding three years. It may not have been the start of a firm friendship, but it at least constituted the start of a civil connection between them.

Right now they were treating her unruly mane with an industrial-sized supply of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. As she relaxed under the influence of her first ever scalp massage, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of letting her thoughts drift over the events of the last few weeks.

The identity of her partner at the Yule Ball had remained a secret for precisely as long as it took for Harry and Hermione to attend their first dancing lesson under McGonagall’s auspices. With Neville and Ginny among the other committed couples taking the opportunity of practising their steps, Hermione’s pairing was soon the subject of good-natured comment in the common room.

She had seen no need to keep the fact a secret, but it was simply not in her nature to broadcast such matters to all and sundry. When he had first heard the news, Malfoy had tried to goad a reaction out of Harry with his usual insults. He received more than he bargained for, and in the process Hermione was also taken by surprise. In a move that warned her heart, Harry had declared to everyone within earshot that he was proud to be Hermione’s partner. After all, as he had told the obnoxious Slytherin: “Who wouldn’t want a dragon tamer? She sure tamed you last year.”

The proud Slytherin was struck dumb in his tracks.

Of course, the Pygmy Puff in the potion was Ronald Bilius Weasley, whom she had “tamed” more recently than the preening Draco Malfoy. Hermione had expected that the news would send that idiot into an even deeper slough of jealousy. Even though sorely tempted to have yet another conversation with Ronald, she doubted that her patience would last. For that reason she had steered clear of him, even though Ron at times appeared to seek another confrontation. Ron’s conspicuous absence from any of the dancing lessons helped her immensely in her avoidance schemes.

Ginny’s reaction had been interesting. At the initial dance lesson, when she first noticed Harry take Hermione’s hands, Ginny had paled and flinched as though she, too, had been slapped. Hermione was well aware, unlike Harry, that Ginny still carried a torch for ‘The Boy-Who-Lived.’ She feared Ginny may choose to sacrifice their friendship over the fact, but fortunately that did not happen, despite the redhead’s recent noticeable reservation towards her and Harry. The promise that Ginny could have at least one dance with Harry had restored some cheer to the youngest Weasley. Consequently, Ginny was even now helping, or hindering, depending upon one’s perspective, with all the fuss that was the makeover of Hermione Granger.

Dancing with Harry …

Unbidden a smile crept across Hermione’s face. Not, mind you, due to Harry’s dancing skills; they had not been undersold. Hermione was relieved that before anyone had taken a step, McGonagall had instructed her charges in a handy little charm that protected fragile female toes from clod-hopping schoolboy shoes. The problem was Harry was… well, just too stiff! He was palpably nervous, his stance rigid, whilst he gingerly held Hermione at the waist, as if playing Exploding Snap. He seemed almost scared about where his hands contacted her body, and certainly worried too much about that compared to where his feet were landing,

Around his incessant apologies, McGonagall fretted and was nearly in despair over the prospect of two of her Gryffindors letting the side down on the big night, an attitude that communicated itself all too well to an ever-anxious Harry Potter.

Then again, Harry had his own problems that, despite Hermione’s urgings, he had not taken up with McGonagall, or even Dumbledore. To hear him tell of them, his nightmares were becoming more defined. There was a large marble headstone dominating his dreams and he awoke drenched in sweat, hundreds of weathered grave markers and crosses filling his view. It was unsettling news.

Much more worrisome and immediate was the revelation on the last Saturday, the first day of the Christmas holiday. There were far fewer people in the Castle. Most of the First to Third years had returned to their homes, along with some of the elder students who had chosen, or been ordered, not to attend the Ball.

Harry had been poring over the Marauders’ Map - Hermione suspected he was surreptitiously trying to discover Ron’s whereabouts - in a quiet corner of the common room when he had called her over.

“Hey, Hermione, come and look at this!”

“What is it, Harry?”

Harry’s finger pointed out one miniscule figure on the ancient-looking parchment. “See who’s in Mad-Eye’s office?”

Hermione squinted and bent over the map. Slowly she made out the name. “Bartemius Crouch… I wonder why he’s here?” She looked to Harry. “Surely not another problem with the competition?” she said wearily. “Anyway, Professor Moody’s not there.”

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s not all, Hermione.” He moved his finger to an area of the castle’s grounds, near to where a slightly larger caricature of the Giant Squid rose and fell in the lake. “Look who’s talking with Karkaroff.”

“Let’s see… Bart- Bartemius Crouch! Barty Crouch again?” Hermione ran her finger back to the Defence Against the Dark Arts’ teacher’s office. Undeniably two of the dots carried the same label.

Harry appeared a little confused. “How can that happen?”

Hermione worried her bottom lip, her habit when presented with a problem, as she pondered over this fresh puzzle. After a few seconds, she spoke. “A Time-Turner..?” Then, with greater confidence. “Yes! That has to be it! He must be using a Time-Turner. But why?”

“A Time -Turner?” Harry seemed no more enlightened than before.

“It’s the only way he could appear in two places at once, like us at the end of last year,” Hermione replied with a certainty born of personal experience.

“But you never showed up twice last year.”

Hermione shook her head. “I was careful and until I showed you, I only ever used it during class times. And you never used the Map during a lesson.” She gave Harry a little knowing smile. “You normally spent your free periods playing Wizards’ Chess or some other game with…” The sentence trailed off before she could mention Ron’s name.

Harry shrugged and looked at the two representations of Barty Crouch. “But why?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione muttered distractedly.

No fresh light had been shed on that conundrum since. Whatever Barty Crouch’s reasons for using a Time-Turner, Hermione doubted it boded well for her, as all of her interactions with the Ministry’s representative had been confrontational.

They debated whether to reveal this information to Dumbledore or Moody, but in the end decided against. There was no proof that Barty Crouch was acting illegally. As a Ministry official he could very well have been assigned a Time Turner to allow him to complete his multitude of responsibilities regarding the competition. It could also, as Hermione had pointed out, have led to the Marauders’ Map being confiscated, especially if Moody were involved.

Then there had been Hermione’s interview with The Quibbler’s Hogwarts’ correspondent, Luna Lovegood. Hermione thought that Luna’s father would conduct the interview personally, but apparently matters were handled differently in the Lovegoods’ world. To be honest, Hermione was unsure how it would turn out in print, as some of Luna’s questions were strikingly irrelevant, such as whether the Crumple-Horned Snorkack should be added to the protected magical species list.

‘Mind you,’ thought Hermione, ‘Luna can’t do more of a hatchet job on me than Rita Skeeter!’

She would find out if that were true when the New Year’s edition was printed.

And then there had been Viktor’s problems - repercussions from his breach with Karkaroff. Although Hermione understood that details of that fateful meeting were not common knowledge amongst the Durmstrang party, sides had obviously been taken. To her surprise, Viktor had proven to have a large body of support from not only the older students, who knew him best, but from many of the younger ones as well, who regarded him as a home-grown hero. Karkaroff retained support from those who shared his prejudiced views or were cowed by his reputation and status as Headmaster. It was not enough, as Viktor had explained, for Karkaroff to move against him openly. The Durmstrang Headmaster evidently remained in a self-imposed internal exile within the wooden hull. Apart from that one occasion, his name had not appeared on Harry’s map since the latest blow-up over her participation in the Tournament.

Of course, Viktor had translated the gist of his exchanges with Karkaroff, both at the judges’ meeting and the icy discursions that occurred behind closed portholes. Although professing some faith in the Ministry’s protection, even if only as a last resort, Viktor had taken elementary precautions, such as keeping at least one of his friends always at his side on board the Durmstrang ship. He clumsily joked that he was imitating her and Harry. So far he had not sought to “hide behind Dumbledore’s skirts.” Hermione could tell Krum was thinking ahead to what might befall him after he left the relative safety of Hogwarts. One consequence was his spending less time in the Library, and instead tending to his own good standing within his school’s student body.

“Nearly finished!” Lavender sounded elated, as if she just completed her own personal extra credit project.

Hermione hauled herself back to the present and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

“Ooh! There’s beautiful!” At least the mirror seemed remarkably upbeat in its opinions today. This time around it was completely justified.

Hermione could hardly believe it herself. The side strands of her hair, courtesy of Ginny’s magical braiding with one of Molly’s many handy personal spells, now wound around her forehead, providing a band that kept her fringe from flopping over her eyes. The rest of her long hair that, when wet, passed well below the small of her back, was now sleek and shiny instead of its usual tangled mess. It formed elegant knots at the back of her head and on her temples. Stray tendrils floated around her ears, providing a more natural look and a pleasing frame to her face.

“You do look beautiful,” Ginny commented wistfully. “You’re dead lucky, Hermione, getting the Boy-Who-Lived as a partner.”

“But I haven’t,” Hermione replied.

“Haven’t what?”

Hermione sighed. “I’m going to the Ball with Harry.” She noted with resignation the perplexed expression worn by Ginny’s mirror-image. “My friend Harry. Not the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“Same thing,” sniffed Ginny.

‘So she was that clueless.’ Hermione turned in her seat. “Ginny, you have to remember Harry isn’t the Boy-Who-Lived. He hates being called that, or even thought that.”

Her answer left Ginny looking a little resentful. “Why would he?”

“Well, Harry likes being thought of as … normal.”

Ginny stared hard at Hermione for a moment. “What rubbish, Hermione. Harry’s the greatest wizard on Earth.”

Hermione just shook her head. “I can assure you, he doesn’t think that way.” She lowered her voice so that the other girls did not catch her next words. “And calling him the Boy-Who-Lived only reminds him of who didn’t that night.”

Ginny blanched. “Oh,” she replied in a very small voice. Hermione reached out an arm to gently reassure her younger friend.

“Ginny, if you care about Harry, don’t put him on a pedestal,” Hermione spoke frankly. “He’s very special - and every bit as much a hero to me as to you.” Actually Hermione doubted that, given Ginny’s obvious crush on Mister Potter. “But he’s happiest when he can be plain old boring Harry Potter.”

“I doubt that,” Ginny shot back tartly. “Harry could never be boring.”

Ginny was worse than clueless. For a second time Hermione sighed, this time internally. She was determined to enjoy her Christmas Eve, and this discussion was not helping. Setting Ginny Weasley straight was not on her agenda, not now and maybe never. “Just trust me, Ginny, and treat him as a normal fourteen year-old boy,” she said to little apparent effect.

So much the better. Ginny, at least, would never have any success with Harry that way.

Time to change the subject. “Would you like me to help you with your hair now?”

* * * * *

Finally the Gryffindor girls were prepared.

Hermione had stepped into her own periwinkle-blue dress and was gratified to find that it fitted as well as it had done last month, magically hugging her figure. Sure, it may appear a little conservative compared to some, she thought as Alicia slipped past in her own slinky little silver number. As far as Hermione was concerned, it was the most beautiful garment she had ever worn.

Pulling on her own matching shoes, with their more-than-slightly-higher heel than she wore ordinarily, Hermione was grateful for yet another Weasley family charm; one that ensured she could keep her balance. She applied the last of her deliberately sparse make-up: a touch of eye shadow and a little lip gloss was all she wanted. She did accept Parvati’s help with a small glamour charm that hid what Hermione saw as unsightly dragon fire scars on her cheek.

Ginny’s traditional little black dress had been deemed perfectly acceptable by the Weasley matriarch. Indeed, Molly had applied a little more family magic in updating what Ginny revealed was regarded as a family heirloom. But that was before Ginny added a little spell work of her own; it was now highly unlikely that the dress would pass Molly’s strict guidelines. Did she use yet another charm to keep it in place?

Only magic could have restrained Katie Bell’s generous endowment, as she stalked past in a scarlet replica of Liz Hurley’s Versace “safety-pin” effort. Hermione wondered how the older and absent Oliver Wood would have reacted if he had glimpsed his girlfriend’s attire! Hermione hoped for his sake that Lee Jordan would behave himself tonight.

What had become the grand dressing room slowly emptied as more and more girls drifted away to meet their partners in the common room, or if their partners were not Gryffindors, the Entrance Hall. Before long, Hermione was the last one left, feeling like the ugly duckling straggling behind.

She felt something else: butterflies, stirring deep within her stomach. She had attended the odd engagement, wedding and grown-up birthday party away from Hogwarts. But she had never been to an event where she was to be one of the centres of attention.

But that was not really it, and she knew it. Hermione could no longer deny to herself that Harry was the source of the majority of butterflies. Any body else’s opinion paled by comparison. She felt nearly as nervous as she had before taking on that dragon.

Her self-delusions had come to a crashing end. She could no longer deny that she wished to take their friendship a step further.

If only her timing had not been so ruddy rotten, and she were not caught up in the mire of the Triwizard mess.

‘Even if it’s only one evening, I can pretend Harry’s all mine.’ The thought provided her with a hint of bittersweet solace.

Taking a deep breath and hoping it would pacify her fluttering nerves, Hermione started down the staircase to the common room. With every step she feared that her traitorous legs would give way.

Mercifully, she spotted Harry before he saw her. Dressed in robes of a very dark bottle green, he stood in the middle of the common room with his back to the stairs, staring at the fire.

‘Did he even care?’ She wobbled at the thought. Thank Merlin for Molly’s charm!

Another couple of shaky steps; only a few more to go.

Harry turned, and as he saw her, she watched as his eyes opened and his jaw dropped perceptibly.

What was wrong? Had she smudged her minimal make-up? Was there something wrong with her dress? Had her hair reverted to its untamed primal state? Was there a smut on her nose? Had the spell concealing the scarring failed?

Hermione was on the verge of turning on her tail and fleeing back up the stairs when Harry seemed finally to collect a semblance of thoughts.

“Wow!” he said, the word low, breathy and drawn-out.

Hermione froze, hardly believing her ears. Was that really Harry talking - trying to talk?

“You look…” Harry’s voice hitched. He was lost for words.

Ginny, watched this whole non-exchange with resignation etched in her face. Finally she seemed to have had enough. “Stunning, Harry?” she prompted the boy. “Smashing? Beautiful, perhaps?”

Oblivious to the sarcasm, Harry nodded absent-mindedly. “Bloody hell, yeah! All of those.” He sounded like every dream he had ever had just came true.

Ginny shook her head. “I think you’ve broken him, Hermione.” Her gay tone was more than a little forced. “If he recovers his wits and makes it to the Ball, I’ll have that dance with him later.”

With that, Ginny took Neville’s arm. An interested but silent observer to the three-way exchange, he had been offering her his attention for some time. He swept the two of them towards the portrait hole without a backward glance.

Only a few more steps and Hermione reached Harry’s side. “Are you all right, Harry?” she enquired. He looked so damned handsome in those dress robes!

“Umm… I think so - yeah,” Harry replied in a distant tone. He acted uncertainly, not sure what he was supposed to do next.

Hermione was quicker in recovering her poise. Instinctively she reached out and straightened his bow tie. Having so obviously won Harry’s attention gave her confidence. All those butterflies had taken full flight, and Hermione felt she was floating on air alongside them. “Hadn’t we better go? Best not to be late.”

“Hmm ..? What?” Harry was still lost in his own warm little world until he snapped out of it. “Oh! Yes, we’d better.” He turned towards the portrait hole, took a step, then stopped mid-stride. His shoulders slumped as he turned around and rather shamefacedly offered his arm to his date. “Sorry, not quite with it,” he apologised.

Hermione smiled at her achievement in somehow unsettling the boy. “Do you really like it, Harry?”

“You look… really, really… um, nice, Hermione,” he stammered nervously. Her smile faltered for a second at this blandest of compliments. “Um… not just nice… would you be offended if I said you’re very pretty?” he offered tentatively.

“No, not at all.” The smile she beamed back at Harry could have set him alight.

“How about beautiful, then?” He upped the ante as his own fortitude began seeping back. “When did you, um… your teeth?”

‘At last,’ Hermione thought. ‘He’s noticed.’

“After the dragon knocked them out.”

Harry blinked. “I knew there was something different,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Harry,” Hermione was just a little impatient. Harry just stared at her. “The Ball?”

He left his own musings behind and offered her a gentlemanly arm. “Right - must get the Champion there on time!”

As they walked towards the marble staircase they saw the Entrance Hall emptying rapidly, as students from all three schools filtered through the doors into the Great Hall.

“Entrance?” Hermione suggested.

“Thoroughly.” Harry answered absently, before realising what she meant.

For one enchanted evening… or maybe, just possibly, something better. Hermione fought with herself throughout the trip to the Great Hall. She was the Gryffindor champion. She was a fifteen-year-old girl. She had stolen a dragon’s egg and lived to tell about it. She had feelings that she couldn’t even put into words. To the Goblet of Fire, she epitomised Gryffindor bravery. To the boy next to her, she epitomised a best friend. She should. She shouldn’t. Finally, with the Great Hall just around the last corner, she wondered if this would be the night when she discovered where she stood with Harry. She shivered at the thought.

By the oak front doors stood the other three Champions and their partners. At this distance Hermione could not quite make out who Viktor’s and Fleur Delacour’s dates were, but the unmistakeably slight figure of Cho Chang could be seen standing close by Cedric.

Arriving at the foot of the stairs, Hermione and Harry were accosted by Professor McGonagall. Her habitual stern expression had become uncharacteristically flustered, just as her customary black robes were now replaced by a green, dark blue and black tartan, shot through with threads of red and white.

“Potter, Granger, I had feared you were going to be late.” She favoured her charges with appraising sweeps of her eyes, before leaning in close to Hermione. “I was certain that dress would suit you, and you wear it so well.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Hermione’s smile was growing broader by the second.

“And you, Mister Potter.” McGonagall brushed what Hermione thought must have imaginary lint off of Harry’s shoulders. “Scrubs up quite nicely.” She turned to Hermione again and the student was mildly shocked when her teacher winked at her. “Would you not agree, Miss Granger?”

“Y- yes, Professor,” Hermione admitted, and not merely for her teacher’s benefit.

“Good, well…” McGonagall assumed her normal authoritative air. “If you will just join the other Champions. I shall signal when you are to enter the Great Hall.” With that the Deputy Headmistress strode off to stand by the large doors on their left, where the last few late arriving dance goers were trickling through, quite a few glancing curiously at the guests of honour. She did seem to give a glare of some disapproval to someone or something in the Entrance Hall, well beyond Hermione’s field of vision.

The nearest couple were Cedric and Cho. She wore the very simple silver ball gown that Hermione had spotted her trying on in Gladrags. Hermione shared a brief nod of association with Cedric and mouthed a quiet “Hello” to an equally nervous looking Cho.

With a glance to her side, cold, harsh reality came to re-impose itself upon Hermione. Harry could hardly tear his eyes away from the Ravenclaw Seeker. Unknowingly biting her lip, Hermione wondered if her chances were any better than those of hero-worshipping Ginny.

Hermione momentarily sought to distract her thoughts with Viktor, who was dressed magnificently in something akin to a Nineteenth Century Hussar’s colourful tunic. He turned to face Hermione, and caught some look of regret in her expression. Flinching, Viktor eventually offered the same awkwardly formal short bow of the head as when they first met. The identity of Hogwarts’ ambassador was now revealed as Penelope Clearwater - an obvious choice, Hermione reflected, as Head Girl - who wore a strapless dress of midnight blue. Both seemed to be perfectly satisfied with their choice of partner.

Furthest away from Hermione and Harry, closest to the doors, stood Fleur Delacour, in stunning robes of silver-grey satin. The Beauxbatons’ Champion also wore the look of the cat that had the cream.

Intrigued as to whom her Ambassador might be, Hermione stepped a little wider. That was strange - it looked like …

“Bill?” She took a couple of steps in his direction.

Sensing her approach, William Weasley turned and smiled rather nervously at Hermione. As he did so Fleur, whose arm was linked with Bill’s, perceptibly tightened her hold on her prize.

As if Fleur had anything to fear from the likes of her.

“Hermione.” He gave a low whistle of appreciation. “You look lovely tonight.”

‘Well,’ she thought, as she blushed slightly at the compliment. ‘Perhaps a little.’

“Thank you. You’re quite dashing as well.” That was no exaggeration. His flaming red hair was tied back, exposing his rakish fang earring. He filled out the formal robes of the Guild of Curse-Breakers in fine fashion. “I’m just a little surprised…”

Fleur, appearing a mite jealous at the attention Bill was both receiving from and showing to Hermione, pouted slowly. “Mais Guillaume, why settle for le garç on when l’homme is ’ere?”

“Yes, we were all a little… surprised.” McGonagall’s tart observation drew attention to the Deputy Headmistress, who had abandoned her post now everyone else was inside. “Still, Miss Delacour’s… unorthodox choice -” Fleur shrugged in a typically Gallic gesture “- has both Professor Dumbledore’s and Madame Maxime’s approval. I suppose as a former Head Boy William does represent the School.” She shook her head. Hermione guessed that matters would have been different in McGonagall’s day.

Bill had the good grace to blush a little. “I’m just the poor innocent here, Professor,” he pleaded with some mock humility.

“Hmph!” scoffed McGonagall. “Mister Weasley, the one thing I could never accuse you of being was innocent.” But the clear warmth behind her words robbed them of any insult.

Playing his part, Bill gave a mock tug of his forelock. “Yes, Miss!”

Under her breath McGonagall muttered something about “Weasleys” and “trouble.” Then she addressed the eight young people. “In a moment I will lead you into the Great Hall. Now, partners pair up!”

Hermione started to turn back to where Harry was standing, looking a little like she felt - forlorn, with his date chatting to Bill, and Cho hanging off Cedric’s arm. She was interrupted when Fleur tapped her on the shoulder. Hermione turned.

“I must zank you for introducing Beel to me.” The word ‘Bill’ was drawn out as though savoured on the tongue. “’E is, ’ow you say, ’andsome - trè s beau!” With that the French girl turned to smile at her partner, ready to lead the parade into the Ball.

Bringing up the rear, Hermione and Harry heard the applause begin as the assembly caught their first glimpse of Bill and Fleur. The two leading pairs both seemed quite at ease in this setting, whilst Cedric and Cho appeared as nervous as Hermione felt and Harry looked. Hermione tried to disperse some of her anxiety by seeking out those she knew - Ginny, with Neville, or Lavender, or Parvati - favouring them with some self-conscious waves.

The Hall was almost completely unrecognisable, made up to look something akin to a winter wonderland, with silvery frost and ice sparkling, reflecting hundreds of tiny lanterns.

On their way to the top table, Hermione caught the predictable sneers of Draco Malfoy, clad all in black, accompanied by a frothy pink sensation that might have been Pansy Parkinson. Pink was so not her colour!

So far, she had not seen Ron nor found out who was his partner.

Not that she cared, not anymore.

There were a few more surprises awaiting her at the Top Table. Perhaps the least surprising was the garish purple and yellow combination sported by the never-understated Ludo Bagman.

But the other Ministry representative was not, as expected, Barty Crouch. His place was taken by Percy Weasley, who was spending most of his time glaring at an unsuspecting Viktor Krum. Hermione, who had her own issues with this renegade Weasley, stood unmoving for a second or two, before Harry pulled out a chair for her. Sitting down next to Madame Maxime, Hermione contributed her own glare in Percy’s direction, until she overheard a more interesting exchange between Viktor and Dumbledore.

“Karkaroff?” Viktor’s voice was devoid of emotion or surprise.

“Ah, well,” Dumbledore responded. “Igor is… indisposed this evening. Apparently an urgent matter has arisen in Kiev that requires his immediate and personal attention.”

Unlike Hermione’s silent treatment, Harry chatted in a desultory fashion with Percy, who had news to recount. Despite her feelings towards him, Hermione could not help but be intrigued. Crouch’s ill health, all too apparent to her weeks ago, had worsened due to workload, with the Tournament following closely on the heels of the World Cup. Recalling her own exhaustion last year with the Time Turner, Hermione was not surprised at that outcome.

Apparently Crouch received an extended leave of absence over Christmas, in hope he would recuperate sufficiently to take up the reins again when the Triwizard recommenced in February. As a result, Percy had been promoted to be the Ministry’s official representative in the interim.

Bitterly, Hermione wondered how much his official complaint against her had aided Percy’s promotion. The Peter Principle was obviously alive and well in Wizarding Britain. ‘Over-promoted, more like!’

McGonagall was trying to break the ice with Fleur Delacour, regaling her with tales of Bill’s exploits during his Hogwarts’ years. From the little she could make out, Hermione concluded her anecdotes were exaggerated, otherwise she could not figure out how Bill ever made Head Boy. Regardless of veracity, McGonagall was evidently successful; life was soon breathed into the Auld Alliance of France and Scotland.

Bill, as relaxed as Hermione was tense, chatted merrily with Cedric and Cho, every so often turning his attention to his beautiful partner. Harry quickly tired of Percy and joined in. Inevitably the talk turned to Quidditch, as three Seekers discussed tactics and ruses, with Bill contributing stories of Charlie’s prowess in that position.

Hermione was slightly surprised that Viktor Krum, undeniably the greatest Seeker present, had not yet contributed to the Quidditch debate. Viktor seemed quite happy to talk with Penelope Clearwater, paying careful attention to her words, and phrasing his own carefully in a language foreign to him. Penelope was equally happy to bask in the attention. Perhaps too happy; Hermione noticed that every so often Penelope would glance up the table at Percy, then, each time, with a satisfied smile, turn her back just a little more to the new Ministry representative.

Each time, Percy would return her glance with an undignified glare at the happy couple.

Hermione finding herself in Madame Maxime’s extremely large shadow, started her own conversation with the Beauxbatons’ Headmistress. Both women took the opportunity to polish their own skills in the other’s language. Hermione was truly interested in the differences between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, although the French school would not be an option if she were expelled from Hogwarts, as her magic would disappear along with her education.

From further down the table, Hermione caught snatches of discussion between Fleur and Penny Clearwater. “Zey told me zey ’ad zis boy - Rog-air I zink ’is name - but nevair would I choose…”

Once Dumbledore started the meal by declaring “Pork chops!” Harry quickly ordered a plate of goulash, the dish appearing immediately in front of him. Hermione realised she was not all that hungry, especially with a dance to follow. Feeling guilty at putting the house-elves to even more work, Hermione politely requested a cheese and mushroom omelette and light salad.

Wine appeared for the adults, with sparkling water, pumpkin juice or Butterbeer for the under-age students. Again, Hermione felt out of place; the only Champion in the latter category.

As the meal continued, Dumbledore and Maxime swapped tales of their respective schools, laughing merrily at each other’s humorous stories. Percy chose to laugh the hardest at anything said by either Head.

Viktor, opposite her, regaled Hermione with stories about Durmstrang, and explained the workings of the strange ship that had brought him to Scotland. Penelope was hanging on the Bulgarian’s every word. Harry asked occasional Quidditch related questions, each of which drew exasperated looks shared between their partners. ‘Boys!’ thought Hermione in jest.

Tuning out the talk of Quaffles, Bludgers and Snitches, Hermione looked around the Hall, trying to pick out her friends. Seamus had won the fight for Lavender’s hand. That meant Dean Thomas was now partnering Parvati, whose body language betrayed her dissatisfaction at being second choice.

‘I know how you feel,’ Hermione sympathised with a tinge of sadness. Her thoughts were underscored by Cho’s nervous giggle from down the table, no doubt prompted by some tall tale about Bill’s days in Egypt.

Then she caught sight of Ron, looking rather surly at the turn of events. One reason undoubtedly was his obviously handed-down dress robes. They left the unfortunate impression that he was wearing an old-fashioned lampshade.

Hermione nudged Harry’s elbow.

“Hmm?”

Hermione leaned in and surreptitiously pointed out Ron’s location.

“Is that..?”

“Eloise Midgen,” Harry confirmed. “Ron must have been desperate.”

“Harry!” Hermione reproached, a mite scandalised at his rather chauvinistic comment.

“Well,” Harry replied defensively. “He did say her nose was off-centre.”

“That’s…”

“Unfair?” Harry whispered with a smile.

“Well, yes,” Hermione struggled to hide her own grin.

The Horntail had done worse to Hermione’s nose than anything Eloise could possibly contemplate. Fortunately Madam Pomfrey had far more success in restoring Hermione’s nasal structure than whoever had treated poor Eloise.

“But true, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione made an uncharacteristic girlish laugh, which brought a grin from her partner. “I wouldn’t say,” she whispered. “And neither should you.”

Looking away, Hermione caught Ron staring at them as they swapped banter. Instead of the anticipated anger, she saw another mix of emotions that she could not decipher at this range, before Ron turned his attention back to the mountain of food he had ordered.

Hermione hoped that Eloise was light on her feet.

Dessert came, with Harry choosing ice cream and Hermione a crepe. Then Dumbledore rose, and, after asking everyone else present to do the same, with one majestic wave cleared the floor of tables and introduced the Weird Sisters, the night’s band.

It was time for the main event.

Hermione shared a nervous glance with Harry, who seemed a little pale. They both knew what was coming next. Hermione produced her wand and tapped the tip against her stylish heels, turning them into perfectly acceptable pumps.

The Hall was pitched into darkness, with the exception of the lanterns over the Top Table.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, students and staff of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang and Hogwarts, please welcome the Champions of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Once again the air was filled with applause. Swallowing her nerves, Hermione took the hand Harry offered, and they followed the other three pairs onto a now empty dance floor.

For a second, the two of them stood there, uncertain what to do. Finally, Hermione made the first move. She reached out, took Harry’s right hand in her left, and guided his left onto her waist. Fixing him with all the confidence she could muster, she took in his near panicked expression and rigid stance.

‘Is this really how he feels?’ she wondered.

The first few notes fluttered through the air.

“Just relax, Harry,” she ordered. “Just think of it as…” She searched her mind for an appropriate simile. “Just like flying a broom. You’re not afraid of flying, are you?”

Harry was almost incoherent. “Um… not with you, I guess.”

‘Was that how he felt?’

“I’ll steer,” Hermione commanded. “Just follow… Go with the flow, Harry.”

With that, she bore off with her obviously reluctant partner. Luckily the first dance was a simple waltz, and between Hermione’s improvisation and Harry’s natural sense of timing they managed a passable enough stab at it. No significant damage was inflicted on either their reputations or Hermione’s toes.

Hermione was just staring to enjoy herself when the music finished. With a sinking feeling, she looked at Harry, hoping to communicate her desire stay for another twirl, but fearing that he would seek the anonymity of the crowd on the sidelines.

Other couples now joined the four pairs on the floor, bringing with them some of that anonymity. Harry glanced around briefly, then met Hermione’s pleading eyes.

“Fancy another go?” he said quietly.

Hermione beamed. “I would be delighted and honoured, sir,” she replied with the slight dip of a curtsey and more than a hint of another giggle. This time Harry remembered exactly where his hands should go, but was still content for Hermione to assume the lead.

Two dances became three, and then four. It was only them, just two partners moving in simple, uncomplicated steps, ignoring the world around them. Hermione found herself gazing deep into Harry’s eyes, wishing she could feel like this forever. She forgot all about Ministry bureaucrats, dragons, or Goblets of Fire. Just for tonight she was a young witch enjoying herself, dancing with the boy she admired and…

Friendship. What was she thinking? That was all Hermione knew she could ask for, or expect, from Harry. Anything more was simply wishing for the moon and Hermione Granger was not one for impossible targets. Well, not of the heart, anyway. Down that path lay anguish and distraction, and she needed to avoid those twins now.

But not tonight. Tonight she could make believe she was dancing in the arms of a truly special friend.

‘I am going to enjoy myself tonight,’ Hermione swore to herself. ‘Then even if they throw me out, or I walk away, I will still have my memories.’

“Hermione?”

Jolted from her meandering thoughts, Hermione thought she detected a note of concern in Harry’s voice. She shook her head.

“Nothing, Harry. Just thinking.”

“You never stop that, do you?” he mused, then stopped dancing. “Take a break?”

Hermione was about to protest when she realised how warm it really was, even under the illusion of a wintry Christmas. “Yes, that’d be okay.”

“You grab some seats and I’ll get the drinks. Butterbeer okay?”

Hermione nodded. “Please.”

As they drifted to the fringes of the dancers, Hermione took the opportunity to watch some of the couples. Ginny grinned at her as Neville twirled the pair of them past, showing some skill that the Yorkshire lad had previously kept hidden under a bushel.

Viktor Krum’s skill on the dance floor matched those displayed in the Quidditch stadium, and Penelope Clearwater was proving both an eager and attentive student. The Headmaster, done dancing with Madame Maxime, was now sharing his favours with the distaff side of his own faculty. The massive Frenchwoman now cut a truly impressive swathe across the floor with Hagrid, a surprising yet oddly obvious partner. The gamekeeper was beaming and sweating buckets at the same time.

It had to be magic that was keeping Katie Bell’s dress on. Either that or the eyes of every male student in the Hall.

Free seats were to be had towards the back of the Hall. Hermione pointed them out to Harry, then moved to claim them. Sitting down, fanning herself with her hand, Hermione had never thought simple dancing would be such an exertion.

Or so exhilarating.

She sensed someone come up behind her. Expecting Harry, she half-turned, speaking as she did so.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?”

It was Ron, looking thoroughly miserable at the state of play.

“So that’s how it’s going to be from now on, is it?” he said, more in resignation than with the anger she both expected and dreaded.

“How what is?” These days almost anything he said to her had her defences bristling.

Ron gestured vaguely in the direction of the dance floor. “You and him?”

Hermione felt her ire rising. “Just what do you mean?” she replied in a dangerously low voice.

“You. Him. Harry and you.” He sounded vaguely sad as he held up first three, then two fingers to emphasize his next point. “The two of you. Not three.” He crossed the remaining two digits.

Hermione shot to her feet. “Ronald Weasley! You are the most selfish, arrogant, pig-headed oaf I have ever had the misfortune to meet!” she hissed in a loud whisper.

“Me selfish? Look who’s talking!” Ron’s reply was morose rather than aggressive. “Neither of you care about me anymore.”

“Why should we care, given how you’ve treated me and Harry?”

Ron groaned “See - that’s what I mean. You think it’s all about you again. You don’t care that my best friend won’t speak to me, that my brothers prank me, and my little sister ignores me.”

Despite her churning emotions, Hermione’s mind kept turning. “So you’re lonely now? Guess what, Ron, it’s your own fault. I was lonely for weeks - almost friendless - no thanks to you.”

“Oh, don‘t give me that! First it’s Vicky, then Harry,” Ron replied acerbically. “Who’s next? Cedric perhaps?”

Hermione’s hand moved in a blur, but for once Ron was ready for her. He caught her right wrist in his own left hand, mere inches from its intended target, his left cheek.

His next words surprised her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that… It was cheap and undeserved.”

Still fuming, Hermione grimaced, trying to pull her hand free, but Ron clung on. “Let me go, Ron!” she raised her voice, not a plea but something sounding closer to a threat.

Ron seemed the calmer of the two, perhaps having mastered the physical aspect of the confrontation. “Not until you calm down, Hermione. You’ve had one shot at me in Hogsmeade. All I want is to talk.”

“You bloody deserved that!” Hermione barked. She tried kicking at his shins, but ball gowns were not designed for brawling.

Ron sighed; he was having difficulty meeting the fury in her eyes. “It’s not exactly been fun for me, you know,” he said glumly.

Still fuming at her physical disadvantage, Hermione considered reaching for her wand with her left hand. It was hidden in a special pocket sewn into the dress as standard.

“Do you know, or even care, how much you’ve hurt Harry?” she spat like a wildcat.

Ron looked taken aback at that, so Hermione pressed home her advantage. If she could not reach him with her hands, she could still maul him with her words.

“That’s right - your ‘best friend.’ Any idea how much he misses your company? Although Merlin alone knows why! Yet all you do is moan about your lot. You’re lonely? Tough! You made your bed, now lie in it!”

Ron‘s composure shattered. “I’ve… missed Harry… and you,” he whimpered, looking as miserable as he sounded.

Sensing an opening, Hermione tried to rip her hand free of his grasp, but he was too strong. She almost cried out in frustration. Twisting, she reached across her body with her free hand, and drew her wand from its hidden location.

“Ron.” A calm voice came from behind. “Let Hermione go, if you know what’s good for you.”

Immediately Ron did so. Snatching her slightly numb hand back, Hermione felt a restraining hand fall on her left wrist.

“You too, Hermione. Don’t do anything hasty,” Bill said with quiet authority. “You’re a Champion. Let’s not make a scene in front of an audience. Although Merlin knows why only Fleur noticed your little spat. Now, who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

Ron shifted uneasily on his feet, saying nothing but avoiding looking Bill in the eye.

Feeling tears welling up, Hermione did not trust her voice to remain unbroken, so she, too, stayed silent. Without thinking, she swatted at an insect that swooped between her and the two Weasleys, shooing it away.

Bill’s gaze shifted back and forth from one young Gryffindor to the other. “Okay,” he said slowly, as he released Hermione’s hand with a gesture that asked for calm. “Ron, you and I haven’t had a chance to have a chat for a while. We’ll share a Butterbeer or two later tonight, all right? Don’t disappear before we talk.” His voice dropped. “Not unless you want Mum to hear of this. Now off with you.”

Needing no second invitation, and with one last wretched look in Hermione’s direction, Ron turned and slunk away.

“Okay, he’s gone. Do you want to tell me about it?” Bill asked concernedly. “The dragons again?”

Hermione shook her head. The evening had been going so well; when she had been with Harry, she had felt wonderful. Now all she wanted to do was hide herself away behind the curtains of her four-poster.

She heard Bill’s heartfelt sigh. “I know Ron can be a prat,” he said quietly. “Most boys are at his age - I know I was.”

Hermione did not know how to reply to that, but she was saved when Harry burst onto the scene, clutching two chilled bottle of Butterbeer. “Hi Bill!” He turned to his date. “Sorry I was longer than I thought, Hermione, but you’ll never believe…” His voice trailed off abruptly as he took in Hermione’s flushed face and distressed expression. “What’s happened?” he asked.

Once again Hermione shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she sniffed. “I… I’ll just… I want to go!”

“Go where?” Harry seemed completely non-plussed.

“Away from here!” Hermione had just had enough. What she hoped would be an evening to remember was turning out just like that, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Fleur?” Hermione caught Bill’s quiet request to his partner, who had been waiting nearby but far enough away so the little group had some privacy. She moved over smoothly.

“Oui?”

“Could you do me a favour, and give Harry the next dance?”

Fleur looked a bit askance at this request, but nodded her head once and turned to Harry. “We ’ave not been introduced, ’Arry, but would you dance avec moi?”

Hermione saw Harry’s eyes dart in befuddlement from Fleur, to Bill, and then finally herself. She found it heartening that he appeared to await her permission to partner the stunning Beauxbatons’ Champion. Swallowing her emotions, Hermione repeated Fleur’s gesture of assent.

Bill reached out. “Do me a favour and leave the Butterbeer, would you, Harry?”

Looking torn between staying with his date, and doing as he was asked, Harry set down the bottles, then took Fleur’s hand and allowed himself to be led towards the dance floor, casting worried looks back at the table where a depressed Hermione now sat. With a practiced gesture, Bill popped the top from one of the bottles, its glass covered in droplets of condensation, and pushed it over the table towards her.

“Drink up, Hermione. You need it.”

At first she declined, but Bill nudged the bottle closer. She was thirsty, she admitted. The warmth Hermione had felt on the dance floor paled beside the heat generated by the row with Ron. Giving in, she took hold of the long-necked, amber bottle and raised it to her lips in a most unladylike way.

“So, you want to get shot of tonight?” Bill’s voice was serious.

Hermione nodded vigorously. “Yes! Ron’s spoilt tonight - ruined it!”

“Well, that wouldn’t be very fair on Harry, would it?”

Hermione’s eyes shot up with a wide stare at Bill, who watched her with studied unflappability. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Bill shrugged. “To have his date run out on him. Wouldn’t do much for a boy’s self-confidence.”

“Might be for the best,” scoffed Hermione. “After all, Ron thinks I’m stealing Harry away from him.”

“Ah,” Bill nodded in understanding. “Now I see.”

“He’s so bloody selfish!” Hermione said heatedly. “Blames me for everything.”

Bill looked down at his own Butterbeer, rolling the bottle between his fingers. “Not to excuse him, Hermione, but it’s a difficult age for Ron.”

“Difficult? Yeah, right!”

Shrugging, Bill leaned forwards. “It’s not easy, following all your brothers - two Head Boys, one winning Quidditch skipper - and with a younger sister that everyone dotes on. Trying to make your own mark.”

“That doesn’t mean he can take his frustrations out on me.”

“No,” Bill agreed slowly. “It doesn’t. But from what I’ve heard, you and Harry have been his only close friends. He’s already thinks he’s lost your friendship…” Bill held out a hand to forestall any protest from Hermione “… and now he feels Harry drifting away from him too.”

Hermione remained irritated. “Loneliness is no justification for what he’s said and done!”

Bill exhaled through his teeth. “I know. And I’m going to have a quiet private chat with Ron about precisely that before the night is out.” His clear blue eyes fixed on Hermione. “Please, cut him a little slack, Hermione, if he listens to me. I know he feels bad about what he’s said and done. Jealousy just got the better of him.”

“I - I…” She faltered under Bill’s gaze. “I’ll… think about it, Bill.” That was the most she was prepared to concede. Once the anger started to seep away, she accepted that some fault also lay on her side of the line. “I can’t promise to do any more,” she added defensively. “When I needed his friendship, Ron threw it back in my face.”

His fingers absent-mindedly drumming on the wooden surface, Bill took that as the best deal he would gain. “Fair enough - neither Ron nor I could ask for anything more. He knows how badly he’s cocked this up. Now, how about giving an old Head Boy a dance?”

Hermione gave Bill a confused look. “Bill, I thought I said -”

“I know,” Bill interrupted. “And that would be a big mistake.” Hermione cocked her head and gave him her most inquisitive glare. “Look, if you leave now, what will you remember? Your lasting memory of tonight would be what? A painful argument? That’s not what nights like tonight are about.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “You’ve earned the right to enjoy yourself - and you should, while you’re still young. Don‘t waste this. Go with your hopes, not your fears.”

Hermione grudgingly admitted there was more than a grain of truth in Bill’s observations. She had so wanted to enjoy herself. Now resolved not to allow Ronald Weasley to ruin her night!

It was strange dancing with Bill. He was more than a head taller than she, and Hermione had to dance with her chin up, otherwise she would be staring at his chest. He moved divinely though, and she was more than a little jealous of Fleur.

Of course, that was one of Ron’s problems, following in the footsteps of Bill and his other older siblings. Even the Twins had proven highly intelligent and full of initiative, even though they camouflaged it behind jokers’ masks. Her past opinion that the Twins’ qualities were ill-directed had come from her own establishmentarian views; an irony, indeed, given how the real establishment was now forcing her to re-think those beliefs.

“I never did get to thank you,” Bill observed out of nothing.

“Hmm?” Hermione wondered what he was talking about.

“Introducing me to Fleur,” Bill elucidated.

“Oh!” Hermione suppressed a girlish giggle. “That? I’m glad you like her.” A thought then struck her and she looked up seriously at Bill’s handsome face. “You know she’s part-Veela, don’t you?”

Bill spun them around. “Yup! Have to be good at spotting things like that in my line of work.” He leaned closer. “Mind you, it doesn’t worry me one bit.”

Before Hermione could formulate a reply, the music halted and this dance ended. Bill leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Thanks, Hermione. Just… give Ron a little time, would you? As a favour to me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Beel?” Having materialised silently at their sides, Fleur’s long-drawn out pronunciation of Bill’s name was typically French - and typically Fleur Delacour, it seemed. “Zis Champion needs anuzzer glass of champagne.”

Bill turned to smile at his official partner of the evening. “Of course.” Then he turned back. “Good luck with everything, Hermione.”

“Thanks, Bill.” Her reply was heartfelt.

Now Harry stood before her, looking slightly concerned. “Not that I’m complaining, Hermione,” he said. “But I’d rather have the next dance with you.”

That made her feel warm and fuzzy again, stirring hope, not fear. ‘That’s so sweet.’

“At least I know what steps you’re going to do,” Harry added.

‘Oh well, be thankful for small favours,’ Hermione thought as she once again took control of Harry. As they twirled slowly across the dance floor, more sedately than most other couples, Hermione caught Ginny giving her a beseeching look.

“Bad news then, Harry.”

“Err..?” She did think Harry looked adorable when he appeared lost for words.

“I’ve promised you one dance with an admirer,” she whispered coquettishly into his ear.

“Oh?” Harry looked both anxious and intrigued.

“Don’t worry,” Hermione admitted. “It’s only Ginny.”

She carefully manoeuvred the two of them across the floor. This time it was Harry who leaned closer.

“Going to tell me what happened earlier?”

Hermione felt her shoulders sag fractionally. “It was… just another silly argument with Ron.”

Harry just raised his eyebrows.

“It’s just that - well, he’s been so awful to both of us!”

Harry’s grin turned into a grimace. “I can’t say that I’ve been the best of friends to him either,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” Hermione whispered a little more heatedly than she had intended.

“Well,” Harry divulged shamefacedly. “He’s been so lonely recently.”

Hermione was miffed at that opinion. “Rubbish - Ron cut himself off from us. Every time I’ve tried to make up, he’s only hurt me again…”

“Maybe,” Harry replied. “But it doesn’t mean he’s not hurting either, does it?”

‘Typical Harry,’ Hermione thought, ‘blaming himself for his friends’ faults.’

Sighing, she leaned a little closer to Harry. “Can we just forget about Ron for tonight?” she asked quietly, putting her hand on his. “Just pretend we’re normal?”

Harry broke into a boyish grin. “A Triwizard Champion and The Boy-Who Lived?”

She chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

“I wish… umm… I suppose…”

They meandered gently across the dance floor. Harry told her his own inconsequential news of Ludo Bagman, and the Weasley Twins’ ambitious plans for their own joke products, and how that had just irritated pompous Percy to an even greater degree. That brought a wider smile to Hermione’s face.

As the Weird Sisters’ chords drifted away, Hermione made sure to lead Harry over towards Ginny and Neville. The youngest Weasley was virtually bouncing on the balls of her feet as her great moment of the evening arrived. Hermione felt a pang of empathy for Neville, who plainly had not missed Ginny’s reaction either. Mixed in was a little pang of jealousy. Ginny was not hiding how she felt.

Shaking her head as if to clear it of those idle thoughts, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of abdicating the responsibility of steering her partner, and let Neville take the lead. He was good. She was quite surprised to find him nearly as accomplished a partner as Bill. As they twirled around, they exchanged some inconsequential small talk.

Neville’s skill allowed Hermione to keep watch on Harry’s progress. Far from reciprocating his current partner’s enthusiasm, he was self-evidently anxious as he stepped on Ginny’s toes, and cast the odd longing glance in the direction of Cho Chang, safely enwrapped in Cedric Diggory’s arms.

‘I suppose I should return the favour and suggest that Harry take a turn with the girl he wanted to be his date all along,’ Hermione admitted with a hint of bitterness. ‘But not before I have another chance with him first.’

To Ginny’s undisguised disappointment, Hermione moved to reclaim Harry once that single song ended. Whether that reaction was because her dance with Harry was now over, or due to Harry’s less than enthusiastic reaction when dancing with her, Hermione could not tell. She did, however, share a little of the Weasley girl’s envy when she noticed Harry’s eyes occasionally flicker over to the Diggory-Chang duo.

‘Here goes nothing.’

“A Knut for them, Harry?”

As Harry’s attention was drawn back to the girl in his arms, he looked a little guilty as well as bemused.

“For your thoughts,” Hermione clarified.

“Oh - nothing.” That was one little white lie he told so well, admitted Hermione.

“Why don’t you just ask her for a dance, Harry?” She hated herself for being so fair, but the inquisitive part of her so wanted to know.

Harry knew to whom Hermione was referring. “No… I don’t think so.”

“Why? Cho didn’t turn you down, did she? It was just that Cedric had asked first.”

Harry looked uncomfortable. “That wouldn’t be right,” he murmured.

There was one way to find out. “Go on, Harry. I won’t mind.”

‘Honestly,’ Hermione lied to herself. That was one not-so-little white lie that was getting harder to tell.

Harry appeared torn with indecision, before a small grin broke out. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Hermione!”

‘Oh, I do hate myself at times!’

Before Hermione could reflect further on when her foolish good nature became self-denial, once again the music stopped. Harry, like an over-eager puppy, quickly searched the floor for Cho, before darting off, his quest evidently successful.

Instead of risking being a wallflower, Hermione started drifting back towards the margins. Before she could reach the safe haven of the seats, she was intercepted by the now partner-less Cedric Diggory.

“Fancy a twirl, Gra-” He smiled at his slip. “Silly me. Would you like a dance, Hermione?”

She did not want to dance at this moment; she wanted to observe, but on her own terms. Still, it would be bad manners to refuse Cedric, especially after his support for her in the hearing. “I’d love to, Cedric.”

That was one white lie she told quite well. And she could still observe.

As they danced, this time it was Hermione’s eyes that tried to pick out that other couple amidst the madding crowd. A little cough from Cedric drew her attention back to her current partner.

“I would be offended, to let my partner’s attention wander, if I hadn’t been guilty of the same offence,” he admitted gracefully. “Should I be worried by your date’s attention to mine?”

There was no censure or annoyance behind his words, Hermione was certain. “She’s a beautiful girl,” Hermione demurred. “You’re very lucky, Cedric.”

“You’re taking it well.” Cedric’s piercing grey eyes scrutinised her for a reaction.

If it were possible to shrug whilst waltzing, Hermione managed the feat. “What’s to take? I wasn’t Harry’s first choice, you know,” she told him as evenly as she knew how. Those white lies…

“Oh - I didn’t know that,” Cedric replied. “I’m sorry. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

With that, he turned so that Hermione could observe Harry and Cho. They were a mirror image of the reactions when Ginny had claimed her dance with Harry. Cho’s eyes kept wandering and when they alighted upon Cedric, her smile grew wider. Harry had his “I can do this” façade up, but Hermione was a skilled Harry watcher. His demeanour betrayed a fair bit of despair that he was not the focus of her attentions.

“I think your partner is quite safe,” Hermione said with heartfelt relief on at least one score.

“Yours too, I reckon. So why don’t we just enjoy ourselves a little more?” Cedric’s smile could be roguish at times, and Hermione was reminded for a second of Sirius Black as he injected a little more energy into their steps, sweeping the two of them around the floor in a higher tempo.

Hermione was near breathless when the waltz finally finished. Much as she had enjoyed her dance with Cedric, she much preferred Harry’s arms, even if her awakening feelings for her best friend were not being reciprocated as warmly.

Still, just for tonight, she could pretend. The Gryffindor inside demanded more; the realist preached ignorance is bliss.

Harry looked a tad disgruntled but Hermione knew better than to tease him on that score. They started another dance, keeping to the simple steps that had seen them through so far.

There was something, though, that nagged away at the back of her mind, a question that had been planted in her fertile mind by her discussion with Cedric.

Harry had grown an inch or so since the summer compared to Hermione, so she had to raise her eyes a little above level now she was in her flat dancing shoes. The high heels earlier had given her parity on that score. She decided to be a Gryffindor first.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

She screwed up a little courage. “Why didn’t you ask me to the Ball?” For some reason this inconsequential detail was suddenly important to her.

She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.

Would it be: ‘I thought Ron was going to ask you;’ or: ‘I don’t think of you that way;’ or even: ‘You’re not my type.’

To his credit, Harry considered the question seriously. Finally he spoke.

“Well, I guessed what with you being a Champion and all, you’d be snowed under with offers.”

“Hah!” Hermione rubbished that suggestion once she started breathing again. “This is Hermione Granger we’re taking about - bookworm, buck-toothed, birds’ nest hair, house-elf liberationist and all.”

Harry looked uncomfortable. Did he see her that way as well?

“Why do you always do yourself down, Hermione?” Harry finally responded sincerely. He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re clever, brave, pretty… To be honest, I expected Viktor Krum to ask you, and who am I next to him. You seemed to have made a friend there.”

‘And he might have done,’ Hermione reflected, ‘if protocol had allowed it.’ She wondered for a second if she would have preferred Viktor as a date, then dismissed the idea out of hand. Viktor was definitely moving into the category of friend, one that at present was not exactly over-populated. But Harry Potter was quite another matter altogether. His answer to her question had set loose the wings of hope.

“So you really don’t mind then?” she asked. Harry assumed his standard ‘I’m miles behind you again, Hermione’ expression, so she added: “Being made to partner me by McGonagall?”

“Not in the slightest. In fact I wished I’d asked you sooner. I would’ve if I’d known no-one else had.” He smiled. “This school is full of idiot boys, you know.

“But thanks to McGonagall, my date is the prettiest girl here.”

An indefinable sensation flooded through Hermione. “You… you don’t mean that, do you? After all, there’s Fleur.” ‘And Cho,’ Hermione could not bring herself to add, at least this once.

The music had stopped, yet Harry and Hermione remained, right and left hands respectively entwined, his left resting lightly on her waist. Their eyes locked. Suddenly, her mouth felt dry…

Before another word was said, their portentous silence was broken by the arrival of Viktor in his cherry-red tunic.

“Harry, I vould like to ask Hermy-own-ninny for tants. Vould you agree?”

Hermione’s eyes flashed from one young man to the other as she masked her disappointment. Oh, Viktor’s timing was usually so good! How could it be so rotten now?

With a little smile, Harry stepped aside. “I’d be honoured to let Durmstrang’s finest have this dance - if Miss Granger will agree.”

Viktor tuned to face Hermione and clicked his heels together before making a small formal bow.

“Go on, Hermione,” Harry’s smile grew larger. “I’ll see if Penny fancies a dance.” She was sure his next words were not intended to be overheard. “After all, that’ll piss off Percy even more!”

Viktor had excellent social radar. For once he looked uncomfortable. “Vos not good time?” he enquired.

“No, nothing like that,” Hermione sighed as she told yet another white lie. She took Viktor’s hand. “I’d love a dance, Viktor.”

Hermione was not surprised that Viktor proved himself as fluid a mover on the dance floor as he was on the Quidditch pitch.

“He likes you,” Viktor observed out of nothing. “A lot.”

“Harry? Oh, we’ve been friends since our first year.”

There was a deep rumble coming from Viktor’s chest. Was that a laugh?

“He is very - vorry about you, da?” Viktor kept speaking as he flawlessly raised his arm, turned his hand and allowed Hermione to spin gracefully before they joined again.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Harry does worry about me - but not as much as I worry about him.”

Viktor considered that for a few moments. “I hear… story about Harry.” The hero of the World Cup towered over Hermione even more than Bill had done, and looked down at her with an indecipherable expression. “You are true friend to him, ne?”

Hermione wondered what stories Viktor had heard, but she restricted herself to a short bob of her head, before realising the habit in Bulgaria was the reverse of almost the entire rest of the world. “Yes,” she said simply.

Viktor’s inscrutable expression remained fixed as in stone, and he remained silent for a few seconds. “Vould you mind if I ask question?”

“N - no - that’s fine, Viktor.”

He would not be so gauche as to ask her the question, would he?

“The girl I dance with. Pay… Pee…”

“Penelope.”

Viktor looked preoccupied. “Pay-nay-low-pee,” he repeated slowly. “I not meet before this day. Yet she is… interest in me?” Now he appeared doubtful. “I forget the vord,” he admitted ruefully.

Hermione tried to translate. “You think Penelope fancies you?”

For only the second time since she had met him, Hermione was sure Viktor was a little uncomfortable. “I haff idea she is not as… fancy as vould be normal. Yet she not girl who stay in Library.” He sighed. “Is difficult.”

Hermione thought she understood. “The man from the Ministry…” Hermione spun the two of them around slowly until she could point out Percy Weasley, now engrossed in discussion with Ludo Bagman. “He used to be her boyfriend.”

Viktor cast a glance in Percy’s direction. “Priyatel?” Hermione could almost hear the Bulgarian thinking. Finally he turned away and concentrated upon Hermione.

“The Clearwaters are not Pureblooded,” Hermione explained. “And Percy is very ambitious,” she added scornfully.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. After a short silence, he spoke. “I hoped Pee - the girl - liked… fancy me for being Viktor. Now she use me to annoy that man.”

Hermione felt a little guilty at upsetting Viktor’s evening with a little truth. “I’m sure Penelope does - she’s a nice girl.” Even if she had been one of those who never believed her about the Goblet of Fire.

“You do not like that man?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed this time. “No. He was the one who lodged the complaint about the dragons.”

“Is that so?” Viktor’s glower deepened, then there was the start of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps I play this game with Pay-nay-low-pee as well?”

When the dance ended, Viktor repeated his bow, but before he released her he brought her hand up to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it.

“Mnogo tee blagodarya, Hermy-own-ninny,” he said gently, before leading her through the thinning crowd to find their own respective partners. Hermione was sure there was a little more warmth in Viktor’s greeting to Penelope Clearwater when they found her and Harry enjoying a drink. “Here is yours - and mine,” he told her.

As the Bulgarian bore off his willing and attractive partner for another bash at the dancing, Hermione gratefully accepted Harry’s offer of a goblet of pumpkin juice.

“Enjoying yourself, Hermione?”

“Umm, yes, quite” Hermione replied, once again fanning herself with her spare hand. Despite the winter setting, it was quite warm, especially for someone who had been dancing for what seemed like hours. Especially for her, with Harry. “You?”

Harry was flexing his shoulders, as though working out some kinks. “Much more than I thought I would,” he confessed. “Never been to a proper dance before.”

Hermione glanced up at that. “I never knew.” She felt - well, a little guilty at there being so much she did not know about Harry or his life away from Hogwarts.

Now Harry shrugged his shoulders, looking a little uncomfortable. “The Dursleys never took me to any parties they had invitations for, and apart from Aunt Marge, there wasn’t any family they spoke to or of, so there weren’t any birthdays or wedding receptions.”

Refreshed, Hermione took to her feet again. “Want another dance?”

Harry half-smiled. “You’ll wear me out, Hermione.” But he offered her his hand and pretended to be hauled to his feet by the slighter Gryffindor.

As they stepped onto the floor, the music started again, but this time with a slower tempo. Instead of setting herself for their normal dancing stance, Hermione stepped in closer to Harry and lightly wrapped her arms around his middle.

Harry appeared perplexed and hardly moved. His body returned to that unnaturally rigid state that had been a staple of their lessons.

“Relax, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “This is how to dance a slow number. Just put your arms around me. It’s simple.”

That simple something could lead to a lot of complications, but Hermione was almost beyond caring, beguiled by the slow strains of the music.

She had to admit he was good at following her instructions. His arms sat just a little higher than hers, and she could sense his nervousness in the way his hands did not pull her in as tight to him as she had hoped. Having led him all night, she did so again…

She moved -well, swayed really - to the rhythm, taking small, slow steps in an anti-clockwise direction. As she did so, Hermione felt Harry relax a little, his arms tightening around her as hers had around him. With a little smile to herself, she turned her head slightly to her right, and moved so that her left cheek was resting lightly on Harry’s left shoulder.

It was so comfortable, so warm, so safe…

Just for tonight, she did not have to pretend that Harry was holding her gently, yet so close she could be lulled by the warmth of his body.

Then a cold sensation crept down her spine, making her shiver, as though someone had walked over her grave.

Her eyes snapped open, looking away to her right.

Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye was fixed on the two of them with all of its electric blue intensity.

There was evil in that eye, Hermione thought suddenly before mentally castigating herself for her irrationality.

“What is it?” Harry had sensed that something had alarmed her.

She shivered again, turned her head away from the scrutiny of her Defence Against the Dark Arts’ master, and found herself lost at close range in Harry’s own magical green stare.

“Nothing,” she murmured, hugging Harry even closer. “Nothing to worry about now.” Then she felt Harry tense up as the dance steps carried him round enough to spot Professor Moody.

“What’s his problem?” Harry pondered aloud.

“Forget it, Harry.” Hermione was keen to regain the chemistry of only a few seconds ago before the catalyst that was Moody engendered a negative reaction.

Any further discussion was lost as Dumbledore strode onto the stage in front of the Weird Sisters and cast Sonorous on himself.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is now... Midnight! A Merry Christmas to you all!”

As the band struck up “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” Hermione could not help but smile. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”

For just a millisecond Hermione thought Harry was about to kiss her. In reflex anticipation, her tongue quickly moistened her lips. Instead, to her unexpected disappointment, his own smile widened. “And a Happy Christmas to you, too.”

He did, though, hug her as close as she hugged him.

With that, the Yule Ball ended, and everyone started to drift off, to their dormitories, the Beauxbatons’ coach or Durmstrang ship.

Hermione could not help but notice that Moody kept both of his eyes, human and magical, fixed on Harry and her as they exited the Great Hall. That worried her.

For her, the evening was ending every bit as awkwardly as it had begun, and in approximately the same location – by the foot of the stairway that led to the Gryffindor girls’ dormitories. Elsewhere in the common room other couples were saying good night, some of the older ones much more demonstrably than this pair.

Holding both of Harry’s hands in her own, she searched, badly, for words that would explain how much it all meant to her.

“Thank you Harry, for a wonderful evening… I really mean that. It was everything I could have wanted…”

Yet another white lie. Mentally she kicked herself once again.

“Um… You’re right, Hermione.” Even now he seemed just a little on edge. “I didn’t think I’d like this nearly as much as I have. I need to…”

She gazed deeply into his eyes. “Yes, Harry?” It was a question, but she also hoped he might take it as an invitation.

“I’ve got to thank McGonagall. I heard Fleur thank you, and well… she helped us along even more…” He hesitated. “And you…”

But that was as far as it went. Harry once again lapsed into uneasy silence, whilst still holding her hands. Like her, he seemed reluctant to let the evening end… uncertain where to go from there.

For one final time Hermione reminded herself that she was the Gryffindor champion. Her chest hitching, she squeezed his hands a bit more firmly.

“Well, Happy Christmas then, Harry…”

She steadied herself, ready to pull him closer.

But what if she was wrong? What if Harry only saw her as a friend, with no prefix?

Harry was eyeing her guardedly.

If she were wrong… If it all went wrong…

Hermione blinked, then, with a sinking sensation in her stomach, pulled Harry into a replica of their hug of only a few minutes ago, only this one ended sooner than the last.

She was pretty certain she had lost one of her close friends. Hermione feared she could not cope with queering her last remaining firm friendship.

Who was it said it was better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?

Letting slip his hands, Hermione deliberately moved a half-step back. Harry appeared a little bemused, as though he had missed out on a whole conversation.

Damning herself, Hermione recalled that she was a sham champion, not the real thing. Gryffindors were supposed to be courageous.

“Well…” Harry took advantage of her preoccupation to extract himself from an awkward silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He smiled that heart-breaking smile. “Christmas morning!”

Hermione nodded. The deflation after considering scaling that high was tremendous.

‘I couldn’t afford to lose Harry as well,’ she admitted as she watched her date make his way up the stairs to the boys’ dorm. ‘But not knowing is unbearable.’

Those couples who had enjoyed a more rewarding evening did not help Hermione’s melancholy mood as she wended her own way up to bed. Finding her bedroom mercifully vacant – Lavender was undoubtedly having an enthusiastic nightcap somewhere with Dean, and Parvati she suspected was hiding out trying to avoid Seamus – she carefully removed her beautiful dress, casting simple spells to restore it to a pristine state.

Then she flopped back on top of her bedclothes, staring into nothing, her mind elsewhere.

Frustrated as she was, Hermione was certain on one point. She wanted - no, needed - Harry to stay by her side. If he had said “no” then it would have devastated her. Perhaps, when this was all over, then she could…

She resolved to place that matter of the heart on the back-burner. But when she finally took to her bed, she found that her nights were no longer dominated by thoughts of dragons. Instead, she found herself dreaming of the wide smile of a raven-haired and emerald-eyed boy, so close, yet so far away.

But those dreams were tinged with something more sinister: eyes – two of them – one human and the other magical and vividly blue. These were Moody’s eyes as she had last seen them, fixed on Harry and her as they exited the Great Hall. Something about them, and him worried her profoundly.

* * * * *

In the Muggle world, Britain’s endangered and protected species are subjected to various degrees of protection and classification under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 and other amendments that have subsequently followed. It is reasonable to assume that a far more interesting list of protected or endangered magical species exists!

There is no McGonagall (or MacGonagall) tartan that I can trace via the Scottish Tartans’ Authority. However, Minerva would be entitled to wear any of the tartans that her ancestors were entitled to. I have chosen Leslie Green Syme as this was the tartan worn by my father’s Lowland regiment, the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.

In the original versions of the books, Penelope Clearwater was a year behind Percy Weasley at Hogwarts, making her three years ahead of Harry and Hermione, and so in her final year at Hogwarts in 1994/95. Later versions have been updated to show her as being in the same year as Percy. I have taken the old version (which is the edition I have been working from).

The Peter Principle is that in a large organisation one is always promoted to one level above one’s competence.

The Auld Alliance with France was Scotland‘s most famous continental entanglement, and was aimed at their mutual and historic enemy. Dating from the late 13^th Century the Auld Alliance was built on the shared need to curtail English expansion. Primarily it was a military and diplomatic alliance but for most of the Scots population it brought tangible benefits through pay as mercenaries in France’s armies and the pick of finest French wines. Famous 19^th Century generals MacDonald and MacMahon both had Scottish ancestors.

Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “In Memoriam”:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

From my cheap & cheerful Bulgarian phrasebook, which has been giving beta reader George kittens: -

Priyatel = boyfriend.

Mnogo tee blagodarya = thank you very much.

Apologies for the long wait for a new chapter. Real life intruded upon both my time and that of my beta readers - and once again, a great deal of this chapter was the result of Bexis’ and George’s efforts, for which they have my thanks.

Christmas Day brings an unlooked for but vital discussion between two former friends.

Once again, I am not profiting from the use of JKR’s playthings.

Hermione woke early the morning after the Yule Ball, and for a few delicious minutes lay in her warm bed, scratching a mewling Crookshanks, as she relived the thrill of dancing with Harry Potter last night.

Heady excitement all too quickly devolved into pangs of regret as she rewound and replayed her decision not to kiss Harry; that she had chickened out of finding out exactly where she stood for fear of a negative response bit deeply into her stomach. The last dregs of euphoria from her somnial fantasy dribbled away. She turned and pressed the side of her face deep into the pillow, cursing her lack of courage. Yes, she believed her decision made sense, but it was painful nonetheless.

As Crookshanks attempted to insinuate himself between Hermione’s shoulder and her headboard, it dawned on her that this was Christmas morning. That induced more bitter-sweet feelings, as this was the first Christmas where she was suffering an enforced separation from her parents. The previous year she had chosen to stay at Hogwarts, and although she had not mentioned anything to either Harry or Ron, even then she had endured an undertow of guilt at not spending precious time with Mum and Dad. This year her choice had been seized by Triwizard bureaucrats. For a moment she burned with renewed anger.

Determined not to allow her troubles to ruin what should be the best day of the year, and preferring to accentuate the positive sentiments of last night, Hermione decisively threw back her duvet, surprising the frowsy Crookshanks unpleasantly in the process, and headed for the bathroom to make herself presentable. The tidy pile of presents at the foot of her bed could wait.

Freshly showered, Hermione finally permitted herself the indulgence of examining her presents. The bulky package marked from Mum and Dad contained the usual assortment of books and clothes: Primo Levi and Miss Selfridge; Shakespeare and plain old reliable Marks & Spencer.

There was also another present from home neither unexpected nor welcome: a letter. Hermione had been dreading its arrival, ever since she had first told her parents about the dragons. That moment of truth had come, and now she could not bear to unfold the paper and read. The likely herald of her withdrawal from the world of magic was a matter to be delayed. Her irresolution reigning, Hermione placed it in the drawer of her bedside cabinet, and turned back to other, more pleasant gifts.

To her considerable surprise, there was even a small one for her from Ron. Even more of a surprise, she realised it was not Ron’s handwriting on the label. She had corrected enough of his homework to be familiar with his flat, scratchy style. Perplexed, she turned the wrapped package around in her fingers. Then she quickly put it down and hurried to her trunk where she had stored the presents she had brought.

They were all gone. Every one. Hermione was not surprised, as she supposed the house elves who played Father Christmas had carried out their duties to the letter, delivering each and every present to its intended recipient.

As usual, Hermione had shopped early for her presents, and had purchased some of Honeyduke’s finest selections for Ron during their first visit to Hogsmeade that autumn, to beat the rush and the price hikes later in the year; and, being ever so organised, she had carefully wrapped and labelled it.

She was not sure if she should be happy or sad. The simmering anger at Ron’s betrayal threatened to rear its ugly head again.

Suppressing those wrathful feelings, Hermione carefully unwrapped her unexpected present. The contents were equally breathtaking.

It was a small pendant fashioned in polished silver, inlaid in places with a blue stone she thought was lapis lazuli. Shaped like a key, or a cross topped with a loop, it irresistibly reminded Hermione of a cartoon figure of a ghost. Hanging from her fingers, it spun on its axis from a fine silver chain.

This was no joke-shop gift; it also looked significantly more expensive and thoughtful than anything Ron had ever given anyone as a present; even Harry had not been so generous.

Hermione recognized its provenance. It was a charm styled in the shape of an Ankh, the Ancient Egyptian symbol for eternal life. She had seen similar hieroglyphic designs in the Egyptology section of the British Museum. She examined it more closely.

It appeared to have runic inscriptions; Hermione promised herself she would check those references in the Library as soon as possible. Certainly this was a very different present compared to anything Ron had previously given her., She wondered if someone else, someone older and more worldly, had a hand in the choice. The prime suspect was Bill. That might also explain the handwriting.

Then she frowned. Now she would have to talk to Ron, even if it was just the formality of a ‘thank you.’

Placing the pendant on her bedside cabinet, Hermione turned her attention to her other presents. Harry, bless him, had brought her Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms, a required O.W.L. textbook on Ancient Runes. For once, Harry was thinking ahead. She hoped he would enjoy the Quidditch book he had received in return.

Hermione chose to wear one of her parents’ presents, a lovely cream and brown woollen jumper, as she dressed ready for breakfast. As she descended the staircase into the common room, she was not surprised to find it apparently unoccupied. She supposed every Gryffindor was either sleeping off last night’s jollities or busy tearing into wrapping paper and ribbons. She made her way across the floor when the sound of movement caught her attention.

A dishevelled mop of red hair shot up from behind a sofa. Hermione mentally cursed that it had to be the one Weasley she did not want to meet at this time of the morning. Not until she had time to devise a strategy and plot what she wanted to say.

Hermione had seen Ron looking better. Judging by his crumpled clothing, pale face and blood-shot eyes, she could easily imagine he had not seen his bed during the night.

“Oh, cripes!” he muttered in a small voice.

“Ron.” The reply was purely an acknowledgement of his presence, devoid of any warmth.

Standing up, Ron brushed himself down. Hermione thought he was trying hard to avoid looking directly at her.

“What are you doing down here?” she demanded bossily.

“Um… Happy Christmas, ’Mione,” Ron stumbled over his response.

“And to you. Thank you for the present.” At least that was out of the way, but it did not make the exchange any less tense.

“Oh…” Ron was visibly abashed. “That… you’re… um, welcome.”

They both stood in an awkward silence. Hermione knew they had to have a discussion sometime, but neither seemed ready to initiate it. Finally she came to a decision. “Well, I’m off to breakfast,” before adding in a grumble: “And don’t call me ‘’Mione’!”

As she turned, Ron called out. “Hermione!”

Hermione turned, arms crossed tightly over her chest in a gesture of impatience. Sighing dramatically, she asked: “What, Ron?”

He shambled out from behind the sofa but was careful not to approach too closely. “I wanted to… well, I waited up all night because …” He appeared to have run out of both words and thoughts.

Hermione glared at him, but she recognised that if they were going to have another conversation-cum-argument, then they might as well have it here and now. The empty common room was far preferable to supplying entertainment for the masses once again.

Ron looked straight at her for once, and steeled himself. “I wanted to apologise for being a right git.”

“Why are you apologising, Ron?” Hermione snapped back. “Is it for my sake, or for yours?”

Her unexpected tack took Ron a little taken aback. “Does it matter?” he asked plaintively.

“Of course it does. Do you think a simple ‘sorry’ is enough to pardon the way you’ve behaved for over a month?”

Ron sat down heavily in one of the stuffed armchairs. “Bloody hell, who ever thought saying sorry could be so much hard work!” he muttered more to himself than Hermione, but she heard him nonetheless.

“That depends upon what ‘saying sorry’ has to overcome. Did Bill put you up to this?” Hermione demanded.

“Yes… No… Well, sort of.” Ron stammered.

Hermione raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Running his hands over his face and then into his hair, as though it could wipe away the obvious tiredness, Ron looked absolutely shot. “I wanted to… last night. But you were …” He broke off at Hermione’s accusing stare. “Okay, I bollixed it all up, didn’t I? Nothing new, that,” he said, Hermione sure this was for his own benefit.

“I’ve been trying to apologize for a week or so, but never could find the right time, or if I did you made yourself scarce.”

“Don’t try and pin the blame on me, Ronald!” Hermione found herself wagging her finger at the errant boy.

Ron stared glumly at the fireplace. “Yeah, I know there’s only myself to blame,” he admitted. “Bill told me that weeks ago.” Then he looked up at Hermione. “I’m not lying though… I tried to talk to you last night, but things got out of hand again, as they always do.

“I like you Hermione.” She gave him a look of frank disbelief. “Honestly. It’s just that, well, we seem to set each other off.”

In the pregnant silence, Ron’s words echoed blandly through the otherwise deserted room. Hermione, torn between biting back and hearing him out, wondered how exactly they had allowed such awkwardness to come between them. Once, not that long ago, they had been best of friends. Now why did they find it so intimidating even to talk to each other? Why was it difficult to find the words, to tiptoe around the subject, just to avert another fight? Of course, in her opinion, the fundamental reason was Ron’s crippling inferiority complex.

“Bill told me last night to speak to you as soon as I could, not to allow things to fester anymore between us, so I waited down here.” Ron shrugged. “You’re always the first one up, and I thought it would be the best time to talk to you, with no-one else around.”

Her hands now came to rest impatiently on her hips.

“When your name came out of that Goblet, I was so sure it was something you’d done.” He glanced up almost shyly at her. “You’re clever like that.”

“But you never listened to me,” Hermione shot back, ignoring the compliment. “I told you I didn’t enter, yet you carried on accusing me of cheating.”

Blushing madly, Ron looked even more downtrodden. “I guess I was too dense to think of any other explanation. And there you were, top of the class, now a Champion. And there was Harry - youngest House Seeker in a century, along with all that ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ rubbish.” His bottom lip drooped a little. “And then there’s me - useless boring Ron Weasley.”

‘Ah,’ she thought: ‘I was spot on!’

“Jealousy is no expiation, Ron,” she rifled back. He gave her a lop-sided befuddled look, requiring clarification. “It’s no excuse!” Hermione added.

He nodded his head absent-mindedly, understanding now. “Not looking to be excused, just to explain… It’s just… I saw you two, and I thought that’d be it. Game over. You guys didn’t need me.”

“Ron, I know what it’s like to be lonely.” Hermione recalled her first few weeks at Hogwarts, when she feared that once again she would be the friendless know-it-all. And the episode over the Firebolt sprang to the fore, firing her indignation. “But you had plenty of opportunities to come to your senses. I gave you… I don’t know how many chances. When I really needed your friendship, your support, your sympathy even, you weren’t there!” Her voice had risen to an anguished cry by the end.

“Don’t you - ” Ron started to snarl, then quickly reined in his own instinctive emotional response. “I tried - really I did. Then there was all that fuss about the dragons - ”

“That I can’t forget,” Hermione interrupted. “Or forgive. You know what hung in the balance.”

Ron rested his head in his hands. “Harry knows. If you can’t believe me, believe him! I tried to tell you, but somehow never found the chance.”

Recalling that Harry had already intimated that, Hermione conceded that Ron might have a case on that point, and that point only.

“After that, well, what with Fred and George ganging up on me again, and with Harry and even Ginny taking against me, I just ... well, sort of lost it, gave up really.” Ron looked up at her. “Honestly, I never wanted you to be hurt. I was so relieved that you made it through the First Task. But then I saw how everybody else changed their tune, and how…” His voice trailed away until he croaked hoarsely. “First Harry, then you. It was everything I’d always wanted to be. How can I compete with that?”

“Don’t be a jealous prat! That’s how you deal with it, Ronald!” Hermione’s irritation came through clearly. “Why do you feel you have to compete against your friends?”

“Because I don’t want to be left behind,” he replied forlornly.

Hermione began pacing up and down in front of him. “How dare you insinuate that Harry or I ever left you out of anything?” she hectored him, wagging her index finger once again.

Ron threw up his hands defensively. “I never meant it like that!” he protested weakly.

“Then how did you mean it?” Hermione shot back.

“That… well, Harry’s got onto the Quidditch team,” Ron stumbled over the words. “And he saved the Stone, all in his First Year. And rescuing Ginny and killing that big snake …”

Hermione could not believe her ears. “Harry risked his life… that bloody Basilisk bit him! How can you be jealous of that?”

Ron looked scared; Hermione guessed this conversation was not going to plan as far as he was concerned.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “It’s not that I’m jealous …” He quailed under Hermione’s frankly incredulous stare. “I don’t mean to be,” he complained. “Just that, well, things happen to Harry. They don’t happen to me.”

“Hogwash!” Hermione was in no mood for Ron’s self-pity. “You were there with us when we went after the Philosopher’s Stone. And you went down to the Chamber of Secrets with Harry.” That, she knew, took real bravery on Ron’s part, something she had admired.

“Yeah, but what use was I, huh? One game of chess and I was out cold. Then I couldn’t even rescue my own kid sister. I was stuck on the other side of those rocks with that prize pillock. Harry had to do it all on his own.”

Hermione paused before she replied. Perhaps she was viewing this from the wrong perspective. Maybe Ron’s issues were not with Harry’s achievements, but his own lack of them. Did his own sense of self-worth suffer because others compared him to Harry? Did his own failure to rescue Ginny weigh heavily on his conscience?

“But you know how much you mean to Harry as his friend?” she pointed out.

Ron’s rejoinder was swift. “I like to think Harry means as much to me,” he said. “But then almost everybody wants to be Harry’s mate because of who he is.” He grimaced. “Even that ponce Malfoy tried it on the train.”

Hermione knew what he meant. Harry‘s fame was a two-edged sword. Sometimes it seemed that only Ron and she did not see him purely through the filter of the Boy-Who-Lived’s celebrity. “And what about me?” she asked in what was a dangerously quiet tone.

Hermione swore a flicker of a smile ghosted across Ron’s face as he considered this question. “Well,” he started slowly. “You’re the cleverest witch I know. You know lots of stuff and -”

“No,” Hermione butted in. “I meant why are you jeal-”

“Last year!” Ron cried, interrupting her. Hermione halted. She stared enquiringly at him.

Ron’s shoulders slumped. That disclosure was plainly unplanned. “All right! End of last year. When you and Harry went off without me and saved Sirius, and saved Buckbeak, and…”

“We didn’t deliberately leave you behind,” Hermione objected vociferously. “You were in no condition to come with us.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t see it that way,” Ron countered. “I saw Harry looking to save Sirius, facing up to danger and those Dementors an’ all. And then there was you.” He gave a surprising half-smile at that, almost out of admiration. “You showed him how to do it, and then you went with him, despite knowing how bad things could be.

“It was then I realised I was being left behind - not just for that night …”

Hermione had ceased her pacing. She could tell Ron was baring his soul on this point, something she had never seen him do, or even thought him capable of, if she was honest.

“I laid there, useless, and thought I might not see either of you alive again. Then it hit me: you and Harry didn’t need me. You had each other.” He stared straight at her, which brought goose pimples to her flesh. “You’d never really needed me, and I thought once you knew this - and you’re so clever there’s no way you wouldn’t - then that’s how it would be from then on. You and Harry, with me left behind. Alone.”

For the first time in weeks Hermione felt a glimmer of sympathy for Ron. “I never thought … I never knew,” she said more to herself than to him.

Shrugging his shoulders, Ron carried on. “You know everything, Hermione. When we all met up again at the Burrow in the summer, things seemed okay. Perhaps I’d just been wrong - no surprise, that. Everything was how it used to be - us three together. Then your name came out of that bloody Goblet and I knew everything would come a cropper again. What could Harry Potter and a Hogwarts’ Champion want with me?”

Hermione’s fleeting sympathy vanished. “You should have known I didn’t enter my name for this ridiculous competition,” she said more calmly than she felt she should.

“To be honest, I thought you were just being clever again and foxing Dumbledore,” Ron admitted, his pale face blushing slightly. “I was being stupid, not thinking straight.” He looked Hermione straight in the eye. “I know, that’s no excuse. But I was just …”

“Binning three years of friendship is what it was,” Hermione observed tartly. Ron shot her a sharp glare. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Sometimes, Ron, I wonder why we ever thought we could be friends. It took a bloody big Troll to push us together -” Her eyes flashed. “- and don’t think I’ve forgotten whose fault that was!”

There followed a few moments of uneasy silence.

“If - if I tell you the truth,” Ron started, his words hanging in the morning air, “promise you won’t hex me?”

Hermione eyed his doubtfully. “Depends,” she replied, her fingers already drifting wand-wards. As intended, Ron noticed this and who blanched visibly.

“Well… you were a right bossy little know-it-all when you first arrived,” Ron gabbled quickly. Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You thought - no, you knew - you were so much cleverer than us. At least, that’s how I saw it then.”

“Really?” Hermione ground out between gritted teeth.

“Now I reckon you really wanted to help us - me, Harry , Neville, anyone. You were just … really lousy at doing that. You were so … intense; if you’d been a rubber band you’d’ve snapped. That night I made you cry. I knew what you were trying to do, bit it came across as showing me up. I snapped instead and shot my big mouth off not knowing how lonely you really were.

“I reckon all three of us were lonely. I know it sounds silly, what with six brothers and Ginny and all.”

“No,” Hermione replied quietly. “It doesn’t.” She remembered Bill’s words of wisdom from last night. Ron had much to live up to as a Weasley. Even as socially gauche and inept as she was three years ago, Hermione could see that Ron missed the warm familiarity of home.

This time Hermione was on the end of a quizzical look. Ron frowned, rubbed his chin, then carried on. “You’re nearly not that bad now - actually,” he hastened when she bristled. “You’re pretty good these days. That’s why I think the three of us stuck together. Then with what’s gone on since, it just made sense; we were the Trio. But when your name was called it looked like the old you all over again, trying to show how much clever you are than the rest of us.” He looked down at his feet. “Bloody stupid, I know now, but I saw something else setting you and Harry apart from me. We weren’t a Trio any more. There was Harry and Hermione, and then me bringing up the rear, if anyone remembered me at all.”

It was a lot to take in. “I never thought of you as anything other than a friend,” Hermione said finally. “I also knew you were as brave as Harry, braver than me.”

Ron shook his head. “I just follow Harry. He doesn’t think about things like we do.” Again he looked her in the eye. “You’re the brave one, since you can see it coming. You know it’ll be dangerous. Yet that doesn’t stop you.” Hermione could have sworn that a tinge of admiration underpinned his words.

“Anyway, I reckon you’ve proved that to all this year,” he added.

“And what about the dragons?” Ron appeared a little confused at the question., so Hermione made it perfectly clear. “Charlie told you about the dragons. Why’d you keep that from me?”

“Ah” Ron gulped, his face growing even pastier. “I was going to, really I was.” A thin film of perspiration appeared on his brow. “Not my finest hour. I was a prat, a real prick …”

“Ron!”

“Sorry.” The admonishment and apology were automatic. “Well, I thought for once I knew something you didn’t. I tried planning it all out: I’d tell you when we were alone; you’d be so relieved just to know that you’d forgive me for everything; and I’d prove that even clever Hermione Granger needed thick old Ron Weasley.”

Hermione’s expression hardened as he talked. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “But you didn’t tell me, did you?”

“No,” Ron sighed. “I so enjoyed having an edge on you that I kind of lost my head up my arse. The right moment never came, and when I tried to tell you anyway, you didn’t want to talk to me at all. And there was Krum,” he added sourly.

“What do you mean about Viktor?” Hermione demanded hotly. “He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman, something I can’t say about others.” She glared at Ron. “He was even your flavour of the month when he first arrived here.”

Pulling a resentful face, Ron’s reply was self-deprecatory. “He was my replacement… How can I compete with a World Cup Quidditch legend?” Contemplating what he had done, Ron shook his head. “ And it was another excuse to feel angry with you.” He rubbed his tired eyes with the balls of his hands.

Near infuriation, Hermione was also shaking her head. “Not everything is about you, Ron. But, truth be told, I did need a replacement, a replacement friend, since you’d vacated the position.” She hoped that barb bit home.

It did. Ron slumped bonelessly into one of the red squashy armchairs.

“I deserved that,” Ron said quietly. “Not telling you… I can’t forgive myself.” His eyes drifted down to where his fingers now played nervously with each other. “I so wanted the timing to be perfect that I missed my mark, and Bill had to tell you about the dragons.” He paused. “Not my finest hour.”

“You played with my life,” Hermione said coldly, pausing to enunciate each word.

Ron’s head jerked up. He looked as pained as with his broken his leg the previous year. “I would’ve told you - honest!” He sounded suddenly desperate. He pulled his wand. “Look - I’ll take a Wizard’s Oath, anything!”

“You don’t know how to, Ron,” Hermione commented. “You’d probably blow the roof off Gryffindor Tower.” Ron looked offended at that catty retort.

They lapsed into that uneasy silence again.

“Well, what do we do now?” Once again it was Ron who sought resolution.

Hermione sat down heavily in a chair opposite him. “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “What do you want to happen?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I… I saw how you looked at him last night -”

Hermione frowned and firmly cut him off. “No, Ron.” Pointing her index finger at him like a wand, she ordered: “Don’t. Dare. Go. There.”

Ron frantically waved his hands, desperate to dispel the impression he might have given. “No, no!” he replied in almost blind panic. “I didn’t mean… well…” he shakily pointed at Hermione. “You… and…” Pointing at himself. “…me - that’d just be plain stupid, wouldn’t it?”

Quietly fulminating, Hermione just stared back at him. She was not sure what annoyed her most: the thought that Ron might have once entertained the same stirrings of interest she had experienced over the summer; or that Ron, of all people, had divined her supposedly hidden feelings for Harry.

“I mean, you looked pretty and all last night, but what do we have in common, huh? You can’t stand Quidditch and spend all your free time in the Library.” Ron shook his head. “And then there’s Harry.”

“There is nothing going on between me and Harry,” Hermione replied coldly.

‘Not that I would mind if there were,’ she admitted to herself.

Ron snorted once and shook his carrot-topped head, a bemused look on his face. “Okay - I can’t blame you, to be honest.” Then he shifted uneasily. “Things go back to what they were?” he replied hopefully.

That drew yet another negative response. “No, too many things have been said and done. I don’t think I can ever fully trust in you again,” she replied with brutal honesty.

To her own surprise, she felt another twinge of pain as Ron’s face collapsed along with his final hopes.

“I… I … understand,” he said sadly. “I’ll just… go, then.” He stood and pointed himself towards the stairs and the boys’ dormitory.

Suddenly, Hermione thought she had gone too far.

She recalled Bill mentioning that she and Harry were Ron’s only real friends. She also knew how badly Harry missed Ron’s company, even though he tried hard not to show it. Harry was good at ploys like that; Hermione Granger was even better at seeing through his little subterfuges.

“Ron,” she said quietly, “there’s no reason why you can’t stay friends with Harry. I’ve no veto on his life.”

Ron turned and looked at her, utter defeat in his eyes. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said sadly. “Harry’s made it quite clear that if I can’t make my peace with you, we’re through too. He intends to stand right with you.” He leaned on a windowsill and started out at the snow-blown skies. “Reckon not long ago that would have sent me into another jealous fit.” Then he looked back at Hermione. “Now, I reckon that makes sense. You need him more than I do. And he needs you more than anyone, Hermione.” He shambled towards the stairs, evidently finished.

So, apparently irretrievably, was their friendship.

What had she promised Bill? She had given Ron time, but there had to be more than that …

Harry? What about Harry? He had tried to bridge the gap between his two erstwhile friends, yet now the yawning chasm would force his choice, to abandon one of them. From what Ron had just told her, Harry had already made up his mind.

“Ron! Wait!” Hermione called out. Already on the stairs, he turned irresolutely, his tiredness obvious now.

“What?” he asked flatly.

Last night, she had sworn not to make Harry choose between the certainty of remaining friends or taking the next step towards a more meaningful relationship, for the simple reason that Hermione did not want to risk that very security.

Would she now be justified in forcing Harry to make an equally clear choice between Ron and herself?

No - she could not be unfair on Harry. Even Ron thought that Harry needed her more than anyone - he had just said as much. For all his long list of alleged faults Hermione was sure that, in his own way, Ron was just as important to Harry as she was.

Once again, she cursed this damned Tournament.

Standing, she took a couple of steps towards the stairs to the boys’ dormitories, but stopped a safe distance from Ron, quite enough to convey that there would be no a great reunion. This was one prodigal son who would not be welcomed home with a fatted calf.

“I - I don’t know if we can be friends again,” she started.

Ron nodded. “I know. I don’t deserve better,” he said sadly. “You’re right, as usual. I did risk your life.”

“But perhaps we can start afresh. I don’t think I can ever forgive what’s happened, and I certainly won’t forget, but, for Harry’s sake …” she emphasized this, “… I’m ready to call a truce. We can stop being at each other’s throats.”

“Right…” Ron was not sure what to say.

“Three conditions, though.” Hermione added, as she thought this through. Ron nodded warily. “If I find you’ve lied to me, before or in the future, or you hide anything else important from me, we are finished. There won’t be a second chance.”

“Okay” Ron’s rasped reply betrayed a dry throat. “I can’t think of anything else I’ve done.”

“Secondly, if I ever find out that you’ve hurt Harry, I’ll kill you myself.” There was no humour behind those cold words.

Once again there was a glimmer of a rueful smile on Ron’s face. “That’s not a condition, that’s a given.”

“Finally, you are not to talk to anyone about what you think is or isn’t ‘going on’ -” Hermione mimed quotation marks with her fingers “- between Harry and I. Especially not to Harry.”

Ron frowned and paused. “Understood,” he said finally, his bemusement clear.

Taking that as acceptance of terms offered, Hermione nodded. “Right, that’s agreed then.” She turned away and stared towards the portrait hole and her much-delayed appointment with breakfast.

“Hermione?” She stopped and turned back to face a tired but visibly relieved Ron. “Did… did you like your present?”

She had demanded the truth from him, now she had to reciprocate. “It was very nice, thank you, Ron.”

His nervous smile was a little broader. “I hadn’t bought you anything,” he admitted. “We were on the outs and … well, I didn’t think you wanted anything more to do with me.”

“I hadn’t.” She appreciated his candour. In the run of normal events she would have raged at him, but she understood his reasoning. She nodded so that he would continue.

“After Bill reamed me out last night, I told him I didn’t have anything for you. He said he had something back at his flat. Something called an anchor or summat like that. Thought it might come in handy, what with the competition and all.”

‘Yes,’ thought Hermione, ‘I’ll have to translate those runes.’

“ I’m just glad his owl got here in time. I’ll have to pay him back later.”

That was gauche, but that was Ron.

“Err… It’s more expensive than anything you’ve ever bought for me before,” Hermione replied. She winced at how that sounded - not much better than Ron’s declaration.

Ron was not offended. “Not as expensive as a lost friend,” he observed quietly. “I’m gonna grab a few hours kip.” He looked out the window again, before returning his attention to her. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Hermione nodded, surprised at how grown-up an observation could come from Ron Weasley, then relaxed as Ron disappeared up the stairs.

She still had some dissatisfaction at the prospect of rebuilding her relationship with Ron, but Hermione supposed that was better than a state of open warfare.

And, it was Christmas.

If Ron had just received a second present, then so had Harry.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Hermione placed the letter fall back on her bed, its weight making her shoulders slump even more.

She felt physically sick. Despite the buttered crumpets she had enjoyed for breakfast only quarter of an hour ago, her stomach was suddenly empty and plummeting deeper than before. Her nose and eyes felt congested yet her throat was dry. She glanced at her hands; they were trembling.

Her Muggle heritage was on collision course with her magical existence. Her parents believed she could not and should not continue living as a witch. If she were an uninterested party, she would have to concede that all of their points had merit.

Why was she considering extending her participation in that damned Triwizard? Her parents questions, asked without any knowledge at all of how close she had come to …

Hermione gulped. To being maimed? She pretty much had been. No, to being killed…

Her parents were right. She was out-matched. Only a good plan, a generous slice of luck, and a tip from an outside party, had seen her through the First Task.

She had already vocalized her fears to Harry. The letter just reawakened them and poured fresh fuel onto the embers of that internal debate.

So, why was she even thinking about carrying on? Not for pride or the prospect of glory, that was sure. She had no intention of competing to win, nor any illusion that she could.

‘No, it was for Harry.’

And, after last night, she was certain she could not bear living in a world without Harry Potter.

Yet soon she may not have a place in Harry’s world.

‘Was Harry worth betraying a pledge to her parents?

‘Was Harry worth dying for?

‘If he were; how would he feel if she did? He already had a huge guilt complex.’

The loo beckoned; those crumpets would not be denied any longer

In a downcast, contemplative mood Hermione made her way from her quarters to the common room. As she trod the stairs on their downward spiral she could hear sounds of joy and surprise. She an outsider, a likely soon-to-be Muggle, looking in on everyone else enjoying a Hogwarts’ Christmas.

The common room was hardly full, with almost all third years and below back home, and the comforts of bed or breakfast thinning the ranks of those older students who remained. But there was no mistaking the corner of the room annexed by the Weasley family.

Unnoticed, she made her way across the floor, aided by new, dark blue slippers bearing the three gold crowns of Oxford. Hermione noted that the Twins were up and, judging by the noise, more boisterous than ever. Ginny sat quietly on a sofa, with Neville hovering in close attendance.

Harry was there too. He faced away, crouched in an armchair as though ready to spring at something. As Ginny said something to him - Hermione could not make out the words - Harry turned his head. At once she saw how alive his face was, glowing with anticipation.

It was, she noted with a bittersweet tinge, the a kid’s expression. She had worn ones just like it on her Christmas Days when a lot younger. This was probably only his fourth proper Christmas he could remember, and he so enjoyed it.

Harry bounced to his feet. “Thanks awfully for the book, Hermione,” she said breathlessly. “It’s brilliant!” His child-like enthusiasm dispelled some of her clouds of melancholy.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she replied honestly. “And thank you for yours. It really will come in useful!”

He leaned in closer to exchange a little secret. “I asked Moony and Padfoot what the best book would be.” As he leaned back, Hermione watched his eyes shining with unbridled joy. She could not help but to hug him.

“Whoa, Hermione!” One of the Twins joshed. “Something left over from last night?”

“Yeah, don’t we rate a cuddle as well?” The other jumped in.

Eyeing them, Hermione smiled. “Aren’t you a bit tall for me?”

Fred - his identity from his huge woollen jumper with a bright yellow ‘F’ woven onto the front - flopped forward from the sofa onto his knees. “Will this do, oh giant dragon tamer?”

“Always knew you two were really dwarves,” Ginny observed. “No way am I related to you.” She rose from her seat and swapped kisses with Hermione. “Thanks for the perfume, Hermione.”

The whole area was strewn with scrunched-up wrapping paper, boxes of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans, crackers and other presents. Taking the seat next to Harry, Hermione joined in with the comparison of presents.

Neville had presented Ginny with a beautiful antique charms bracelet. Ginny’s eyes lit up, whilst Hermione swore the Twins’ narrowed. Her fears for Neville’s safety were hardly allayed when he later suffered the fate of ingesting a Canary Cream.

Whilst Neville moulted, Hermione asked Harry about two presents that intrigued her. There was a pair of mismatched socks, which Harry explained were from Dobby, and a single sheet of tissue paper. Even before Harry informed her of its source, she had guessed, and once again swore to herself that some day she would have words, perhaps more than mere words, with Harry’s so-called family.

Ginny spotted the chain around her neck. Hermione had wavered back and forth about wearing it, wary that Ron might overestimate the favour in which she held him. Finally she decided it would have been insulting not to wear it.

Still, she felt no need to broadcast anything, and she just put her finger to her lips when Ginny started to ask who it was from. Ginny jumped to a logical, but incorrect conclusion, mouthing silently: “Ah! Viktor…” Hermione just gave a little shake of the head, which further intrigued the younger girl.

Harry’s eyes glittered uncertainly when he, too, noticed the burnished silver thread. Hermione’s coyness left him looking unsettled. Instead of putting his mind at rest, Hermione decided to let him enjoy a second gift later on. Perhaps he thought she had a secret admirer, or shared Ginny’s mistaken belief. Instilling a little jealousy in him might not be a bad thing. So she smiled a Mona Lisa smile and ducked her head away.

There was a sudden interruption in the proceedings when all eyes turned to the sound of approaching footsteps from the direction of the boys’ stairwell; it was Ron, still tired, but visibly nervous.

Ginny jumped to her feet and embraced her brother. She was the only one. Hermione noted that the Twins had fallen silent, while Harry’s and Neville’s eyes were darting from Ron to her, awaiting her reaction.

Even if she had not had that conversion with Ron earlier, she would not have spoiled Christmas for a family. Coolly, she nodded to Ron. “Happy Christmas.”

Ron had been subconsciously holding his breath, judging by his exhalation of relief. “Yeah, Happy Christmas, Hermione. Thanks for the, um, book.” Wisely, he chose not to push his luck and sat as far away from Hermione as he could without appearing rude.

Everyone else was looking between the two erstwhile friends, awaiting some form of explanation. Usually Hermione would be the one to supply that, but she could not think how to phrase one without appearing condescending.

Instead, it was Ron who spoke.

“I… um, well, I … sorta apologized - to Hermione … for being, well…” he stumbled. “Well, a right prat really.”

“About bloody time,” George growled, earning a nod of approval from Neville.

“I know your idea of an apology,” Ginny said sharply. “The question is, did Hermione accept?” She stared shrewdly at Hermione.

Her response was simple. “Yes.” Ginny obviously hoped for greater detail, but Hermione was in no mood to go through her tentative agreement with Ron. Everyone would have to live with that.

Well, almost everyone. Harry’s face now sported a beaming smile. Yes, that extra present was really appreciated.

Ron’s discomfort gradually receded as he fell into being readmitted as a full member of the Hogwarts branch of the Weasley family. He brightened visibly when Ginny pointed out the silver chain that peeked above Hermione’s collar. Harry betrayed some bewilderment when he finally learnt who had been the giver. Hermione just smiled once again, mentioned it was a good luck charm, and suggested he discuss it with Ron.

She did enjoy watching Harry and Ron start to mend their own fences. If she had to leave Hogwarts then at least Harry would have one real friend.

Biting back sudden unbidden tears, Hermione was glad that it was soon time to make their way to the Great Hall for Christmas dinner.

The sight that met them was amazing, even by Hogwarts’ standards.

The house-elves had outdone themselves. There was the usual fare that Hermione had experienced last year. A row of roast turkeys with all the trimmings: roast and mashed potatoes; Brussels sprouts; mashed carrot and Swede; roasted parsnips; lemon, thyme and sage stuffing; and chipolatas. And for those who did not fancy poultry, there were huge hunks of gammon.

Hermione had never met a vegetarian wizard; she wondered how they would cope in this world.

Side tables groaned under loads of Christmas puddings and mince pies, with cheese and biscuits to follow: great whole wheels of Cheddar, Stilton and other famous British cheeses.

Yet the elves had to cope with their foreign visitors. Beauxbatons’ requirements were fairly simple to meet, as the vast majority of students hailed from France, with the odd Belgian or Swiss. Foie gras on sliced brioche competed with the seafood terrine, smoked salmon and fresh oysters with lemon juice or shallot vinegar for starters, followed by coquilles St. Jacques, grilled or baked, in some creamy sauce. Then there was choice of main course between those who favoured game and those who chose poultry. Haunches of venison, wild boar, pheasant and pigeon on one side; roast duck, goose and capon on the other.

For the French, there was of course a wide selection of cheeses for dessert that outweighed even the British choice, along with some form of Swiss roll covered in rich-looking butter icing.

The greatest feat had been meeting the culinary tastes of the Durmstrang students and staff, whose range of nationalities encompassed Scandinavia, Central Europe, the Commonwealth of Independent States and most of the Balkans.

Many chose roast goose or duck, although there was, to British eyes, an odd selection of pork chops and sausages. Joints of roast pork glowed with crackling. Fish was popular, from the Scandinavian herring, braised carp and pike, to Caspian sturgeon. The vegetable choice was equally unusual to the hosts, with plenty of red cabbage and sauerkraut, wild mushrooms, delicious-looking dumplings, and unusual brown potatoes which, when tried, turned out to have been fried in melted sugar.

Seated at the Ravenclaw table, Viktor Krum, she learned later when she thanked him for his gift of a beautiful hand-crafted wooden flute, had stuck to a traditional Bulgarian delicacy: a round loaf with boiled wheat, and stuffed cabbage and vine leaves. He wished Hermione Vesela Koleda and thanked her for the latest Bulgar translation of Hogwarts: A History.

She also learned that he had been invited to spend the afternoon in the Ravenclaw common room, a courtesy extended by an attentive Penelope Clearwater. That prospect inspired a little pang of envy in the bibliophile Gryffindor. Still, she was happy for Viktor. He would not after all be spending Christmas Day on his own, or in the troubled Durmstrang ship.

Hermione was uncertain about where to sit, certainly in relation to Ron. She had no wish to resume their former closeness, not in response to his eating habits, but to signal that despite their truce not all had been forgiven. Yet deliberately sitting as far away as possible could be taken as an escalating slight. They were supposed to be in a state of détente.

Instead Ron made her choice for her. Showing unusual care for others’ feelings, he sat next to Ginny. Neville took the seat facing Ginny, allowing Harry to sit opposite his now readmitted friend. Hermione was free to sit next to Harry, so diagonally opposite Ron. That was close enough for now.

Hermione did wonder at the sheer amount of food provided. The other Houses, as well, looked to be devoid of at least half their members. From what she had learned about wizards and food, conjured items did not last, so that could explain the rumours of turkey shortages that circulated in Muggle England each December.

She also pondered how the Weasleys would react if presented with the meagre Muggle portions. Ron would certainly either explode, or collapse through hunger, and the Twins would not be far behind. Hermione herself admitted that she ate two or three times the amount that her parents did. The sheer amount of energy that magic required burned off most of the calories, so there were not many horizontally-challenged wizards. Come to think of it, the lack of magical skill might explain anomalies such as Crabbe and Goyle.

Such casual musings passed through Hermione’s mind, while Harry dug in gamely. He was not in Ron’s league as a trencherman, but held his own with those brought up in the wizarding world. Hermione wondered how much food he was allowed back in Surrey, now and in the past. He was starting to fill out, Hermione noted, but was not tall. Malnutrition? Under-nourished? Another topic of contention to raise with the Dursleys when she met them.

As Ron demolished his third helping of turkey along with a mountain of vegetables, eschewing any continental surprises, Hermione contented herself with a little turkey and some small cuts of less common meats from the Beauxbatons table. A slice of carp baked with almonds was nice as well.

Hermione was glad the Yule Ball was not held on Christmas Day evening. Most of the participants would have been too weighed down by their dinners to walk, let alone dance.

Never one for heavy Christmas pudding, even with thick steaming custard in place of brandy butter, Hermione eyed the vast range of desserts until the pudding being spooned by one of the few Durmstrang female students caught her eye. The girl, shy when asked by one of the Champions, admitted it was a Danish favourite called Rice Allemande.

It was a delicious rice pudding, she explained to the curious Gryffindor, boiled with vanilla and milk, then allowed to cool, before being served with grated almonds, whipped cream and hot black cherry sauce. When she returned to her seat with a helping, Ron glanced once at the strange dessert, polished off his fifth mince pie, then went off to eliminate a fair part of the European cheese mountain.

She turned to joke about that with Harry, currently consuming his own slab of Christmas pudding, deep and dark and studded with sultanas and the odd silver coin, floating in its own custard lake. As he leaned in, she put her lips to his right ear so that her comment could both remain confidential yet audible above the hubbub. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that, up on the staff table, Moody was scrutinising them again, this time with both his organic and magical eyes.

Forgetting what she was about to say, Hermione whispered: “He’s doing it again.”

“Who? What?” Harry was caught unawares, his attention fixed on his plate before him. He automatically glowered in Ron’s direction, trying to elicit his latest transgression.

“Professor Moody.” She leaned back a bit to allow Harry to turn and follow her gaze.

“What’s his problem?” Harry muttered.

“When do we ever know?” Hermione responded, then shivered as Moody’s attention seemed to tighten and refocus on them, before his magical eye diverted to another target.

“Gives me the willies,” Harry admitted.

Hermione was still certain that Mad-Eye’s human eye remained fixed on her, and her alone. “Me too.”

Shrugging, Harry returned to finish his meal just as Ron returned, plate laden with Double Gloucester and Red Leicester. Hermione followed suit, selecting Gruyere from the Beauxbatons’ table, but every so often her eyes drifted back to the head of the Great Hall. The Defence master appeared to meet her gaze every time.

Now her once appetising pudding had unexpectedly lost its allure.

When even the Twins’ appetites were sated, washed down with lashings of pumpkin juice, the benches groaned under the strain.

With the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang parties traipsing back to their quarters through the thick snow that had fallen overnight, many of the Hogwarts students chose to retreat back to their common rooms, to either sleep off the meal or continue showing off their presents. Not so the Weasleys, with plenty of energy to burn. The Twins were in favour of a snowball fight, a prospect that almost had Harry bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Hermione was just glad to be out of range of that unforgiving stare.

Outside it was a beautiful crisp winter’s day. The overnight snow clouds had broken up over the morning, and the sky was a pallid light blue. To no-one’s surprise the snow covering Hogwarts’ grounds was laying deep and crisp and even in the weak sunlight.

It was expected that Hermione would choose Harry’s side. No-one ever expected the Twins to be parted. It was Ron who faced a difficult choice: Hermione knew he would want to join Harry; yet he had kept his distance from Hermione.

Harry made the decision for them both. “Ron!” The red-head’s eyes lit up as he was invited to rejoin his friend, but carefully stood on Harry’s disengaged side, away from Hermione.

Ginny joined her two elder brothers, wisely commenting that no-one in their right minds went up against the Twins. She glanced meaningfully at Harry, but he was not paying attention. Neville, as hesitant in joining in as Hermione had been, was quick to follow Ginny.

“Four on three, Gred,” George commented.

“Easy meat, Forge,” Fred replied, already fashioning a weapon of mass destruction.

Hermione, wrapped up in coat, scarf and woolly bobble hat, realised that the odds were certainly stacked against them. She looked around for victims willing to share their fate. There was someone, small and as covered up against the cold as she was, watching on the margins. She could not make out who it was, but Ginny certainly did.

“Come on, Luna, and join the massacre!”

Hermione kicked herself mentally. She should have recognised the smaller Ravenclaw, who was now skipping down the slight slope to the battlefield.

Arriving just a bit out of puff, Luna Lovegood’s breath coiled in wreathes around her head. “Are you sure?” she asked hopefully. “None of the Ravenclaws want to play with me.”

Both Hermione and Ginny relied in the affirmative at the same time. Luna smiled that slightly other-worldly smile. “Oh goodie! I’ve never had a snowball fight before.”

Ginny’s smile bore a hint of wolf. “Well, she’s on your side, Harry!”

With an event brighter smile, Luna bounced enthusiastically over the snow.

The contest was violent and brutal. Supposedly it was no magic allowed, but the Twins were unreformed cheats in their observance of that rule, as with all others, and the restriction was honoured more in the breach. Everyone finished covered in snow that found its way down necks and inside sleeves, soaking the competitors inside and out.

Hermione found her sides aching from so much laughter. She had little snowball fight experience either, being an only child. Nor had those few been much fun, usually involving her as an unwilling target of the winter equivalent of a firing squad, as a friendless bookworm on her own against the rest, when all she wanted to do was read.

She could never have imagined that being soaked and frozen stiff could be so much fun!

Ron had taken a beating, often emerging from snow drifts where his brothers dumped him in blatant disregard of the no magic rule.

Ginny was a positive Valkyrie, delighting in seeking out targets, especially Hermione for some reason.

Harry was just enjoying himself, preferring quantity of ammunition expended to accuracy of delivery.

The shock was that Luna proved to be such an accurate thrower that even the Twins became wary of dealing with her.

Neville, just like Hermione, was content to stay on the defensive, although always watching Ginny’s back, sometimes literally.

As she watched Harry take another snowball smack on the right ear, only to emerge grinning and returning rapid fire, Hermione could not help but grin, despite her sodden hat and droplets of melted snow in her hair.

Only the early disappearance of Scottish daylight called a halt to proceedings.

Hermione moved towards the thoroughly soaked Harry, who had ice forming in his messy mop of black hair. She smiled as she brushed remnants of frozen shrapnel away from his locks with her own thoroughly saturated mittens. In the cold still air his eyes burned like gemstones. Seeing Harry happy made her day.

“Cold?” he asked, ignoring the evidence of his own shivers.

“Umm…” Hermione’s nose was a point of red in the band of white that sat between her scarf and hat as she nodded in the affirmative.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Harry spun around and looked out over the expanse of Hogwarts’ grounds, covered by a white blanket in the deepening gloom.

Hermione nodded and then caught her breath.

‘How could she leave Hogwarts and Harry behind?

‘How could she square that desire with her own pledge to her parents?’

“When you’re that quiet,” Harry’s words broke in, “you’re nearly always thinking about something.”

She nodded again.

“Want to talk about it?” he enquired solicitously.

Hermione shivered, pulling her arms tight about her body. Ron was retreating to the Castle but Ginny was still nearby, eyeing them with a curious air. “Not sure,” she admitted. Harry raised a frozen eyebrow. “Well, not here, anyway. Let’s get into the warm.”

Turning to go, Hermione thought she saw a dark shape unblock one of the brightly-lit windows on the second floor. She shivered again before Harry put his arm around her shoulders and guided her back towards the welcome warmth indoors.

The Christmas morning excitement of the common room was already a memory. Still, whilst drying and warming charms had their place, there was nothing better than curling up in front of a roaring fire with a mug of steaming cocoa or hot chocolate, with chunks of Honeydukes’ finest melting away to enrich the taste.

Harry found himself in his favourite position, between his two best friends. Hermione was determined to be civil towards Ron, but no more, so said little. Ron appeared equally determined to avoid upsetting Hermione, the safest means of which was likewise to say very little. If Harry noticed the coolness between them, he did not say anything, but simply rejoiced in having the three of them back together again.

Ginny seemed a little put out at not having a chance to nab a seat next to Harry. Recognising the futility of trying to infiltrate the Trio, she sat as close as she could to her idol on the other side of the fireplace. In turn a determined yet still nervous Neville sat at her side. The Twins were off somewhere, no doubt wreaking havoc armed with their Christmas haul.

Silence ruled. Everyone was tired out by the heavy meal followed by the afternoon’s exertions, and lulled into a dozy mood by the cosiness in the common room. Supper was available in the form of cold meats and cheese that had survived dinner, made up into sandwiches, along with plenty of sausage rolls and mince pies. For once, nobody, except Ron, seemed much interested in more food.

Viktor had charmed his present to play haunting melodies of its own accord. Harry and Neville in particular were fascinated with it, the latter was determined to speak with Viktor about where the Gryffindor could find one for himself. Hermione thought she saw just the merest glimmer of envy flitter in Ron’s eyes, but was content, for once, to let it pass.

Ron was the first to succumb, his lack of sleep the previous night catching up with him after a valiant attempt to scoff a half-dozen turkey sandwiches proved unavailing. He had dozed off once or twice, only to be woken by a gently shove from Harry or a giggle from Ginny. Admitting defeat, he trailed off up the stairs seeking his bed.

Harry seemed happy enough just to sit there and gaze at the fire. Hermione imagined he was reliving the day, storing away some pleasant memories. That was certainly her mood, as, nursing her still warm mug, she worried that this might be the last Christmas she enjoyed at Hogwarts.

With her two friends in introspective mood, Ginny soon gave up on them and disappeared. It came as no surprise when Neville followed suit a few minutes later. The common room was not quite deserted, as one or two couples sat in dimly-lit corners, seeking another form of comfort.

“What’s up, Hermione?” Harry’s quiet question snapped her out of her cosy little world.

Hermione carefully placed her now empty mug down on a side table, but she could not face Harry, and this simply stared at her hands.

“I received a letter from my parents.” She glanced up carefully at Harry, but his expression was studiedly neutral, awaiting more information. “When I told them about the dragon, they … well, they want me to withdraw.”

“From the Tournament?”

“From Hogwarts,” Hermione replied. “It’s effectively the same thing.”

“Can they do that?” The concern was evident in his voice.

“They can, as I’m not of age.” Hermione was watching for Harry’s reaction, and she detected a wince when he heard that. “But they’ve left the decision up to me.”

“Phew!” Harry’s relief was obvious. “Well, that’s okay then, isn’t it?”

Hermione did not reply immediately. Harry stared hard at her. “Isn’t it, Hermione?”

It was too painful to hold his gaze, so she again dropped her eyes, watching her fingers nervously twitching in her lap. “Well, you see,” she started slowly, “I… kind of promised them…” She looked up again and saw Harry’s jaw set in a hard line.

“It was when I met them after I was first named in the Tournament, it was all so soon and I was desperate that they didn’t pull me out right there and then, so you see I had to make them let me stay, as they didn’t like the idea, and were so set against the whole thing, and I thought they might take me home that very afternoon,” Hermione added at a rush, her voice rising. “Of course, I didn’t know what the First Task was then, I mean, if we’d known about the dragons then, things might have been different, but I didn’t and so -”

At Harry’s “Whoa!” she broke off, breath ragged and chest heaving. “Hang on, Hermione, you’re not making sense. Slow down,” Harry urged.

Trying hard to remain calm, Hermione saw her hands were shaking now.

“You see, I made them a promise,” she said quietly, in case any of the other occupants had overheard them and were eavesdropping. Again, she glanced up, and saw Harry was waiting for her to expound. “I had to,” she almost appealed for his understanding, “otherwise they would have withdrawn me from Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded his head slightly. “What did you promise?”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush red, not even slightly from the heat thrown out by the fire. “I said that, if they left the final decision on competing to me, then if I felt that I was out of my depth, I would withdraw.” She was aware of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “From The Triwizard, Hogwarts, from the world of magic itself. That would mean that… you too.”

More than a few moments of uneasy silence passed before Harry bestirred himself.

“Well, that’s okay then, isn’t it?” When Hermione didn’t respond, he continued in more urgent tones. “I mean, you got past the dragon, didn’t you?”

“Harry, you know it was only through luck and some help from you and Bill that I didn’t end up dead!” Hermione’s voice betrayed the tension she still felt from the entire ordeal.

Harry was momentarily nonplussed. “But I thought … that was just nerves, you know?”

Hermione shook her head. “I meant what I said. I’m not sure I can carry on in the Tournament. You know how close a call it was.”

Harry shifted in his comfortable seat so that he could face her more comfortably. Their denim-clad legs touched but neither paid any attention to that. “What could be worse than a dragon?” he wondered. “You’re past the hard part for sure.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do, Harry.” Hermione’s anxieties were crowding in again. “I mean, that was just the First Task! I’d expect the Second to be even harder, and as for the Third …” She gulped audibly. “Merlin, that could be anything …”

“Hermione …”

She turned to face Harry, but she did not see him. “There could be Manticores, or a Chimaera.” Her eyes flickered as her imagination started to run away with her fears. “Who knows, I could have to duel Moody. They could bring back the Dementors!”

“Better not be a Basilisk,” Harry muttered in a too transparent attempt at levity. “That’d spoil my thunder!”

“Harry!” Hermione punched him lightly on the arm. “I’m trying to be serious here. I nearly died; I’ve a scar that reminds every time I look in the mirror.”

“Join the club,” Harry replied without a trace of residual humour.

His words felt almost physical. “Oh. Harry…!” She gave up trying and broke down altogether. Before he knew it, she threw her arms around her neck, and started bawling. That earned odd looks from the last other couple in the common room, who trundled off to bed. She felt him gingerly put his arms around her, acting as he had at times during the ball. He patted her on the back as she cried herself out.

“Harry….” Hermione’s voice started to rise. “It’s true… isn’t it? I’m like you, now…”

“Look, Hermione,” Harry sounded defensive. “It’s not as bad as all that? You’ve still got your parents, and they obviously love you.”

Still dazed from her outburst, Hermione tried to pull herself together as Harry spoke. She was the fifteen-year-old girl now, not the champion. He had just said something about her parents… “I - I don’t know, Harry, and that’s the problem. My promise. I really should have pulled out when I learned about the dragons.”

“But you didn’t, and that took some bottle,” Harry observed admiringly.

“But it was stupid,” Hermione replied, sounding downcast but no longer weepy. “The risk was… too great,” she finally admitted.

Harry shook his head in vehement disagreement. “No way. You outfoxed that dragon, you were brilliant!”

That helped her bounce back. Even Hermione could not stifle a grin at Harry’s obvious admiration. But she remained realistic. “I’ll say it again: I was lucky.”

“No, look.” Harry leaned in closer in his determination to impress his point on her. An unusual frisson, reminiscent of the night before, ran down Hermione’s spine. Completely by accident, they were tip-toeing towards that zone again. “You had a great plan and it worked. How can they top a dragon, huh?”

She took a calming breath before pointing out, quite reasonably: “Even if it’s not another creature, then it would be reasonable to expect something of the same order in the next two tasks.”

“But you can handle it, I know you can!” There was a hard edge of desperation in Harry’s voice. She reached out and grabbed his hands.

“That’s not really the point anymore, is it?” Hermione said as calmly as she could. She found it surprisingly satisfying the way his hands held her arms just below the wrists, just as she held his. Both had effectively pinned the other down to make their argument. “I pretty much broke the promise to my parents by carrying on in the First Task,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can do that again without smashing it to pieces.”

Harry sat there, just staring at her. She stared back, watching his eyes.

“What are you going to do?” He sounded depressed, as if fearing her answer.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “Honestly… I don’t know. I don’t want to leave, but if I carry on… well, then I think I’ll break my promise.”

Harry let go of her arms, much to Hermione’s regret, and sat back. He went silent for as long as a minute, thinking. Finally, he said something most unexpected. “Hermione, what did you tell your parents about the Troll?”

“Umm,” Hermione’s cheeks flared red with embarrassment once more. “I never actually told them the details,” she volunteered.

“What about the Basilisk, or the Dementors?” he persisted.

What was Harry doing? “I didn’t,” she retorted. “Do you honestly think I’d still be here if I had?”

Ignoring her question, Harry leaned forward to punch home his sudden interrogation. “Did you tell them about saving Sirius? Or Buckbeak?”

Although perplexed, Hermione could not refrain from snorting derisively. “I wouldn’t dare tell them any of that,” she defended herself. “They would certainly never have allowed me to return to Hogwarts.”

Harry smiled for the first time in a while, as he ran a hand through his dark locks. For a brief second Hermione was captivated by the flicker of firelight on his hair as it moved under his fingers. “So what’s the difference now?” he asked. The intent of his little interrogation was now clear.

“It’s not whether they know what’s happening or not, it’s about the promise I made,” she almost cried, then glanced around to make sure no-one had heard her anguish. The room was now otherwise deserted.

What she could not permit herself to add was that Harry Potter was the primary reason she had not already withdrawn from the Tournament. She would not add that baggage to Harry’s burden.

“I can’t see that you’d be breaking any promise,” he quietly pressed his advantage. “How can you be out of your depth if you completed the First task?”

She could see the point he was driving at. But his logic was off. He did not understand her position.

“Harry, if you had …” Hermione broke off awkwardly, shockingly aware she had almost repeated her error, only much worse. Harry was no fool. She could tell he knew what she had almost bitten back. His head jerked back in astonishment, and she could almost see him retreating back inside himself.

“I’m sorry!” she cried, suddenly disgusted with herself. How could she do that?

Harry’s hand returned to touch her elbow, this time more tightly. “No, you’re right,” he said all too calmly. “I wouldn’t know what it’s like to make any sort of promise to my parents.”

Again Hermione felt as though slapped. Only he could do that, it seemed. For a second time in a few minutes she flung herself across the few feet dividing them and again wrapped her arms around a stunned Harry’s neck. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered between the tears now flowing freely. “I never meant to be mean... I’m so sorry!”

She could feel Harry freeze as she hugged him before, to her great relief, this time she felt his arms encircle her waist. “It’s alright, it’s okay,” he murmured into her right ear. “I said you’re the lucky one, and I meant it.” Then he released his hold and leaned back just a bit, loosening her own grip, so they could look each other in the eyes, even if their noses were almost touching. Hermione was about to apologise again when Harry just put a finger to his lips, silencing her latest attempt to apologise.

“Hermione, just tell me. What do you think you are going to do? I’ll support you, no matter what.”

Wiping her nose, Hermione struggled to form her thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I really don’t know. Maybe when I find out what the Second Task is, then I’ll decide.”

Harry appeared to be gazing deep into her eyes, seeking something. When he spoke his voice was a little thick with emotion.

“For what it’s worth, Hermione, I’d hate to see you leave. You’re a -”

His opinion was cut off as Hermione engulfed him in yet another hug. She was too choked with emotion to say anything.

“Is there anything you two have to tell us?”

Hermione froze as she recognised the voice.

Harry’s head whipped around, fortunately colliding with his own elbow rather than smacking the side of Hermione’s face. He responded, not without difficulty as he had a witch clinging onto him. “Fred, George,” was about all he managed.

Disentangling herself from the clinch on the sofa, Hermione turned around, cheeks burning. The Twins stood there, both sporting amused grins. George seemed to be wrapping something about his right arm.

Hermione was busy dabbing away the remnants of the tears she had shed.

“You know, Fred,” George observed in good humour, “rather than hexing him, we ought to thank Cormac for complaining so loudly about these two.”

“Agreed,” Fred cheerily responded. “Without his waking us, we wouldn’t have had this grand opportunity to field test your idea to try an Undetectable Extension Charm on your ear. Could be a big seller.”

“I believe you’re right, Fred,” George vamped as Harry and Hermione composed themselves. “Speaking of big sellers, it’s just a shame that Colin isn’t here with his camera. The Daily Prophet would pay a tidy few Galleons for that picture.”

“Too true George, too true. One could almost imagine the headlines. ‘Underaged Triwizard Champion in torrid tryst with the Chosen One shock!’”

“Knock it off,” Harry replied in good humour, but there was steel in his voice. “Aren’t there are first years to terrorise?”

“Harry!” Hermione’s outrage was only partially mock.

“None here at Hogwarts, sad to say,” George observed. “Good thing too, would hate to think how scarred the poor dears would be if they saw this clinch. Evidently it was too steamy even for Cormac.”

“Move along then, there’s nothing to see,” Harry replied, as he stood and tried to position himself between the Twins and Hermione.

“I think we’ve struck a nerve there, George.” Fred peered around Harry a little more closely at Hermione’s face. “Mind you, Harry, leaving the girl in tears is ordinarily bad form.”

‘I wish there were something to tattle about,’ Hermione thought. But she followed Harry in rising to her feet. “I was just hugging Harry,” she complained, attempting to explain herself.

“Didn’t want to cuddle us earlier,” Fred replied with mock outrage.

“From the sound of it, that wasn’t the first time,” George commented.

“I’d suggest you don’t tick off the dragon tamer,” Harry muttered with bite in his voice. “Or she might ask what you two were up to with Ludo Bagman last night.”

Both Twins took a simultaneous and outlandish step backwards. “Good point, Harry.”

“Yes,” George added. “Don’t worry - your secret is safe with us.” They mimed zipping their lips shut, then clapped each other on the shoulder, and ambled towards the boys’ staircase, ignoring Hermione’s muffled complaint.

“There is no secret.”

“Just don’t run away, either of you,” one or the other of them said as a Parthian shot.

She turned to face a visibly amused Harry. “Well?” she demanded.

He held his hands up defensively. “Nothing to do with me! You were the one with all the hugging, throwing yourself at me times three!”

“Those two had better not say anything,” Hermione said with asperity.

“What about?” Harry was still amused. “Two friends having a hug; there’s nothing to tell.”

“I suppose there isn’t,” Hermione replied, trying not to sound too upset about that. “Best be off, I suppose.”

“Wait.” He stepped up closer to her. “And I forgot to say ‘thank you’ today.”

“What for?”

“For making it up with Ron. I don’t need to know the details, but… well, it’s nice to have the both of you to talk to again.” He looked pointedly at her. “I’d hate to lose a friend, Hermione. But I don’t want to come between you and your parents. And if you don’t want to compete - well, I’d rather know you were safe even if you weren’t here.”

Hermione swore his voice cracked a bit at the end. He always had been a terrible liar.

* * * * *

Boxing Day was quiet. Hermione was still fighting her own battle between keeping her word to her parents, the dangers of continuing in the competition, the possibility of leaving the magical world, and - last but hardly least - her developing feelings for Harry.

That he wanted her to stay was a heady brew.

Typically he was subjugating his own wishes to defer to hers.

If only Hermione knew what she really wanted.

To stay with Harry entailed completing the competition, save a miraculous change of heart from either Barty Crouch or the Ministry.

Having faced a dragon, she might have thought that she could deal with anything thrown at her. Yet in the Muggle world that was just a hors d’ouevre; the worst would be yet to come.

In that case, continuing placed her squarely in defiance of her own promise, and there was still no certainty she could survive in any case.

Tossing and turning in her bed, disturbing a thoroughly disgruntled Crookshanks, Hermione wrestled with her own Gordian Knot.

Breakfast was quiet after yesterday’s excesses. Despite her fears, the Twins just grinned good-naturedly at her. That would have been enough to have her fearing for her future in any event.

They certainly had not said anything to Ron. He was a little less distant, although Hermione was nothing more than briskly cool towards him. As far as she was concerned, Ron had a lot to make up for in the distance department.

Harry gifted her that little half-smile when he appeared, the one that made her stomach flip-flop. He had a quiet word with the Twins before sitting down beside Hermione. “Have a good night?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, too much thinking.”

His grin grew a little wider. “Not something I’d know anything about.” Then he turned more serious. “I meant what I said last night.”

“I know.” Hermione found her right hand covering his left. “That means a lot to me.”

“If you have to leave, could you give me your forwarding address?” Harry asked. This time Hermione could not tell if he were serious or not.

“Harry, you know…”

“Hi!” Ginny sat down next to Ron, who grunted a welcome through a mouthful of egg and bacon, and Hermione’s and Harry’s hands snapped apart. Ginny stared dubiously at the pair, as though she knew she had missed something.

The meal broke up into its usual myriad of discussions, mostly more inconsequential than usual, in the absence of lessons that week.

Hermione was paying more attention to the staff table. It appeared every time she glanced in that direction, she found Professor Moody staring resolutely back at her.

It came as no surprise that, as she was finishing off her meal, that she heard the now familiar sound of wood scraping on wood. With one hand slipping around her wand, Hermione started to turn to face Moody.

“Potter, if yeh’ve got the time, I’ll ’ave a word with yeh.”

Although Moody’s one surviving original eye was fixed on the occupant of the seat next door, that electric blue orb was unremitting in its scrutiny of Hermione.

Harry nodded, and Moody spun on his false leg, stumping away towards his own office.

“What’s that all about?” Ron mumbled, his half-eaten slice of toast poised mid-point between plate and lips.

“Dunno,” Harry muttered. He shared a significant look with Hermione. “He’s been acting weirdly the last few days.”

“He’s been acting weird ever since my Dad first met him, before I was born” Ron commented. “Don’t call him ‘Mad-Eye’ for nothing.”

Just as Harry started to rise, Hermione caught his hand. “Be careful, Harry,” she warned. “There’s something about Professor Moody that worries me.”

Harry grinned. “Don’t worry - ‘Constant vigilance’ as someone keeps trying to drum into us.”

However Hermione did worry, especially as Harry did not return from his sojourns for the rest of the morning. She sat in the common room, attacking the stack of homework she had to catch up on over the holidays, but for once her heart was not in it.

Harry had still not returned when she gave up, put her schoolwork away, and headed off to the Great Hall for lunch.

Halfway through a meal that she was not really interested in, Harry appeared, and Hermione felt a wave of relief engulf her. That lasted until she came close enough for her to note all the signs that he was agitated about something.

“What is it, Harry?”

He waved off her question. “Nothing, Hermione, nothing.” But as he sat down opposite her, Hermione could tell he was trying to avoid her attention.

“Harry? I know it’s something.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, then gave it a soft thump, making Neville jump a couple of feet away.

“Let’s talk about it after lunch.”

Hermione wondered what she had done, or, more to the point, what Moody had done to irritate the young wizard.

When they had both finished, Harry positively bustled Hermione out of the Great Hall.

“Where are we going,” Hermione demanded.

Harry looked around furtively. “Outside is best,” he said.

“Then for Merlin’s sake let’s get our cloaks,” she replied. “It’s blowing a gale out there.”

“Oh.” Harry, in his hurry, had not noticed. “Okay, I guess.”

Her interest now positively piqued, Hermione could hardly wait until they had repaired to their respective dorms, then returned and exited the shelter of the Castle. Hermione had only exaggerated a little when she mentioned a gale. The wind was howling around the walls, enough to drive loose snow across the lawns in eddies and currents.

“So,” feeling the need to raise her voice just to be heard, “what did Moody want with you?” Hermione asked as she huddled up against the biting cold.

“Moody? Oh, nothing really.”

Hermione favoured him with a disbelieving stare. “You were gone hours,” she pointed out reasonably. “And you’re a terrible liar.”

“I was thinking,” Harry retorted. “Look, why don’t we find somewhere out of this wind.”

The southern side of the Castle walls offered some refuge, and Hermione conjured up one of her bluebell flames in a jar to keep them warm. In this weather, there was very little chance they could be overheard. Even the Twins’ new Extendable Ear would be practically useless in these conditions.

Harry seemed ill at ease. Hermione surmised that either something had upset him, or he was worried about what he was about to say.

“Look, about the Second Task, Hermione, assuming it’s not another animal…”

“That’s a big assumption,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry shook his head. “It won’t be,” he said decisively. “They don’t normally have two tasks the same.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Okay, that’s reasonable,” she observed. “But why so sure?”

“Trust me, Hermione.”

Normally she would take him at his word, but there was something… shifty, evasive about his body language. “Harry, did you obtain this information from Professor Moody.”

He avoided her eyes. “I was just thinking, okay,” he blurted out defensively. “Look, you’re strongest with your brain. What needs improving is…” His voice trailed off. “Well, we - I mean, I - think you could be a little …” He struggled for the right word, as though afraid of saying something offensive.

“Fitter?” he finally offered limply.

“Fitter?” Hermione was perplexed. “What do you mean?”

Harry was blushing now, despite the biting cold wind. “Well, it’s like - well, I’ve never seen you do any sports or stuff, you know?”

Hermione reflexively clutched at her tummy through her heavy robes. “You don’t think I’m … a little overweight, do you?” After all, Madam Pomfrey had intimated as much.

“No, no!” Harry hastened to correct her. “It’s just that … I reckon the remaining tasks might need you to be fit - physically fat … I mean fit.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

Unnerved, Harry tried to repair some of the damage. “Not that you’re not fit … I mean… oh bloody hell!” He bravely took a step towards her and lightly rested the palms of his hands on her shoulders.

“Not that I’ve ever seen you have to do anything really physical, and as far as I know you could be, but -”

“Harry!” she said, loud enough to prevent his foot ending up further into his mouth. “I get the picture.” She did. After all, she had at times wished she was fitter during the First Task. Although not slow on her feet, she was no greyhound either. Dancing at the Ball, too, had made her wish she were a little more lithe in her movements. “What do you suggest?”

“Endurance, I reckon,” Harry replied, wiping his brow in relief. “Second and Third Tasks; you’ll need to keep going, that’s what I’ve heard.”

She cocked her head and gave him her most piercing inquiring look. “What exactly have you heard about the last two tasks, Harry?”

“Nothing specific,” he replied. “But running, I reckon.” Then he turned and looked out over the lake. “And swimming,” he added, pointedly staring back at her.

* * * * *

Miss Selfridge is a respected brand of women’s clothing; Marks & Spencer are perhaps Britain’s best-known clothing store.

Prestwick is the airport serving Glasgow; Dyce is the equivalent for Aberdeen.

GCSE is the standard examination for fifteen / sixteen year-olds (Fifth Year).

I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody hungry after writing the Christmas Dinner description. My take on wizarding physiognomy is personal; how do wizards consume the amount of food that the Weasleys manage alone, yet remain tall and lanky like Ron and the Twins? They must burn off that energy somehow. The food mentioned is traditional Christmas fare in several different countries.

The Ankh was suggested as Ron’s gift to Hermione by beta reader Bexis.

Viktor’s gift was a Kaval, which was suggested by beta reader George. He describes the soul of its music as Bulgaria’s history. Check up some posts on You Tube - it really has a haunting melody.

Not a new chapter, but a re-post of the last. As you may have noted, Portkey has suffered some problems recently, and the last chapter posted “no longer exists” along with 40-50 reviews, as well as my replies. So, if you have already reviewed up to chapter #13 and have not had a reply from me, my apologies, particularly to Rick, who had some constructive criticism but our dialogue has now been lost…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or any of the characters, plots, places, spells or - most importantly - the bank account passwords of JK Rowling.

Once again, my sincere thanks to beta readers George and Bexis. Any mistakes are my responsibility alone.

Lungs burning, Hermione doubled over, gulping in great draughts of oxygen. She felt so shaky that if her hands were not resting on her knees, she was sure she would topple over.

“Alright?”

Harry had never asked a more brainless question, but she could barely spare the energy to glare at him. Her ribs ached, her hamstrings so taut they might snap at any second, and for the first time in her life she was painfully aware of her Achilles’ tendons.

“I.. I’m -” Gulp “- fine -” Gulp - “- really.”

Her breath coiled in clouds of vapour thanks to the sharp nip of a Scots New Year. She yanked her sweat band off and let her soaked hair fall free in straggly tendrils.

“And you call me a horrible liar,” Harry muttered. He bent down and peered at her face through her newly drawn brown curtain. “I don’t like to say this, Hermione, but… well, you don’t look too good.”

With a supreme effort Hermione raised a hand to forestall Harry’s concern. “I’ll be… fine in a…. minute.” God, why were her lungs incapable of drawing in oxygen? “I’m… just a little… out of breath.”

With that speech, standing became too much. She folded her legs and sat down more heavily and inelegantly than she intended. Harry dropped to the grass, still crisp with frost, next to her. “Perhaps a mile was too ambitious first go,” he offered tentatively.

Oblivious to the cold, Hermione flopped onto her back, staring at the grey clouds overhead. ‘God, I never knew how out of shape I was!’ The stitch in her side throbbed painfully.

“You didn’t do too badly.” Harry encouraged, but did not sound convinced by his own words.

“I’ll be… alright,” Hermione replied. It was a real effort to speak and inhale at the same time. “Just give me a minute… or two.”

‘Or thirty. Or, better still, sixty,’ she thought glumly. Why had she agreed to this madness? Running around the freezing Scottish countryside just as dawn was breaking was not her finest moment.

She had never been the athletic type. Even in primary school, she had been quite content to be the last one picked for games in P.E., never caring if fatter but more popular girls were chosen before her. Hermione would much rather exercise the muscles in her brain. Throwing a ball through a hoop far above her head, or worse in trying to avoid one thrown straight at her, always seemed a ridiculous pastime anyway.

‘I can run when I have to,’ she told herself, ‘when it really mattered.’ Last year she had shown she could keep up quite well with Harry in the Forbidden Forest. Yet, she admitted, only over short distances.

Ron, with his long legs, was a different matter. Not that Hermione could imagine any circumstances where she would ever be chasing after him. Harry said he had asked Ron to join them, but that he had instead rolled over and pulled his duvet over his head. For once in his life, Hermione thought Ron had the right idea.

Harry had been quite insistent with her, however, which was out of character for him. His very earnestness had finally persuaded Hermione. She gathered that he knew more than he was letting on, or was allowed to tell her, perhaps.

Who was keeping Harry quiet was one of several unasked questions, but Professor Moody was her prime suspect.

Timing was one reason. Harry’s interest in her physical conditioning was quite sudden. Transfigured trainers and tracksuit bottoms had to serve. To wait for a request home for running gear was out of the question, aside from what her parents might think and even if such gear had been available in Hogsmeade, there was no opportunity to visit the village.

If she were honest with herself, Hermione knew that while she was not unfit, neither was she particularly in decent shape. Her figure, in which Harry appeared to show little interest - damn him! - remained fairly trim, if not lithe like Angelina or Ginny. There was a little excess fat, which Madam Pomfrey had drawn attention to, but nothing Bullstrodish to worry about. Her shoulders easily carried her over-stressed book-bag. Her diet was better than most of the other students, and in her opinion her zeal for practising magic burned off all of the excess calories.

Stamina. That, and endurance. Those were the question marks against her.

Built for relative comfort, not speed, Hermione was not prepared for a lengthy period of physical exercise. Even the mile run at what Harry quite evidently - damn him again! - regarded as a leisurely pace had drained her.

She was growing uncomfortable. All this lying on the cold, uneven ground was finally taking its toll.

Harry rose to his feet and stood over her, offering his hand. Reluctantly Hermione grasped it and then, instead of just allowing him to pull her to her feet, decided on the spur of the moment for a little revenge. To prove that she was not the weakling that she appeared at the moment, Hermione pulled on him stoutly.

“Wha..? Hermione!”

Maybe the slippery frost beneath Harry’s feet helped, but in any event he toppled right over.

“Oof.” And he rolled right on top of her, knocking out of her the wind that she had spent the last few minutes painstakingly retrieving. For his part, Harry seemed too surprised to move.

“What was that for?” he whispered from only a couple inches from her ear.

Hermione was also too surprised to move; surprised how good it suddenly felt having him this close to her.

She had to say something. “To show I’m not a pathetic as I sometimes look.” The words came out almost automatically.

“I don’t think you look pathetic,” Harry answered, “never that…” His answer, delivered from his position, made her feel warm all over. “…but if we keep meeting like this, Fred and George are going to get suspicious.”

“Oh, sod them, they already are,” Hermione said humorously, before stopping short, wondering if she had just said too much.

Apparently not. “Well, let’s not give them any more cause,” Harry remarked gormlessly as he removed himself and sat up on his haunches. He helped her up, too, paying more attention to his positioning than before. “What now? Breakfast?”

“Shower first,” Hermione rasped. Although a Refreshing Charm was enough to eat in the Great Hall without stinking the place out, Hermione wanted a more physical way of removing the evidence of her exertions. She hoped her legs would allow her to stand under the water for a few minutes.

Hermione also preferred to appear composed instead of knackered in the Great Hall for another reason. This morning the New Year’s edition of The Quibbler was being distributed. Luna Lovegood had granted her an advance preview of the finished article. Hermione, having been bitten once by Rita Skeeter, made it a condition when agreeing the interview.

Luna’s style was… well, unconventional. All the right words were there, albeit not necessarily in the right order. Still, the whole piece somehow hung together quite well.

Hermione’s case for being the sinned against, not the sinner, came across loud and clear in The Quibbler‘s own unique style. Her unavailing struggle to clear her name and avoid competing in the Triwizard Tournament at all; her arguments with the Ministry; her thoughts on requiring students to face off against dragons; her views on house elves, this time presented in a sympathetic light. The only real incongruities were Luna’s interspersed ruminations on the whereabouts of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

So, expecting she was likely to attract attention this morning, Hermione considered that appearing cool and composed instead of glowing in perspiration would definitely be a bright idea.

In the corridors, after an invigorating shower, Hermione noticed the first sharp looks cast in her direction. Not unexpected, but she had hoped for a slightly less hostile reaction.

As she entered the Great Hall the first tart comment caught her ears.

“I never knew Granger was such a slut.”

Her head whipped round as she tried to identify the source of this calumny. She was met by a wall of stares, some hostile, some amused, a few showing other indecipherable emotions.

What in the name of Merlin was going on?

The girls were the worst. Most either showed open antagonism or looked down their noses at her as if she had just crawled out of the sewer.

The boys’ stances were far more difficult to pin down. Like the girls there was enmity and more than a fair share of superior looks, but at least a few regarded her with a degree of interest that she found frankly unsettling.

“Er… Hermione.”

She turned quickly back to the Gryffindor table. An awful lot of pale faces met her stare.

“What is it? What’s happened now?” Hermione bustled to claim her usual seat next to Harry. “Is it The Quibbler? I thought it went quite well, considering…” She broke off as she saw Ron, opposite, so white-faced his freckles shone like beacons. He almost shrank away in fear.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

No-one criticized her uncharacteristic language.

“It’s… it’s not The Quibbler, Hermione,” Neville stammered. He looked like he wanted the Earth to open up and swallow him.

“Then what - ?”

“Here.” More composed than most, Ginny handed over a publication that most certainly did not carry Luna’s by-line. “It’s this morning’s Prophet.”

Seizing the paper, Hermione took in the sixteen-point headline.

FALSE “CHAMPION” CHASES BOYS FOR FUN

“What the..?”

The talk of society this festive week has been the remarkable display of wizard-chasing by the shock fourth competitor in the Triwizard Tournament.

[Turn to Page 6 for the Full, Unvarnished Story!!!]

The pages flicked so quickly under Hermione’s impatient fingers that they sounded like drumbeats. It came as no surprise to find the continuation under that damned Skeeter woman’s by-line.

GRAINGER IN UNHEARD-OF DISPLAY AT SCHOOL BALL

Hermione Grainger, belying her fifteen years, displayed predatory instincts that would put older, brassier - some may well say, scarlet - women in a green fug of envy. Her performance besmirched the top social event in the Hogwarts’ calendar, the Yule Ball at Hogwarts.

Miss Grainger is plain but relentlessly ambitious. Regular readers will recall she is not of magical blood. Hypocritical to the core, nothing prevented her seeking out the cream of Pureblooded male society, the more famous the better.

Abandoning her own nominated partner, the tragically forlorn Harry Potter (conqueror of You-Know-Who), Miss Grainger first set her sights on the youngest son of one of our oldest families, of late fallen on hard times. Ronald Weasley, son of minor Ministry functionary Arthur Weasley, was evidently not interested; reportedly believing her to be a cheat and a know-it-all. A blazing row ensued - not, if one believes one’s ears, the first - over Miss Grainger’s antics. That finally pulled in Ronald’s eldest brother, William.

Hermione’s eyes flickered from the paper and onto Ron, who cringed as he frantically shook his head in desperate denial.

Her attention returned to the page.

William Weasley, aged 23 and considered one of society’s most eligible young wizards, ostensibly attended the Ball to partner the Beauxbaton’s Champion, Miss Fleur Delacour of France, in a tradition-shattering move sanctioned by the aged Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. One can no longer be surprised at what this old man will stoop to. Miss Delacour’s evening was ruined, according to onlookers, when Miss Grainger next claimed the elder Weasley as her own, sparking an argument between the two brothers. Miss Delacour, radiating a natural beauty, found consolation in the equally spurned arms of Harry Potter.

Not content with inciting sibling rivalry and underhandedly attempting to demoralise one of her honest competitors, Miss Grainger shifted her attentions yet again, onto two of high society’s scions, Neville Longbottom and Cedric Diggory. Longbottom, whose sad story rivals that of the Potters, is the heir to one of the most famous lines in England, but even he was thrown over for the charms of Diggory, aged 17. Most regard Cedric as a poster-boy for Hogwarts, a marvellous Quidditch seeker with a magnanimous nature, and son of Amos Diggory, who carries out such sterling work in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Observers reported that their respective partners, Miss Ginevra Weasley and Miss Cho Chang, were both upset at the turn of events. [Cont. on page 14.]

Hermione angrily yanked the paper open, unneeded pages fluttering to the floor.

Still, Grainger’s taste for famous wizards was not sated. Her sixth of the evening was Viktor Krum, Bulgaria’s World Cup hero. Krum, reportedly, has been openly smitten with Miss Grainger since arriving at Hogwarts, dismaying his long-time mentor the Durmstrang Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff.

There are whispers of the possibility of love potions, banned of course, but Dumbledore’s rules and regulations do not seem to apply to this student. One wonders if her wanton display was part of a master psychological plan to put her fellow but true competitors off their game. One need not be a genius to note that the names of Diggory, Delacour and Krum feature heavily in all reports.

The fragrant Miss Pansy Parkinson, one of the belles of the Ball, and one of the few to keep her date, the distinguished Draco Malfoy, voiced the concerns of many. “I know for a fact that Grainger used Glamours to improve her appearance - Merlin knows, she needed to! - and everyone knows that she had her teeth fixed especially for tonight.” The pretty and vivacious fourth year contemporary of Miss Grainger continued: “She’s clever enough to brew a potion; she certainly fooled everyone when she wangled her way into the Goblet.”

The impact of all this on poor Harry Potter, deprived of love since the tragic death of his parents at the hands of You-Know-Who, can be imagined. Attempting, as a gentleman should, to keep his word as an official partner, he was reported deeply upset that the quantum of solace he gained from Miss Grainger’s company was dashed upon the altar of her vaulting personal ambitions. One can only wonder what impact yet another emotional blow will have on a life already littered with personal tragedy.

A question requires answering: Is this is yet another sign of Muggle values seeping into our once ordered lives? This journal has often raised the banner of resistance to such malign influences and those who falsely claim that we have nothing to fear. Those of us who have journeyed into that Muggle world have returned shocked at the loose morals and lewd displays that set new depths every time.

Yet the supposed upholder of our values is the very person who seeks to increase this flow of dangerous ideas: Albus Dumbledore. He stands aside as his rules are flaunted. He makes no move to censure his false champion or rein in her excesses. Indeed one wonders if he tacitly supports her campaign. Surely it is time the Minister himself thoroughly investigated the state of affairs at what is supposed to be our leading seat of education.

“Hermione?”

Harry’s hand rested gently on her arm. Hermione noticed she was clenching the newsprint so tightly it was in danger of tearing. She looked up again.

“It wasn’t me,” Ron whimpered. “I swear, Hermione. I never spoke to her.”

“Relax, Ron.” The tautness in Hermione’s voice hardly reinforced her instructions. “I know it wasn’t you.”

“You do? Phew!” Tension flowed out of Ron’s body and he nearly slumped back on the bench.

“I’m sorry you had to read that tripe, Hermione.” Neville, still pale, at least sounded as though he meant it. “You know not a word of it is true.”

“We do too,” Harry agreed readily. “Don’t worry about my broken heart.”

Hermione’s eyes darted up to meet Harry’s but that wonky little grin he wore told her he was teasing. For a second she wished he was not, then guiltily flung that aside as more pressing matters called.

“How did she do it?” Hermione wondered half-aloud. She glanced at Harry, then Ron. She needed to speak to them alone.

“You had to do it, though, didn’t you, Hermione?”

Hermione glared back at Ginny. “I may have danced with them, but that doesn’t mean -”

“Of course not.” Ginny shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. Merlin knows, the idea of you playing the field should tip off anyone with half a brain that this -” Ginny pointed at the now discarded newspaper “- is complete tosh.” Hermione was not sure if that was a compliment or an unintentional insult.

“No, you had to go and take on Rita Skeeter, didn’t you?” Ginny continued. “Yes, I heard all about that argument at Hagrid’s hut. Ron doesn’t always keep his mouth shut.”

Ron looked hurt at that comment but, having successfully avoided blame so far, kept uncharacteristically quiet.

Hermione glanced at Harry, remembering their earlier confrontation with Rita. Evidently he was of the same mind. He gave just the slightest shake of his head. No, Harry had not talked either.

Unfortunately Ginny observed that little non-verbal exchange. “What?” she demanded. “What else?”

“Nothing, Ginny,” Harry started, then broke off as Hermione waved him quiet.

“I had another run-in with Rita, on the evening of the First Task, on the way back to the common room,” she confessed.

Ginny dramatically slapped one hand over her forehead. “Hermione, for someone so clever you can be really thick at times!”

Bridling, Hermione was in no mood to be lectured by her junior. “What’s it to you?” she shot back.

“Two of my brothers just got dragged into that cow’s muck for one thing. You reckon you can take on Rita Skeeter?” Ginny leaned forwards. “For Merlin’s sake, she’s had years in this game. She’s got contacts at the Ministry and support you can’t believe, or so Dad says. Knows where the bodies are buried, he reckons. Get on her bad side, and become a target - like you.”

Hermione glared hard at her friend, then broke the sudden tension in the most unexpected manner.

She laughed, out loud.

When she had stopped, she was amused everyone was regarding her in various stages of confusion.

“Look, this is sheer unadulterated rubbish,” she observed. “As you say Ginny - little old me, a scarlet woman? Brewer of love potions? Rita Skeeter is nothing more than a glorified, intolerable gossip.” Then, more soberly: “It does mean, however, that I will have to apologize to some people for having their names dragged into this tawdry little affair.”

“No you don’t,” Neville replied. “You don’t owe me anything, Hermione.”

“Nor me,” Ron piped up.

Hermione looked to Harry. He just shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“Regardless, I really should speak to Cedric, Fleur and Viktor the next time I see them.” Hermione was already scanning the Great Hall for those named, but so far none of the other Champions were present. A thought struck her. “I wonder if they would be interested in supporting a libel action?”

Neville shook his head. “Not against the Prophet.” At Hermione’s raised eyebrows, he carried on nervously. “L-lawyers would t-tie you up for ages, and they’re not cheap. Who knows what favours the judges or jurors might owe Rita or the paper? And if you lose, they‘ll come after you for expenses.”

“I think Neville’s right.” Hermione turned to an earnest-looking Harry. “To Hell with her. You need to concentrate on what’s important right now.”

Reluctantly, Hermione agreed. At least her parents would not read the half-truths and insinuations of misbehaviour. In addition, she doubted the chances of a fair trial.

Still, perhaps there was a way to ensure Rita Skeeter did not escape scot-free. After all, she had depicted Hermione as nothing more than a hormonally-driven teenager.

Ginny still appeared a little disgruntled. “You know what this means, don’t you?” At Hermione’s blank look, she leaned forward to make her point. “You’re going to have all your mail vetted from now on, just like last time. And,” she jabbed a finger in the direction of an approaching Professor McGonagall, “I reckon she’s coming to tell you exactly that!”

Ginny was right. McGonagall had no time for Rita’s story, but the possibility of more hate mail or worse had evidently occurred to her or other members of the faculty. The result was that Hermione now had an early morning appointment with the Headmaster.

With no classes scheduled on the last Friday of the Christmas Holiday, nobody rushed away from the breakfast table. Ron certainly took his time enjoying a hearty meal. Harry seemed happy enough to keep Hermione company as the other Gryffindors gradually drifted away.

When Ron finally finished, he looked up to find Hermione watching him. “What?” he mumbled a little nervously.

“Ron, only you, me and Bill would know for sure what we were arguing about on Christmas Eve.”

Ron’s eyes shot wide. “But… but… but it wasn’t me!” he repeated nervously. “I told you! And you… you said it wasn’t me!”

Hermione shook her head. “I believe you, Ron. You didn‘t have the chance that night, and Rita’s not been around since we… made up.”

Ron visibly relaxed, then jumped in his seat. “You don’t mean Bill? Bloody hell, Hermione! There’s no way Bill would have any part in that,” his voice brimmed with a note of rousing anger.

Again Hermione shook her head. “I don’t believe it was Bill any more than you. What would he gain?”

“I saw you,” Harry said quietly.

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” Hermione said a little snippily. “The thought never crossed my mind.” She worried at her bottom lip. “What really concerns me is how Rita found out.”

“Fleur?” Harry shrugged as Hermione favoured him with an enquiring look. “She was there. She asked me if I knew what was going on with you two -” his hand waved in Hermione’s and Ron’s general directions “- but I didn’t tell her anything.”

Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Why would Fleur talk to Skeeter? The article isn’t really tilted in her favour, and the same question applies as for Bill: What would she gain? I’m hardly threatening her in the Triwizard.”

Ron spoke authoritatively. “Jealousy, got to be!” At two frankly disbelieving looks, he justified himself. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Sees you as a threat to her and Bill.”

Hermione could not quite stifle the giggles. “Really Ron, that’s priceless - something Skeeter might write. That I, Hermione Granger, prove more attractive to wizards than Veela allure?”

“Well, that’s women for you,” Ron muttered, showing signs of an imminent sulk. “Us blokes can’t understand them.”

Hermione thought about lecturing him on that point, but settled for wearily shaking her head. “And I don’t think you ever will, Ron Weasley. Anyway, did either of you spot Rita at the Ball?”

Both boys replied in the negative.

“Me neither,” admitted Hermione. “And I’m pretty sure she wasn’t on the official guest list, especially after Dumbledore warned her off. So she’s unlikely to try snooping around again.”

“It could have been anyone,” Harry muttered.

“True,” Hermione nodded. “Anyone could have told her who I danced with that night; it was no secret. But as far as we knew no-one else saw us arguing, Ron.” She frowned. “No, there must be another way she did it.”

Ron pushed away his thoroughly emptied plate. “I’m off.” He looked at Harry. “Coming, mate?”

“In a minute.” Harry waited until Ron had walked off, then leaned forward. “Ginny’s right, you know this means trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t deal with,” Hermione replied a little airily. “I couldn’t care less what’s written in that rag.”

“Hmm.” Harry sounded unconvinced.

“You weren’t… hurt by what she said?” she asked, unsure at his uncertain response. “You know, about me dumping you for other men?” She tried to make this sound like a joke, but an anxious flutter broke through.

“I think my heart will heal, given time,” Harry replied, trying but failing to keep a straight face. At that they both broke into laughter, although Hermione’s was of the nervous kind.

Finally, Hermione spoke. “Must be off. Places to go, headmasters to see.”

Harry nodded. “It feels strange,” he quipped.

“What?”

“Well, usually it’s me on my way to Dumbledore’s office. This year, you’ve been going to see him and I’m stuck on the outside.”

“Would you like to swap places?”

Harry smiled. “Honestly,” he said, “at one time I fancied being a Triwizard Champion, but having seen what’s gone on…” He halted for a few seconds. “If there was any way I could, I’d take your place. Not for money or fame. But then I’d know you’re safe, that you could carry on as a witch.” His shoulders slumped. “I hate watching you without being able to help.”

“You do help,” Hermione said quietly. “More than you know.”

“The running?” he asked impishly.

Hermione’s answer died on her lips as another, louder comment cut clean through her thoughts.

“Phwoar!”

A small group of older Slytherins stood a few yards away. One had his arm raised in a pumping motion, his other hand gripping the forearm just above the elbow. Both Harry and Hermione had no trouble in interpreting the sexual nature of the gesture.

“If you put it out for Purebloods, Granger, we might look to provide some entertainment,” called out one Hermione thought was called Pucey.

“I wouldn’t touch a Mudblood with your wand, Potter, let alone mine,” another added derisively.

Sensing Harry tense up beside her, Hermione placed a firm restraining hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Harry!” she whispered. “Not on my account.”

“Never mind, Potter, she’ll soon move onto another poor sod,” someone she recognised as Warrington supplied a Parthian shot.

Hermione had seen Harry grip his wand, his fingers white against the holly grain. Her grip on him was just as tight until the laughing Slytherins had exited the Hall.

“Bastards!” Harry was seething, and Hermione was not minded to object to his language. He turned in his seat and fixed her with those clean green eyes. “You know what I said earlier about concentrating on other things?” She nodded. “Well, forget that,” Harry snarled. “If there’s anything I can do to help fit that… that… bitch - just let me know!”

Mildly perturbed by the fire in Harry’s eyes, Hermione just nodded.

Harry got to his feet and stood glaring at the rest of the nearly empty Great Hall. Hermione had a feeling that if anyone else flung an insult her way within earshot of Harry, they would not get off so lightly.

Still, there must be something she could do about Rita Skeeter…

* * * * *

“Lemon drop, Miss Granger?”

“No thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore settled back in his comfortable office chair. McGonagall flanked Hermione to the left, while Fawkes chirped away from behind the Headmaster.

“I must say,” Dumbledore started conversationally, “that standards of journalism do not appear to be improving at the Daily Prophet.”

McGonagall grunted something that sounded distinctly less than complimentary about Rita Skeeter.

“I can assure you that we consider your behaviour at the Yule Ball to be beyond reproach,” Dumbledore added, his eyes twinkling over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Indeed, I believe that you acted exactly as one would expect of a Hogwarts’ Champion.”

Hermione hesitated to comment. “Umm… Headmaster?” He looked enquiringly at her. “Is there… anything we - I mean I - can do about this… article?”

The two teachers shared a look; Hermione thought it apparent they had already discussed this matter.

“I understand that you in particular would feel disappointed at the article -”

“Foul calumnies,” McGonagall interjected.

“Yes, as you say, Minerva,” Dumbledore carried on. “But, as one experienced at being on the receiving end of the Prophet’s barbs, I always believe it is best not to engage the popular press in battle unless one has infinite patience, deep pockets, and the appropriate connections. The lethargy the Ministry displays in such cases is legendary.”

Hermione understood that the Headmaster had arguably been almost as libelled by the article as she had been, yet his years and his achievements gave his old hide a fair protection against such slurs. She guessed that, were the boot on the other foot, she would have been in the dock faster than she could Floo to the Ministry.

“One could say it was an unfortunate but not unforeseeable event,” Dumbledore added. “The antipathy between yourself and Miss Skeeter is apparent, and although the final decision must be yours, I would recommend doing nothing that might pour more fuel on that particular fire.”

Neville had been right, Hermione thought with some asperity. If she sought a private prosecution, that would draw her parents further into the complicated web that had been woven, and might provide the final straw that would see her withdrawn from Hogwarts.

“Alright, I won’t seek any legal recourse against either ‘That Woman’ or the comic she writes for,” Hermione offered, not willing to dignify the author by name. Of course, she did not mention the possibility of others doing so on her behalf.

Professor McGonagall appeared less keen on that advice.

“But,” Hermione added, “I will not fulfil anything other than the absolute minimum required as a competitor.”

“That might be difficult,” Dumbledore ruminated. “Still, am I to take it that you intend continuing in the Tournament? I thought your effort in the First Task was nerve-wracking but deserving of the highest praise - as Professor McGonagall has continually reminded me.”

Again Hermione demurred. “I don’t really know,” she confessed, drawing a gasp of dismay from her Head of House. “I would prefer to make a judgement when I find out about the nature of the Second Task.” She shrugged. “It can’t be worse than the First, after all.”

Her heart fell when she saw the twinkle disappear from Dumbledore’s eyes at that statement. Surely it could not be worse than facing dragons, could it?

“I am afraid I cannot offer any assurance on that point,” the Headmaster replied with what Hermione thought was a note of sadness. “Obviously, were you to chose withdrawal - and I would emphasize that no-one would hold you in any the less regard if you made that decision - then the School would strive to prevent your suffering the full consequences. But I do feel all avenues have been exhausted on that score.”

“I understand,” Hermione agreed glumly.

McGonagall leaned in. “Any mail addressed to you from any unknown sources will be vetted by house-elves, and any packages deemed suspicious will be examined by Professor Flitwick or myself.” She hesitated for a moment. “I find it sad that such precautions are necessary in today’s society.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore intoned sombrely. “I feel that our work here is never done.”

“How are your parents taking the news of events?” McGonagall asked.

“Much as expected,” Hermione replied, leaving it at that. She had no desire to stoke the fires on the home front.

* * * * *

Feeling more downcast leaving the Headmaster’s office than upon entering, Hermione made for the Gryffindor common room. After asking a few questions, she left for the Library, where she found two of her targets. The rest of that Friday she spent seeking out others who might help her.

Saturday morning brought a rude awakening.

Her early morning run, although no longer a complete shock to the system, was still hard work, as Harry extended the distance by a couple of hundred metres. At least she was not blowing as hard when she finished.

There was no mail for Hermione, or at least none which could be delivered. McGonagall advised her that a few of the Howlers had arrived but so far nothing physically harmful.

There had been a strange occurrence in Slytherin House over the last twenty-four hours. Several sixth and seventh year boys were suffering from either severe constipation or the complete reverse, unstoppable flatulence and loose bowels. Adrian Pucey was reputed to have locked himself in one of the boys’ toilets.

Harry swore his innocence. The Twins were nowhere to be seen.

Hermione’s wry smile grew a little wider.

Among the owls circling, awaiting landing space on the tables, Ginny spotted the erratic weavings of one particular bird. “Oh, Errol,” she sighed as the aged and exhausted owl crash-landed amongst the bread rolls. It took no effort at all to release him from his burden, a large envelope.

Shaking the contents out onto the table, Ginny picked out her own message from home, then hesitated. “Oh dear.”

“What?” Ron asked through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

Ginny gingerly held up a scarlet envelope by one corner.

Ron coughed out most of his last bite of food. “Oh sod it! I bet that’s for me,” he added morosely.

Ginny shook her head sadly. “It’s not.” She looked up at the interested Hermione. “I’m afraid it’s addressed to you, Hermione.”

Hermione stared in disbelief at the Howler as it started to smoke. “I don’t suppose your mother subscribes to the Daily Prophet, does she?” she asked Ginny dully.

“Uh-huh,” Ginny replied, nodding her head.

Professor McGonagall appeared over Ginny’s shoulder as if by magic. “I must apologize, Miss Granger. We appear to have missed this one -”

“No.” On Hermione’s answer McGonagall’s wand faltered. She looked to her student. “Let’s hear what Mrs. Weasley has to say.”

“Are you sure?” Based on her expression, McGonagall thought this course most unwise.

Hermione, suddenly aware of how interested everyone else appeared to be in her post, and that both Ron and Ginny were burning red with potential embarrassment, nodded.

As soon as the envelope unfolded, Molly Weasley’s tones echoed throughout the Great Hall.

“Hermione Granger, how dare you toy with the affections of young boys like a scarlet woman!”

Hermione blinked in disbelief: Had Mrs. Weasley really quoted Rita Skeeter’s own words at her?

“I have already told off Ronald about his past behaviour towards you, then I learn he’s one of a string of boys that you shower your affections on.”

‘This is unreal,’ thought Hermione.

“Now I can see why he might have been so upset with you this year, what with you leading him on.”

Ron tried to sink as low in his seat as possible, as though that would render him invisible.

“Bill is far too grown-up and brilliant a wizard to be interested in someone as immature as you.”

Over the top of the heads around them, Hermione could sense the whole of the Great Hall trying to edge inconspicuously closer to enjoy this unexpected early morning entertainment.

“And, to top it all, you play with poor Harry’s affections, then drop him for some foreign Quidditch player!”

Harry visibly tensed. Hermione saw McGonagall’s eyes narrow but she did not rebuke her student.

“You obviously need some guidance on how witches behave in proper society, young lady!”

With that crescendo, Molly’s voice abated and the Howler shredded itself.

An uneasy silence fell over the Gryffindor table.

Finally it was Ginny who spoke. “We’ll write and tell her the truth,” she said apologetically to Hermione. “Won’t we, Ron? Ron!”

Ron jumped as Ginny’s shoe bit into his shin. “Bloody hell, Gin, what… Oh!” He looked guiltily at Hermione. “Yeah, course we will.”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said wearily. “It’s not your fault.” She felt empty at the accusations from a woman who had treated her like a member of her family only that summer.

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice came from her other side. “Have you a quill and some parchment on you?”

Sighing, as Harry knew only too well she was rarely without either inside the School, Hermione met his request. As he took them from her, realisation hit home.

“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m writing her, too.” The parchment was already unfurled and spread out before him. “Neville?” he said, jerking the quill in his friend’s direction. “Hold onto Errol will you?”

His request was superfluous. Errol looked like he needed artificial resuscitation more than restraint. Harry started scratching away furiously.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Hermione repeated gently.

“I’m telling Molly,” Harry spat out the name, “that until she apologises for putting the slightest credence in the lying tripe that that cow Skeeter writes,” he was writing exactly what he was reciting to Hermione, “I’m not going to set foot in the Burrow for as long as I live.”

That caused both the Weasleys present to twitch nervously. Harry, attention fixed on his epistle, carried on blithely.

“Not one scrap of that article is true. I know because I was there, and anyone who bothered to ask any of the people involved could have easily discovered that as well.” With that, Harry fiercely signed his name to the parchment, nearly breaking the point of the quill.

“Harry, don’t.” Hermione said sharply.

“Sorry,” he replied just as firmly as he folded up the parchment. “I can’t stop the Slytherins because they don’t give a damn what I think. Maybe this will do some good…”

“What if it doesn’t, mate?” Ron asked anxiously, although whether from concerns for his friends’ concerns or his mother’s reaction was not clear.

“Then, frankly, I’d rather stay with the Dursleys. At least they don’t know any better,” Harry growled.

“You don’t mean that?” Hermione was anxious lest her affairs force him back into the unloving bosom of that family.

“Harry, I really wish you wouldn’t.” Ginny pleaded.

“I really wish she hadn’t,” Harry responded acerbically as he shoved his missive into the large envelope Errol had delivered. He grabbed Errol, who hooted in surprise, and looped the envelope’s strings around the owl’s still dangling legs.

“Please, Harry,” Ginny persisted. “Let us handle this; she’s our Mum.”

“No!” Harry yelled as he tossed Errol and his new burden into the air. “I’m sick and tired of sitting around doing nothing while Hermione has to take all this shite!”

With that, Harry stormed away from the table. After a moment’s thought, Hermione followed him, with Ron rising reluctantly and hurrying after the pair.

Glancing up just before leaving the hall, Hermione saw Neville looking thoughtfully at her. He nodded once in unspoken agreement, then stood up and walked towards the exit.

* * * * *

The start of the Spring Term was quiet. Hermione was fairly certain that all of the Gryffindors were behind her. At least she had not heard any comments supporting the Daily Prophet’s line from her own common room, although Cormac McLaggen had ‘favoured’ her with salacious leers and the odd suggestive comment when Harry and the Twins were not around.

The first lesson, Herbology, soon showed that the Hufflepuffs were pretty much as dismissive of Rita Skeeter’s accusations as her own housemates. Hermione attributed that to Cedric Diggory’s influence.

The Ravenclaws, she learned that afternoon in Arithmancy, regarded the whole affair as quite beneath their lofty attentions.

Of course, Monday morning also proved that the Slytherins would use the story as more grist for their mill. They made several comments during Care of Magical Creatures, although the perpetrators made sure none were in earshot of Hagrid. Malfoy and Parkinson in particular were enjoying themselves immensely, and in the end Hagrid had to separate two warring parties before spells were cast, as the Gryffindor boys were more than prepared to take up the cudgels on her behalf.

Hermione made sure she identified the perpetrators. She felt sure the Twins, who had professed their own disgust at their mum’s actions, would be interested to know.

At least the class dispelled one foul slander. Hagrid had obtained a beautiful unicorn for study this term, and all of the girls were allowed to pet the magnificent creature. Hermione, whose ability to approach the unicorn had been questioned sotto-voce by the usual Slytherin suspects, was even handed a sugar cube by Hagrid to feed to the unicorn. She wondered what Rita Skeeter would have made of that, and if that had been Hagrid’s intent.

Tuesday was more wearing. In Potions, Professor Snape pointedly observed that at least Hermione had a seat next to one of her besotted partners. He went on to declare that Love Potions were for “petty, inadequate individuals” and were not on this year’s syllabus. The Slytherins all but fell out of their seats in laughter, before a knowing and triumphant Snape called for quiet.

Neville, the unwitting catalyst for Snape’s sarcasm, turned white, whether on his own behalf or hers, Hermione could not guess. A few seats in front she noted the back of Harry’s neck flush crimson. The rest of the Gryffindors seethed with discontent, but no-one was bold enough to confront the teacher.

The week continued in much the same vein. The Slytherins had a little fresh ammunition, but soon Hermione became as outwardly inured to their new jibes as she had to the old. Indeed she spent most of her time having to restrain Harry, or Ron, or even Neville, from striking back.

The strange digestive complaint afflicting Slytherin ran its course amongst the older boys, but it appeared contagious: the Fourth Year contingent was now suffering.

The Weasley Twins did wear triumphant grins for the rest of the week.

With nothing to do apart from her continuing efforts to cram in as much advanced subject work as she could, worrying about the unknown Second Task, and gradually becoming accustomed to early morning runs with Harry, Hermione found life a little easier with her and Ron finally not being in a state of armed conflict. It was a lot easier on her nerves each evening just to worry about he and Harry and their homework.

Thursday afternoon’s double Defence Against the Dark Arts was not something Hermione was looking forward to. Moody’s behaviour still had her spooked, and she could not for the life of her reason what she had done.

No desks were in evidence when she followed Harry and Ron into the classroom. Moody was a believer in the practical as opposed to the theoretical, and Hermione could have left her overburdened book bag in her dorm.

As usual they heard Moody approach from down the corridor, his wooden peg clunking against the parquet floor. He stood, filling the doorway, his magical eye zooming around his students, before alighting on Hermione.

“Right - now yeh’re all fat and filled from Christmas, let’s shake loose a few cobwebs. A little round of harmless duelling. Now… let’s see.” Mad-Eye lived up to his name as the electric blue orb spun in its socket. “Ah! Our resident Champion.”

A shiver went down Hermione’s spine, while the rest of the class groaned. ‘Not again?’

Suddenly Harry was there, standing in front of her, his hand already on his wand. His intentions were clear.

Moody grunted. “Need a protector, do yeh, Granger?” He half-turned, the rictus of a grin on his face. “Yeh don’t need ta worry on her behalf, sonny.” Harry bristled a little at that. “I’m a little old for these games. Yeh can take on Granger yerself.”

“Pardon?”

“What?”

Hermione’s response coincided precisely with Harry’s. Did he expect her to -

“Are yeh both deaf?” Moody rumbled. “Up front and wands out. Now!” he barked.

Reluctantly Hermione slunk into the centre of the room.

“Potter, when yeh’ve the time, would yeh mind moving yer arse?” Moody thundered.

Muttering under his breath, Harry cast off his robe. Leaving it in a heap on the floor, he strode equally unwillingly into the middle of the circle of students standing about ten yards away.

“That’s better,” Moody observed. “Now that yeh’re both ready… let’s set the rules.” He ambled between the two visibly unenthusiastic participants. “No Unforgiveables… not that I reckon yeh could….” He glanced up at Hermione. “No blasting hexes. Otherwise, anything goes.”

Hermione looked at her teacher in alarm.

“If I reckon there’s anything dodgy or dangerous, then I’ll step in,” Moody added. “An’, believe me, yeh’ll know when that ’appens!” He stared at Hermione. “Gonna duel in those robes, girl?”

Shamefacedly, Hermione undid her robes and carefully placed them over one of the unused chairs on the perimeter, taking her sweet time over it.

When she turned, Moody had vacated the centre, and Harry stood there, half-heatedly holding his wand.

“Right - when yeh’re ready. Winner is the first one ta ’old both wands or render their opponent incapable of response.” Moody had his own wand drawn, ready to intervene.

Hermione assumed a duelling position, that competitive edge grating against the fact it was Harry she was facing. Harry just stood there.

‘Come on Harry, please defend yourself,’ wished Hermione.

“Potter!” Moody growled.

Harry just nodded.

“Okay,” Moody commented. “yer funeral, Potter. On my command… now!”

“Duplicus,” she incanted, pointing her wand at herself. Creating multiple images of herself had been essential during the First Task. She had continued studying this type of magic ever since. “Duplicus,” she repeated, her image mirroring her actions exactly. Now there were four.

Judging four identical images of herself to be enough, with a flash of her wand Hermione sent them to various parts of the large room. Another spell animated them. Suddenly, Hermione started running around the perimeter of the large room, her three doppelgangers following suit. On the spur of the moment, she had decided to put her newfound conditioning to work.

For his part, Harry just stood there gawking, making no effort to interfere with Hermione’s casting. “Fer chrissakes, Potter, do something!” Moody rasped from the sideline, but to no avail.

Hermione no longer needed a mirror to create multiple images of herself, and while those images remained incapable of independent action - far too advanced magic - they now mimicked her actions exactly, making it impossible for Harry, and their audience, to know which was the real Hermione.

And now the four Hermiones were all pointing their wands.

“Tarantallegra!” She started with something mild. ‘Please, defend,’ she silently beseeched him.

He was facing entirely the other way, and the spell hit him squarely in the back. Harry’s legs started dancing uncontrollably, mimicking an Irish dancer on the craic.

“Ah-ah-ah, Finite!” Harry managed to counter by ending the spell.

“Dammit, Granger,” they both heard Moody shout impotently. “Yeh could have ended it right there!”

That was just the point. She would never humiliate Harry in front of the entire class. Or anywhere, for that matter.

“Protego!” Harry finally countered, coming out of what looked like a stupor. That pleased Hermione to no end.

“Expelliarmus!” she shouted, knowing she would not hit him.

Hermione’s disarming spell bounced off of Harry’s defensive casting, exactly as forecast.

Harry’s head whipped around, but Hermione only ran faster. She cast several more minor hexes, including a Jelly-Legs Jinx. She even attempted to summon his glasses; but his shield deflected all her efforts.

Harry never returned fire, but he noticed that, although all of the images made exactly the same motions, only the real Hermione cast any visible spells. He soon figured out which one was real.

Like a Snitch, he tracked her until she ran by the back wall of the room where Moody had stored the furniture. “Accio desks!” he called out, and a stream of incoming desks blocked Hermione’s forward progress.

She came to a screeching halt

“Finite!” “Rictusempra!” Harry dropped his shield so he could send a Tickling Hex at Hermione.

“Loxus,” Hermione returned fire with a Hair-thickening Charm.

Both spells hit home, and both Harry and Hermione stopped in order to end each other’s spells.

Then they both stood there, unsure what to do next.

“Fer Merlin’s sake, get on wi’it!” Moody was not happy at all.

Hermione dove to her left. “Expelliarmus!” she tried to disarm him for a second time, only to see Harry clumsily fend it off like a batsman playing a bouncer off his back foot.

She edged around, Harry echoing her movements on the other side of an invisible circle. Hermione used a mild Twitchy Ears Hex, then attempted turn the floor under Harry’s feet to ice. Both were unsuccessful as Harry deflected the first and jumped aside to avoid the second.

The students, originally fearfully quiet, realised nothing evil was afoot, and started to urge on their two friends. Unsurprisingly the girls tended to back Hermione, whilst the boys, fearing for the superiority of their sex, hooted at Harry, demanding a little more aggression.

This audience participation was a little irritating to Hermione, but she ignored it in favour of the task in hand. She would never cast anything that would hurt Harry, but neither would she lay down and let him win, even in this meaningless contest.

She was also a little aggrieved that Harry refused to cast anything more offensive than Second Year jinxes. He was going easy on her! What nerve! “Somnius!” She cast a Sleeping Charm at Harry that missed once again.

Hermione was not the only one dissatisfied with the level of play. Moody was growing increasingly impatient. “Get yer arse in gear, boy,” he called out. “Show some guts.” Then he turned to Hermione. “And yeh, Granger, try summat that could ’urt a Pygmy Puff!”

Smarting a bit at that, Hermione tried a Tripping Hex aimed at Harry’s ankles, and nearly sneaked through as he realised late her aim was lower than usual. It was deflected into the crowd and Lavender toppled over. Harry grinned at that. “Nice try,” he said ingenuously.

This was strictly Fourth Division fare, as Dean muttered in a stage whisper to Seamus.

Harry continued to duel defensively, fending off whatever Hermione tried. Obviously, Harry was quite good at this, and, just as obviously, she was holding back. That added more to Hermione’s frustrations than Moody’s caustic comments on her abilities. She prided herself in being good at anything she tried, or at least trying her utmost, flying being a dishonourable exception.

There was a sudden crack and fizz as a spell sizzled between the two pacifist duellists.

“That’ll do!” Moody yelled. “Ain’t gonna let yeh waste any more of my time. I‘ve seen more action from jealous Puffskeins than from yeh two!” He jerked his wand in Harry’s direction. “Stand aside an’ let someone who’ll give Granger a contest step up.”

Hesitating, Harry’s expression mixed emotions: glad not to be put in the situation of hurting his friend; worried at being replaced by someone who may not have such scruples.

“Now… lemme see…” Moody ran his electric-blue magical eye over the remaining Gryffindors, before fixing on a lanky, pale-faced redhead. “How’s about yeh, young Weasley? I ’ ear she’s smacked yeh a good un. ’ Ere’s yer chance at even the score.”

Ron blinked in surprise. “Me?” he asked nervously, even pointing his finger at his own chest. “You can’t mean me?”

“Time waits fer no man, Weasley,” Moody rumbled threateningly. “Don’t fancy losing ta a girl now, do yeh? Especially one…” His eye flickered back to the waiting Hermione. “One yeh used to fancy, eh?”

“I… what… never… fancied her!” Ron spluttered.

“Not what the papers say, is it sonny?” Moody seemed to be enjoying himself. “Or was it ’ er that fancied yeh? I really can’t recall.”

“That’s absolute rubbish!” Hermione commented icily.

Moody stroked his misshapen nose. “Maybe, maybe not.” Then his one good natural eye fixed on Hermione. “Or do yeh fancy someone else, lass?”

“Ooh!” Hermione exhaled her irritation. She glared at Moody, who seemed none the worse for that, then at poor hapless Ron. “Come on, Ronald. Get out here.”

Ron moved at a snail’s pace. “Blimey,” he muttered.

Satisfied that the new pair of duellists were now ready, Moody clumped back to the sidelines. “Okay, yeh remember the rules, doncha?”

Hermione nodded stiffly. Ron just shrugged his shoulders.

“On my mark… now!”

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!”

To Hermione’s slight surprise, Ron had fired his spell first. She had only just avoided losing her own wand. Almost before she had recovered, she was fending off a Jelly-Legs jinx.

“Sigmurthus!” Hermione began retaking the offensive with something appropriate – a Slug-belching Hex. “Densaugeo!” She quickly followed with another hex of her personal acquaintance.

Ron parried, and returned fire with a Slapping Jinx.

‘Appropriate,’ Hermione had to admit.

“Confringo!” More as a form of intimidation than anything else, she fired a very noisy Blasting Curse into the ceiling. Ron ducked as he was showered with bits of wood, stone, and plaster.

“I said no blasting, Granger!” Moody yelled.

“You said no blasting hexes,” she corrected him, her adrenalin now racing. “That was a curse, not a hex, and I didn’t aim…”

“Expelliarmus!” Ron roared, almost catching Hermione off guard. At the last moment she deflected it into the floor, scorching the parquet. Hermione shut her mouth and concentrated on Ron.

Carefully, the two protagonists circled. The audience gained some enthusiasm as they realised this was no Phoney War.

Knowing that jinxes could be cast without incantation, Hermione wondered whether Ron had any ability to cast other spells wordlessly. ‘Let’s find out…’ She lunged forward with her wand.

“Silencio!”

“Protego!” This time Ron only just evaded defeat.

The small battle continued, with all manner of jinxes, minor hexes and minor spells being cast, with no effect. Neither, it seemed, could overpower the other.

Within a minute, Hermione was frustrated. It would be oh so fulfilling to thrash Ron, to excise some of her frustration from recent months.

‘Okay,’ Hermione’s mind ticked over. ‘Intimidation didn’t work. I can’t beat Ron head-on. How about a surprise attack?’

She slightly relaxed her stance. Ron, giving her a sideways look, dropped his guard for a second.

Seeing that, she lunged forwards. “Accio footstool!”

Ron, seeing Hermione’s wand aimed just to his left, brought up his wand, aimed for danger in front of him, but half turned at the sound of wood scrapping the floor.

She had been aiming at the back of his knees, but now the stool cracked straight into Ron’s rabbit hutch.

With an agonised and sudden intake of breath, which was matched sympathetically by the other boys in the room, Ron tumbled forwards. As both hands shot to the injured area, his wand clattered away as he hit the floor with a heavy thump.

All that made a suddenly guilt-ridden Hermione realise what she had done. She jumped forward, narrowing the gap between her and her fallen opponent.

“Oh Ron, I’m sorry.”

Ron, flat on his back, just blinked at her. He did not appear capable of speech at first, but finally managed to wheeze: “Blimey! Why’d you do that, Hermione.” Finding a remnant of strength he raised a free arm. “I concede.”

There were mutterings of relief from some of their strangely previously bloodthirsty classmates, the boys in particular wincing in sympathy with their fallen comrade, but none from Hermione. She bent forward a little, grabbed Ron’s hand and helped pull him to his feet.

“What the bloody Hell was that, eh?” An enraged Moody loomed over the two Gryffindors. “What are yeh playing at, Granger?”

“I - I don’t understand,” Hermione replied, confused. “He’d dropped his wand.”

Moody’s fury was unabated. “Rubbish! ’ E knows Accio as well as yeh do! The duel only ends when yer opponent is incapacitated or disarmed.” His wand pointed at Ron. “Until yeh’ve got Weasley’s wand safely in yer hand, ’ e’s neither.”

“But I conceded, Professor,” Ron butted in weakly, still cupping his groin gingerly. Moody’s rage was directed at Hermione alone.

“Do yeh believe ’ im?” Flecks of spittle emerged at the edges of Moody’s misshapen lips.

“Of course!” The words came to her automatically. “He’s my friend.” She struggled for a moment to realise how she had described Ron.

“Yer friend?” Moody grimaced like he had bitten into something rancid. He turned, his wooden leg squeaking in protest. “Yer bloody friend! That’s a pitiful excuse!” He stumped around in a tight circle, glaring at his students. “Never, ever, trust a wizard who concedes, unless yeh’ve got ’ is wand, and even then make darned sure ’ e’s not ’iding a second. Stun ’em again to make sure they’re down for the count!”

Once again he turned on Hermione, towering over her, so close that not even Harry could intervene. Or Prongs.

“Tell me, missy, ’ ow d’yeh know Weasley or even Potter’s not under the old Imperius? Lost many a good Auror to that, we did.”

Hermione’s anger was starting to override her natural deference. “Of course Harry’s not under that curse,” she snapped back. “Anyone can see that! Look at his eyes; they’re clear, not glassy!”

“A bleedin’ expert on the Unforgiveables now, are we? And ’ ow about Glamours, huh? Ever ’ ear tell of Polyjuice?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” Hermione replied heatedly if not completely truthfully.

“The point, Granger, is that yeh never know who yer opponent really is, even if it’s yer best friend… Or the lad yeh fancy.”

That comment and the unsuccessfully stifled sniggers from her onlooking classmates struck down the last of her inhibitions towards authority, and this authority in particular. Mad-Eye was just that - mad. His attitude towards her finally exposed a flash of her fury. “Ron was down; he conceded,” she repeated herself hotly.

“He let yeh think yeh’d won,” Moody observed cynically.

“What would you have me do?” Hermione exploded. “Kick him when he’s down? I won’t! He’s my friend!”

“Who’s teaching this lesson?” Moody snarled back. “Yeh just don’t get the point, do yeh, Granger.” He started to turn away, then seemed to think better of it, and turned back. “Detention tonight, Granger, fer failing ta follow a teacher’s instructions.” He imposed his sentence with a sudden eerie composure and a visible sense of satisfaction.

“What?” Hermione’s jaw dropped open. She had only ever served one detention, in her first year, and in her opinion it had been totally undeserved.

“Yeh heard,” Moody replied, leaning back against a desk. “Shall I make it a month’s worth fer showing disrespect ta a professor?”

“You… you can’t do that,” Hermione protested weakly.

“That’s not fair!” Harry yelled. “You can’t blame Hermione.” Other grumbles could be heard in the background, although the other boys did not sound as sympathetic as him

“Can’t I now?” Moody looked ready to draw his wand at the revolting class. “Yeh seem remarkably well informed as to the limits of my authority. Nearly as much of a know-it-all as this one.” He gestured at Hermione.

“I’m just as much to blame,” Harry countered. “You should issue me a detention as well. None of this would have happened if I‘d fought as you wanted. I refused your order to fight.”

“P’haps I will, sonny.” Moody looked coolly at Harry even as Hermione tried to urge her friend to stay out of trouble, much as she appreciated his intentions.

“Yeh’ve protected ’er once already, lad, and might do again.”

That elliptical comment meant nothing to Hermione. Sure, Harry’s Patronus had interceded in that very one-sided duel a couple of months ago, yet no-one aside from the two of them knew of a similar incident on the night that Sirius Black and Buckbeak had escaped from their sentences of death.

Yet those words had an effect on Harry. A mixture of wariness replaced his evident anger. After a few seconds silence Harry spoke. “I might. I’m not sure I trust you.”

Moody looked unconcerned. “Then yeh’ve learnt a valuable lesson, lad. Never trust anyone else. Constant vigilance!” Then he turned back to Hermione.

“Granger, yeh might be able ta ’andle dragons, but yeh’ve a lot ta learn about wizards. Dragon’s don’t lie or cheat; yeh know what they’re about.” He raised his voice. “Yeh’ve all got’ta know that. Granger decided ta play by ’ er rules, not by mine. And mine are the only ones that count.” Mad-Eye’s wand was drawn and he pointed it at the floor. “’Ere.” Then his wand described a circle. “And out there.”

* * * * *

At dinner, news of Hermione’s detention spread like Fiendfyre. Ron’s vanquishing was small beer in comparison. No Gryffindor outside the fourth year could quite believe it, and those who knew her well sought confirmation from the fourth years that the rumour, unlike the rubbish in the Prophet, was actually true.

Professor McGonagall’s demeanour was frosty when she visited her House’s table; she could barely conceive that her star student had answered a teacher in circumstances other than those that earn house points. Her deep disappointment was palpable to all, and she brushed aside her students’ attempts to defend Hermione.

For once Hermione dreaded a visit to a classroom. She honestly believed that her behaviour was nowhere near deserving of reprimand, let alone punishment. Given Professor Moody’s past attitude and almost schizoid behavioural tendencies, almost anything could happen to her. Surely Professor Dumbledore would not allow that, would he?

After the events of the past few months, Hermione was perturbed to find her previous all-encompassing faith in the Headmaster was waning.

“You okay?”

Hermione glanced up from a dinner plate she had scarcely touched but been staring hard at for some time. Harry peered quizzically at her from behind his glasses.

She gave her head just the tiniest of shakes, trying to dispel her doubts and fears. “I’m fine,” she replied quietly. “Just thinking things over.”

Harry grinned. “That’s normal, isn’t it?” Then his smile disappeared. “About tonight?”

Hermione nodded. “I just… don’t know what to expect.”

Harry remained silent for a few moments, then obviously came to a decision. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need, Harry.” Her protests were half-hearted. “I’m the one assigned detention.”

“If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. Merlin knows why he didn’t give it to me.”

This time Hermione stayed quiet for a couple of seconds. Harry had just effectively admitted he had gone easy on her in their so-called ‘duel’.

“Why did you try to let me win?”

Harry avoided meeting her stare. “I didn’t,” he mumbled.

That had been the wrong question. “Alright Harry. Then why didn’t you try and win yourself?”

She saw that Harry’s face was a little flushed. “To be honest, Hermione,” he finally replied, “I couldn’t think of a way to end it without somehow hurting you. I’m not that clever.”

“Nonsense, Harry!” Hermione blurted out in asperity. “There are plenty of jinxes you could have used, like the Jelly-Legs or Trip. Ron tried those. I used them too.”

She could tell that Harry knew this, and that he knew that Hermione knew he knew, as the tips of his ears glowed scarlet. “I didn’t want to… just let it drop, okay, Hermione?”

Hermione huffed. “You don’t need to go easy on me, Harry. If you hadn’t, then perhaps -”

“See!” Harry blurted out. “I told you it was my fault.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, Hermione regretted the whole line of questioning. “Sorry Harry! I didn’t mean it that way.”

Harry was now the one staring resolutely downwards. Hermione hoped she had not hurt his feelings. With his guilt complex, she was stupid even to hint that Harry bore responsibility.

Finally Harry stirred. “Come on,” he said wearily. “I’ll walk you to Mad-Eye’s room.”

Their journey was concluded in uncomfortable silence. Harry was obviously mulling matters over, and for once Hermione decided that an inquisition would not be the wisest course of action.

They stopped outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts’ closed classroom door. Hermione hesitated on the threshold, genuinely worried at what may await her within.

Sensing her increased unease, Harry spoke. “I’ll wait out here… just in case, you know?”

“You don’t have to.”

Shrugging, Harry leaned up against the wall opposite. “I’d rather be sure,” he said whilst casually removing his wand from his robes and staring hard at the grain in the wood.

Strangely, Harry’s protective act just heightened Hermione’s sense of impending dread. She knocked on the door, heard a muffled response, pulled it open and entered.

Moody stood awkwardly by his desk, his uneven stance throwing the rest of the room at a strange angle.

“Right on time, Granger,” he muttered approvingly. “Sit down.” As Moody indicated a chair in the front row, his electric blue magical orb spun on its axis and fixed on the now closed door.

“Potter!” The yell was unexpected and Hermione gave an involuntary jump. “No need ta tarry. Nothing’ll ’ appen ta the lass. Yeh ’ ave my word.”

If Harry replied, his answer was inaudible to Hermione.

“Go on now, son,” Moody shouted. “If yeh want ta collect ’ er when she’s finished, I’ll let yeh know.” Finally satisfied, the grizzled ex-Auror returned his attention to his offending pupil. As both organic and magical eyes fastened on her, Hermione shivered.

“Nice ta see yeh’re leaning summat in my classes, anyway.”

Hermione glanced down and found that she had half-drawn her own wand. Somewhat embarrassed at this transparent lack of trust in her teacher, Hermione carefully replaced it.

Moody stumped around from his position in front of Hermione’s chair to behind his desk. “I’ve ’ eard yeh called many things, Granger,” he said conversationally. “Some complimentary, some not.” He stopped and once again fixed her with both eyes. “The one thing I’ve never expected to ’ ear,” he added, his voice rising, “was that yeh’re a quitter!” The last noun was spat out as though it was an obscenity.

“What?” Hermione’s mind was spinning. What did Moody mean? What was this to do with her detention?

“A quitter!” Moody repeated, thumping his desk with a heavy fist, the retort making Hermione wince involuntarily once again. “Though yeh’ ad more guts than that.”

Collecting her wits, Hermione sought to answer. “I don’t know what you mean, Professor.”

“Like ’ Ell yeh don’t…” Moody rambled unevenly across to one of the small windows set in a casement. “One thing I never did, ever, was abandon a colleague… a friend.”

He turned and Hermione saw the expression on his face was a mixture of disappointment and deep displeasure.

“Word ’ as it,” Moody continued in a more restrained manner, “that yeh’re thinking of dropping out.”

Dropping out? Of what? Hermione had no intention of dropping the Defence option from her timetable. Did he mean..?

“Outta the Tournament, which means yeh’ll be leaving the School. Don’t fool yerself that I don‘t know these things.”

Feeling the sudden need to defend herself, Hermione straightened a little in her seat. “After all, it’s me who will suffer, and my reputation can’t get any lower after that article in the Prophet -”

“Bugger yer reputation!”

“What?” Hermione could hardly believe her ears.

Moody’s words were delivered with chilling clarity and weight. “I could care less about what the world, especially that rag, think about yeh, Granger.”

Unthinkingly Hermione jumped to her feet. “You can’t be serious?” she replied heatedly, her own voice rising. “After what you said about Ron and me this afternoon? You can hardly think that the good name of Hogwarts rates as -”

“Sit down and shut up fer once.”

The words were stated with a hint of violence to back them up.

Her face blazing, Hermione glanced up at Moody, then slowly sat back down.

Emblazoned across his battered face was a sense of determination and insensitivity that belied Moody’s nickname. It forcibly reminded Hermione that this was a man who had survived physical punishment and wounds that would have destroyed lesser wizards; an Auror who had taken down the most dangerous of dark wizards; one who had stood tallest against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the War.

Now she was the only possible target, and Hermione for a second believed that Moody would have no compunction in eliminating her where she sat. Was Harry still out there?

“Now, listen to me and listen good, Granger,” Moody rumbled. “I don’t give a cuss for yer good name, or that of ’ Ogwarts, or Dumbledore’s, or even mine fer that matter.” Hermione stared uncomprehendingly at him. “I’m talking about loyalty, about doin’ what’s right. That claptrap today was ta get a rise outta yeh. Do yeh get me, girl?”

“No - I’m afraid I don’t.”

Moody shook his head. “An’ yeh’re supposed to be one o’ the clever ones,” he said with dripping disdain. “May Merlin ’ ave mercy on us all!” He threw his arms out in mocking appeal.

Turning back to his errant pupil, Moody stumped out from behind his desk to rest in front of Hermione once again.

“That was just to get yeh ta fight” he clarified. “This is serious. Yeh’re thinking about ditchin’ yer mate.”

Hermione still stared in confusion. She could not grasp the central concept in Moody’s diatribe.

“Potter.” Moody said slowly. “I said, don’t think I don’t know these things. Yeh’re gonna cut and run and leave Potter ta face the music.”

Even more confusion. ‘Harry? What did Harry have to do with all of this?’

“Merlin’s balls!” Moody swore. “I’m gonna ’ ave ta spell this out for yeh, ain’t I?” He rested his bulk back against his desk, taking the weight off of his peg leg.

“Yeh remember there was talk that yer little spell this summer might’a interfered with some dark magic aimed at Potter?”

Hermione nodded slowly. They had been over this ground before.

“An’ that’s why yer name came outta the Goblet? Well, I’ve been checking around, using my contacts, both legal and not so. Seems that wasn’t so wrong after all. Someone did ’ ave plans for Potter that weren’t well-intentioned.”

“But… but …” Hermione started to protest. “You said - no, you told the Headmaster - that this idea was ridiculous! Dumbledore… he told me you said that -”

“I was bloody wrong!” Moody roared, suddenly enraged. “It ’ appens, yeh know! Me wrong; yeh right. Much as I ’ ate ta admit it. Just I keep an open mind.” He glared at her, sensing her uncertainty. “What? Do yeh want an engraved apology?” Turning suddenly, his wand whipped out and the contents of his desk top violently dislodged and went crashing to the floor. Shocked, Hermione tried to put some distance between her and the now well-named Mad-Eye. She only succeeded in sending her chair tumbling backwards, and she tipped over along with it.

“‘ The great and clever ’ Ermione Granger was right all along!’” Moody crowed mockingly as he limped back and took to the chair behind his desk. “‘ Old Moody bollixed it up again, to be put out to grass!’ Would that do fer yeh?” He turned his attention back to Hermione, and stared at the figure scrambling to rise from her inelegant seat on the wooden floor.

“Aw… get up, girl,” he said with evident disgust.

Embarrassed and smarting a bit from a bruised posterior, Hermione continued her ungainly ascent, also trying unsuccessfully to right the overturned chair.

“How in the name of Merlin yeh ended up a Gryffindor, I’ll never know,” Moody continued in a more restrained manner. Gesturing, he added: “Sit back down lass, an’ try not ta break the furniture this time.”

Face burning with embarrassment, Hermione gave up and chose the chair next to the upturned one.

“Yeh were on the right track. Sources whispered in my ear that it were Potter’s name that was supposed ta come outta the Goblet Halloween. Reckon yer little spell ruined somebody’s not-so-well-laid plan good an’ proper like.” Leaning back in his chair, he actually favoured Hermione with an approving facsimile of a smile in his ruined face.

“’ Ad ta be powerful wizards even to try summat like that. Now, whoever’s got evil plans fer Potter is tryin’ ta make best of the mess yeh’ve left them in. But if yeh were to quit…” Moody deliberately left the sentence hanging.

“Then we’d miss our chance to find out who they are!” Hermione finished with a little sense of anxious glee at being proven correct in her earlier assumptions.

“That’s right, Granger,” Moody added approvingly. “They’d disappear down whatever ’ ole they’d come outta. We’d lose ’ em. And yeh know what that means?”

“They would be free to have another attempt against Harry.” This time there was no satisfaction in being right. Hermione could feel all the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

“An’ a free shot, too. Next time we wouldn’t have any idea how they meant ta do it,” Moody added. If Hermione was pensive, his mood was decisive. “Potter’d be marked, and yeh’d be in no position to do anythin’ about it. Safe ’ n’ sound back in yer Muggle ’ ome,” he added provocatively.

“It’s not as clear cut as you believe,” Hermione shot back, before adding: “Professor.”

“Seems crystal from ’ ere,” Moody responded. “Yer own ’ ide means more ta yeh than that of yer friend. Can’t blame -”

That drew Hermione to her feet, this time her face burning with indignation. “I’ll have you know that’s not true,” she disagreed heatedly. “I would never have cast that spell in the first place… One reason, the main one, I decided not to withdraw was for just this purpose. Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall thought it a likely possibility - unlike you,” she added gratuitously.

“Maybe so,” Moody concurred. “But yer singing a different tune now.”

Hermione shook her head, feeling defeated. “It’s not that.” She sat back down, surprised to find herself shaking slightly. “You said… powerful wizards. It’s just that… well, after the dragon… I realised I was out of my league.”

“Maybe yeh are, maybe yeh ain’t,” Moody replied. “Yeh showed guts aplenty when yeh faced that darned Horntail. Now yeh’re talkin’ of cutting’ and runnin’.”

“I know. But a bit less luck and my guts would have been spread all over the pitch.” Hermione was frustrated at not being able to get her message across to Moody. “If the other tasks are as bad as the First, then there’s no way I’ll be able to continue, even if I want to or not. I can’t help anybody if I’m dead. ” She stared to pace up and down under stress. “What’ll happen when I fail the next Task, and am disqualified, or worse?” she asked rhetorically. “Harry will be ruined by guilt. Whatever plan someone’s set for Harry goes down the tubes. You’ll be back where you started, chasing shadows. And at best I’ll have lost the chance of being a witch forever.”

Moody looked at her appraisingly. “All true. So ’ ow do we avoid that ’ appening, Granger?”

Hermione ceased her pacing and turned to face her teacher, her eyes wide.

“You mean..?”

Moody nodded affirmatively, not a lot, but enough. “Best leave that at that. The question’s ’ ow at deal with our Triwizard problem.”

This was more up her street, working through a problem and coming up with possible solutions. Putting aside her astonishment at finding a most unexpected and unorthodox ally, she started to theorise.

“Well, there would be simpler methods of someone striking at Harry if they meant him harm. If whoever they are wanted him dead…” she shivered “… then why set up such a complicated plan just to feed him to a dragon?”

Moody watched her carefully. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“So the competition itself must play apart,” Hermione carried on, speaking aloud more for her own benefit than Moody’s. “Something to do with the Triwizard Tournament… but what?” She glanced up at Moody but he just motioned for her to continue.

“And now I’m competing in Harry’s place, how do they adapt their plans?” She shook her head. “I don’t know enough; there are too many variables to come to a firm conclusion. Except that… since competing in the Tournament can’t be enough, then what happens to the winner?”

Moody shrugged. “Sure are simpler ways of grabbin’ a thousand Galleons. Then there’s the fame, the glory…” Moody almost spat in disgust. “Transient, fading, but it’s there, nonetheless.”

“That means nothing to Harry,” she snapped. “They’d know that.”

“Possibly,” Moody ruminated. “Maybe they don’t know Potter. Think ’ e’s just like them, after hard cash and bein’ a big star an’ all.”

Hermione was thinking hard. “The Ministry was desperate for the Tournament to continue. If they’d had a choice they’d have chucked me out right at the start. They couldn’t, even though I’d have willingly gone along, if it hadn’t meant being stripped of my magic. The Minister invested a lot of political reputation in holding it here.”

“Fudge is an idiot,” Moody observed. “Anything that wins ’ im votes or money grabs his attention.”

“Perhaps harming Harry isn’t the main objective?” Hermione thought aloud. “Perhaps whatever happens to Harry is designed to discredit the Ministry.”

“Or Dumbledore,” Moody added. “Enough people in authority’ ve been gunnin’ fer Albus for years.” He rose and stumped around to the side of his desk, idly swishing his wand and restoring his desk to its prior state. “’Cept that’s not what I’m a hearing. Someone’s got it in fer Potter.”

Hermione slumped back down in a chair. “Then we’re back where we started. Harry’s not in the competition, so how am I involved now?”

“Dunno, but I do hear that you stayin’ in the Triwizard is important for ’ em.”

Hermione sighed. “Maybe I should just get out, then. If it’s something about the Tournament itself… well, my being in it only gets Harry involved. He wouldn’t be inclined to do anything stupid if…”

“That’s yer original load of tripe,” Moody growled angrily again, looming over her. “We’ve been over all that. Yeh know and I know that Potter’d be wrecked and easy pickings fer ’ em the next time around. And make no mistake, if they tried this ’ ard this time, they’ll try ’ arder next.”

“But who are they?”

“Disaffected wizards, some who believe old What’s-is-Name’s brand of bollocks, who knows? Potter’s seen as Dumbledore’s tool; enemies of one, enemies of the other, p’haps. Knockturn Alley has some whispers but not enough ta be sure. But the moment yeh pull out, or fail ta proceed in any way, they’ll melt away inta the shadows, and we’ll lose any chance of catchin’ ’ em with their pants down. That much I know from bein’ in this business longer than yer parents ’ave been alive.”

“Does Professor Dumbledore have any ideas?”

Moody shook his head. “Ain’t told ‘im.” Hermione drew in a breath but before she could argue the point Moody held up a gnarled finger to forestall the complaint. “There’s enough on Albus’s plate already, an’ besides, the fewer people who know, the better.” He smiled knowingly at Hermione. “Keep yer cards close to yer chest. Yeh’re not ta tell anyone.”

“What? Not even Harry?”

“Specially not Potter. Boy’s got a guilt problem in that he reckons he can protect all ’ is friends. Yeh know that better’n me.” Hermione nodded in mute agreement on that score. “’Sides, Potter’ll tell Weasley, who’s incapable of keepin’ ’ is big mouth shut, and afore we know it it’ll be on the front page of the Prophet.”

Hermione remained quiet for a moment, before speaking her mind. “I don’t think we should keep this information to ourselves.”

Moody glared at her. “’Appens I’ve a bit more experience in these matters than yeh,” he replied tartly. “Came through the last War intact… well, pretty much so, anyway. Fewer folks who know, the less chance there is someone‘ll leak. ’ Cos if that ’ appens we’re back to square one.”

Hermione knew Moody’s reputation for paranoia, but he still made sense. She was unhappy at keeping news from Harry, especially as she had promised not to keep secrets from him. But that promise was already broken, she had been doing so ever since Halloween. The situation would be unchanged there. And Moody’s opinion of Harry’s reactions agreed not only with her own , but also those of Dumbledore and McGonagall.

Dumbledore, and McGonagall, though; that was a different matter. Still, with Moody, Hermione recognised that all the possibilities would be covered.

“That still leaves us with a problem, Professor.”

Moody looked knowingly at her.

“This all assumes that I can successfully complete the Second Task and carry on.” The implicit message was that Hermione Granger was going to carry on in the Tournament. “I think the chances of that are negligible.”

“Yeh underrate yerself, Granger. Yeh might’ ve ’ ad some luck against the dragon, but yeh had a plan, and yeh stuck to it.”

Hermione shook her head. “I was damned lucky and I know it.”

“Yeh know that none of the Hogwarts’ staff can help yeh?” Moody asked.

Hermione’s eyes went wide again. “But…”

There was a hint of a grin from Moody. “Officially, that is,” he added. “Still think this is a detention?”

Hermione cocked her head and relaxed just a bit.

“There are some things I can teach yeh that’ll help keep you in the game, and may be even more useful when we find those plotters.” He ambled forwards, covering the few yards that separated teacher and pupil. “As far as everyone else is concerned, yer lip just earned you a weekly detention.”

“Weekly?” Hermione protested.

“Do yeh want to stay around and ’ elp Potter?” Moody responded. “Or would yeh rather leave ’ Ogwarts in disgrace? Or maybe in a box?”

Hermione swallowed as she digested that. Once again her options were narrowing. Mad-Eye was offering her surreptitious training from one of the best practitioners of the subject on the planet, and undoubtedly a greater chance of coming through the whole ridiculous affair relatively unscathed.

Moody’s help also gave her a basis for continuing in good faith, without overtly lying to her parents. After all, with the expert tuition now on offer she could claim with a straight face she was not out of her depth. And if she repeated it often enough, she may even believe it herself.

Above all, there was a chance that she could help net the fiends who were threatening her Harry!

“No, Professor, I would rather stay right here and take you up on your offer.” Moody looked satisfied at that outcome.

“But I would ask one favour.”

“Hmm?”

“You couldn’t… well, tell Professor McGonagall that this isn’t a proper detention after all, could you? Off the record?” She saw his expression hardening, and provided her own answer. “Of course not. Silly idea, Hermione.”

“Right. Stand up, then.” Moody flicked his wand and the chairs dispersed to the classroom’s perimeter. “Tonight’s lesson is duelling.”

‘Duelling? Oh no, not again!’

“Now, yeh’ll almost certainly have to take on one of yer opponents before the end of the competition, even if duelling’s not a formal part anymore,” Moody advised. “And it’ll come in ’ andy if yeh want ta - or ’ ave ta - protect Potter.” He saw the foreboding expression on Hermione’s face. “After today’s farce, it’ll be tough but I can guarantee yeh won’t be flying into anymore cabinets, courtesy of me or anybody else. Understand?”

Hermione nodded grimly, and thought about what might happen should she ever encounter Malfoy again in a deserted corridor.

* * * * *

“Well, how did it go? I didn’t like the noises I heard near the end.”

Hermione leaned a little tiredly against the corridor wall as the classroom door closed behind her.

“Not as bad as I’d thought, actually,” she replied, and watched as a little of Harry’s evident tension leached away. Although she ached and was sore and bruised in the odd place where she’d taken a tumble, her lesson with Moody had been nothing as catastrophic as their first duel.

“That’s a relief. I was worried old Mad-Eye might live up to his name.” Harry was waiting until she was ready to leave for the Gryffindor common room, so Hermione straightened up and started to move.

“Still, won’t have to do that again,” Harry added.

“Ah.” Hermione stopped; it took Harry a couple of steps before he realised his companion was no longer marching alongside.

“I… well… I’ve got another detention,” Hermione apparently confessed. Harry raised his eyebrows. “For talking back to a teacher, again,” she mumbled in some form of extra information.

Harry’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “The old…”

Hermione shook her head. “No, Professor Moody was right. I need to be more… disciplined, especially in Defence.”

Harry eyed her disbelievingly. “That’s utter tosh,” he responded. “There’s no-one more disciplined than…” He broke off.

“What, Harry?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s nothing.”

Hermione wondered what was occurring. It seemed they were both keeping something from each other.

* * * * *

Unicorns are supposedly only approachable by maidens pure.

A bouncer is a short-pitched delivery in cricket. The best defensive shot is played off the back foot with the bat high in front of one’s face whilst keeping your eye on the incoming missile. Unless you are me, a compulsive hooker (not what it sounds like), in which case get a top edge and go to hospital for seven stitches above the right eye…

The old Fourth Division of the Football League was often used as a comparison for poor quality of performance. It is slightly better now - especially now Accrington Stanley are back in it!

The Phoney War was that period of the Second World War between the fall of Poland in September 1939 and the German attack on Scandinavia in April 1940, when the German and Allied forces faced each other on the Rhine without either side making any attempt to attack.

Rabbit Hutch is Cockney rhyming slang for the groin (crotch). Ron takes one in the gonads!

Once again I have to deny that I am JKR, do not own the characters or one of the largest bank accounts in Britain.

Thanks as ever to beta readers Bexis and George.

Chapter 14 - Swimming and Other Lessons

Late January in the Highlands turned bitter. Thick frosts formed every night, and the skies bore a milky shade that always threatened, but seldom delivered, snow.

The Castle hummed with anticipation that Saturday morning as students prepared for a Hogsmeade weekend, despite the glowering weather, with nothing to worry about except paying for the latest confectionary from Honeydukes, or stealing the odd kiss outside Madame Puddifoots.

More than a few curious looks came the way of two figures standing at the edge of the ice-rimmed lake. Who could possibly prefer Mother Nature’s bracing embrace instead of some nice warm butterbeers?

“It’s cold,” Hermione forced past chattering teeth. Even her thick cable-knit roll-necked sweater, which would have given proud service on a North Sea trawler, failed to keep out the insidious chill.

Harry glanced back from the edge of the lake. He had just shifted from a combination of spells to a large stick to try and break up the thin ice that kept appearing stubbornly on the waterline. “You want to go back inside then?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. “No, there’s no time to wait for the weather to improve,” she observed in resignation. A distant movement on the deck of the Durmstrang ship caught her attention.

She saw Viktor Krum shrug off a dark robe, revealing a pale body with only a small pair of swimming trunks to protect both modesty and, questionably, body temperature. Krum strode to the starboard side, pulled back a gunwale gate, half-raised one arm to greet his distant watchers, and then dived straight into the freezing water.

Harry shook his head. “He’s mad,” he muttered.

“It’s a lot colder where Viktor comes from,” Hermione replied, as she watched the Bulgarian’s head break the surface. “And what does that make us?” she added in a smaller voice.

Smirking, Harry turned back to face her. “Well, Ron always said you were mental.”

“You!” Hermione tossed a chunk of melting ice at him, with enough force to make him dodge. “Since when did Ron know anything, anyway/”

Harry simply shrugged his shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Hermione’s attention was distracted. Viktor was swimming in their direction, cutting through the frigid water with long, deliberate strokes. “Not really,” she replied. “But I’d better get on with it.”

Last night she had Transfigured a double sheet from the Daily Prophet into a windbreak. Now she shoved it into the barren mix of sand and shingle that passed for a beach. Ducking behind the cover provided, Hermione yanked the bulky jumper over her head, then shimmied out of her tracksuit top, revealing a long-sleeved rugby jersey in hoops of dark blue and bottle green and the other half of the ankle-length tracksuit. Underneath everything she had Transfigured a spare set of underwear into a one-piece swimming costume.

Pulling on a rubber swimming cap over her tied-back tresses, Hermione emerged from shelter to find Harry standing at the waterline, engaged in a halting conversation with a dripping wet Viktor. The Bulgarian was shaking his head dolefully.

“Ne!”

“What’s the matter?”

Harry turned at her question. “He won’t let me cast a Warming Charm,” he replied with a hint of bitterness.

“No good on vater,” Viktor responded.

Hermione thought she understood. “Harry, you weren’t planning a Heating Charm on the entire lake, were you?”

He nodded warily, obviously catching the merest hint of disbelief in her voice.

“It’s far too large, Harry.”

“Well, you’re not swimming all the way across, are you?” Harry replied defensively.

Sighing, Hermione took Harry by the arm. “That’s true, but water circulates, even in a lake like this. The amount of magic it would take to heat even a small part of it would be tremendous, even assuming I didn’t swim out of it. It’s far more efficient to cast the charm on yourself.” She noted Viktor nodding slowly in agreement a few yards away as she cast the charm herself.

Harry looked a little downcast. He had, after all, only been trying to help.

Hermione turned to Viktor. “How are you?” she asked, as she had not seen much of the Bulgar since Christmas.

“Dobre… I am vell, blagodariya.”

“You haven’t been in the Library much.”

Viktor was visibly discomfited. “I - how you say - spend time with Pay-nay-low-pee. I am sorry if this pleases you not.”

Hermione smiled ruefully and started to shake her head, before remembering who she was conversing with and changing it into a nod, . She felt strange missing his quiet company so much; not many shared her interest in spending time in the Library just for the pleasure of reading. “No, I’m glad that you’re happy. Do you like Penelope?”

“Da - she is good girl, not fan.” Viktor’s expression lightened momentarily, then darkened again. “Is shame I spend time with her and not you.”

Hermione nodded, but with Harry monitoring the exchange, felt it preferable to change the subject. “Do you swim often? It’s very cold.”

“It is part of training. For arms and legs.” Viktor gazed over the lake. “Is cold like Durmstrang.” Then he turned back to Hermione. “I haff not seen you here before.”

For a second, Hermione was at a loss, as this had been Harry’s idea, not hers. Fortunately Harry had been paying attention.

“It was my idea, Viktor,” he interjected. “For improving physical endurance.”

Viktor looked a shade perplexed. “En-dur-ans?” he repeated, trying to twist his tongue around the foreign word.

“Like you,” Harry expounded, “for strong arms and legs.”

Viktor looked Hermione up and down, then shrugged.

Disguising her puzzlement at Viktor’s reaction, Hermione went about kicking off her trainers. She approached the water’s edge with trepidation, hoping against hope that her charm would keep out the iciness of the water.

Wading into the shallows, Hermione was gratified when she hardly noticed a change in temperature. When she was about chest deep, she stripped off her jersey and Banished it to the shore, then leaned forward to try the odd stroke.

Her last swim had been several years ago, wearing rubber armbands and flanked by a doting parent at each side. Hermione’s first few attempts combined ineffectual flapping and splashing, with desperate attempts not to swallow the cold water. She was not at all comfortable.

Engrossed in her own efforts, Hermione did not notice Viktor’s soundless approach. Embarrassed at her ineptitude, she retreated to the sanctuary of the sand.

“Be calm,” Viktor said evenly. “Do not panic. You will float, like this.” He leaned back until he was lying on his back, floating quietly.

Following his advice, Hermione found to her surprise that she could float easily, just as well as she had with her childhood swimming aids.

Slowly, methodically, Viktor encouraged her to relax. As she grew more comfortable, he demonstrated some simple strokes. Finding her tracksuit bottoms worse than superfluous with the warming charm, since their drag retarded her progress, Hermione stripped them off and sent them shoreward to join her jersey. She spotted Harry, looking rather miserable trying to ward off the cold. He sat on his haunches, knees drawn up under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes Apparently he had neglected to cast his own Warming Charm.

Her own Warming Charm was fading, and she felt the cold gradually seeping into her bones. With her wand back with her clothes, she practised the few strokes Viktor had showed her. From her first attempt, Hermione managed some small progress before the cold set her teeth chattering. As usual, success brought a happy mood, and she turned to thank Viktor, only to find that he was no longer next to her.

Bobbing in the shoulder-deep water, Hermione turned to give Harry a cheery wave, but then saw Viktor standing next to her best friend, engrossed in a halting discussion with him. Deciding that she had achieved enough today, she pushed off and swam a short distance inshore until she could easily stand with the water lapping around her bare thighs.

Her approach had not gone unnoticed. Harry’s eyes were on her, a look in them she had not noticed before. As she waded ashore he reddened, turning his head away. Viktor, as far as one could divine from his usual inscrutable expression, might have been amused.

“What?” she cried out.

“Umm… nothing - absolutely nothing, Hermione,” Harry stuttered, still avoiding her gaze. He busied himself retrieving a large fluffy towel.

“You didn’t get too cold, did you Harry?” Hermione asked with concern.

Oddly her solicitude only deepened Harry’s unease. He muttered something non-comittally under his breath that she could not catch.

Failing at that source, Hermione turned to Viktor, who had been watching the byplay with the barest hint of a smile. He said nothing, merely raising one of his thick eyebrows, then bade both of them goodbye, took a running dive into the lake and set off for the Durmstrang ship with steady, strong strokes, never once looking back.

“Boys!” Hermione murmured, doffing her cap and shaking her hair free. They were just so difficult to understand.

With a combination of Warming and Drying Charms, and that fluffy towel, Hermione quickly dressed and ready to return to the Castle. If they hurried they could still join their friends in Hogsmeade for an hour or two.

Turning to discuss those prospects with Harry, Hermione found him more than ready to march back up the hill, both uneasy in her presence, and reticent about discussing whatever the matter was.

She found herself shaking her head once again.

* * * * *

The rest of January passed as a blur.

Hermione’s weekday runs had slowly gained in length. Her aches and pains progressively lessened and eventually disappeared. She now felt… well, fit, really. She had not believed herself unfit, but she certainly noticed the significant difference. Okay, she may not be the next Liz McColgan, but at least she no longer gasped for breath like a beached whale.

Swimming only fit into her busy timetable at weekends, but for all his weird behaviour, Harry insisted on it. So they tried to spend as much time as possible on a skill that, to the amazement of their friends, especially Ron, consumed a large chunk of their Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings, in the grey waters under gun-metal skies. Under Viktor’s careful tutelage, she no longer started sinking after her first three strokes.

Hermione slowly realised that, while Viktor often accompanied her, Harry never did. Instead he sat by himself on the shore, watching.

On that first Sunday, as she took on the seemingly unending task of drying her hair behind the windbreak, she asked Harry why he did not join her in the icy waters.

“I… um… never quite learned to swim, y’know.”

Hermione stopped, the towel still held to the back of her head. “What?” She could not believe her ears.

Harry shrugged. “Dudley was never interested in learning, so we never went to the local pool. I was always locked away when they went on holiday.”

Her indignation at Harry never being taught to swim bubbled up within her growing ire as more of Harry’s ‘family’ life was revealed. His expression showed he mentally chastised himself for revealing that particular detail.

“What do you mean? They locked you away?”

Harry picked up a pebble and lazily spun it into the lake with a plop. “Look, Hermione, it’s no big deal -”

“No big deal?” Hermione replied shrilly. “I knew they were bad, but that’s just evil -”

“Hermione,” Harry stared coolly back at her. “Just drop it, okay?”

Huffing and burning with fury, Hermione dragged the towel through her hair with slightly more force than was necessary..

“Anyway, it’s done,” Harry added glumly. “It’s in the past.” He gazed into the middle distance. “Dumbledore’s seen to that,” he added, his tone less certain than his words.

With that, the matter was dropped as far as Harry was concerned, although his words burned in Hermione’s mind. The Dursleys’ long list of crimes committed against her Harry continued to grow.

Another of her pet hates, Rita Skeeter, continued sniping away at Hermione’s tarnished reputation in the Daily Prophet. The pages were packed with innuendo; Hermione understood that the reporter had visited Hogsmeade and spoken with some of the students, although she had departed by the time Hermione and Harry arrived. Ron in particular had taken great efforts to avoid Rita and her Quick-Quotes Quill.

However, the intrepid reporter had cornered Ludo Bagman, who had been hanging around Hogsmeade for an unspecified reason She badgered him over an inexperienced witch making fools of the Ministry in general, and Crouch and Bagman in particular. The interview was transparently intended to re-ignite the ructions over Hermione’s participation in the Triwizard Tournament.

Rita was relatively unsuccessful, as Bagman did not rise to her bait. Strangely, Bagman was reportedly less concerned about the press and more worried by the unusual presence of two goblins in Hogsmeade, according to Fred and George.

Hermione affected unconcern over the Prophet’s daily potage of lurid rumour, insinuation and sheer fantasy. The denouement to that story was due to be played out over the last weekend in January.

First, that month’s Quibbler arrived on Hogwarts’ breakfast tables bright and early Saturday morning. Luna’s article included interviews with all three of the official champions. Their consensus provided an effective rebuff to Rita’s “Scarlet Woman” stories by setting straight the truth of an enjoyable evening.

Even more pointed was the editorial, penned by Luna’s father, Xenophilius. Discerning readers worked through stories of rampant Quidditch League corruption and mutterings from Gringotts about the trustworthiness or otherwise of unnamed Ministry officials, and were rewarded with an interesting little piece headlined: ‘Daily Prophet in the Dock?’

Barnabus Cuffe, the Prophet’s editor, had evidently received a series of recorded delivery letters, including from ‘head of old pure-blooded families,’ threatening legal action unless retractions were printed relating to articles mentioning family members in connection with the Hogwarts’ Yule Ball.

With the Quibbler’s limited circulation within Hogwarts, it took some time for news of the first story to spread, but Hermione was unconcerned. She figured that most of the students had already made up their minds about her, even if some just trod a party line.

She knew that the Quibbler story was true. In part at her behest, Arthur Weasley had written a formal demand letter to Cuffe complaining in the strongest terms of the false portrayal of sibling rivalry between his eldest and youngest sons. Neville reported that his aunt had also taken quill to parchment with a similar issue, as had Amos Diggory, according to Cedric.

Viktor had assured her that, ignoring his headmaster, he requested the magical attaché at the Bulgarian embassy to demand a retraction through diplomatic channels. To that he had added his own note: The world’s most bankable Quidditch star explicitly threatened to withdraw any future co-operation from the newspaper. Fleur had let her know that Madame Maxime, not bothering with diplomacy, had also issued an excoriating missive of her own to the hapless editor’s desk; her charges were perfectly happy with the turn of events, and to man and woman pledged to have nothing further to do with the Prophet.

That none of these complaints sought to defend the fourth Champion directly did not worry Hermione. By clearing their names, her dance partners and their dates effectively ruined Rita’s story. And if the result was that particular newshound was kept on a tighter leash, then so much the better!

Sunday’s Prophet carried a very pale impression of a sincere apology, claiming that some quotes were obviously “out of context” or “lost in translation.” Hermione noted with satisfaction that Rita’s by-line did not appear at all, that day or during the following week.

There: one problem sorted! But, only one.

On other fronts, Hermione was starting to feel the heat. With morning runs, weekend swimming and her “detentions” with Mad-Eye every Thursday evening, maintaining her customary academic standards was becoming more challenging. Fatigue, both physical and mental, set in with a vengeance. Professor McGonagall had warned her pf this prospect, but Hermione had treated those cautionary words with some disdain. She reflected on herself now, how much she regretted ignoring that wise advice.

So, submitting to the tyranny of her lesson planner, determined to prove that she did not need an automatic ‘pass’ in this year’s exams, Hermione studied late into the nights. On more than one occasion Harry had to escort a drowsy friend from the Library before she fell asleep over her books. He never quite managed to stop her endless homework sessions in the Common Room, and on several mornings found her asleep there.

The odd mistake started to crop up in lessons. Snape was delighted dock house points when Hermione stirring her cauldron of Fire Protection Potion anti-clockwise. McGonagall favoured her with a freezing yet knowing stare when Hermione’s conjured teapot melted because it was made of chocolate.

The last Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the month found Hermione hexed and jinxed by such doughty fighters as Neville and Parvati. Moody brooded long and hard, which did not brook well for that evening.

“What the bloody ’ Ell are yeh doin’ Granger,” he raged hours later in the otherwise deserted classroom. “Yeh can’t tell yehr arse from yehr elbow!”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione shot back half-heartedly. “I just had a bad day.”

Moody thumped his desk. “A bad day? In my old job that’d be my last day.”

“I… I’m just a little tired, that’s all,” Hermione replied defensively, rubbing her eyes involuntarily as she did so.

Moody shook his misshapen head. “Yeh just don’t understand, do yeh lass?” He stumped around behind his desk, drew out his chair with his wand, and plopped down with a heavy thud before taking a long swig from his hipflask.

“I knew many a young lass - lads too - like yeh,” he said ruminatively. “Back a while though. Thought they were ruddy indestructible.”

“Well, there’s a difference. I know I’m not,” Hermione snapped, but then shrunk under Moody’s baleful, vivid blue glare.

“No-one is,” her grizzled mentor replied. “See this?” Moody gestured at his nose, missing a great chunk. “Or this?” He rapped his wand against his wooden leg hard enough to shoot multi-coloured sparks into the floor.

“Tiredness costs yeh, I can vouch fer that. One mistake can cost yeh, or yehr mates. Don’t ’ ave to be in ruddy combat, like. A loose word can be just as deadly.”

For a few moments Hermione could have sworn that Moody was no longer there in spirit, that his mind was back in his heyday as the Ministry’s most feared Auror, recalling fallen comrades and lost friends.

Finally, with another long quaff from his hipflask. Moody returned to the present day and his errant student.

“Yeh’ve gotta be at the top of yehr game, Granger. Maybe there’s no dark wizard waitin’ fer yeh down the corridor, but there maybe one down the road, watchin’, waitin’. And I’m not forgettin’ this damned tournament; biggest balls-up since the Somme, if yeh ask me.”

The aged ex-Auror pushed himself out of his chair and stumped towards the tiny windows that overlooked the courtyard. Hermione thought he had lapsed back into melancholy as he stared through the glass.

“You doin’ summat Saturday, Granger?”

The question came out of the blue. Hermione hesitated for a second. “Umm… no, except for some swimming in the morning. Why, Professor?”

Moody’s wand tapped gently on the window. “Get yehr arse in gear an’ be ’ ere at midday.” He turned, his expression inscrutable. “Think of it as… some special trainin’ .” His wand rapped against the stonework this time, and a couple of sparks guttered. “An’ not a word to anyone, mind, missie. Gotta keep this quiet, see.”

* * * * *

Despite Heating Charms, Hermione still felt cold after her now familiar early Saturday morning dip in the lake. Dank grey clouds had occasionally deposited a scudding shower that had ripped the water’s surface like grapeshot. She felt lucky it was only rain, not hail.

Still, an hour or so of extraordinary training in the Defence classroom should warm her up, she thought.

She kept her part of the bargain, not uttering a word to anyone, even Harry. He was back in the Common Room, happily losing to Ron at wizard’s chess. Managing to slip away from her dorm without being noticed, Hermione believed if her absence was noted at all, everyone would assume she was in her natural Library habitat. Very few would sacrifice a free Saturday to confirm she was not there.

The classroom door was closed but, as Hermione discovered when she laid her hand on the doorknob, not locked.

‘That’s odd… very odd.’

The room appeared deserted. Stepping over the threshold, Hermione was surprised to find it in a very different configuration than usual. She briefly stepped back into the corridor to convince herself that she had actually entered the right room.

The usual classroom had been expanded, both in width and in length. Instead of a tidy space that could encompass desks for twenty or so students, it was now a good fifty yards long and half as much across.

The desks were still present, scattered at random across the area. The floor was also littered with other obstacles, some resembling Muggle office partitions, others looking as though they had been dragged in from the Forbidden Forest.

“Professor?”

There was no reply.

The foreboding silence, while not totally surprising, still managed to unnerve her. From her elevated position, she took a longer look at her surroundings.

Gone were the glass jars and ornate metal cages that held the likes of Grindylows and impertinent Cornish pixies. Instead small walkways ran along both lengthwise walls at about head height, joined perpendicularly by a slightly more elevated gantry that she judged to cross about half-way down the room.

A very thin corridor with an unobstructed line of sight traversed the centre of the room. At the far end she could just make out the iron spiral staircase that led to Moody’s private quarters. Perhaps he intended to meet her there.

Wand drawn, she moved cautiously, the first, brutal lesson under Mad-Eye’s wand seared into her memories. Hermione descended the short flight of steps into what she wondered might be an arena.

‘Special training,’ Moody had mentioned. Perhaps he was planning to test her mettle again.

“Professor Moody?” She called out again, just in case Moody was tucked away, busy in some far corner of the restyled layout.

Her voice echoed back eerily at her.

‘Right,’ she urged herself. ‘I won’t show myself up this time! I’ll make it difficult.’

Slowly Hermione edged towards the first partition that blocked the view towards the far end. Taking a deep breath, she spun around its end, crouching with her wand ready to strike or defend.

Nothing.

Releasing that breath with one long exhalation, Hermione felt her heart thumping in her chest. Her adrenalin was definitely flowing now.

Professor Moody was obviously engaged a waiting game. Perhaps, she suspected, he was testing her in psychological warfare, ratcheting up the tension to see how she would handle it.

Well, if Mad-Eye wanted to play that way, Hermione Granger would show him she would not run out of patience. She thought about toppling the barrier to keep a clear view of the door as an escape route, but thought better of it. Moody would not want her to run. Best to keep even a semblance of a wall at her back.

Slowly, methodically, she progressed down the room, tackling each obstacle the same way. She was not sure to be relieved or anxious not yet to have come across the battle-hardened teacher.

The seconds drew out into minutes. She was three-quarters of the way down, resting behind what appeared to be a privet hedge happily growing out of the flagstones. Her efforts drew sweat in earnest, when she heard the hard resound of a door smashing open against a wall behind her. Whirling around, Hermione darted towards the centre of the obstacles, her attention focussed on the sounds of footfalls on stone steps.

Mad-Eye Moody had not entered the classroom.

Instead, to her horror, Hermione saw Malfoy junior descending the steps, followed by the hulking forms of his acolytes and perennial ’bodyguards’ Crabbe and Goyle. Following that gruesome trio were that simpering cow Pansy Parkinson, the sour-faced Nott, with Daphne Greengrass bringing up the rear. The last-named closed the door behind that lovely little group.

Hermione was now trapped in the room with six Slytherins! Was this Moody’s idea of ’special training’? Her heartbeat certainly agreed with the panicking thoughts.

“Well, we’re here, Professor,” Malfoy called out, managing to sound at once both resentful and bored, as he reached the foot of the stairs.

Hermione risked a look around the greenery. All six of the Slytherins had halted, taking in their unexpected surroundings, although Crabbe and Goyle appeared just as lost as ever.

“If that obsolete idiot has brought me down here just to waste my time, I’ll be having words with my father,” Malfoy complained loudly. “After all it’s - what are you doing, Nott?” He ceased mid-grievance when the latter had the temerity to pull on his sleeve.

Nott gestured in Hermione’s direction. “The Mudblood!” he hissed.

‘Damn,’ Hermione thought. She had foolishly given up her best ally – the element of surprise.

“What? Granger’s here?” Malfoy turned and stared where Nott had pointed. Not wanting to be thought a coward, Hermione stood and stepped out into the clear.

“Malfoy.”

He appeared almost mortally offended by her presence. “You’re right, Nott. How I could have missed her unmistakeable stench, I can’t say.” His eyes narrowed. “All alone, Granger?”

Hermione kept quiet. She suddenly appreciated how alone she was.

“No sign of Potty or the Weasel, or even the gallant Krum” Malfoy drawled as an evil glint blossomed in his eyes. Slowly he drew his wand. Following their putative leader, five other wands appeared. For the present Malfoy kept his pointed at the floor.

“Professor Moody’s around,” Hermione temporised, hoping the ex-Auror’s name would provide the Slytherins with reason to cease their threatening behaviour.

“Oh, really?” Malfoy seemed to be savouring the situation more with each passing second. Hermione hoped against hope that he had not realised what a perfect opportunity was presenting itself to settle old scores. “Well, let’s see…

“Professor!” He yelled loudly. The echoes died away as no one took the trouble to reply.

Grinning broadly now, Malfoy almost appeared to physically grow in confidence. “He appears to be ‘out’, doesn’t he, Mudblood,” he sneered.

Hermione took a couple of steps backwards, retreating towards the hedge.

“Get her!” Malfoy yelled, his wand shooting up. “Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!” Hermione barely raised her own wand in time to ward off the Slytherin’s spell. With two more rapidly coming her way, she threw herself behind the hedge, out of the line of sight.

She heard feet pounding on the floor. In seconds they would be upon her. She had no idea what they, or more accurately Draco Malfoy, intended to do to her but…

She did not intend to find out.

They had numbers. She would be surrounded. Time for one spell, so it had better be a good one.

“Provisio Caligo!”

A thick fog-like substance roiled out of her wand, almost instantly blanketing the immediate area around her. Taking advantage of the smokescreen. Hermione shifted position quickly to the other half of the hall, across what used to be an unobstructed corridor. She hurled herself under one of the desks nearby. The fog started to rapidly fill the room.

“What the..!”

“Where is she?”

A unseen but audible muffled bump.

“Who’s that?”

“Sorry, Malfoy,” she heard Crabbe mutter.

She had been without a moment to spare, as she heard them barely yards away. She had neutralised one great advantage of theirs; they still had numbers, but no good way to coordinate.

“Finite Incantem!” That was Greengrass, the most intelligent of their little group. Hermione smirked. That would make no difference; in fact, Moody had said in one of her ‘detentions’ that anyone trying to end that spell would only make the smog a little bit thicker.

“It’s not working, Draco!” Pansy sounded as though she was starting to panic.

“Quiet!” Malfoy snarled. “Let me think.” She could just make out the dark shapes in the artificial gloom. Still way too close for comfort.

“Can’t see a bloody thing.”

“I said ‘be quiet,’ Nott.” Malfoy’s notoriously short temper was fraying already. “Every moment we spend here, she could be getting away.”

‘I wish,’ Hermione thought.

“Right… spread out,” Malfoy ordered. “She must be around here, somewhere.”

“Oof!” Hermione heard Crabbe and Goyle collide as they sought to follow orders. Malfoy’s “Idiots!” caught her ears.

One shadow loomed larger as one of her opponents blindly groped towards her position. Her wand tracked the featureless blob, but at the last moment it stepped away. She caught Nott’s low grumble. “How can we bloody look for her if we can’t see our hands in front of our faces?”

“By smell, you tosser!”

A few seconds later an unseen commotion erupted some ten yards or so off to her left. A couple of spells lit up the gloom followed by some shouts. Indignant voices melded into a row until Malfoy’s faux-imperious voice cut across. “Idiots… You’re shooting at each other!”

Hermione realised she had a second plus point. To her, everyone here was an opponent. If she encountered someone, she should have a split-second advantage as they had to determine whether she was friend or foe.

As silently as possible, she slid out of her hidey-hole and crawled towards the nearest wall. The desire to get out was beginning to threaten to become overwhelming, to the point where she was not particularly concerned with impressing the mad Mad-Eye.

Then Hermione froze as footsteps echoed just the other side of one of the next partition. She ducked down behind another desk close by.

A pair of legs emerged through the fog, barely two feet away.

Hermione swiftly cast a shoelace-tying spell, and as the feet tripped up their owner, she squeezed from under the desk and disabled the toppling figure with a few rapid, select spells.

“Expelliarmus!

“Petrificus Totalus!

“Silencio!”

Hermione rattled off three incantations as quickly but as quietly as possible.

Petrified before he hit the ground, Goyle’s face landed hard a foot away from her with a resounding thump, a look of surprise etched on it that gave her a jolt even if she was expecting it.

“What was that?”

A call away from her left, sounding like Greengrass.

“Don’t know.” Another voice came from a distance behind her. That was Nott, since Crabbe slurred his speech.

“Shut up, you idiots!” Definitely Malfoy. He sounded distinctly unhappy. “Crabbe? Goyle? Pansy?”

Parkinson’s nervous-sounding yip and Crabbe’s grunt answered.

“Goyle? Goyle?”

Hermione stayed still, not wishing to give away her position.

“Where was he?” demanded Malfoy.

“He was off to my left,” Nott responded uncertainly.

“Right,” Malfoy sounded more sure of himself. “Then she’s over there. Move!”

Thumps and bumps and footsteps indicated they were closing in on her. Not wishing to lower her odds back to their starting point, Hermione claimed her immobile victim’s wand, then started to move away before she was cornered.

The fog now impeded her movement as much as the others, and she stumbled against a chair, sending it tumbling.

“What was that?”

“Over there!”

That last voice sounded ominously close.

“There she is!”

“Densaugeo!” Malfoy’s spell sizzled over Hermione’s head as she ducked at the last second. She flung herself over a nearby desk, crashing into a pot plant with a resounding crash.

Scrambling around, Hermione aimed back towards the source of that spell. “Stupefy!”

She thought she missed as there was no sound of a body striking the floor. Three more spells shot back towards her position from a narrow arc in front.

Hermione knew if they pinned her down, she lost all her slim advantages, and would be at their doubtful mercies. She had to move away, but from the sounds all around her, the avenues of escape were being closed down.

She had to find some way of distracting them…

‘Of course!’ Hermione nearly cursed herself. But she had to work fast.

“Duplicus! Duplicus! Duplicus!”

Three doppelgangers crouched down alongside her. With a wave of her wand they stood up and dispersed, running in different directions. As they left, she smiled with the realisation that these images would not give her away by colliding with anything. Like ghosts, they passed right through desks and partitions.

“There she goes! Stupefy!”

The air was rent with different coloured spells zooming out.

“No! Over here!”

“Got her!” Those two shouts came from opposite tangents.

“Wait!” The nearby scream of frustration from Malfoy crushed all other voices. “It’s the Mudblood’s Gemini trick.” He was almost directly in front of the desk she was hiding beneath facing the other way.

“Well, how the Hell do we know what we’re aiming at?” Nott replied heatedly, causing Hermione to jump. He was only the other side of one of the tall partitions.

“Stay where you are. Let me think.”

That gave Hermione just the break she needed. She poked her wand from under the desk and set fire to Malfoy’s robes; this time was even more satisfying than when she first did it to Snape back in First Year.

She backed off. After a few seconds…

“Eeeeyaaah!” Malfoy, realising he was alight and panicking, took off running. “I’m on fire! Help!” Almost immediately he crashed headlong into another partition and toppled it over, along with himself.

More bumping and jostling ensued as the others made their way towards Malfoy. Unfortunately, the smouldering Slytherin had careened towards where Hermione thought the entrance to the classroom was located.

“Aguamenti!”

“Aguamenti!” Hermione heard the distinct splash of water as the others gave Malfoy a thorough dousing.

The noise and the chaos amongst the Slytherin ranks provided an opportunity for Hermione to slip away towards the other side of the room, away from where she had almost been cornered.

Maybe, with the element of surprise somewhat restored, she could even the odds a bit more. Creeping slowly so as not to bump into anything, Hermione circled around the sound and fury of a spluttering, and evidently quite drenched, Malfoy cursing at the remaining Slytherins.

“Dessicato, damn it,” he growled ungraciously. “Don’t any of you know a simple Drying Charm? Now spread out. The Mudblood’s still in here. I think we’re still between her and the door.”

More bumping. One of them was coming closer. It was Nott, evidently unhappy quite unhappy at continuing the so-far fruitless chase. That was apparent from his muttering, which, with his halting approach, was just loud enough for Hermione to catch.

Who was now stalking whom?

Casting a Silencio on herself, Hermione thought hard. She needed to see exactly where Nott was, and what he was doing.

Pointing her wand into the air above the partition that separated them, Hermione concentrated fiercely, and a shimmering haze gradually coalesced, solidifying into a flat mirror.

Moody would have been proud of her! He had said she could cast spells, or at least conjuring, silently.

The easy part achieved, Hermione angled the mirror until she could make out the top of Nott’s head reflected through the fog. He appeared to be concerned about his ears.

It took a lot of effort to maintain the shiny surface at just the right height and angle. Now she sought to invest the mirror with the ability to act as a rebound. Moody had demonstrated this, but Hermione had not a clue whether a conjured mirror would work…

“Stupefy!”

Hermione’s spell shot towards the hovering mirror, impacting with an audible ‘thunk.’ It flashed off the reflective surface, lighting it up, before the mirror blinked out of existence. A moment later she heard a far more satisfying ‘thud’ from the other side of the partition.

Another one down. Only Malfoy, Crabbe and the two girls - one a cow - left standing.

“Over there!”

Unfortunately her very success had drawn the attention back upon her.

“No! Wait!” Malfoy waited a moment, then called out. “Greengrass, you still with us?”

Daphne Greengrass could not keep the disillusionment out of her voice. “Don’t worry about me, Malfoy.”

“Pansy?”

“O-o-over here.” She was worryingly closer than Hermione had thought. Fortunately Parkinson sounded even unhappier with the situation.

“Nott? Are you awake, Nott?” Hearing no reply, Malfoy swore viciously.

Hermione turned the corner and confiscated Nott’s wand. Conjuring a blanket the same drab colour as the floor, she dragged her second victim under a desk, just in case someone was clumsy enough to trip over him. Not that she would have minded; Nott had been one of those who most enjoyed taunting her about being a wanton woman.

“Right. Pansy, Greengrass, Crabbe… Move towards me.”

Hermione wondered what they were planning. Whatever it was, they remained between her and the exit. Malfoy was still dangerous, maybe just clever enough to figure out how to make the Slytherins’ still superior numbers count. He was certainly peeved enough to overstep the mark for students. He had shown that in the Library months ago, and that was without her singeing his robes.

It was quiet. Hermione doubted that, even if Parkinson and Greengrass had lost the stomach for a fight, Malfoy would give up so easily. From what she understood about the Slytherin group dynamics, they would not - or could not - stand up to him.

“Granger!” Even when shouting, Malfoy managed to sound condescending. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s our turn.”

Down by the exit the air erupted with Blasting Curses, their sound penetrating further than their light in the murk. The flashes flickered like gunfire on a distant horizon.

For a millisecond Hermione was gripped by fear, but then her rational thought took over once again. By the time the four remaining Slytherins could blast their way to the back of the room, they would almost certainly have exhausted their magical reserves. She could retreat to the stairway by Moody’s office and lay in wait there. The iron stairs offered protection, even from Blasting Curses, and if they were stupid enough to destroy all the obstacles, she would have clear lines of fire.

Still, if she had been in the path of those spells…

The spell fire was gradually working its way up the classroom, Hermione retreating before them. With the formation in which Malfoy now appeared to have them stationed, it would be highly unlikely that she could take the remaining four of them out of the equation.

Hermione made her way carefully in a direction at a right angle to the ever-intensifying, slowly advancing light show. She did not wish to turn an ankle tripping on a chair leg in the gloom.

As soon as she made contact with the side wall, Hermione edged along until she bumped into one of the steel ladders she had seen earlier. It led up to the walkway that extended along the room’s length.

That gave her another idea. Maybe she could get around them after all. She hauled herself up the six feet or so until she stood on metal grating. Her induced fog still hung about at this height, barely less thick here than down below.

Recasting the Silencing Charm on her feet, to deaden the sound as she moved along the walkway, Hermione started to make her way back towards the other end, and her only escape route.

There was something missing…

The pea-souper conditions remained, but flashes of spell fire no longer lit up the murk.

Hermione paused. They were up to something…

She started off again, quicker this time, running down the walkway, until she reached a short flight of metal stairs at a gap in the railings on the left. They must lead to the raised gantry she had spotted earlier.

Leaping up the stairs, Hermione emerged from the fog. Moving cautiously over to the middle, Hermione looked down over a grey-yellow sea of roiling magical smoke. It was starting to thin out now, and she had no idea how long it would continue providing her with cover. She had never used the spell in simulated combat conditions.

She heard no sound, no indication that anyone was below her. She briefly considered completely dispersing the fog, but decided that the advantages of elevation would be more than matched by the disadvantages of exposure; she doubted she could remove four Slytherins from the fray before one of them could hit their mark on the virtually unguarded gantry.

Before Hermione could come to a decision, action was forced upon her.

The rattle of shoes on metal rang from her right. One of them had come up here with her!

Hermione crouched and aimed her wand at the gantry’s end.

The sound changed subtly, from a flat impact to…

Daphne Greengrass’s head showed above the top of the ladder. As she hauled herself up the last few feet, the Slytherin froze, realising Hermione had her wand trained straight on her. Her own wand was gripped in her right hand, which also held the ladder’s supporting rail. Greengrass had effectively disarmed herself.

As Daphne swore briefly under her breath, Hermione raised an index finger to her lips, then gestured with her wand. Greengrass grasped the meaning and very slowly lowered her wand and left it on the floor plates. Then Hermione gestured with short, downwards jabs. Equally cautiously, Greengrass slid herself onto the gantry until she was lying six feet away from the crouching Gryffindor.

“Stupid idea…” Greengrass muttered.

At almost exactly the same time, there was a loud explosion off to the two girls’ right. Both of them swivelled at the sharp sound, seemingly emanating from the door leading back into the corridors of Hogwarts, then swung back as their eyes met.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Greengrass lunged for her wand, but had just too far to go.

“Accio wand! Incarcerous!” Magical ropes whipped out of the tip of her wand, binding the Slytherin even as Hermione grabbed the wand that shot up from the floor. Greengrass, lacking the means to balance, toppled and fell backwards; a loud ‘thump’ marked her landing on the walkway a few feet below.

Hermione briefly panicked. What if Greengrass had landed awkwardly and injured herself? What if -

“Confringo!”

Too late, Hermione heard Malfoy’s Blasting Curse from her left rear. Even as her brain realised he must have missed her, the world turned upside down.

With a tremendous bang the gantry snapped in two a few short feet behind her. Hermione was thrown backwards and downwards, her arm flailing unavailingly in an attempt to grab a stanchion.

Her left shoulder thumped into a partition, breaking her fall. She literally bounced into one of the magical hedgerows, before tumbling onto the hard stone floor.

As Hermione shook her head to clear it, she could catch Malfoy’s triumphant cry, “The Mudblood’s down!” from above her. Of course! The lightshow must have been a subterfuge, to keep her occupied as two of them moved along the upper level. Damn! She had fallen for it.

More shouting. Malfoy was urging his remaining comrades back down to find her. As the fog started to disperse, she would be easy to track down.

Hermione heard some sort of muffled explosion moments before her ears filled with heavy urgent footsteps advancing on her position. She had barely seconds to defend herself.

Yet, just as when thrown into a cabinet by Moody, Hermione maintained a death grip on her wand.

A dark shape loomed through the thinning fog, approaching her on the run. Reacting automatically, Hermione threw a Conjunctivitis Curse at her attacker, who fell away with a brief cry of surprise. That had to be Crabbe, given Malfoy’s last known position.

She had to move away from here. The V-shaped broken-backed gantry was as good as an arrow pointing straight at her position. Malfoy and one other were still out there; Parkinson presumably, although the last opponent dispatched hardly resembled Crabbe.

Hermione realised what the explosion must have been. More Slytherins must have entered the fray, breaking into the classroom, heading her way.

She had to move fast!

Painfully climbing to her feet, Hermione turned - and bumped straight into -

“Hello, Mudblood!”

Malfoy’s left hand clenched Hermione’s right wrist. Squeezing hard, he rammed her arm down hard onto the edge of a desk. Hermione felt something snap in her wrist and cried out as her wand dropped helplessly away from her fingers. Malfoy released her and took a step back.

“Now, let’s -”

His next words of wisdom died as Hermione threw a furious, uncoordinated roundhouse punch that caught him by surprise and flush on the jaw. Draco staggered backwards before stumbling to the floor. Sharp pain lanced up Hermione’s arm. Whatever had snapped before was shattered now. Anguished tears streamed from her eyes as she cradled her right hand with her left, doubled over and sank to the floor.

She had nothing left.

“You hit me? You hit me!” Malfoy, singed robes still lightly smoking, squealed like a girl, his disbelief mixed with outrage. “That hurt!” He scrambled on the ground for his wand. “I’ll teach you -”

“I don’t think so.”

Malfoy’s fingers, inches from grasping his wand, disappeared beneath a large boot, producing a different kind of Slytherin squeal.

Hermione’s eyes, which had been tightly closed in agony, shot open and trailed up the denim-clad leg attached to said boot. A grinning Fred - or George - had his attention fully fixed on his captive.

“Now, it’s not polite to threaten young ladies.” He turned and winked at Hermione.

“There you are!” She caught Ron’s voice and staggered to her feet to face him as the lanky redhead advanced through the now rapidly dwindling fog. “That has to be the best thing you’ve ever done!” he exclaimed.

Hermione could barely choke out a quavering “What?” through the sheet of pain spreading from her wrist.

A smile lit up Ron’s face. “That punch!”

“Looks like poor Malfoy’s jaw’s busted,” the Twin added admiringly, before turning sarcastically to the unfortunate Slytherin. “Smile, Malfoy!”

As she realised that she was safe for now, Hermione started to feel a little giddy, and swayed on her feet. Her mind’s eye was white with the screaming pain in her arm, worse than anything the Horntail had inflicted. “Not the cleverest thing I’ve ever done,” she moaned tiredly. “Think I’ve broken something.”

“Worth it, though,” Ron replied airily. He looked a little hurt as Hermione shot him a glare that could have engraved pewter.

Standing was proving more difficult than usual, so she ended up leaning against one of the now splintered desks. Ron moved over and gave her arm a solicitous look.

Carefully tracing her right arm with her fingers of her left, Hermione gave out a short, sharp gasp as she brushed the purpling and badly swollen spot on her wrist. Compared to that, the reddened and now slightly swollen flesh covering her index finger knuckle looked like a flesh wound. Awkwardly, she pulled her robe as tightly as she could around her forearm, and was about to cast a weak Freezing Charm to deaden the pain.

“Here, allow me,” the Twin offered, pointing his wand at her wrist.

She looked askance.

“Had enough things blow up in my face,” he explained. “It’s either learn a spot of first aid or tell Mum.”

She nodded. “Anæsthis.” Fred incanted. Almost instantly, her pain all but disappeared. “That’ll do until you get to Pomfrey,” he added.

Glancing around at the now visible scene of her outmatched battle, Hermione was surprised to hear the sharp yapping of a small dog. She glanced querulously at Ron.

“That cow Parkinson,” he explained. “Ginny hexed her so she’ll bark instead of talk for a while.”

“Inventive, that’s our little sis,” the Twin observed as he coolly watched Malfoy squirm. “Do you think anyone’ll object if I try some creative work on this one? George and I have been dieing to experiment a little.”

Hermione was not sure if Fred was joking or not. Malfoy certainly did not find any humour in the situation. “Get off me, you bloody weasel,” he spat, rather stupidly in Hermione’s opinion, given who was on the end of whose wand. “Wait until my fathaaaaa-” Fred accidentally on purpose leaned and put a little more weight on Malfoy’s trapped hand.

“Oops.”

Hermione pushed herself off of her perch and walked a little unsteadily towards her would-be tormentor. The adrenalin still coursed through her veins and she badly wanted to let off steam. “Your father?” she laughed derisively. “It’s always the same story from you, you inbred cretin!” That drew a similar laugh from Fred. “Always hiding behind daddy’s robes, aren’t you. Not even wizard enough to face a mere Muggleborn on even terms, were you?”

“I think it’s time we left, don’t you, Ron?” Fred looked highly amused at the exchange he had just witnessed. Then he raised his voice. “George, you okay?”

“No problems,” came the reply. Hermione followed the sound of the voice and saw Crabbe spinning upside down, suspended from the broken-off remains of the snapped gantry. She turned back to Ron.

“How… how did you find me?”

Ron was about to reply when a scream from Ginny echoed around the room. “Harry? Harry! What have they done to you?”

Ron and Hermione shared a fear-laden split-second glance, then turned and ran, Ron much faster than the stumbling Hermione, towards the youngest Weasley.

Ginny was standing over Harry, who was slumped up against a smashed desk. “I can’t bloody see,” he mumbled. Hermione bent down woozily, and then gasped in surprise.

Harry’s glasses were conspicuous by their absence, but what horrified Hermione was the state of his eyes. They were puffy, and the eyelids were inflamed and bright red. Encrusted mucus practically bound them together, blown up so his eyeballs had virtually disappeared.

“What happened?” Ginny demanded.

“Got hit with a bloody spell!” he moaned.

Hermione knelt down and inspected the damage. “Oh Harry! I’m so sorry, really I am,” she cried guiltily. “I didn’t know it was you, you just came out of the -”

“Hey!” Ginny sounded outraged. “Are you saying you hit Harry with that spell?”

“Bloody Hell, Hermione! What for?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, Ron,” Hermione replied acerbically. “I thought he was… was one of them!” Harry’s groans recaptured her attention. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident -”

“I think,” George observed, “that we had better get these two to the Hospital Wing, and - I can’t believe I’m saying this, but - find a teacher to sort this mess out.” He turned to look at his twin, who continued toying with Malfoy as though a cat would play with a mouse. “I think we’ve got it covered here.”

* * * * *

“…So then Harry dug out the Marauders’ Map, and we saw you on your own with Malfoy and his goons,” Ron was explaining. “Harry was out the door before I could blink. Only caught up with him about halfway there, Neville must have been following me.”

They sat around a bed in the Hospital Wing, the bed Ron jokingly insisted should be engraved with the current occupant’s name, so often had he occupied it. Harry was sitting propped up on a mound of pillows, his eyes red and bloodshot but at least visible.

“I’d gone to fetch the Twins,” Ginny added. “Then we came as fast as we could.”

“We found the door locked, but Alohomora wouldn’t open it, so Harry just yelled ‘Reducto!’ and blew the door away!” Ron said admiringly.

Hermione had shattered her wrist in five places, as well as the minor inconvenience of a broken knuckle. The carpal bones had taken Madam Pomfrey a good half hour to fix, and she ordered Hermione to keep her right arm in a magical sling overnight, as well as enduring several doses of foul-tasting Skele-Gro. As for the knuckle, a little anti-swelling potion and Pomfrey’s magical manipulation repaired that damage in a trice. The bruising from both injuries would take time to go down.

Speaking of bruising, Hermione had accumulated a fair collection from her fall when the gantry collapsed. That was minimal compared to the beating she had taken from the dragon. She ached a bit but some pain-relieving potion would soon deal with that.

“We couldn’t see what was happening, then there was this terrific crash from the middle of all that smoke stuff,. Harry just rushed straight in, as bloody usual.”

None of the Slytherins had been badly hurt, with the notable exception of Malfoy, who had suffered a hairline fracture of the jaw. Whether it was the pain, or just the indignity of being torched, slugged and defeated by Hermione Granger, he had whined and threatened and tried to bully all the while that Madam Pomfrey worked on repairing the damage.

In fact Malfoy had not shut up threatening all and sundry with his father’s name until a coldly incandescent Professor Snape had arrived, and cast a privacy spell over Malfoy Junior’s bed.

Daphne Greengrass was, like Hermione, just bruised and discomfited with the considerable loss of dignity. Nott and Goyle were quickly dealt with, although Snape had to make considerable efforts to remove the effects of Weasley magic on Crabbe and Parkinson, whose yipping he mercifully ended.

Harry sported a large grin. “I can’t believe it though,” he said quietly with a chuckle. “Hermione decks Malfoy in the rematch, and I don’t get to see it!”

Hermione blushed guiltily.

“It was, truly,” Ron said slowly and in a tone of utter admiration, “a thing of beauty.” He sighed and stared off into the distance, his mind’s eye undoubtedly replaying every glorious moment. “Even better than the thump she gave the twitchy little ferret last year…”

“Ron!” Hermione half-admonished. “It’s not like I make a habit of hitting Draco Malfoy.”

“”Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” Neville observed. “Maybe you should start; you’ve definitely got potential.” He half-smiled.

“Yes, but don’t forget who it was who put poor Harry out of the fight,” Ginny muttered a little waspishly.

Hermione’s guilt was assuaged when Harry chuckled again. “Hermione’s already said sorry, and it was my own sweet fault. No -” Harry raised a hand when both girls started to protest “- I dashed in without thinking. Old Mad-Eye’d have a field day with me.”

“I feel bad about that,” Hermione said quietly.

“Still, not too shabby, Hermione,” Harry replied with a little forced cheer. “Malfoy and Potter taken down in a couple of minutes, not to mention three of the others. Right up there with that other dragon, although the Horntail wasn’t half as ugly!”

Ron and Neville joined the merriment, although Ginny remained a little aggrieved. “So not the point,” she grumbled half-heartedly.

“Mind you, some great work on Parkinson, Sis,” Ron said. “Made her more like her natural self, I reckon.” That salved a little of whatever ailed Ginny. “Not sure I’d like to get on your bad side.”

“You’re my brother; you’re always on my bad side,” Ginny growled menacingly.

Ron just smiled back at her. “Bite me, Ginny…” He trailed off as Ginny ostentatiously drummed her fingers on her wand. “Blimey, between her and the Twins, what chance have I got?”

“No more than you deserve, Ron,” Ginny warned.

The laughter this time was more genuine.

“Speaking of Professor Moody, though, where was he and what were you doing there, Hermione?” Neville asked.

“And what was with that crazy obstacle course?” Ron added.

Hermione hesitated. She intended having very strong words with her Defence Professor when she next saw the ancient fighter. Nevertheless, part of her brain nagged away that this actually had been a training session, part of the help she had signed up for. It had rapidly got out of hand, though; unless, or because, that was Moody’s plan…

“I… don’t know,” she replied slowly.

Her obfuscation drew disbelieving glances, but no more, from Harry, Ginny and Neville. “Still, never mind about that,” Ron said worriedly, although. “I reckon we’re all in for the high jump now!”

He pointed towards the double doors where a thin-lipped and visibly angry McGonagall just trailed in behind the Headmaster, who appeared his usual unconcerned self. Dumbledore headed towards Snape and the Slytherin casualties. His deputy clearly had her own errant Gryffindors squarely in her sights.

Ron summed it up for everyone. “Oh bollocks,” he swore under his breath.

McGonagall stood at the head of Harry’s bed and favoured each of her brood with an icy and calculating stare. After a long and painful silence, she drew breath, squared her shoulders and, Hermione believed, prepared to ream them out.

“Right,” she barked shortly. “I will be speaking with the other two -” Hermione knew that meant the Twins “- shortly, but I am ashamed, deeply ashamed, that Gryffindors should be found brawling inside the School!

“I would have expected it from you, Mister Weasley, and you Mister Potter -”

“Hey!” Ron’s protestation ended abruptly as McGonagall fixed him with her cold, grey stare.

“As I was saying, I am highly surprised that you two -” she gestured towards a nervous Neville and a frankly unapologetic Ginny “- became involved. But that was nothing against my shock when I found out that you, Miss Granger -” Hermione tried hard not to cringe “- found it worthwhile becoming entangled in what can only be described as an inter-house affray!

“Normally, I find that it is you who is the voice of reason when dealing with Masters Potter and Weasley, but from what I understand, it is claimed that you attacked Malfoy and his friends without reason.”

“But… but - that’s not true!” Hermione protested, rising to her feet.

“Possibly not,” the iron in McGonagall’s tone sat Hermione back down. “But I am certain that is what will be the story from that side of the ward.” She gestured with her head towards the Slytherin coterie.

“Indiscipline certainly could cost you any chance of a Prefect’s badge next year.” Hermione and her friends gasped at that. Everybody in Gryffindor regarded her as an obvious choice. Hermione herself coveted the responsibility and authority accompanying such an honour.

“Those Weasleys are a damned disgrace to the School,” Snape’s protesting voice carried across; obviously the Privacy Charm had been dispelled. “Granger’s wand should be snapped! And as for Potter..!”

“But that prat Malfoy was casting Blasting Curses around!” Harry protested.

“That’s as maybe,” McGonagall replied. “Now, I want to hear your stories, from start to finish, beginning with you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione was in a quandary. Professor Moody had effectively sworn her to secrecy regarding her ‘detentions’, and she was in the Defence classroom at his direction.

She was, in effect, saved from that dilemma by that very person.

“Albus, Minerva.” Moody stood in the entrance, a very self-satisfied look on his face.

A horrific thought struck Hermione. What if this was some crazy plan by the old Auror to remove her from Hogwarts? What if he had been spinning her a yarn?

McGonagall glanced at her colleague, then turned her ire back on her students. “Wait here,” she instructed, then moved to join the Headmaster and her two colleagues, who had left the still complaining Malfoy’s bedside. As she arrived, Moody cast a Privacy Bubble, so that no-one could overhear their conversation.

“Blimey…” Ron broke the silence. “Expelled? I reckon I’d run away from home. Mum’d kill me.”

Neville fidgeted nervously. “Gran’s going to send me another Howler.”

Only Ginny still had some fire in her. “No way. Those snakes attacked Hermione. Anyone who believes she’d attack six Slytherins needs their heads examining.”

Hermione started tuning out her friends’ conversation. She tried to follow the silent exchange amongst the faculty members.

Moody was speaking. He did not appear repentant or angry; just… satisfied.

That description did not extend to the Transfiguration and Potions teachers. The blood drained rapidly from even Snape’s sallow complexion, a sign he was even more furious than when he first stormed into the Hospital Wing. McGonagall’s expression drew even colder; the virtual disappearance of her lips in a thin line, and the drumming of her fingers on her wand, betraying her anger.

When Moody finished, Dumbledore appeared to ask him a few questions. Beyond that, he seemed to be trying to calm his two other teachers. Occasionally he allowed them to make an observation or put a question.

They must have finished. Dumbledore cancelled the Privacy Bubble and, while Snape walked stiffly back to his Slytherins, a plainly unhappy McGonagall approached five anxious Gryffindors.

“The Headmaster is persuaded that…” she pursed her lips again “… no further action will be taken against anyone regarding today’s disgraceful events.” Her distaste was clear.

“But, Professor, Malfoy cast -”

“Anyone, Mister Potter! I will brook no arguments on this score.” Hermione could tell that her Head of House was seething.

“What?” Malfoy’s anguished cry of betrayal broke into McGonagall’s laying down of the law. “But, Professor Snape… wait until my father hears of this!”

McGonagall raised her eyes; her patience obviously ebbing away. “However, should there be any repetition by any party… well, the repercussions will be terrific and terrible to behold. Take this as a final warning.”

The silence of the grave fell as the message sunk in.

“I am reassured by Madam Pomfrey that neither of the injuries to you -” McGonagall indicated Hermione and Harry “- are serious or anything other than short-term. Think both of you extremely fortunate.”

She turned on her heels, ignoring the odd word of protest, and stalked out of the ward.

“Bloody Hell, “ Ron noted quietly. “That’s a result. Still, Snape’s royally pissed off.”

Hermione turned and saw the Potions Professor glaring at the five Gryffindors, before imitating McGonagall with a theatrical swirl of his robe. His grand exit, however, was blocked by Moody. There was obviously no love lost between the two. To Hermione’s satisfaction Moody appeared to be laying down some law of his own to Snape, who blanched even more than Hermione believed possible.

“Malfoy’s not a happy little snake,” Ron commented.

Turning to look at her defeated opponent, Hermione was struck by the poisonous stare he directed straight back at her. She returned it, glare for glare.

Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey bustled over. “Well, Mister Potter, I think you’re fit enough to leave us now,” the nurse advised. “Just be sure that if you have any unusual eye problems, if they feel dry or at all out of sorts, you report straight back here.” She cast a look at Hermione. “I am sure Miss Granger here will make sure you do.”

Harry smiled. “I’m sure she will.”

“As for you, Miss Granger, a quiet night and you should be able to dispense with the sling in the morning. And don’t forget your Skele-Gro!” Hermione could not help but pull a face.

“Right, well if the rest of you will make yourselves scarce, so that Mister Potter can dress…”

As the other three started to depart, Hermione tarried for a few seconds.

“I’m truly sorry, Harry. I should have known it was you, just by the way you run. I just… panicked.”

“No great shakes, Hermione,” he said evenly. “As I said, it was my own fault. Good thing I ran across you, and not Malfoy.”

A fleeting moment of fear swept Hermione’s mind. Malfoy had proven willing to throw the Blasting Curse around. Given how hostile he was towards Harry, who knew what spell he might have cast?

“I still feel bad about it.”

Harry hesitated, then cocked his head. “Okay then,” he said slowly. “How about you… do my Transfiguration essay for me?”

“Harry!”

“Or the next two,” he added impishly.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Perhaps I’ll help you plan it,” she countered. “I can hardly write tonight, can I,” she added, pointing at her incapacitated right arm.

Harry grinned. “Almost worth the trip. Now, unless you want to help me dress..?”

Hermione blushed. But a little bit of her would not have minded hanging around.

As she left Harry’s bed, the magical curtains closed behind her. She started to leave when she caught the hissed comment from the other row of beds.

“You’ll pay for today, Mudblood!”

“You and whose army, Malfoy?” she hissed right back.

* * * * *

A far more cautious Hermione knocked on the restored and blemish-free Defence classroom door the following Thursday evening.

She was hardly reassured when Moody’s voice called on her to enter. She did so with a drawn wand.

The classroom had, of course, been restored back to normal even before the first class on Monday morning. Moody sat at his desk, swigging from his hipflask, which he placed in the desk drawer as Hermione approached warily.

“Good to see yeh’ve learnt summat,” Moody observed.

“Could hardly fail,” Hermione responded sourly. “It was your doing, wasn’t it Professor? Saturday, I mean.”

Moody nodded. “It was,” he conceded.

Hermione tried hard to bite down on her rising tide of indignation. “Why?”

Moody raised an eyebrow. “Not ‘Why, Professor?’ Seems yeh didn’t agree with my methods.”

“I could have been killed,” Hermione shot back, before adding “Professor” in a tone that completely lacked sincerity.

“No, yeh wouldn’t’ve. Not whilst I was there.”

Her effort at controlling her ire slipped. “Oh, really? Malfoy and his mob were throwing Blasting Curses around, and you were nowhere to be seen?” Not, she allowed, that anyone would have seen what occurred in the fog. Yehr silent conjurin’s gettin’ up to snuff as well.”

Moody tapped his artificial all-seeing eye with his wand. “This saw everythin’, missie. Nice Caligo spell by the way.”

“What?” Obviously he had watched everything.

“Sat up there all the time.” Moody gestured to the doorway to his quarters that sat atop the short spiral staircase. “Disillusioned, but this sees everythin’. Yeh did well, Granger.”

Hermione was so angry that she started pacing in front of the teacher’s desk like a caged animal. “You set it all up,” she concluded. “You had six Slytherins turn up just to… what? Test me?”

“Aye. And it was only gonna be four of the buggers, the best they have at D.A.D.A, but didna count on Malfoy draggin’ those two gorillas along.”

“You’re crazy,” Hermione said quietly.

“Not officially, Granger.” With effort, Moody rose from his desk. “Just a little mad. D’yeh really think I’d let those Death Eater spawn finish yeh off?”

“I didn’t know that you were there. I was terrified.”

“Were yeh?” Moody moved in front of her and mockingly peered at her face. “Well, good. Yeh’re gotta learn to push past it. Nearly cost yeh dear against that dragon…”

He lapsed into his thousand-yard stare for a moment, before continuing. “Nothin’ wrong with bein’ afraid. Merlin knows, I’ve been bowel-loosening frightened many times. Moment I’m not nervous about a fight is the moment I’m ready for the farm.”

“I could have hurt Harry,” Hermione complained.

“Ah, yes… Harry bleedin’ Potter. That would’ve buggered things up, wouldn’t it, eh? I confess I weren’t expectin’ that… well, that’s not strictly true.” Moody tapped the side of his nose with his finger, indicating Hermione should share his secret. “Told yeh, Potter’s got a noble streak a mile wide. If he don’t watch it, it’ll finish him some day. Dashin’ in without assessin’ the situation. If some young idiot ran up to me like that, I‘d have cast something a darn sight stronger than the old blinding hex.”

“And what about Malfoy’s curses?”

Moody shrugged. “Ferret’s got a anger management problem. Could be the end of him as well.”

“If one of those had hit me -”

“He wasn’t aiming fer yeh.”

“Doesn’t matter. They were firing blind in the fog. If one of those had caught me it could have… injured me or worse,” Hermione clamped down hard on the anger. “Perhaps I’d be in a similar state to you.”

Moody shrugged. “P’haps, p’haps not. Can never tell what’ll ’appen once wands are drawn. Still, yeh took it coolly, taking down three of ’em, and torchin’ Malfoy. I’ll confess, I didna think yeh had that in yeh.”

“You’ve still not told me why… Professor?”

Moody at least had the grace to look a little abashed. “Needed to know if yeh had the spunk to fight against the odds, had the guts to cast at a fellow wizard… or witch. Yeh proved yeh did” He stumped back to his desk and sat down heavily. “Who knows what’ll ’appen when this whole damned thing unravels? I can offer yeh many things, Granger: my knowledge - which, contrary to some of my contemporaries’ opinions, may be worth a Knut or two; a little actual training; and a few tricks here and there. But I’m not in any real shape to stretch yeh in a duel.”

“That’s…” Hermione, wrong footed by his admission, tried to find the right words, but failed. Moody ended the momentary silence.

“Taught yeh a lesson early on, but yeh’ve learned that one well. No-one in yehr class is good enough to take yeh on…” He hesitated for a second or two. “Save Potter, and he won’t; too bleedin’ noble, yeh see.”

A little puffed up at that, Hermione sat down. “So why Malfoy and five - sorry, three - others?”

“Blondie’s so much up ’is own arse, he’d be too concerned about humiliatin’ yeh instead of just winnin’. No, yeh needed more competition than just him.”

“But,” Hermione thought aloud, “I didn’t beat him. In the end, he had the draw on me. Only the rescue party stopped him from throwing Merlin knows what curse at me.”

“Think that, do yeh, Granger. ’Appens I think different. Like I said, this…” He tapped his magic eye again “… sees all. If yeh’d not been distracted by Potter, yeh’d have had the draw on Malfoy and taken ’ im out pretty as yeh please. The rest woulda given up after that, sure as my peg leg. Even so, yeh took out three opponents with some nifty spell work and a little clear thinkin’.”

Hermione shook her head. “Panic, more like.”

“Bah! Yeh kept a cool head as far as I could see.” Moody stretched out his one remaining natural leg. “Still, took some fixin’ with Albus…”

Intrigued, Hermione could not stop herself asking the question. “What did the Headmaster say?”

Moody shrugged. “Said he was disappointed in me, and that if summat similar ’appened again, he’d be duty bound to report it to the Board.”

“But Lucius Malfoy’s going to find out anyway,” Hermione pointed out. “All Draco kept bleating was how he’d tell his father, and what his dad would do.”

Moody snorted derisively. “The Malfoys got no backbone. Reckon Lucius’ll make this official? When ’ is little boy’s throwing around Blasting Curses? Even worse, baby Malfoy got bested by a Muggleborn with a right hook… good punch, by the way, lass. Anyway, a Pensieve memory and one word from me and ’ is lad’ll be out on ’ is ear. Trust old Mad-Eye; worst that could happen is that I‘ll get disciplined, and that’ll take time. Far as we’re all concerned, it was in a supervised, structured environment. Lucius’ll fume but he won’t do anything official.” He stopped for a moment. “Official..?”

There was that stare again.

“Professor?”

Moody snapped out of his ruminations. “Never mind, Granger. Wasn’t the Headmaster who needed placatin’ . When they’d ’ eard that it was all my doin’ - a Defence exercise, the first of a few I had planned, I told ’em - Snape was fit to curse me, and Minerva wanted my balls.”

Hermione reddened a little at the salty language and revelations that Moody had taken on board all the blame. Not, of course, that she was to blame for anything at all…

“Told McGonagall I’d started with the best. Told Snape to keep his Death Eater minions in line, otherwise I’d ’ old another ‘exercise’ for his House alone. He was demanding yehr head on a platter, along with Potter and those bleedin’ Weasleys.” Moody glanced up at his student. “He’s not come down hard on yeh, has he?”

Hermione shook her head. She had expected at the least a detention from Tuesday’s Potions’ class, but Snape had contented himself with taking a shed-load of points from Gryffindor.

“Well, if he does, yeh’re to come tell me. Told him any detentions would be visited five-fold on his own, see. How many points did he take?”

“From everyone…” Hermione thought back. “Around about a hundred.”

“I know Snape,” Moody growled. “How many more than normal was that?”

“I’d say about fifty,” she estimated.

“Well then, fifty points to Gryffindor for yehr performance in the first ‘exercise’, an’ I’ll deal with the rest later. Now, yeh’re not to take this as carte-blanche… when’ve yeh got Potions again?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

Moody nodded. “Fine. If yeh get a detention, come and serve it with me. I’ll square it with old Severus if necessary.”

Hermione imagined Moody would be deliriously happy to have words with Professor Snape.

“Anyway, yeh’ve more problems coming up.”

Hermione’s head jerked up. “What?”

Moody shook his head tiredly. “Second Task, Granger. Tomorrow night Dumbledore’ll announce it’ll take place on the twenty-fourth, just over a fortnight away. I see yeh’ve been doin’ some training.” This time he nodded approvingly.

“Do you… you wouldn’t happen to know…”

“No clues, Granger.” Moody tapped his nose again. “We’re not about cheatin’ . I’ll train yeh up but no more. Wouldna be fair, would it. What I can say is yeh’ll get the egg given back to yeh a week before.”

Hermione was confused. She thought the egg was just a glorified token, the key to qualifying for the Second Task. Although Ludo Bagman had, immediately after she’d survived her encounter with the dragon, taken it into safekeeping, she assumed that was because it was a valuable prize. She doubted they would let students keep golden eggs. “Why?”

“The clue to the Task, lass, is in the egg. That’s all I can tell yeh.”

Hermione sat quietly, digesting that nugget of information. That allowed her something to work with.

“C’mon Granger.” Moody once again hauled himself out of his creaking chair. “Time for summat a little more… entertaining than Blasting Curses.”

Hermione wondered just what Moody regarded as ‘exciting’ and whether she really wanted to find out.

“Righto, if yeh know yehr history, and I knows yeh do -” His one remaining original eye winked at her “- then this has been used in some of the competitions way back. Always a great idea to manipulate one of yehr opponents.

“Yeh recall yehr first class with me, Granger? Seems a long ways back, don’t it? Well, they won’t let yeh cast the Imperius Curse -” Hermione shuddered at mention of one of the Unforgivable “- but let’s see how good yeh can be at throwin’ it off. Yeh didn’t manage it afore, but I’m sure yeh don’t want to lag behind Potter, do yeh?”

Hermione’s initial revulsion at once again being put under that pernicious influence was negated by her sharp sense of academic competition.

“Now,” Moody continued, “who knows what they teach at that Frenchie school, but I wouldn’t put it past old Karkaroff and his lads to have an extended repertoire. Krum’s just dangerous enough to use it.” Both eyes now fixed on Hermione. “No matter how good a friend yeh think he is, boy’s an utter professional with balls of steel. Think he’d hesitate to use it on yeh?”

“Viktor would never do a thing like that,” Hermione replied a little hotly, upset on her friend’s behalf.

Sadly shaking his gnarled head, Moody gave her an uncomprehending look. “Woolly thinkin’ like that could cost yeh dear, girl. Don’t yeh want to win?”

“No,” Hermione’s vehement denial just seemed to increase the old Auror’s disbelief.

“Okay, missie, we’ll do it yehr way. Now, if yeh can’t avoid getting’ hit with it, yeh’re gonna ’ave to try to fight it off. Are yeh ready?” His wand came up, ready to cast.

Hermione tensed herself, ready to -

“Imperius!”

…

“Granger! Granger?”

Someone a long way away was trying to attract her attention. She was so tired. All she wanted was just to have a lie in.

“C’mon lass, wakey wakey!”

Hermione opened her eyes and found a blazingly blue orb staring back at her. That unexpected sight swiftly woke her up with a fright.

“What? Where am I..?”

“Yeh did it, Granger!” Moody appeared as pleased as punch.

“Did what?” Hermione was still trying to regain her bearings. ‘Where am I..? Ah, the Defence classroom. Wasn’t I..?’

“I knew yeh’d manage it,” Moody moved like a drunken sailor on a heaving deck, all rolls.

“Sorry, I… what did I do?”

Moody turned and closed on her again. “Hmm…”

Hermione hated being confused. “What happened, Professor?”

“Yeh threw off the Imperius, lass.”

“Imperius?” Hermione’s disbelief was clear. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No joke. I’m proud of yeh.” Moody examined her afresh. “Can’t remember?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Well, with some folk, there’s short-term memory loss,” Moody explained. “Sorta defence mechanism.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s not in the books, lass. Found it out in the field years back.”

Hermione so wished she could recall her achievement. As it was, she felt the precursor of a headache starting to brew. “Harry didn’t,” she recalled a little sulkily.

Moody grinned, an appalling and scary sight. “Potter’s Potter. Like I says, some wizards ’ ave different ways.”

Putting a hand to her brow, Hermione rose from the chair she found herself in. “Can we… could I try again?” she asked hesitantly, hoping she could repeat her accomplishment but this time commit the feat to memory.

Moody shook his head. “No, two inna row’s too dangerous. It’s obviously taken summat outta yeh.” He noticed Hermione’s obvious disappointment. “Quite an achievement, Granger. Now, let’s keep it our little secret.”

“Why?” Hermione pouted. She wanted to share her achievement.

“Because, if some Dark wizard casts it on yeh, yeh can get the drop on ’ im if he don’t know yeh can shake it off,” Moody spoke slowly, as if addressing a difficult child. “If he knows, he might cast summat a lot worse. Think on that.”

Hermione looked down at her feet. What was the point managing things like beating an Unforgivable Curse if not being able to obtain the credit? She cringed as the headache started to grow. Something irritating fluttered around her face, and she tried to brush whatever it was, an insect presumably, away.

Moody’s vivid azure eye swivelled and fixed upon the insect, which had settled on a nearby cabinet. “Granger,” he said quietly, gesturing for her to move in closer. She complied, and he cast a Muffliato to keep their discussion private. Who from, Hermione had no idea, but Moody had not survived this long without some paranoia.

Turning his face away from the cabinet, but with his magic eye somehow maintaining observation through his skull, Moody spoke softly but with a sense of hidden urgency.

“Now, there’s this beetle over there - no, don’t look around! Over on the cabinet, next to the Cornish Pixies.”

Hermione wondered where this was going.

“Now, as a test of your reactions and accuracy, I want yeh to try to immobilise it.” He took in Hermione’s frank look of disbelief. “Yeh can do it, Granger. Just choose the right spell. When I say the word ‘Snape’, I want yeh to try.”

Hermione nodded. Only question was, what spell to use..?

Moody cancelled the Muffliato and returned to teaching mode. “Right, that last one was a bit weak. Let me try with a little extra power…”

‘Not Petrificus Totalus - the full body bind spell would have to be more accurate than she could reliably muster to immobilise a target that size… Cornish Pixies… What spell did that fraud Lockheart use..? Wasn’t a real one - “Pesky” something or other… But the idea was sound… A Freezing Charm! No need to be so accurate; works over a wider area.’ She had mastered that.

“Ready, Granger? Just imagine I’m Professor Snape -”

Hermione spun and levelled her wand at the cabinet, barely making out the beetle a few yards away. “Frigido!”

The spell struck the wooden part of the cabinet door and a fair part of the wall behind. Immediately a large patch of ice, with an outer penumbra of frost, formed over the surface.

“Yes!” Hermione, ignoring the slight pounding inside her skull, gave a little jump of delight when she saw a frozen lump sticking out proud from the surface. “I did it!”

“Good accuracy, lass,” Moody said reflectively. “Now, let’s take a closer look at this bug. Accio beetle!”

The frozen lump of ice broke free and shot across the room into Moody’s hand. He placed it carefully on a desk and trained his wand on the frozen beetle.

“Professor?” Hermione was perplexed. “What are you doing with that beetle?”

“T’ain’t no insect,” Moody replied. “This…” his magic eye whirred around - “sees everythin’ .”

Hermione shook her head. Her professor was making no sense. “What is it then?”

“Not a ‘what‘; more of a ‘who’.” He stepped forward and addressed the insect directly.

“Now, if yeh’re an insect, this is gonna hurt, but there again being squashed flat should.” He raised his hand, ready to flatten his target. “But if yeh’re not, then yeh’ve run outta time.”

The ice shook from the beetle, and within a second it Transfigured into a very cold, frost-flecked, shivering but very recognisable human.

“Rita Skeeter!” gasped Hermione.

“Aye,” Moody commented. “Can’t fool old Mad-Eye, can yeh, Rita?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rita replied huffily, trying to retain some dignity.

“So that’s how you’ve gathered all your shameful stories,” Hermione realised. “You’ve been listening in on all our conversations.”

Rita shot her a condescending glare. “And you have no idea how boring most of your immature prattling is.”

“You’re in big trouble, you know that. Professor Dumbledore banned you from the School,” Hermione added.

“Well, nothing that can’t be smoothed over,” Rita replied defensively. “A little misunderstanding, that’s all. I’m sure Cornelius will see that I’m just after a good scoop.”

Hermione remembered Ginny’s comments about Rita and her connections.

“P’haps he will,” Moody added conversationally. Then his voice turned a shade ominous. “Assumin’ Fudge knows yeh’re ’ ere… I’d wager nobody does, so yeh’d not be missed.”

“Not only that,” Hermione cut in, her words much lighter. “You’re an illegal Animagus!” She was sure that a flicker of concern cracked Rita’s outward confidence, before the reporter lowered herself from the desk she had been seated upon.

“Absolute rubbish. I’m fully registered with the Ministry. You don’t know what you’re talking about, little girl.”

Hermione shook her head. “Oh no you’re not! I checked with the Improper Use of Magic Office last year. You weren’t a registered Animagus then, and given your stories, I bet you’ve been practicing well before that.”

Moody was fingering his wand. “Well, Rita, say I drop a note to Mafalda? Would that sort everythin’ out?”

“You’re a fine one to talk, aren’t you Professor?” Her last word dripped with acid sarcasm. “Casting an Unforgivable on a student, and then -”

“Hogwarts’ business,” Moody’s growl cut the shrill reporter off. “Ministry knows and Dumbledore approves.” He waved his wand menacingly. “Not something that can be said about yehr presence ’ere, Skeeter.”

There was, Hermione considered, a distinctly cold menace in those words that could not be ascribed to her Freezing Charm.

Rita hesitated. “Well, I don’t see why we need bother Ms. Hopkirk at this late hour. It seems rather… over-dramatic.” She pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill from her robes. “How about a nice interview; put your side of the story, hmm? ‘Hermione Granger: the Misunderstood Muggleborn.’”

“After your last effort?” Hermione was both confident and fuming, a dangerous combination. “I wouldn’t give you the time of day if you wanted a quote.”

“I’m sure we could come to some understanding, my dear,” Rita simpered.

“After those letters to your editor, I doubt the Prophet would waste newsprint.”

“Yes,” Rita’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were behind that. Caused me no end of trouble.” She turned her attentions away from Hermione. “Well, Professor Moody, are you going to allow a student to harass a respected member of the Press?”

Moody raised his own remaining eyebrow. “Respected? I seem to recall a whole slew of stories suggestin’ old Mad-Eye be put out to grass. Don’t think askin’ a madman is the best idea tonight. Madman’s wand might slip.”

“Well, honestly,” Rita huffed. “Try to help people out, and what thanks do I get?” She returned her quill to her robes. “Well, I’ll be off then. I’m sure we can smooth this whole thing over. I’ll just have a word with dear Ludo.”

She took two steps towards the door when Moody’s wand arm came up. “Yeh’ll be ’ avin words with me first.”

He turned to Hermione. “Granger,” he said coldly. “I suggest you leave now. Rita and I have some business to discuss.”

“I’m sure we can talk tomorrow, when we’ve all slept on it,” Rita butted in.

“Granger, git!”

Hermione, wary from the start of being in the same room as that slandering cow, dutifully picked up her robes. As she looked at the mis-matched pair, concern pricked at her conscience. “Professor?”

Moody lowered his wand. “Miss Skeeter and I will come to an arrangement. One yeh’d be best not knowin’ anything about.”

Rita paled a little, but retained her composure. “Well, I knew you’d see the light… Alastor.”

“No point yeh bein’ sickened by the dirty side of dealin’ with the papers, Granger. Lie down with kneazles, yeh get fleas. Now git.”

As Hermione closed the door behind her, she caught Rita’s opening gambit.

“Now, Alastor, I thought perhaps a piece on -”

The door closed and locked behind her.

‘Well, at least that explains all those stories,’ Hermione thought. ‘Wait until I tell Viktor and the boys!’ Then her enthusiasm paled as her headache reasserted itself.

* * * * *

As Professor Moody predicted, Dumbledore made the very popularly-received announcement at dinner on the following evening that all lessons on Wednesday the twenty-fourth would be cancelled so the entire school would be free to watch the Second Task.

Despite her foreknowledge, that very public announcement only aggravated Hermione’s state of anxiety. She still had no idea what the task would entail. The mild headaches that plagued her she put down to overwork and stress.

A week later Dumbledore made another announcement: The four champions should retire to his office after dinner. There, in the presence of the three head teachers and a cadaverous Barty Crouch, Ludo Bagman handed back their prizes from the First Task.

In her brief moment of glory, before being nearly barbecued, Hermione never had the opportunity to study her golden egg. Apart from its gaudy colouring, the egg appeared rather mundane. It had a groove running the entire diameter, so obviously it was designed to be opened.

“Now,” Dumbledore advised, his eyes twinkling, “I would rather you refrain from opening them here. Inside you will find a clue to the nature of the second part of the Second Task. Deciphering this clue is the opening phase.”

Hermione returned straightway to the Gryffindor common room, where most of her house awaited her return. Everyone, from first- to seventh-years, wanted a glimpse of what a dragon had been appointed to guard.

After checking for, and failing to find, any magical charms, Hermione took the easy path. She dug her fingernails into the groove, gave the egg a single twist, and was surprised to find how readily it popped open.

Her millisecond of triumph was lost in the terrible sound that echoed throughout the common room, driving all the onlookers away. An unearthly banshee-like wail assailed everyone’s ears, which were swiftly covered in retreat. Human demands to shut off the noise only added to the bedlam.

Slamming the gilded container shut, Hermione stared wide-eyed at her friends, her expression nauseous.

“What the bloody hell was that?” an equally pasty-faced Ron demanded.

Hermione was at a loss, but had never expected any part of the Tournament to be easy. Somewhere in that cacophony was the clue she needed to solve. Gripping the egg, she picked up her roll of parchment and quill. “Come on,” she said to Harry.

“Library?”

“Library.”

* * * * *

“Erm… Hermione? Don’t you reckon you’ve got enough books already/”

Hermione was trying to manoeuvre whilst carrying a stack of books that towered over her head. She barely caught the unseen Harry’s hesitant enquiry.

With a sigh of relief she let her burden onto the nearest desk. The thud resounded throughout the Library.

“One can never have enough books, Harry,” she clipped, giving the desk an appraising glance. Between all of the stacks there must have been a hundred-odd volumes. “Now, I think I’ve got everything about magical languages and sounds.”

“You sure it’s not human?” Harry asked.

“No wizard’s gonna make that horrid a noise,” Ron replied surlily, “although, the Twins get close when trying to sing.”

“Quite right, Ron,” Hermione observed. “This is a magical competition, so the answer must lie somewhere in here Well then: Neville, you take that pile; Harry, that one; Ron, you can check through those books - they’re mostly pictures…” She smiled as Ron stuck his tongue out at her. “And I’ll take these.”

With that, Hermione sat down and delved into Bable Delatour’s Magical Tongues of the World.

By the time Madam Pince threw them out, muttering that they all had beds and should use them, the sum of their progress was exactly zero. No-one had found any description in any books that matched the unworldly shrill screeching that emanated from the egg.

Hermione managed to annoy both Parvati and Lavender by unscrewing the egg again for further analysis. Finally she retreated behind the curtains of her four-poster and a Silencing Charm. The wails haunted her dreams that night, and she put the early morning headache down to them as well.

A second Library session proved just as frustrating as the first. Ron’s bright idea to have another listen to the egg cut it short. Madam Pince appeared as if by Apparition and, much to Hermione’s shame and embarrassment, summarily banished them from her little empire.

The unhappy Gryffindors slouched in the corridor.

“Thanks a lot, Ron!” Hermione said bitterly. “We’ve only five days to uncover the secret.”

“Well, it’s just a waste of time, isn’t it?” Ron shot back moodily. “I’ve never heard anything like it. How can that noise be called a clue, huh?”

“Well, it is,” Hermione insisted hotly. “Profes-.” Then she quickly shut up before revealing her source. Glancing around, only Harry had seemed to notice, judging by the odd look he favoured her with.

Ron’s irritation was obvious as colour started to flood his cheeks. “Well, it’s bleedin’ ridiculous, isn’t it.. I mean - oh, bloody hell, Neville!”

“Sorry.” Neville had obviously decided to listen once again to that vile sound. In a confined corridor it sounded that much worse .

Hermione came to a decision. “Right, you go on then,” she addressed the others. “I’ll go back to the Library and carry on - if Madam Pince’ll let me, that is.”

She had just turned her back on her housemates when Luna Lovegood waltzed down the corridor.

“Oh, was that Mermish song I heard?” the quirky Ravenclaw asked.

“What?”

Luna cocked her head. “The song of the Merpeople.” She looked at Hermione. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful?” Ron shook his head, then added in what passed for his lower voice. “Loony, that one.”

Hermione thought she saw a flash of sadness in Luna’s wide eyes. “Ron!” she snapped, then addressed the younger girl. “Luna, that was mermaids singing, was it?”

“Well, both sexes, actually” Luna said confidently. “At least, I thought it sounded like them.”

“You call that singing?” Ron continued unkindly.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Luna replied, clapping her hands joyously. “Can I hear it again?”

Neville still had the egg, and he cast a nervous glance towards Hermione, who nodded her head. It then took all of her self-control not to clap her hands over her ears as the racket assaulted them once again.

The incomprehensible wails continued long after Neville silenced the egg, the echoes leading to shouts of complaint from deeper within the school. At this rate, Hermione thought, it would not be long before she was barred permanently from the Library.

Luna was lost in thought, enraptured by the experience. “Such amazing melodies, don’t you think?” she asked brightly. Fortunately, unobserved by the Ravenclaw, Ron stood behind her with his finger circling his temple.

“Luna, can you understand the words they’re… singing?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Oh no,” Luna responded. “Lyrics are unnecessary when the music is so lovely.” With that, she turned on her heel and skipped happily back down the corridor to the beat of her very different drummer.

Making a snap decision, Hermione turned to go back to the Library, ready to beg re-admittance.

“You’re not… I mean, surely?” Ron protested. “She’s just a loony!”

Spinning around, Hermione glared at him. “Don’t call her loony, Ronald. Her name’s Luna.” She set off again down the corridor, muttering to herself. “And she was a bigger help than all of you put together… I hope!”

Yet, even when allowed back into the forest of books, Hermione made no further headway despite her stroke of good fortune. The wizarding world seemed utterly disinterested in what Merpeople had to say, as with Goblins and other “inferior” species. English-Mermish phrase books or dictionaries were non-existent. No Translating Charms had been created for Mermish, nor any compendia of songs sung by mermaids. Just warnings about avoiding the Sirens.

Ironically, her most-read volume finally provided Hermione with an intimation of what she might face.

Hogwarts: A History came to her rescue one more time. Hermione dimly recalled the fact, passed over as inconsequential at the time There were Merpeople in the Black Lake.

That made perfect sense. The whole school, along with their overseas guests, were invited to watch the Second Task. Of course, the venue had to be local to Hogwarts!

Knowing where answered one piece of the puzzle. The ‘What’ and ‘How’ elements of the equation still eluded her.

The days passed rapidly. On Friday night Hermione attended her usual “detention” with Moody, and reluctantly admitted that, although she had concluded it involved the lake, she had no idea what the Second Task would be. The grizzled old professor just shook his head sadly, muttering about the sad lack of knowledge among students these days. He told her nothing, not that she had asked.

With time running out, Hermione’s anxieties mushroomed. Unless another Bill Weasley turned up, she would be re-entering the Tournament blind. She knew she should not snap at Harry or Ron when they tried unavailingly to help, but she could not stop herself. And those worries aggravated her by-now ever-present headaches.

Sunday arrived, and the egg still mocked her. The task loomed only three days away. For all her poring over books, Hermione was no closer to resolving the riddle than when she first opened the damned thing.

The Library was, as usual that time of the week, sparsely populated. Viktor was absent, presumably enjoying a last few hours of Penelope Clearwater’s company before rejoining battle. So, with considerable surprise, Hermione found her unavailing search interrupted by another of the champions.

“Errm… Granger - Hermione, I mean.”

If Cedric Diggory’s appearance was unexpected, his apparent nervousness was even more startling. Normally he was as cool as a cucumber. Now he was almost tongue-tied.

“Hello, Cedric. What can I do for you?”

Glancing shiftily around, as though checking for eavesdroppers, the Hufflepuff poster-boy leaned down. “Umm.. Don’t take this the wrong way, Hermione.” Sweat beaded on his brow. “And don’t tell anyone else, but meet me at eight, outside the prefects’ bathroom. Oh, and bring your golden egg.”

With that bizarre and unexpected message delivered, Cedric hastened to leave. Hermione remained, her jaw dropping as she turned his apparent chat-up line over and over in her head; a line delivered by the home student whom the girlish cognoscenti considered the most fanciable at Hogwarts.

With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, Hermione arrived at the appointed time and place. She found Cedric pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom door.

“Ah, good, there you are! You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

Hermione regarded Cedric carefully. She doubted he intended a romantic assignation. Cedric had appeared smitten by Cho Chang, although that could explain his obvious state of nerves. Were he almost any other male in the school, save her all-too-frustrating best friend, her hand would be on her wand right now, or she would not have come at all.

“No, I didn’t,” she confirmed. “Cedric, what is all this about?”

“Have you figured the egg out yet?”

Hermione nodded her head. “I believe it’s Mermish,” she revealed, and was gratified to see Cedric nod his head in agreement.

“Right in one. Now, where’s the only place you find Mermish spoken… or sung?”

“Well, the lake, I suppose,” Hermione commented thoughtfully. This time Cedric shook his head.

“Too literal, Granger.”

Hermione considered this remark, before the truth struck her. “Underwater…” she breathed.

Cedric smiled. “Knew you‘d get it.” He twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door. “No time like the present.”

Hermione hesitated, and favoured Cedric with a cool, assessing glare.

“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “I’m not coming in with you. I’ll push off know before people wonder where I am. I doubt you‘ll be disturbed on a Sunday evening.”

Hermione stepped into the bathroom, waiting to hear Cedric’s receding footsteps before she closing the door behind her.

The prefect’s bathroom was very different from any other Hermione had ever seen, especially the one where she brewed Polyjuice Potion two short years ago. This alone would make becoming a Prefect worthwhile. It was splendid and would not have looked out of place in an oil state’s sheikh’s palace. The shining white marble and glistening gold fittings put to shame the now dull lustre of the egg in her hands.

The bath itself was easily the size of a family swimming pool, fed by dozens and dozens of taps and faucets. Hermione stood gawking for a few seconds before remembering that she was not here to inspect the fixtures and fittings. Tentatively operating a handful of the taps, she let the bath fill slowly. After placing a Locking Charm on the door, she stripped down to her underwear, only removing that when ready to slip into the scented water.

The bath itself was one of the most luxurious experiences Hermione had ever enjoyed. Immersed in masses of bubble-bath it was so tempting just to lie back and let the worries soak away. Even that damned headache eased away towards nothingness.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Foam flew everywhere. A flailing Hermione almost jumped out of the bath. Her heart-rate returned to near normal when she recognised the opaque form of Moaning Myrtle floating half-in and half-out of the bubbles.

“Myrtle! You nearly gave me a seizure!”

The glum-faced ghost floated a few inches higher. “You’re not a Prefect,” she said snootily. “You’re not allowed in here.”

“Neither are you,” Hermione responded. “You aren’t… I mean, weren’t a Prefect either.”

Myrtle crossed her arms. “Rules don’t apply to ghosts,” she said sadly, then perked up as she noticed the golden egg sitting on the side of the bath. “Ooh! You brought me a present!”

“That’s mine,” Hermione replied possessively.

“It looks just like the one that nice Prefect had,” Myrtle commented, ignoring Hermione. A dreamy look came over the phantom’s face. “He was so perfect, all muscles and legs and -”

“Myrtle!” Hermione’s scandalized screech drowned out the rest of Myrtle’s tale. However, the ghost had reminded her of the reason for her nocturnal visit.

“It took Dishy Diggory some time before he figured it out,” Hermione heard Myrtle drone on. “He kept ducking his head under until nearly all the bubbles were gone. I could see everything. Ooooh!” With that dreamy look on her face again. Myrtle drifted upwards and through the ceiling.

Shaking her head at the realisations that Myrtle would forever remain a simpering schoolgirl, Hermione took a firm grip on the egg, submerged it completely underwater, and opened it once again. All she heard was a muffled, gurgling version of the same unrecognisable sound.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione ducked her head through the bubbles and under the water.

* * * * *

Champions of heart and skill

Visit our realm if dare you will

Hear yee the cadence of our song

But time passes, tarry not long

Trusted with a treasure are we

Whose loss to you would painful be

Lament you would, and cry and pine

For what was yours is now all mine

Sunset is the appointed hour

To return to the castle tower

For what we have we always hold

Ends now this does our story told

“That’s it?” Ron was incredulous.

“I committed it to memory,” Hermione replied tartly. “I listened to it several times until I could repeat it off pat.” She had constantly recited the liturgy all the way back to her bed on Sunday night. Monday evening was the only chance she had to assemble her friends for a briefing session.

Harry looked equally uncertain. “You’re sure, Hermione? That it’s the Merpeople in the lake?”

“It’s the only answer that fits the evidence, and not just Luna’s.”

Harry leaned back, nodding slowly in dawning agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said quietly, but his mind appeared to be elsewhere. Hermione narrowed her eyes as an unworthy thought sparked into existence. As Harry’s senses returned, she quickly looked away.

“It doesn’t really rhyme,” Ron complained. “I mean, ‘hour’ and ‘tower’! Pretty weak if you ask me.”

“I suppose it sounds better in Mermish,” Neville observed. Suddenly aware of four disbelieving pairs of eyes upon him, he blushed slightly. “I mean, to a Merperson,” he explained.

“How deep is the lake?” Harry asked quietly.

“No idea,” Hermione replied. “Hogwarts: A History doesn’t say. It must be deep in places though, as I didn’t know there were Merpeople living in there. Just looking at the mountains around here, the valleys would be deep.”

“Does it matter?” Ginny chipped in. “Whatever it is, you’re going to have to swim underwater for quite some time. Any ideas on that score?”

“Could you transfigure something into what those divers wear?” Everyone except Hermione looked blankly at Harry. “You know, with those air cylinders?”

“An aqualung? Like a scuba diver?” Hermione’s reply did not enlighten Ron, Neville or Ginny. “I’m not sure. They’re far more complicated than you think. It’s not just air, and I might have to go deep enough to need enhanced amounts of oxygen.” She doubted her own abilities. “It’s under pressure too. I wouldn’t like to Transfigure a… say an aerosol can, and miss out on a valve or filter somewhere.”

Harry was scrutinizing her reactions. “Any idea how long you’ll have to finish?”

“Sunset Tuesday is about twenty to six,” Hermione commented. “As the school’s out for the whole day, I suppose the Task will start sometime before lunch, so… six hours or so.”

“Six hours!” Rom emitted a low whistle. “That’s some time to be underwater.”

An uneasy silence descended across the common room table. Hermione’s mind drifted to Bubble-Head Charms, something she had not practiced before, but with the couple of days notice she had, she had delved into her books and was as confident as she could be, without practicing underwater, that the subject had been mastered.

Another treasure… Crouch or Bagman must have been supplied the Merpeople with another trinket, just like the golden eggs. Another entry pass, this time to the Third and final Task. Hermione’s fingers tapped a tattoo on the table top as she thought things through.

“Hang on,” Neville suddenly said characteristically quietly. “I’m sure there’s something in that book Moody gave me…” He jumped to his feet and set off for the boys’ dorm, returning a few minutes later, leafing through Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties. Finally his frantic search ceased. Neville jabbed his finger at the illustration of a plant that resembled nothing more than a huge writhing ball of greyish-green worms. “There! Gillyweed!” he said triumphantly.

“Brilliant, Neville,” Harry spoke, making a show of clapping the tall lad on the back. “What’s Gillyweed then?”

Hermione was studying the descriptive text underneath the picture. “Ingesting allows an hour or so of breathing underwater by… growing gills?” She looked at a now blushing Neville. “Harry’s right, this is brilliant.” Returning her attention to the page, she continued to read aloud. “And users of the plant are partially Transfigured, receiving webbed hands and feet.”

“Only an hour, though.” Ginny pointed out. “It might be dangerous to consume more for a longer time underwater.”

“Hmm…” Hermione continued to read. “You’re right, Ginny. It says continued exposure could cause problems when back on land and breathing in air. Overdoses have forced users to stay underwater for some weeks.”

“Still,” Harry said, “an hour is better than nothing, right?”

Hermione slowly nodded her head. At least Gillyweed gave her an hour. Perhaps she could struggle by with Bubble-Head Charms and switch, or vice-versa. After all, three other air breathers would have to complete the task. There must be a way!

“I hate to spoil the mood,” Ron observed sourly. “But we don’t have any Gillyweed.”

The mood was indeed spoiled.

“Neville, do you know if there’s any in the Herbology greenhouses? Perhaps Professor Sprout has some?” Hermione asked. She could not recall seeing anything like this.

Neville’s happy expression had been replaced by something darker. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “And if she did, it would go to Diggory. Sorry, Hermione.”

“If anyone in Hogwarts has any, then it’d be that great greasy git,” Ron added darkly. Everyone knew to whom he was referring.

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think Professor Snape will willingly hand over any potions ingredients to me.”

“Not now,” Neville said, “not when I’ve heard him complaining that someone’s been breaking into his private store cupboard and pilfering from his supplies.”

“Really?” Hermione was surprised, but reminded of a certain escapade in their second year. Neville nodded.

“How about using the… you-know,” Ron said. “The… thingy.”

Hermione knew Ron was referring to Harry’s cloak, and that Ginny and Neville were unaware of its existence. “No, Ron, we couldn’t.”

“I know someone who could get some,” Harry said quietly before Ron started an argument. He stared intently at Hermione. “You know who I mean.”

Hermione racked her brains for a few seconds, then realised. ‘Dobby!’ “Would you… could you ask?”

Harry nodded. He started moving away to communicate with the weird house-elf in private, but Hermione followed him, waving off the remaining three. She wanted a word with Harry in private, so she climbed out of the portrait hole after him.

“Harry! Wait!”

In the dim lighting of the corridor, she saw him turn.

“You knew about the lake, didn’t you, Harry?” The swift accusation was less of a question than a statement of fact. “That’s why you’ve had me train so hard, why you were insistent about my learning to swim.”

He nodded, a grim set to his jaw.

Hermione plunged on. “What else do you know, Harry?”

He took a deep breath before replying. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You must know more,” Hermione’s anxiety was overriding her common sense.

“There’s nothing else I can tell you, Hermione. If I would, I could.”

“Harry, I need to know what I’ll be facing in that lake,” Hermione insisted.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied, growing upset. “I just knew… you had to be fitter and it involved swimming.” He turned to leave, but Hermione grabbed hold of his shoulder and dragged him back to face her.

“Who told you, Harry? You told you?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you, Hermione,” he said, his expression pained.

She dropped her hand. Before she could think matters through, the accusatory words dropped from her lips. “I thought we agreed we could tell each other everything,” she said sulkily.

Dim light glinted on his glasses. “Yes, we did,” he agreed in a voice suddenly thick with unanticipated emotion. “We agreed that we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other.” He fixed her with his green eyes. “We both agreed, Hermione. What is it you’re keeping from me?”

With that he turned and left Hermione standing open-mouthed in the corridor, her anger moving away from Harry Potter and back onto herself, leaving her head pounding.

* * * * *

Hermione felt even worse on Tuesday morning, but considering she had spent the night either worrying about the Second Task or berating herself for opening that stupid argument with Harry, that hardly surprised her.

Even from her own point of view, she had been stupid. Whatever the reason, Harry had helped her out, and she had repaid him with rudeness. Hermione slumped back on her bed. The secret she was keeping from Harry was infinitely more important than knowing who had tipped Harry off.

On her bedside cabinet there was a moist, oozing lump of what undeniably looked like the Gillyweed illustrated in Neville‘s book. It’s appearance meant that not only did she owe Harry a great big apology, but she was once again in debt to Dobby. She Transfigured a plastic zip-bag and placed the invaluable plant into it, before tucking the package away inside her robes. Hermione had no desire for it to go missing during the day.

The breakfast table was, as usual, lightly occupied at this hour. Hermione had to wait for some time until a sleepy-eyed Ron appeared, dragging himself reluctantly into a new school day.

He barely found a perch at the Gryffindor table when Hermione began interrogating him.

“Ron, where’s Harry?”

“Dunno,” Ron replied in a mixture of speech and yawn. “He’d left by the time I woke up. Surprised he’s not already here.” He peered at Hermione through his unruly red fringe. “Did you two have a snit last night?”

Hermione found herself reddening.

“Thought so,” Ron muttered. “He returned last night in a foul mood. Couldn’t get a civil word out of him.” He turned his attention to his sausage and bacon.

Hermione stewed at the table, waiting fruitlessly for Harry to make an appearance. ‘He must be really hacked off with me this time,’ she admitted to herself, ‘and no wonder. How will I make it up to him?’

As breakfast concluded, her concerns grew darker. That onerous feeling only increased when Harry was absent from their History of Magic class.

No-one in Gryffindor admitted to knowing where Harry had gone. Hermione’s nerves, already frayed, started to shred rapidly. She barely paid attention to Professor Binns’ lecture.

Harry did not turn up in the following free period either. By lunchtime Hermione was beside herself, almost frantic, so it was with relief, not trepidation, that as soon as she marched into the Great Hall she spied Professor McGonagall converging with her.

Before the professor could venture a word, Hermione jumped in with both feet. “It’s about Harry, isn’t it, Professor? What’s happened to him? Is he alright? Is he -” she asked breathlessly.

McGonagall was only a little taken aback, used by now to Hermione Granger’s methods. “Take a breath, child,” she said swiftly, “and let me say a word!” She steered Hermione to one side, aware that most of the Gryffindor table were watching events unfold.

“Now, Mister Potter is… safe and well,” McGonagall told Hermione in a not entirely convincing tone.

That did not mollify Hermione. “But something’s the matter. What’s happened to Harry?” she demanded.

McGonagall appeared ill at ease. “Don’t concern yourself with that, Miss Granger. No, I need you to come with me after lunch.”

“Why? Is it to do with Harry?” Hermione insisted almost to the point of rudeness.

McGonagall pursed her lips in careful consideration of her reply. “I really cannot say,” she said slowly. Hermione was irritated to be hedged in by her own and others’ secrets. “However, gather together your things after lunch and follow me to the Headmaster’s office.” With that, McGonagall returned to the head table.

Her Head of House’s obvious dissatisfaction with whatever was occurring came through loud and clear to Hermione, but there was little more she could do at this stage.

As she sat down to lunch, despite an appetite that had receded to almost nothingness, she was not sure what caused her the most concern: Harry’s absence; McGonagall’s disquiet; or the almost predatory grin Draco Malfoy sported when he glared in her direction, before dragging his finger across his throat.

* * * * *

Liz McColgan (nee Lynch) is a famous Scottish long-distance & marathon runner from the 1980s & 1990s, who was World Champion at 10,000m in 1991 and a winner of both the New York and London marathons.

As useful as a chocolate teapot?

“Biggest balls-up since the Somme.” A favourite saying of Moody’s Muggle contemporaries. With nearly 20,000 dead and 60,000 casualties in total on one summer day, 1^st July 1916, it remained in British military argot for much of the rest of the Century.

The fight in the Defence Classroom was inspired by scenes in Arya’s sadly-abandoned epic story “Harry Potter and the Acceptance of Fate.” I unashamedly borrowed Hermione’s ‘Provisio Caligo!’ spell from that story. I also owe a debt to Bexis, whose duel in Chapter #49 of “Harry Potter and the Fifth Element” is a classic in description, imagination and length, and who helped a great deal with this chapter.

A pea-souper was what the great London smogs were called. And a smog was smoke-laden fog, a mixture of natural fog and the pollution from thousand of chimneys fed by coal fires. The last great one in 1952 is estimated to have killed over 4,000 people with respiratory conditions, and led to legislation over air quality. It was compared to the yellow split-pea soup that was popular at the time.

Hermione checked the register of all known animagi in ‘The Prisoner of Azkaban.’

The Imperius Curse: Don’t believe everything you read!

Please do not ask me to come up with another poem! I ws useless at English Language and did consider a non-rhyming verse, excusing it with Neville’s comment that it probably rhymed in mermish!

Sunset time at Inverness on 24 February 1994 was 17:37 GMT.

A/N - Apologies to all of you who had already reviewed chapter #15. For some reason, although my HTML file was complete, the chapter uploaded was missing a large chunk, specifically the dramatic end of the Second Task! So I have tried re-posting today.

I do not own any of the characters (we all know JKR does).

As ever, I am indebted to beta readers Bexis and George.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Granger.”

The Headmaster’s eyes carried his unique twinkle as he welcomed Professor McGonagall and herself into his office.

Without sparing time for politeness or deference, Hermione blurted out the sole issue in her mind at this instant. “It’s about Harry, isn’t it? Where is he?” she demanded.

Dumbledore’s gaze lost its glint for the briefest of moments, but he kept his eyes on Hermione. “Mister Potter is not available for the moment, but you have my assurances that he is quite fine.”

Hermione was burning to question him further, but Dumbledore’s stern expression told her she was not to go past the provided explanation in no uncertain terms. It was then that she realized they were not alone in the office.

Professor Sprout was seated in one of those plush chintz armchairs the Headmaster favoured; behind her stood Cedric Diggory, fidgeting nervously.

Percy Weasley was also present, his back ramrod-stiff, as he ignored Hermione and his former professor’s presence entirely. Ludo Bagman shifted on his feet as nervously as the Hufflepuff champion. Most surprising was Barty Crouch, pale as a fresh cadaver, perched inflexibly on another armchair and regarding Hermione with a look of pure disdain.

“But if it’s not about Harry,” Hermione’s thought process was audible, “then what is it..?”

Dumbledore smiled, and gestured for her to be seated. “That must await the arrival of our remaining guests, who, if I am very much not mistaken, are about to arrive… now.”

The door behind Hermione swung open, and the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons representatives marched into the office. Fleur Delacour appeared as anxious as Cedric, while Viktor paraded his usual sang-froid, although nothing could hide the froideur between the Bulgarian hero and the Durmstrang headmaster.

“Ah, excellent timing!” Dumbledore said cheerily, before turning to the Ministry’s departmental head for Games and Sports. “The floor is all yours, Ludovic.”

Bagman stepped forwards, paused to mop his perspiring brow with a polka dot handkerchief, and began. “Right, fine, well then…”

With a sudden sinking feeling, Hermione realised what was to be announced.

“The Second Task will start in an hour’s time. Competitors -”

“But that’s too soon!” Hermione interrupted. As Bagman’s eyes bulged, and Percy Weasley’s narrowed, she turned imploringly to Dumbledore. “You said it would be tomorrow - I mean that lessons are suspended for it tomorrow!”

“Well,” Bagman intervened, “it’s certainly true that the Task ends tomorrow - Wednesday - but it actually starts this afternoon.”

“But… but…but…” Hermione’s mind whirled in puzzlement. “I’m not - I mean, I haven’t finished preparing for it yet!” she protested ineffectually.

A loud “Harrumph!” sounded from one of the armchairs, and Hermione turned to find Crouch’s dull, nearly lifeless eyes regarding her scornfully.

“A true champion,” he stated coldly, “must be prepared to face the unexpected.” He turned his head aside and a couple of hacking coughs racked his body. Soon he returned his attention to the sad specimen of Hogwarts’ students before him. “The magical world is not governed by timetables, certainly not by yours.” He glanced up at Bagman and nodded his head curtly.

Ludo Bagman nervously eyed the other three champions before continuing. “Right, well, now that that’s settled…”

Hermione quickly regarded the others: it was a waste of time divining Viktor’s reactions, as he stared unimpressed at the former Wimbourne Wasp; Fleur’s complexion was paler than usual; and Cedric was as agitated as before. She suspected the announcement was news to them as well.

“As I said, the Task itself begins in an hour. However, some preparation must be completed first, following some bitchi - I mean, feedback -” Bagman suppressed a gulp as he glanced at Karkaroff’s near murderous expression “- following the First Task. Just to be sure we’re all on a level playing field, eh?

“Now, you have thirty minutes to retrieve your eggs from wherever you’ve pugged them away, collect your warmest clothing, and return here.” He halted. “Well, what are you waiting for? Off you go!” He shooed them away.

As they filed out through the doorway, Hermione found herself near Viktor. “Did you -?”

“Ne.”

Any further conversation was stifled by Karkaroff, who pushed Hermione aside, ignoring McGonagall’s muttered expression of disbelief at his rudeness, and interposed himself between the two friends.

“You have no time to waste, Krum.” A firm hand in Viktor’s back was met with a coolly appraising stare.

Hermione took Karkaroff’s words to heart for once too. She dashed back to her dormitory, easily outsprinting McGonagall. Once there, she stripped off her robes and school clothes, donned thermal skivvies, thick winter jeans, a dark green sweatshirt, and the conspicuous thick chunky cable-knit sweater, all before grabbing her winter cloak. She almost forgot the egg, chastising herself out loud as she picked it up. Crookshanks was disturbed at the unusual timing of his mistress’s appearance, so she paused to ruffle his fur. Finally, Hermione checked that she had both her wand and that priceless sealed packet of Gillyweed.

All the time her mind churned over the possibilities. The Task was due to end before sundown tomorrow. Had she been wrong? Surely the timing was way out for simply retrieving a trinket from the bottom of the lake? Had she woefully misjudged the clue?

Even if it involved a visit to the merpeople, the Task itself must be far more complex than she had anticipated. That did not bode well. It implied a high level of difficulty - possibly danger.

Harry had insisted that she train for endurance, not speed or strength. Was it another clue?

Thinking of Harry, Hermione found herself ashamed on two counts: first, that his absence had ceased to be her primary concern; and second that she really wished she had not picked that fight with him last night, or at the very least that she had an opportunity to apologize to him this morning.

“Come along, Miss Granger.” McGonagall’s called impatiently from the corridor. Turning back just to grab her woolly hat, she marched out of the dorm, attention now fully focused on the job at hand.

They rushed through the school, ignoring started looks from the odd student out of classes, towards the main staircases. There their way was blocked by Mad-Eye Moody’s gnarled form. He nodded at McGonagall. “Minerva, if a might have a wee word with Granger?”

Hermione felt McGonagall’s hand in the small of her back. “I’m sorry, Professor Moody,” the Deputy Headmistress replied, “but we are short of time.” She turned to look at her student. “Come along, Miss Granger,” and all but dragged her onwards. Hermione only managed to turn her head and glance at the inscrutable veteran.

The two Gryffindors arrive back at the Headmaster’s office ahead of Cedric and sat down in two of four two-seater settees that had appeared during their absence.

“Are you ready, Miss Granger?” McGonagall asked quietly as the minutes ticked by. Hermione, too nervous to reply immediately, nodded her head.

“Good.” Her teacher sat back a little in her seat, both of them rigid with nerves. “And do not worry about Mister Potter.” Hermione’s head swivelled around. “I have been assured he is in good hands,” McGonagall continued. Her voice did not carry her usual conviction.

“What’s happened to Harry?” Hermione whispered urgently, desperate not to be overheard by the hovering men from the Ministry.

Professor McGonagall, with a minute nod of her head, indicated that the matter was not to be pursued any further. Hermione forcefully relegated the worry in her mind and focused instead on the immediate responsibility. Moments later Madame Maxime returned with Fleur, finally followed a few minutes later by Krum and Karkaroff.

“Excellent,” Ludo Bagman beamed. “Now that we’re all ready, if you wouldn’t mind following me.”

Following Bagman, the entire group trooped out of the office, down the spiral staircase, and along the corridors until they debouched into the main courtyard.

“Right… now then…” Bagman was breathing heavily, no longer the svelte Beater of his youth. “If you all gather -”

“I want that one searched.” Karkaroff’s iron but business-like voice cut across Bagman’s announcement. All eyes turned to the Durmstrang headmaster, whose finger was pointed straight at Hermione.

“Now, Igor,” Bagman started to bluster, “I’m sure that’s not -”

Karkaroff was unaffected by the irritated glares. “I am afraid I must insist, Ludovic. For the sake of English fair play.”

“What’s all this?” The Scot McGonagall’s ire flared as she turned to her senior. “Albus, what is all this about?”

Dumbledore studied Karkaroff with a calm air. “I must admit, Igor, that I am surprised at your unusual request. Would you care to share your thoughts on the matter with us?”

“I simply wish ensure that Hogwarts gains no more home advantage than you have already, Albus.” If the words were polite, Hermione thought the delivery dripped with sarcasm. “We all saw that your second champion had more than a hint of help against the dragon.”

“That objection was raised and dismissed by the judging panel,” Dumbledore pointed out reasonably. “I see no need to -”

“Unless my request is met,” Karkaroff carried on smugly, “I shall have no alternative but to withdrawn my champion from the Tournament.”

Hermione heard gasps, and then Viktor muttering something strong under his breath. Everyone knew what Karkaroff’s threat meant for Viktor Krum. But with the relationship between teacher and student having broken down irretrievably, Hermione could not be sure if this latest gambit was aimed at her or at Viktor.

“I vill compete, votever you say,” Viktor stared resolutely at Karkaroff, who just turned his back on the Bulgar.

“I have that right, do I not, Mister Crouch?” he asked unctuously.

Crouch’s face betrayed not a flicker of emotion. “You are fully aware of the implications if any school withdraws its champion?” he asked imperiously.

Karkaroff nodded.

For only the second time ever in her acquaintance, Viktor momentarily lost his legendary cool. “Smyrtnozhadni laina!” he growled. The tone was such that Hermione thought, for an instant, Viktor would throw himself bodily at his headmaster. She stepped forward.

“I have no objection to being searched,” she declared, staring staunchly at her accuser, before shifting her gaze to Viktor. Given that he had already risked losing his magic for her sake, she could do no less in return.

“Ahem!” All eyes now switched to Dumbledore. “I think, in the interests of fairness…” His eyes were fixed on Karkaroff “… that if any of the competitors are to be searched, all should be. Nevertheless, given that all have been afforded the opportunity to prepare for the Task, I must admit I am at a loss as to what precisely we would be looking for.”

Karkaroff grinned. What had begun as a battle of wills between Karkaroff and Krum was now shifting to a battle of wits between the heads. “Anything that is out of order,” he replied, now seemingly unconcerned. “A broom, perhaps?” Hermione realised the search was pretextual, a very public reminder to Viktor as to whom still held the reins of power in the Durmstrang party.

For once, Hermione noted, Dumbledore appeared at a momentary loss. “I see,” he said, his eyes flickering from Karkaroff to Krum.

“Vot about broom?” Viktor interjected. Hermione thought she detected a hint of anxiety in his normally imperturbable voice. “I haff not been told it is against rules.”

“Then you should pay attention to the rules for the second task,” Karkaroff snidely chastised his own champion.

“Vot rules?” Viktor asked, now showing genuine confusion. He turned to Karkaroff, who bore the smile of the proverbial Kneazle that had swallowed the canary. “Ti ne si mi kazal za nikakvi pravila.”

It was Barty Crouch who responded to Viktor’s first question in strained and scratchy tones. “The rules were recorded in your egg, of course, Mister Krum.”

“Only after all that infernal caterwauling,” Karkaroff added. He afforded a superior smile on his nominal student. “Skupi mi, Viktore,” he added in Bulgarian and what Hermione took as oily, false concern. “Ti ne slushashe li kato ti kazvah, che Quiditcha ne e vsichko? Zatova magareshkia inat shte ti struva skupo edin den.” Viktor paled. Hermione’s own insides clenched; if Viktor was nervous about this, then they were in trouble!

She had also slammed the golden egg shut the moment the mermish song finished. She realised she, too, had no idea what special rules might be in force. She glanced furtively at the other contestants. Fleur also looked vaguely nauseated. Cedric seemed unperturbed, suggesting that he, alone, among the contestants was unsurprised by Crouch’s statement.

“Very vell, then,” Her wandering eyes snapped back to Viktor at the sound of his voice. Visibly disgusted, he unclasped a chain around his neck that, she saw, linked to a charm of a miniaturized broom. Viktor started to hand it to Karkaroff, then thought better of it, and instead offered it to Dumbledore, who accepted it. He did not take his eyes off his headmaster the whole time.

The Hogwarts’ headmaster turned to his Durmstrang equal. “Are you satisfied, Igor?” Dumbledore’s four word question spoke volumes.

“You did suggest that all the competitors should be searched, Albus.” Karkaroff spread his arms wide. “I believe you said: ‘In the interests of fairness,’ did you not?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied slowly. “So I did.” He looked to Madame Maxime. “Are you in agreement, Olympe?”

The huge Frenchwoman seared both men with a dismissive stare. “If zeese farce is what you men want, zen I reluctantly agree, Dumbly-Dorr.”

Bagman looked anxiously at Crouch, who once again gave a curt nod. “Okay then,” Bagman said uneasily, before gesturing between Percy and Hermione. “Search her, Weasley.”

“What!”

Hermione’s alarmed cry was cut off. “Under no circumstances will you do any such thing, Percival Weasley!” McGonagall barked as she stepped protectively in front of her charge. “It is not the custom here to have males search young ladies!” To back up her words, her wand was half-drawn.

“Well, I do not think she should be allowed to search one of her own,” Karkaroff observed sourly. Hermione noted McGonagall’s fingers whiten as she gripped her wand, and was sure that the Durmstrang head was only a sliver away from being Transfigured into some kind of rodent.

“Mon Dieu!” Madame Maxime threw her hands up in frustration. “I will search ’er, if zat is alright with you, Madame McGonagall?”

Dumbledore deferred to his deputy, who nodded her agreement, and then looked enquiringly at Karkaroff, who shrugged. Hermione was sure he had made his point. After all, there was nothing that she was carrying that could be regarded as incriminating. Even the Gilly -

Alarm bells rung inside Hermione’s head. The Gillyweed! Was there some special rule against that? Even if not, Dobby had undoubtedly purloined it from the Potions master’s stores. That would beg some awkward questions.

The dark shadow of the Beauxbatons’ headmistress loomed over her. Madame Maxime at least had the good grace to look sheepish and apologetic as she started rummaging through Hermione’s cloak pockets.

‘Don’t find the Gillyweed! Don’t find the Gillyweed! Don’t find -’

The sealed packet was withdrawn from an inside pocket. Madame Maxime looked at it askance, and then motioned Barty Crouch over from his observation of McGonagall returning the favour by patting down Fleur.

Hermione screwed her eyes closed. If this was shown to Dumbledore or McGonagall, that packet could be trouble.

Risking opening her eyes a fraction, she saw Barty Crouch turn it over in his hands, and then he returned it to Maxime without a word. She, in turn, laid the packet into Hermione’s limp palm. “J’en suis dé solé .” the Frenchwoman said quietly. She then turned to glare at Karkaroff who, after instigating this whole sorry affair, was patently and deliberately paying no attention.

“Rien, Meester Karkaroff,” she said with as much apparent disrespect as she could muster. “But be warned zat, because of zees inexcusable farce, I shall formally breeng a ... reclamation at zee next meeting.” She waged her finger at her insouciant counterpart. “Maybe you... être mis à la porte!” Her piercing glare confirmed that this was no idle threat.

Karkaroff certainly reacted as though the threat were real. Hermione was sure she was not the only one to see his wand arm twitch.

“Whilst your idea has excellent merit, Olympe,” Dumbledore intervened before things could get entirely out of hand, “it is not something to be discussed here, or now. We are, after all, meant to be working towards closer international cooperation.”

Hermione tried not altogether successfully to suppress the satisfied look on her face. As the Confederation’s Chief Mugwump, Dumbledore’s implied agreement with the Beauxbatons headmistress’s position could spell serious trouble for Karkaroff.

Dumbledore’s glare at Karkaroff was one of supreme disappointment, an expression Hermione had never seen him adopt before.

Karkaroff drew together his dignity and reined in his impatience. “You can certainly try, Madame, but you would not find it easy. Enough of this foolishness. Move your motions if you dare.”

When all four champions had undergone the indignities, an even more edgy Ludo Bagman prepared to take up where he had left off. Hermione glanced at Viktor, who continued glowering at Karkaroff with almost murderous intent. She could not recall Viktor betraying so much emotion; the loathing was practically palpable.

Bagman’s voice drew her attention back to more immediate matters. “Right, now I assume that all of you have your eggs, and should by now have drawn your conclusions as to where you must end up.” His eyes travelled over all four. “Because I’m not allowed to tell you. If you have no idea, then speak up now.”

The only sound heard was the wind whistling in the ramparts above.

“Good, good, well then, I have here…” He picked a small satchel off of the ground. “… Four Portkeys that will deliver you to separate and randomly assigned points equidistant from your target. You will have until sunset tomorrow to deliver your… umm, prizes, to the finishing point. Anyone failing to achieve this by that time fails the Task and will be eliminated from the Tournament.” Bagman looked up worriedly at the four young competitors, before glancing at Barty Crouch. “Have I forgotten anything, Barty?”

Crouch looked down his nose and cracked his fingers.

“Ah... oh yes,” Bagman added shamefacedly. He held up four rusty Muggle tin cans. “Keep these with you at all times. If, for any reason, you are unable to continue, tap them with your wand, incant ‘Portus’ and you will be delivered back here.”

“I would remind you all,” Crouch added emotionlessly, “that such a course of action will immediately disqualify the competitor. That is all.”

Again, silence reigned as Hermione and the three real champions considered the import in those announcements.

“Ahem, if I might say a word, Barty?” Dumbledore asked brightly, but carried on before Crouch would agree or object. “It was in the rules, but I must reiterate, for those of you who can Apparate, please do not think of doing so if you wish to return to the school grounds. The wards at Hogwarts actively discourage such activities. For the sake of your continued good health, do not consider doing so.” With that he took a step back.

“Right, glad you said that,” Bagman half-mumbled, mopping his brow even harder despite the chill air. “Wouldn’t do to have… well, best left unsaid.

“Now, step up!”

As soon as Hermione’s hands clasped the dirty metal, it briefly glowed blue and trembled under her fingers. For the third time in her life, she felt that sudden yank around her stomach, and her feet flew off the ground and inexorably forward…

* * * * *

Hermione’s feet struck the ground with her momentum bowling her over. She slid over the bumpy, half-frozen ground until coming to rest up against a tree trunk, somewhat the worse for wear.

When her senses had returned, Hermione took in her surroundings.

She was in a forest clearing. At first glance, the trees appeared the same as those near Hogwarts, but considerably closer knit. That certainly made her surroundings appear darker and more sinister.

By her estimates, she had a little over twenty-four hours to complete the Task. Assuming that retrieving whatever bauble from the bottom of the lake would take some time, she reckoned she probably had less than a day to make her way back to Hogwarts.

If all the territory to be traversed was like this, she had to be… no less than ten miles away, and certainly no more than fifteen at the outside. That, she calculated grimly, probably meant she was in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. The thought made her check that she had not spilled her wand upon arrival. Professor Moody stressed that point incessantly: never let go of your wand.

Her first order of business was to calculate where she was, or, rather, where Hogwarts was and thus direction in which she had to travel.

The Four-Point Spell would only be useful once she had first fixed Hogwarts’ bearings. Racking her brains, Hermione could not recall ever reading of such a locational spell. That seemed ridiculous, as it should be a simple matter, and a commonly used spell.

Stymied, Hermione tried thinking laterally. Perhaps there was some other spell, one that fixed upon an object rather than a place. She recalled spells to summon lost objects, but those worked in the reverse of the direction she needed. If it were only as simple as finding something she had lost…

“Crookshanks!” Hermione remembered the simple spell she had been shown by Mrs. Weasley the previous summer when her cat had disappeared in the Burrow’s garden, hunting gnomes.

Crookshanks was at Hogwarts!

“Cuspis Directam Crookshanks!”

The spell was intended for tracking familiars, or, as Hermione believed of Crookshanks, a cat/Kneazle hybrid that had adopted her. The bond between familiar and wizard, or witch in this case, had to be strong for the spell to function over this distance.

A jerk on her right hand indicated success. Her wand dowsed away to the left as she stood, and wavered briefly before settling on a defined heading. With the toe of her boot, Hermione scratched a mark in the moss-covered earth, and then placed her wand flat in the palm of her hand.

“Point Me!”

Her wand quivered and then swung around further in an anti-clockwise direction, until it fixed at an angle of about forty-five degrees from her mark.

Hoping that Crookshanks had not suddenly found the urge to go travelling from Hogwarts, Hermione’s dead-reckoning placed her some ten to fifteen miles south-west of the castle. Now, as long as she kept the same angle whenever she cast the Four-Point Spell, she should stumble across the lake sometime tomorrow, even if Crookshanks went out hunting.

With a renewed sense of determination, Hermione set off towards her goal.

The deep shadows beneath the coniferous canopy would have easily dimmed the brightest sunlight, so the currently overcast conditions made little difference. The atmosphere was eerie enough as it was: dark, dank, and devoid of any birdsong.

It was also a hard slog. The trees here grew to a tremendous height and girth, and their roots often resembled high hurdles. Hermione either found herself winding her way around them, or simply clambering over their damp, often slippery, bark. She kept her wand drawn, just in case one of the forest’s denizens fancied a mobile snack. On a practical side she frequently used wand light to watch where she placed her step.

Fifteen miles? At this rate please let it be more like ten, she thought, as, despite the near freezing air, her exertions and warm clothes brought up a sweat. Finally she removed her cloak and Transfigured it into a small rucksack, into which she placed the by-now thoroughly tarnished golden egg and the invaluable Gillyweed, before slipping the straps over her shoulders and continuing on her slow way.

Hermione did not need her watch to tell her that time was passing, as what little she could see of the sky inexorably changed from a dull grey to a darker hue. Soon she did not bother cancelling her Lumos with Nox.

She was starting to regret missing lunch. One aspect of the Task she had overlooked was food. Water she could conjure, and even if she could not, there would be enough moisture around during the night.

Now that the adrenalin of the start had dissipated, that darned headache was impinging upon the fringes of her consciousness. Hermione tried to ignore the light throb centred behind her forehead. There were weightier matters to address.

So far she had not come across any sight or sound of the forest’s inhabitants, which was just as well. Centaurs she could reason with; trolls and werewolves, arguably present, would not be so willing to negotiate. If it came to it, she made sure that rusty old aluminium drink container could be grabbed in an emergency. Being bashed to death or eaten would do neither her, nor, Harry much good.

Progress was painfully slow, and Hermione was glad that Harry had foreseen in his own way the need for her physical training. Not that she in any way disagreed, Hermione reminded herself; it was just that Harry had been insistent.

A twig snapped underfoot.

Hermione froze, wand at the ready. It had not snapped under her feet.

Somewhere, over her right shoulder, she was sure she heard a rustle in the meagre undergrowth.

Not wishing to tip off whatever might have stalked her that she had detected it, Hermione took two steps to her left, putting a thick tree trunk between her and the thing behind her.

Breathing hard, for a second the memory of being stalked by a transformed Professor Lupin flashed into Hermione’s mind. This time no grateful hippogriff would be coming to the rescue.

She was on her own.

But not alone: Something was definitely moving out there, perhaps fifteen yards away, in or behind a small clump of fronds. In the dim light it was difficult to make anything out, but Hermione took a deep breath and prepared to face her hunter.

Jumping out to her right, Hermione briefly saw something large, black and bestial heading in her direction. It was nearly on top of her! “Incend-”

Just as she started to cast, something familiar about this particular animal struck her, and instead she screamed.

“Lumos!”

The light flared brightly and the huge black dog that bounded up to her only had good intentions.

“Sirius?”

Even as she asked the question, Hermione saw the dark outline shape-shifted, becoming slimmer but taller, until a welcome face revealed itself.

“Hermione Granger, I presume?” Sirius tried hard to keep a straight face, but his lips quivered with the effort. “Fancy meeting you here!”

In a flood of relief, Hermione lowered her wand. “I could have thrown… Merlin knows, I was ready to set you alight!”

Sirius shrugged. “Had to be sure it was you. Thought so from the scent.” He sniffed through his nose. “Parchment, acidic tinge that could be… ink. Oh, and a hint of vanilla!”

‘That would be my body wash,’ Hermione thought. Sirius Black looked in far ruder health than at their last meeting. His then unkempt hair had been cut, and his face was relatively clean, while nothing could disguise those fathomless grey eyes.

“How long have you been tracking me?”

“Long enough,” he said. “Found another scent about a mile to the north, but it turned out to be male. Also got a very faint scent off to the east.” He licked a finger, held it in the air, then placed it back in his mouth; kidding Hermione he could literally taste the smell. “Nice perfume… could be Dior or Chanel… sugar and spice perhaps… Haven’t tasted anything like that since my last trip to the bordellos of Paris!”

“I don’t want to know,” Hermione muttered. “That would have to be Fleur Delacour.”

“French girl? Is she pretty?”

“Far too young for you, Sirius.” Hermione leaned back against that thick trunk. “And Bill Weasley is in the queue ahead of you.” Sirius raised an amused eyebrow. “The other was either Viktor Krum or Cedric Diggory. Anyway, what are you doing out here?”

A deadly serious mien dropped across Sirius’s expression. “It’s Harry.”

The temporary relief Hermione experienced evaporated instantly. “What about him? Where is he?”

“That’s the problem, Hermione,” Sirius revealed. “He’s at the bottom of the lake.”

“What!” Hermione almost jumped out of her boots. “How could… I mean, they couldn’t have… could they?”

“I came up here with Moony to see how you were getting on,” Sirius replied, “and to see my Godson, of course. When we couldn’t find him, Remus went to Minerva. She had no choice but to spill the beans,” he added bitterly.

“They… they put Harry at the bottom of the lake?” Hermione still had problems coming to terms with the news. “But, I thought… a treasure whose loss would be painful…” she breathed.

“I have no idea who’s down there for the others, but Remus was told that Dumbledore had been assured that the safety of the ‘hostages,’” Sirius looked forebodingly at her with that word, “had been negotiated by the Ministry.”

‘The Ministry?’ She did not trust that misbegotten bunch in the least.

Sirius seemed to read her mind. “And we all know how much trust to place in their pronouncements,” Sirius observed darkly.

Hermione slumped to the ground. “Oh Merlin, what have I done,” she whined. ‘I wanted to protect Harry. Have I played into their hands?’ she thought. Was this the culmination of whomever-they-were’s foul plans?

Sirius knelt alongside her. “Hey, c’mon, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Hermione shook her head. “It’s my fault,” she moaned.

“How can it be? You didn’t stick Harry underwater, did you?” He reached out a hand, took a grip on her arm and pulled her up as he rose.

‘I as good as,’ Hermione thought to herself. “Did they tell you what the Second Task’s clue is?”

“Umm... no,” Sirius shook his head. “Not exactly; some ‘treasure’ it sounds like.”

She recited the pertinent parts of the merpeople’s song.

“Well... that was... interesting. Look,” Sirius said urgently. “That means one thing: you, and you only, have to get Harry out of this. And, if you keep your head, you can, you know.” He gave her a slight shake. “Hermione, concentrate, please. Harry’s well-being and your future fates depend on it.”

Sirius’s words started to penetrate the fugue of panic that had shrouded Hermione’s thinking. She blinked and shook her head to clear it. Jutting out her chin, she declared: “It’s okay, I’m alright.”

“Good. Finish the Task and Harry is back, safe and sound… if a little water-logged,” Sirius added with a small smile. “I know you can do it.”

Hermione felt a new bout of confidence in her own abilities, refreshed by Sirius’s faith in her. The Task of itself had not changed, only her knowing the ‘treasure’ raised the stakes. This had been her raison d’ê tre: to protect Harry.

“Yes, of course.” Piecing herself together, Hermione brushed away the moss that had stuck to her jeans and stood up.

“And I’ll be here to help. I’m your advanced guard.”

Hermione looked sharply at Black. “That’s against…” Her words trailed off as Sirius returned a meaningful look. What did rules matter when Harry’s well-being was at risk? “Doesn’t matter. You’re right,” she added. “Sod them!”

“That’s the spirit.” Sirius raised his nose in the air. “I’ll scout out ahead, in case there’s anything out there. What way are you heading?”

Hermione repeated her Point-Me Spell, made her well-rehearsed adjustment, and pointed in the appropriate direction.

With that, Sirius’s body shivered and consolidated into the more solid form of Padfoot, who bounded off into the dark.

As he disappeared, Hermione once again felt very alone.

* * * * *

Night had well and truly fallen, and with darkness the temperature dipped below zero. Even her warmest clothes could not keep the cold out, so Hermione cast Warming Charms on herself so she could keep going.

The dew was beginning to freeze, and a thin mist now rose from the forest floor. She really was hungry now, but put aside forcefully any thoughts of a nice, hot dinner in the Great Hall. Her task was to rescue Harry.

The dull thud inside her head still managed to irritate her.

The illuminated dial of Hermione’s watch kept her informed of the track of time. Progress was slower now; the slippery ground treacherous underfoot. Even with her bright wand tip, the shadows on the forest floor concealed plenty of holes and roots that could turn an ankle.

Every so often a dark shape would fly through the forest in her direction, before carefully transforming back into human form at a safe distance for both of them.

The last Animagus visitation was almost an hour ago. In her tired and hungry state, Hermione struggled to maintain a high level of concentration. She did not know any spell to enhance flagging mental acuity. If such a thing existed, it was probably sequestered in the Dark Arts’ section of the library.

The tree canopy resolutely blocked all but the merest sliver of moonlight. The only sounds were frosted crunches underfoot and those in her sometimes too-vivid imagination. Low branches, brambles and fronds tore at her clothing and skin, only adding to her edginess.

“Lumos!”

Hermione froze. The unknown voice casting that spell sounded some hundred yards or so off to her right. Instead of finding herself bathed in artificial light, only a faint glow came from the same area. It illuminated and captured a black silhouette making slight movements.

“You?” There was no mistaking the sense of shock in that same voice. “But you’re -”

No! Had Sirius’s presence been discovered? Would he go..?

Before she could finish that horrible thought, it fled before something far worse.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The sickly pale green light extinguished the silver glow. It briefly enveloped the silhouette before it fell out of sight.

A voice in the distance: “No, you are.”

Hermione felt suddenly sick. She could hardly stand.

A Killing Curse!

The second voice was also unknown. Had someone recognised Sirius and… Had he just died on her behalf?

Was she next?

These thoughts were too terrible to consider rationally. They impelled her forward as the light died and plunged the forest back into darkness. Her need for urgency clashed with the natural defence of caution: Fight or flight? Bent low, Hermione circled, trying hard to move to the scene by an indirect route.

Throughout, the same thoughts repeated themselves. ‘Someone had just died. Struck dead! Was it Sirius? Merlin, Harry would be devastated!’

Hermione found it extremely difficult to concentrate and keep track of her new quarry, while trying to suppress the rising sense of dread inside her.

Her foot caught on something... too large to be a tree root; not solid enough to be a log. Hermione could not avoid sprawling onto the hard earth, but made sure she kept a firm grip on her wand. Somewhere, Professor Moody would have been grimly pleased.

“Lumos Minimus!” Her voice was a whisper, her throat too tight for anything more. She thought she knew what had tripped her up, and feared learning what the identity the tiny pinprick of light would reveal.

It was everything she feared.

The corpse lay on its back, dulled eyes wide-open to eternity with a look of fear forever frozen on its face.

It was not what she feared.

The lifeless body was not Sirius Black’s.

A dark moustache sat above cruel lips, drawn back from teeth in the rictus of death. Whoever the victim was, he was clothed entirely in black. While his wand remained in a death grip, he had other weapons. Various knives and other vicious blades nestled in belts that criss-crossed the torso.

Hermione had no idea who the victim was.

“Expelliarmus!”

Déjà Vu! The strong spell hit Hermione and sent her flying, crashing into a tree. Ripped from her grip, Hermione’s wand spun off into the darkness.

Somewhere, Professor Moody would have cursed her failure to learn anything. The murderer had not left the scene of his crime.

‘Am I next? What will that do to Harry?’

In the heat of the moment, Hermione never even wondered why Harry’s reactions and fate preceded fear for her own life, or masked thoughts of her parents.

“Lumos!”

Suddenly bathed in light, Hermione felt the chill dread of impending death. Very slowly, aware that her next breath could be her last, she turned to face her probable executioner. At first she could see nothing save a burning wand tip pointed mercilessly straight between her eyes. As her sight became accustomed to the luminescence, they focussed onto the tall but slim shadow behind, featureless in the profound shade.

Hardly daring to breathe, Hermione desperately wanted to say something... to delay the green flash, to plead for her life. Nothing emerged: her throat was as dry as a sandpit. Could she risk a move for the emergency Portkey? The old tin can was in her backpack.

“You really don’t know how lucky you are, do you, Mudblood?” The voice was controlled but cruel; there was no mistaking the loathing directed towards the doomed student. “Still, it won’t matter…”

Hermione closed her eyes, not wanting to see the curse that would cut her life short. Perhaps her luck only extended to a merciful means to an end?

‘Harry, please forgive me: I tried. I-’

Crashing through the undergrowth, something large and powerful hurtled directly towards them. The dreaded spell never came, only an unearthly howl. Hermione’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the glare vanish, followed instantly by the shadow itself popping out of existence. A dark shape hurled itself into the space just vacated by Apparition.

“Lumos!” The voice, behind her now, shaky and out-of-breath, was undeniably Sirius’s, transformed back into human form. His eyes switched from Hermione to the body, then back again. “What the -”

Hermione threw herself up at him, crushing her face into his chest, desperate for the consoling touch of another human being. Her breaths came in great shuddering draughts and her body trembled with shock at her narrow escape.

No Tournament was worth this. Was her continued existence in the magical world worth the lives of others?

“Hey, hey, easy now.” Sirius paced a calming hand on her scalp. She could not look up at him. She could not do anything but sob. She had been a moment from death. It was too much.

Sirius’s other arm wrapped itself around her.

Long minutes passed before Hermione recovered enough even to risk removing her face from the sanctuary of a friendly cloak. Still utterly drained from her close encounter with the hereafter, she looked up at Sirius’s worried expression.

“What’s…? What’s going on..? She mumbled in terror. “Killing Curses… This… this… isn’t sport… This isn’t…”

“No, it isn’t,” Sirius agreed grimly. “I think somebody very badly didn’t want you carrying on...” Sirius lapsed into thoughtful silence.

Hermione shivered, and not from the cold, as the harsh reality of the situation began to override her unreasoning dread. “He was going to kill me!” she declaimed.

A dark shadow passed behind Sirius’s eyes. “Yes, I thought that’s what it looked like.” He released his hold on Hermione, and bent down over the corpse. “I got here just in time… but too late for this poor chap.”

With Hermione still clinging to him, Sirius bent over and stared at the dead wizard’s face. “Recognise him?” he asked.

“No… at least, I don’t think so.”

Still somewhat lost in thought, Sirius absent-mindedly rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Right... He’s somehow familiar,” he offered. “I feel I should know him, from way back.” He reached out and his fingers brushed the edge of one of the dead man’s polished blades. “Not one to be trifled with, whoever he was.” Reaching for the corpse’s arm, Sirius turned back the dead man’s sleeve.

Whatever Sirius was looking for, he found. “Now that is interesting!” he muttered, before lapsing into silence, thinking again. Hermione saw her own emotion mirrored in his worried expression.

Glancing down to see what piqued Sirius’s interest, Hermione saw a faint mark, something like a tattoo that had faded over time, several inches long. She twisted her neck to gain a better perspective.

“Seen that before?” Sirius asked, his voice on edge.

Hermione shook her head. If she looked at it carefully, from certain angles it was skull-like, but not exactly. If it were a skull, then what stuck out of the gaping jaws? Not a tongue, surely? Too long for that…

“That, Hermione, is what’s left of a Dark Mark.”

“A what?”

Sirius recoiled from the corpse’s arm, as if disgusted by the company he was keeping. “Death Eater... That’s what Voldemort bestowed on his closest followers, that mark – his brand, if you like.” Now he prodded the body with his boot. “Whatever he was now, he used to be a Death Eater, so he was up to no good. I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Then Sirius turned and fixed Hermione with a hard glare. “I take it, it wasn’t you who finished him off?”

“No!” Hermione denied heatedly. “I couldn’t... I don’t know...” How could he even think she was capable of such a despicable act?

“Just checking: I’d have offed him myself if I’d known.” He stood up. “Tell me what happened.”

Hermione explained what she had seen and heard. Telling her tale helped, as her nerves gradually reduced to mere high anxiety. When she finished, Sirius’s expression had turned even grimmer.

“So, wizard one, Mister Death Eater, was killed by wizard two, or, at least, we have to surmise,” he ventured. “And then number two was ready to kill you.”

Hermione thought back over the events. “He... The one who got away, he knew me, or who I was. He called me ‘Mudblood’.”

“Sent here to kill you… perhaps ensure you couldn’t complete the Task?” Sirius appeared deeply concerned. “Death is a pretty permanent way to stop you.”

Hermione found some coherence returning to her thoughts as she nodded in agreement and focussed on a new puzzle to solve. “Perhaps that was their plan. Remove me from the field, then with Harry being stranded at the bottom of the lake… Could they have Polyjuiced into me..?” Her voice trailed off as she considered what might have been. But something jarring nagged away from the recesses of her mind. “But it doesn’t make sense... So… what were two wizards doing out here? And why did that one kill this one?”

Sirius shrugged. “Beats me,” he admitted. “You think he might have wanted to Polyjuice himself into you? I’ll look.” He started methodically rifling the corpse’s robes, but found nothing to explain the situation.

Hermione shook her head at the futile search. “There’s too much here that doesn’t make sense. He - the other one - called me a ‘Mudblood;’ said I was ‘lucky’; what did he mean by that? And why would two wizards with the same bigoted views fall out so badly over killing me?”

Some pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall into place, but others just did not fit the picture at all. At least now she knew that Professor Moody had been right; Death Eaters were involved. But was she the ultimate target, or merely a tool to strike at Harry Potter? And even that did not resolve the new enigma; why were two factions involved?

Sirius did not have the answers. “Dunno,” he straightened, having made up his mind about something. “Whatever, it’s useless to speculate. No matter what, I’d better get back to Dumbledore. This changes everything. It’s too big and involved for just the two of us.”

“You’re right,” Hermione declared quickly, making up her mind as well. “To Hell with this Tournament. With Death Eaters involved, you’re right: this is just too big. Can you take me back with you..?”

“Hermione, think about what you’re asking,” Sirius cut her off, the same dark shadow behind his eyes as before. “If you withdraw, you… lose everything… I know what that’s like.”

“No, just magic,” she retorted. “And after what I just saw… And forget me; think of Harry, he’s…”

“…At the bottom of the lake waiting for you to rescue him.” Sirius cut her short again. “Believe me, I am thinking of Harry. Hermione, I’m begging you, you have to continue. If not for your sake, for his…”

Hermione was stunned. Sirius had saved her from certain death. After that, why would he want her to continue? Death Eater involvement changed everything, or no..?

Harry; Harry changed everything.

“…Harry needs you, Hermione,” Sirius continued pleading. “He’s at the bottom of a lake, held hostage by merpeople. They’re not to be trifled with, and I can’t reach him. Only you can, unless the Death Eaters...”

That clinched it. Her entire rationale for staying in competition had been to protect Harry from this plot. She had gone over and over this with Professor Moody. Now that the plotters had shown themselves Sirius was right: she could not quit now, no matter what dangers may lay ahead.

Once again Sirius fixed Hermione with that serious look. “I’d feel a Hell of a lot better if you Apparated back with me to Hogsmeade, Hermione, but…” He shrugged helplessly.

Hermione gulped. “No, I’ll continue.” She too would rather be back safe and sound in Hogwarts. But Harry was at the bottom of a lake. “You’re right. I don’t have a choice, do I Sirius? I have to carry on.”

A relieved expression crossed Sirius’s ravaged face. Still, he was concerned. “Do you want me to stay? You know… help you through, protect you as best I can. Harry would never –”

“No.” Hermione was burdened with her own guilt; she did not want his. To stick this out, she had to do it her own way. And Harry’s safety was paramount. “As you said, the sooner Dumbledore knows what’s happened, the better.” She added wryly. “Perhaps he now has grounds to cancel the Tournament.” Then she shook her head. “Although I doubt it.”

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone.”

“I’m not madly keen on it either.” Hermione gave the corpse a sidelong glance, shuddered once again and wished she had not. It was the first dead person she had ever seen, and she had no wild desire to see another.

At least she had an idea forming. “Make sure you ask Dumbledore to inform Professor Moody. He’s been... mentoring me. Maybe he’ll come.”

“You’re sure? There might be more Death Eaters out here,” Sirius reminded her.

“All the more reason for Professor Moody to turn up. Look, quite frankly, I’m out of my depth…” For a second she pondered the eerie echo of her father’s words, and then stoutly put the thought aside. “But this goes beyond the Triwizard. It seems obvious proof that someone, possibly Death Eaters, interfered with the Goblet of Fire with evil intent.” With a resolution she did not truly feel, Hermione straightened up. “You go… tell Dumbledore... I’ll be fine… at least, I hope I will.”

“I’ll return straight away,” Sirius promised.

“No,” Hermione said, her resolution wavering for a second. “Just be sure you ask Dumbledore to speak with Professor Moody. The headmaster will be duty-bound to report any infractions of the Tournament rules. We might get away with your intervention here as being unrelated to the competition, but I wouldn’t want to risk pushing our luck.”

She saw Sirius ready to argue the point, so pushed on. “And if I’m disqualified, do you trust Barty Crouch to retrieve Harry from the merpeople?”

Sirius shook his head sadly. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione responded with feeling. “Believe me.” For a second she wondered if Sirius could approach Professor Moody directly, then ruled it out. Everyone bar Harry, Dumbledore and Remus Lupin thought Sirius Black was an escaped mass-murderer. She could not trust his continued freedom on an assumption that the former Head Auror was also in on the secret of Sirius’s innocence. This year had starkly proven to her Dumbledore’s abilities to compartmentalise.

“Okay,” Sirius replied, his hesitance evident at leaving her by herself after convincing her to continue on his godson’s behalf. He pointed his wand at the dead body and, to Hermione’s disgust, transfigured it into a small bone, leaving it lying in the mud. Seeing Hermione’s expression, he shrugged. “Sorry. No time or inclination for a decent burial. And I’m not risking being caught with a dead body on me. That’d make my guilt cast-iron.”

“Then you could have left it behind.”

Sirius shook his head. “You going to bury him?” he asked sarcastically.

“No...” Hermione responded slowly. “Someone, Professor Moody perhaps, could retrieve it later.”

“By which time something’s had a pretty good meal,” Sirius pointed out. “There are creatures in here that smell death. By now their caution over the strange lights will be lost in hunger. Believe me, this is far kinder. Kinder than his sort deserve.”

Sighing, Hermione hoped she could never be this bitter, but now was not the time for this argument.

“Just don’t try to Apparate into Hogwarts. The wards -”

“I know.” Sirius gave her a shadow of a smile. “Used to be a Marauder, remember - learned no end of interesting facts about the old place. I’ll Apparate to a safe spot I know outside Hogsmeade and then Padfoot will find his way from there.”

Hermione stood there, dreading his departure and even more dreading being awfully and truly alone in the dark forest. At least, she hoped she would be alone. There were far worse things to be than alone. “Before you go… could you retrieve my wand?” She gestured to the cluttered undergrowth and leaf-covered ground. “It went flying off when I was disarmed.”

“Okay. Accio Hermione Granger’s wand!” The object whistled through the cold night air and Sirius caught it nonchalantly, before offering it to its owner, who took it and stared worriedly at the instrument. “Hang onto it,” he added unnecessarily.

Hermione took an audibly deep breath and started to turn away in the direction of Hogwarts. Obviously sensing her unease, Sirius reached out and patted her arm tentatively. “Good luck, kid,” he said, smiling at her pout at the term of endearment. Then with a ‘pop’ he vanished before her eyes.

Suddenly, to Hermione, everything seemed much colder and darker.

* * * * *

By Hermione’s estimations, it had been five hours since Sirius had Apparated back to Hogwarts’ environs. As far as she knew, the Tournament continued on its not so merry way.

On the plus side, she had not met anybody, or anything, else.

The first purplish streaks of dawn were just visible through the trees to the east. That, at least, would make her way through the forest a bit easier. Gradually, the sky overhead turned from deep indigo to a dirty grey as cloud cover rolled in. At least it raised the temperature a little, but the ground mist stuck stubbornly to the forest floor.

“Aaaaieee!”

Instantly, Hermione gripped her drawn wand tightly. That scream was distinctly feminine, sounding from some distance off to Hermione’s right. There was also no disguising the alarm. Her urgency again overriding caution, Hermione pelted off running through the wintry undergrowth.

Closing in, she heard distinct bangs and saw brief flashes of light. Someone was using magic, just over a small ridge that ran across her avenue of advance.

Hermione, more cautious now, slowed as she reached the crest. Uncertain, she halted, peeked over the ridge and took in the scene below.

The setting was a natural bowl in the ground, where the mist lay heavier. The trees were less thickly set and deciduous. Little undergrowth save a carpet of brown, rotting leaves, obstructed either view or entrance.

“Merde!”

The oath, like the scream, came from a quite dishevelled Fleur Delacour. The Beauxbatons’ champion had a strange, unnatural stance, almost like a marionette whose owner had abandoned the strings, all unnatural angles. How she still stood seemed impossible, given the juxtaposition of feet, legs and torso. Her wand moved, but not her right arm. Instead, Fleur’s wrist swivelled, desperately trying to train on something.

Hermione’s eyes travelled to the French girl’s proposed target, and took in a deep breath. An Acromantula, about the size of a Mini Cooper roamed the slope, dodging behind tree trunks to avoid Fleur’s hexes.

The husk of an even larger spider lay only a few yards from Fleur, seemingly lifeless. Then Hermione spotted movement behind Fleur. Another Acromantula scuttled up behind the Beauxbatons’ girl. Fleur was either unaware or unable to do anything about it.

“Inflammare!” A jet of flame shot from Fleur’s wand, narrowly missing the attacker to her front, forcing it back. Desperately, she tried tracking its progress between tree trunks. It seemed she could not twist enough to get another decent shot at it.

The spiders chattered loudly, undoubtedly calling for reinforcements. If these two did not finish off Fleur, which seemed increasingly likely, then a horde would overwhelm her. Fleur’s expression turned to one of pure horror as she sensed the other advancing from the rear, but she could barely move her head.

Hermione, undetected by any of the combatants, aimed her wand at the more dangerous threat, the spider trying to take Fleur from the rear.

“Bombarda!”

A thick tree shattered under Hermione’s spell. Its trunk rose straight up before falling back, almost bouncing on the jagged stump, before crashing onto the Acromantula. The spider’s abdomen cracked like a coconut under a hammer blow, its innards oozing onto the clod ground. Eight legs flailed in one final spasm.

Running along the ridge towards the remaining arachnid, Hermione aimed at the ground. “Incendio!” The rotting leaf mulch and innumerable twigs burst into flame around her target. Spooked, the Acromantula reared up and charged. Unfortunately for it, that moved it from fire into frying pan, straight into the sights of a most peeved and fired-up Frenchwoman.

Her first shot blew one of its legs clean off at the joint. A second blast exploded its thorax in a shower of meat, fur and exoskeleton.

“Mon Dieu! Zat was too close,” Fleur said loudly. “Zose zings, zey ’ad me cornered!” Her accent was definitely heavier than Hermione had heard before.

Racing down the sharp but short slope, Hermione saw a Fleur who was anything but her usual composed self. The source of her strange immobility became clear. Fleur was caught in a giant spider’s web; its sticky filaments almost completely restrained her movements.

“I deed not see zees dans la brume,” an affronted Fleur gestured at the imprisoning mesh of silky threads, while still sweating profusely. As Hermione began cutting away at the natural net, Fleur gradually regained her Gallic cool. “Je suis une idiote!”

The Acromantulas must have set upon Fleur almost as soon as she encountered the web; otherwise freeing herself should have been only a matter of a moment’s spell work. She must also have been unable to activate her last-resort Portkey. As it was, as soon as Hermione completed her task and restored Fleur’s freedom of movement, the French girl was examining her ankle closely. It was angry and swollen. She must have twisted it when first caught, or in trying unavailingly to free herself.

“Zank you, ’Ermione. I don’t zink zat I could ’andled zee two of zem.”

‘Two’ was an understatement. Even now, Hermione could make out sounds in the distance, of trees and undergrowth being thrust aside. It did not take much imagination to figure out that the rest of the arachnid horde was on its way to join in the meal.

“We have to leave,” she stated clearly. “There’s more coming!”

Fleur looked up, shocked, but caught the same sounds. “Oui, c’est vrai,” she agreed. Trying to stand, she winced when she tried placing some weight on her ankle. “Zut alors!”

“Here, let me.” Hermione bent down and examined Fleur’s purple bruised ankle. It did not appear to be broken, although Hermione was no expert. Given the situation, they would have to find out the hard way. She cast quick Freezing and Pain-killing charms. “Now try again.”

Gingerly Fleur shifted her weight. Her stance was awkward, but at least the joint took its share of the strain. “Eez good,” she said with a nod, and then glanced in the direction of the rapidly approaching sounds. “’Adn’t we bettair..?”

Hermione returned the nod. She aimed her wand towards a line of seemingly dark bushes that, in an optical illusion, were advancing on the two young women. “Incendio!”

“Inflammare!”

Two jets of fire dripped over the tree line and barren vegetation burst into flame. Both witches played the fire across the forest, setting up a burning barrier between the uninvited brunch guests and their feast.

“Now, let’s get out of here,” Hermione urged, turning to leave.

Fleur, still wincing, but able to walk briskly, if not run, followed, limping only slightly. Perhaps, intimidated by the fires still visible through the trees, the Acromantulas would be discouraged.

No such luck.

Hearing a loud crash not far behind them, they turned and saw a great grey wave of Acromantulas rearing over the sea of flame, crushing that forlorn hope. The sight spurred them on faster.

Spiders poured through, although several were still burning and did not make it far beyond the depression. Others skirted around the side and came on from a tangent.

“Come on! Run!” Hermione yelled at an equally terrified Fleur. Both left Parthian shots of liquid flame as fiery rearguards. As they ran they blasted the trees as they passed, speeding under the great trunks as they fell, providing more obstacles to impede their pursuers.

Brambles ripped at their legs as they sped through increasingly dense undergrowth. Low, thin branches whipped their faces. Heedless of further injury, they bounded over uneven ground, logs, bushes and animal runs that crisscrossed their paths. Hermione felt her lungs protest with the effort, and her heart pounded against her ribs, but she dare not rest for even a second.

Thank Merlin – and Harry – for conditioning!

They were running up a gradient now, but every time Hermione glanced over her shoulder, her terror-stricken gaze registered that the gap between hunted and hunters was narrowing. They were running out of time. Hermione had run out of ideas.

“Merde!” Hermione turned her head forwards again, but not quickly enough to avoid running headlong into the back of a rapidly braking Fleur, nearly sending them both over the edge of a bluff. Teetering on the precipice, they somehow reclaimed their balance, and stared at what must be a good hundred-foot drop into a river.

Vertiginous, Hermione experienced the first signs of light-headedness, and took a precautionary step back before she toppled over the edge.

They looked at each other, then, as the chittering and scurrying behind them escalated, both glanced backwards.

The Acromantulas were not innumerable, but might have well as been. There were plenty enough to strip their bodies of flesh and still leave some hungry. And they were seemingly intent on completing their feast.

Hermione made up her mind. Retreat was impossible, and as much as she hated heights…

She grabbed Fleur’s hand, and the two swapped a look that spoke volumes, before, in near perfect unison, they ran the few yards to the edge.

‘I hope that the water is deep eno-’

The ground disappeared beneath Hermione’s feet as they leaped.

“Ooooooooooohhhhh sugaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-”

Impact was bone-jarring. Before she knew it Hermione plunged into ice-cold water that rushed into her open mouth and forced its way up her nostrils. It did slow her descent just enough that when she hit the rocky riverbed it did not break her back. Striking bottom did, however, cause her to cough and expel some life-preserving oxygen that dribbled out in a trail of bubbles.

Self-preservation overrode the initial shock, and made Hermione kick out, towards the surface, ignoring her latest set of new bruises.

Once Hermione’s head broke the surface she coughed and spluttered to force out the cold water and gulp the moist cold air.

Fleur’s equally drenched blonde head popped up some ten yards away. Both surveyed the top of the bluff.

An unruly mob of exasperated and frustrated Acromantulas lined the cliff edge, jostling one another. As the two witches watched, one was pushed just enough to start tipping over the edge, its legs scrabbling to gain purchase, before it plummeted down towards two floating heads.

“Look out!”

Scrambling, Hermione struck out for the opposite riverbank. Moments later the oversized spider, flailing its numerically superior jumble of legs, struck the water with an unearthly screech and a monstrous splat.

Hermione’s panic-driven strokes were nothing like her attempts on the Black Lake. Instead uncoordinated and desperate flails propelled Hermione away from the bubbling mass of white water that marked the Acromantula’s fight for survival. She dared not look back lest a hairy black limb drag her to either a watery grave or a grisly end at its owner’s mandibles.

“Eez okay,” Fleur urged her. “You can stand up here.”

Through her sodden hair, Hermione looked over to find Fleur standing waist deep, her eyes and wand trained on the arachnid’s final moments. Hermione found the will to trust her legs and located the riverbed’s irregular bottom beneath her feet. She stumbled as the smooth and slippery rounded rocks rolled and the frigid water poured off her. Standing shakily, Hermione turned to watch one final unavailing effort from the spider die away as it sank finally beneath the surface, which in a few seconds was unsettlingly still.

Suddenly Hermione had no great desire to stand in the river, perhaps from fear the submerged spider somehow still stalked them, or that one of its still visible cohorts atop the cliff opposite might muster a better effort. With frantic steps she floundered through the shallows and dropped gratefully to her hands and knees on comparatively dry land. Exhausted, she rolled over and lay on her back, a light drizzle hardly worrying her soaked face now.

“Alors.” Fleur looked back at their thwarted pursuers. “I do not zink zey can cross water, but do not wish to find me wrong.” She hesitated, and then carried on with a little vehemence. “Mon Dieu! Quelle creatures do you ’ave at ’Ogwarts?”

Hermione deemed Fleur’s question rhetorical, but she had made a good point. A couple of years ago these overgrown arachnids had nearly killed Harry and Ron for food. The Department for Control of Magical Creatures, the Headmaster, and unfortunately her friend Hagrid, had all entertained their inhabitation near to Britain’s primary magical school. She shook her head at another example of wizarding idiocy.

Some Drying, Warming and minor Healing Charms later, the two witches started on their way along the bank, following the river in the general direct of Hogwarts. The Acromantulas trailed them for a while on the opposite bank, eventually gave up and disappeared back into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

By unspoken agreement, the two competitors felt no need to separate. Both had suffered near-death experiences, and this unlikely alliance brought some comfort, even if only for the duration.

After about an hour’s travel, Fleur indicated that she needed to rest. Her ankle may have been numbed, but the damage was not healed, and she told Hermione she wanted to take a closer look, now that nothing seemed to be pursuing them.

After some prodding and poking with her wand, Fleur appeared satisfied. She delved into her own robes and drew out a freshly-baked croissant. Hermione’s stomach rumbled rebelliously, reminding her of her own hunger, and, in a reflex motion that did not escape Fleur’s attention, she licked her lips. The French witch held out her hand in the universal gesture of offering. Hermione, not wishing to take the food from Fleur’s mouth, shook her head.

“Eez okay, I ’ave anuzzer.” Fleur produced a second croissant, and held it out. The delicious smell wafted under Hermione’s nose, breaking her resolve. Before she knew it, Hermione had taken the pastry, almost forgetting to thank her newfound companion. Whatever spell had kept the bounty fresh and dry, even underwater, had worked a treat, as the delicacy almost melted in Hermione’s mouth.

When she had finished, licking her lips this time in fulfilment, Hermione noted Fleur observing her with an amused smile.

“Vous oublié z… Pardon … forget zee food?”

Embarrassed, Hermione nodded.

Fleur gave a Gallic shrug. “C’est rien de particular. Une petite dette… rembourserai… ’ow you say, a small beet?”

Hermione thought she understood what Fleur meant. “Thanks.”

Fleur nodded an acknowledgement, and then stretched. Somehow this act appeared to restore the impression of French Chiq, even sweat-stained and covered in forest detritus. Hermione felt just a pang of envy at how assured Fleur could appear.

“So, ’ow about a small… Entente Cordiale, mon amie?”

“What do you mean?”

Another Gallic shrug. “We work togezzer to reach zee prize. Do you agree?”

Hermione pondered on the proposal. She was not in opposition to Fleur; her only concern was to finish this Task and ensure that Harry came through safe and sound. She had to consider the possibility that the forces seeking to harm Harry or her might have a second bite. Fleur seemed a capable witch. There was only one decision to make.

“Okay, I agree.” She held out her hand and the Beauxbatons’ girl grasped and shook it to seal their deal. A thought then struck Hermione. “Do you know what your prize is?”

“Non. Anuzzer trinket, peut-ê tre? Does it mattair?”

Hermione shook her head. “I know my ‘prize’ is Harry.” Fleur gave her a doubting look. “It doesn’t matter how I know, but if Harry is my prize, then -”

“Merde!” Fleur jumped to her feet and inelegantly kicked at the ground. Losing her cool, she balled her fists and stared at the sky. “Les ordures! Les fils de pute!”

Hermione’s knowledge of the French language was not vast, limited to her holidays abroad, but she had no problem in interpreting Fleur’s imprecations.

“C’est rien que de la merde! Vous me fais chier!” Fleur’s rage was impressive to behold and Hermione was suddenly relieved to have but a rudimentary French vocabulary.

Fleur suddenly spun on her heel and glared at Hermione. “Eez eet Gabrielle?”

The unspoken part of the question was clear enough. “I… don’t know,” she admitted weakly. “Who is Gabrielle?”

Fleur answered in her own way. “If zey ’ave taken ma petite soeur, alors ils vont enfer!” She aimed a vicious kick at a clod of earth, and then glanced once more at Hermione. “Parlez-vous franç ais?”

“Un peu,” Hermione admitted.

“Een Eenglish zen,” Fleur said, her face darkened in an impressive demonstration of how Veela beauty could be overwhelmed by fury. “If zey ’ave taken my little sistair, Gabrielle, zen I will….” She broke off and threw her hands up in the air. Then she sat down on a nearby fallen tree and put her head in her hands, before looking up. Hermione was surprised to find how tired Fleur suddenly appeared. “I don’t know what I would do,” she admitted.

That feeling was all too familiar to Hermione. She moved to comfort the older girl. “It might not be…” She tried to remember the name… “Gabrielle.”

Fleur laughed, a short, bitter and unlovely sound. “Eef eet eez your ’Arry Pottair at zee bottom of zee lake, zen it weell be Gabrielle.” She shook her head again. “Les salauds! If Madame Maxime ’eard of zees…” She looked searchingly at Hermione. “Does she know?”

“I… I don’t know - for sure,” Hermione offered falteringly.

Fleur jumped back to her feet, her injured ankle now either no longer bothering her or simply ignored. “Zen we ’ave no time to lose. Allons-y!”

Hermione had to scurry after the long-striding Frenchwoman.

Fleur’s face bore a look of fortitude. She was heading in the right direction, Hermione thought, ignoring the light drizzle that was starting to fall from the leaden skies.

As they trekked through the gloomy and dripping forest, Hermione tried to converse in French with Fleur. Despite her determination, Fleur was willing to exchange pleasantries, and in return tried to sharpen up her own language skills.

There was one question though that had nagged away at Hermione, ever since Fleur’s conclusion that Gabrielle was her ‘hostage’.

It seemed easier to ask in French. “Fleur, pourquoi avez-vous dites Harry est le mien?”

Fleur pulled up short. She shot a sceptical look at her temporary ally. “Eez ’e not zen?”

Hermione felt her face start to burn, despite the damp and cold surroundings. “Not like that,” she replied a little hotly. “He’s… Harry’s my friend.”

Fleur just stared at her, disbelief exuding from every pore.

“My best friend,” Hermione added.

Fleur just stood there, then shrugged. “Eef you say so, ’Ermione.” Her body language declared exactly the opposite.

Irked, Hermione shot back: “Is that Veela intuition?” She felt small as soon as the words left her mouth.

To her surprise, Fleur did not appear to be offended. Instead, she laughed. “Eez eet because je suis franç aise, and carry Veela blood, zat everyone zinks I am an expert on love?”

Hermione started: Who had mentioned love?

Fleur should give herself more credit.

“J’ai dix-sept ans. Why should I be une spé cialiste?” Fleur continued self-disparagingly. “Non. I just keep my eyes open. You ’ave feelings for ’Arry, n’est-ce pas?”

Hermione did not reply.

That Gallic shrug again. “I am mistaken, peut-ê tre? Well, why is ’Arry your prize, huh? Come, allons-y.”

With that, Fleur turned and marched off once again, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts, or at least until she realised she was being left behind all alone.

Running quickly to catch up, Hermione noticed for the first time one of the distinctive mountains that ringed the Black Lake poking above the tree tops. They were closer to their goal.

“What about Bill?”

Fleur shook her head. “Non! It weell be Gabrielle zey ’ave taken.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Hermione said. “Do you love Bill?”

“Guillaume?” Fleur stopped for a moment, and then frowned. “Zees I do not know… yet. Il est un homme séduisant, pays zee propair attention to me, but as to love… later, peut-ê tre. Why do you ask?”

Hermione shrugged. “I thought… if you were, then you might be able to tell me… what it - you know - feels like.”

Favouring her with an appraising look, Fleur’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You want to know eef you are een love with ’Arry?” she said perceptively.

Fleur should give herself a lot more credit. Hermione could feel her cheeks redden even in the chilled conditions; she had not realised she was that transparent. She nodded.

Fleur exhaled audibly and favoured Hermione with a woman-to-woman look. “Je ne sais pas,” she added sagely. “Zey tell me, ma mè re - apologies, my muzzer - she says that when love ’appens, I weell know. With Beel, who can tell? Pour vous, only you can say. But zat you ask, eet suggests an answer.”

After a few moments of unbroken silence, before Fleur looked at the mountains, closer now, greyish-purple topped with white in the dull light. “Are zose what I zink zey are?”

Hermione nodded again.

“Alors. We are wasting time.”

* * * * *

Hermione’s watch, a redoubtable old clockwork timepiece her father gave her when her own digital one succumbed to Hogwarts’ magic, showed it was nearly eleven in the morning. She had shaken it a few times to make sure her charm making it impervious had not failed in her death-defying leap, but it appeared to keep good time. With no visible sun, she had no other way to estimate the time.

Fleur now set the pace, her assumption that her kid sister was anchored somewhere at the bottom of a foreign lake drove her forward, Hermione assumed, and overrode any pain from her ankle.

Only Harry’s persistence over her need for endurance training permitted her to do the same for him.

The river curved off in the direction Hermione estimated was east, and they had another tree-lined ridge to surmount. Both kept casting Warming and Water-repelling Charms on each other, to keep out the insidious Highlands’ bone-chilling drizzle. They also kept their wands drawn, just in case they met anything else, magical or natural, that might presume to prey upon them.

Hermione had decided not to tell Fleur about the chance there might be another type of predator out there, bearing a Dark Mark. She had no idea what would happen if the situation became truly public knowledge. Professor Moody had warned her to keep it close to her chest. Now at least another two wizards would know. If Beauxbatons decided this altered their perception of the Tournament, who knew what decisions could be made?

As the two witches scrambled up the final few rocky stretches of the crest, Hermione estimated they now had about three hours to reach their destination and complete the Task. Time was becoming a critical factor.

The ground fell away gently before them, in a long, rolling slope. The trees gradually thinned out. Hermione just knew that at the base lay the Black Lake. She peered ahead, expecting to spy the grey reflective water at any moment. Instead her eyes landed on a thick black line obscuring the foot of the slope.

Fleur saw it too. “What eez zat?” she complained.

“No idea,” Hermione responded breathlessly. Endurance training had brought her so far, but her muscles were beginning to ache from the accumulated exertion.

As they closed, the barrier’s nature made itself known. Hermione’s thoughts drifted off to the classic fairytales her parents once read to her at bedtimes, well before she could devour the books herself. ‘Snow White? Sleeping Beauty?’

Fleur literally stopped dead in her tracks, staggered by the obstacle’s nature. She stood arms akimbo. Hermione could see her lips moving, but no sound escaped them.

At least twenty feet high, a barrier of stout branches bristling with wicked-looking thorns barred their way. Hermione was not sure whether it was composed of magical versions of Hawthorn or Blackthorn, or some other foreign plant.

Regardless, they would have to make their way over, under, through or around the enhanced zariba, as it stretched out to left and right as far as she could see.

Fleur approached it tentatively. “We could climb it, non?”

Hermione eyed the branches warily. The limbs, thick and strong, were covered with thorns the size of daggers. Everything intertwined so densely. Barely any space remained through the latticework of branches to espy the grey water that lay beyond. Worse, the tips glistened with an opaque liquid. After first mistaking it for rainwater, Hermione’s careful closer look saw that the liquid oozed from the thorns.

“I wouldn’t,” she cautioned. “I’m almost certain that’s some sort of magically poisonous plant.”

Fleur leaned over and examined it herself. “Hmmm,” she intoned quietly. “I zink you are right.” Then she took a couple of steps back.

“Reducto!”

Her powerful Reductor Curse smashed into the thicket, punching a narrow hole. Ignoring the smell of damp, acrid smoke, both witches moved to review the progress.

There was but a tiny hole, perhaps two inches wide. It made no appreciable difference to the overgrown hedgerow.

Thwarted, Fleur snorted, took another couple of steps back, and settled herself with legs braced apart, arms extended and both hands clenched about her drawn wand. Her pose recalled other characters from Hermione’s childhood, of Westerns and Cowboys and Indians, or maybe something more modern...

“Confringo!” Fleur visibly put everything into her Blasting Curse. When the echoing report subsided, she raised her wand like a Gallic female Clint Eastwood, her wand tip smouldering with a thin trail of whitish mist.

The results did not make her day.

A thin smoke haze drifted away from the obstacle, revealing a somewhat larger hole, but as they watched the branches grew, thickened, extended and entwined to block the small gap.

“Merde,” Fleur spat. She steadied herself for another go, giving Hermione a meaningful look. The Gryffindor moved almost to Fleur’s side, her own wand now trained on the black mass of vegetation.

“Confringo!”

“Bombarda!”

The recoil of her own casting staggered Hermione. She shared another look with Fleur and they both strode forward to examine the results of their handiwork.

The gap was larger, but still too small to allow either of them to slip through. Even that soon disappeared as almost immediately the plant’s self-renewal began, filling in the gap with nature’s equivalent of razor wire.

“Remember the myth of the Hydra?” Hermione asked her cohort. Fleur nodded. They walked back, turned, and tried something else.

“Inflammare!”

“Incendio!”

The same flames that had proved so useful against the Acromantulas laid waste to the thorn bushes. Perhaps they could incinerate the plant, and if not destroy it, render it either more frail and open to the Blasting Curse, or at least exhaust its capacity for rejuvenation.

The pungent wood smoke was far stronger. As it thinned they saw that the branches burned, but remained fixed in position. Fleur cast yet another Reductor Curse, and although it again smashed a small hole in the barrier, the plant was not noticeably weakened. Before they had even come within three feet, their way was sealed once again.

“Through,” Hermione said grittily, “is definitely out.”

Having apparently reached a similar conclusion, Fleur stared at the top of the barrier, measuring its height and apparent depth. “I suppose you have not a broom, by luck?” she asked.

“Umm... no,” Hermione replied. “That’s Viktor’s forte.”

“Eef ’e ’as ’idden anuzzer one zen ’e probably wins zee Task, aussi,” Fleur admitted with a sly smile. “I suppose zees is why ze brooms are forbidden,” she concluded.

“Sounds right, but that doesn’t change what either of us has to do,” Hermione maintained.

“C’est vrai. Alors! Do you know zee Lifting Charm?” Fleur asked without taking her eyes off of the top of the massive hedge.

“The Levitation Charm?” Hermione thought back how useful ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ had proven three years ago, and then looked doubtfully at the thorns. “I do but…” She held out her hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not sure I could lift you up and over that distance safely.”

Fleur looked at her dubiously, and then nodded her head slowly. “Ees too dangerous,” she admitted.

Hermione looked back at the trees, far taller here than at the lower elevation, the nearest being some twenty yards away. An idea forming in her mind, she ran over to it and looked up at the trunk. The lowest branches were about thirty feet above her head. She could not climb that far, but…

“Could you cast it on me?” she called over to Fleur. “Help me up the tree?”

Appearing intrigued, Fleur walked over. “Okay.” She pointed her wand at Hermione. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

A feeling of weightlessness settled upon Hermione as her feet left the ground and dangled in mid-air. She knew that it took some effort to lift even her slight weight to the desired height. Steadying herself on rough hunks of tree bark, she prayed that Fleur’s magical strength matched her status as a Triwizard Champion.

She risked a glance down at Fleur, whose face showed the strain. Turning away with a gulp, Hermione tried to help by pulling herself upward along the trunk. She hoped this would not lead to a pair of broken ankles.

Finally, she floated high enough to grab the first substantial branch. At least this tree was at the edge of the Forest, so its canopy started relatively low. That also meant, however, that she was not nearly high enough to fulfil her plan. For the first time wishing she were less of a bookworm and more of a tomboy, Hermione edged higher, her hands grabbing hold of thicker branches, her feet seeking safe footholds. The bark nicked and grazed her fingers and palms, stinging in the cold.

Perhaps she should have worn her mittens...and brought a broom... and remembered food. For all her supposed planning, Hermione had to admit her execution was rather poor.

The next time Hermione looked down, she realised she was at least thirty feet above the top of the zariba, certainly high enough to experience that telltale nausea born out of vertigo. From her perch she could see that the thorny barrier did indeed stretch out in both directions to the limit of her visibility, and was at least ten feet thick. The lake lay no more than a hundred yards away. And, far away in the murk, Hermione could barely make out what had to be the Astronomy Tower. ‘Must be… what, three or four miles away?’

She scanned the foreshore for anything that would allow her to attempt her plan. Nothing… no, there! A boulder, surely a glacial erratic, that appeared placed by a giant’s hand instead of being exposed natural rock.

Hermione steadied herself, one hand gripping the trunk so tightly it hurt; in her free hand, her wand trained on the boulder. “Incarcerous!”

Strands of conjured rope, as strong as steel, whipped out from her wand tip, flew well over the thorns and snapped around the rough-hewn irregular boulder, wrapping themselves tight.

Hermione hauled on the line, making sure it was taut and in no immediate danger of dislodging from its rocky anchor. Then she secured her end around the thick tree trunk with a Fastening Charm. Cautiously she leaned on the line to see if anything gave way under her weight.

It seemed secure. She risked pressing down on it with her entire if slight mass; the ropes barely gave more than an inch or two.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites?” Fleur called up. Hermione, in her concentration, had almost forgotten about the Frenchwoman.

“It’s a… zip line,” Hermione called back, almost calling it by its better-known name: a death slide.

“Comment?”

Of course, a French-born part-Veela would hardly recognise a Muggle recreational activity. “We slide down it.”

“Slide?” Fleur’s disbelief was audible.

“Yes, slide.” Hermione made a slow gliding gesture with her free left hand.

“Ah, mais oui.” Fleur grasped the idea. She cast something soundlessly on herself, and as Hermione watched the Frenchwoman started to lift in the air, until she was finally hovering level with her. “Aprè s vous.”

Nervously, Hermione conjured up a smooth metal handle, U-shaped and with handgrips at both ends, which she looped over the line. She licked her lips, hoping that she had not over-estimated her abilities, grabbed a firm hold of the handle, and kicked off from her perch.

The first few feet were slow, but gradually momentum built, and Hermione approached the prickly barrier at an angle within seconds. Although she had allowed plenty of clearance, and the line did not sag noticeably, Hermione still swung her legs up, her forearms and thighs protesting the effort. Before she knew it, she was clear and sliding down towards the ground at a safe, comfortable pace. Not that her legs were steady when she touched down, nor that her heart was calm. In fact, exactly the opposite.

It was a rush.

‘Boy!’ she thought. ‘That was… kind of fun! Not as much fun as Flying with Harry on Buckbeak, but… wow!’

Emboldened by the success of her plan, she turned and waved at Fleur, who had taken her place on the now vacated branch. Fleur seemed to be applying a spell to the soles of her shoes, but in this light and distance Hermione could not be sure. Either way, Fleur did not seem to be preparing to follow her example.

Instead, with almost balletic poise, Fleur stepped out onto the line. Hermione found it difficult to believe, but the French witch was going to use Hermione’s conjured rope as an angled tightrope!

Perfectly balanced, Fleur funambled her unhurried way down the line, although she did move faster on the stretch immediately above the thorn barrier. At the end she leapt off and landed on both feet with almost unnatural grace. “Voila!”

The sprained ankle was obviously better, Hermione thought, before, to her surprise, Fleur wrapped her in a hug. “C’est magnifique!” she exclaimed, before releasing the Gryffindor.

“You… you’re… welcome,” Hermione stammered.

Fleur’s attention switched to the dark grey stretch of water that lay before them. “Five, maybe six kilometres,” she said quietly. “C’est bon.” She turned back to Hermione.

“’Ere our ways part, ’Ermione Grangair. I must go to Gabrielle.” Her expression darkened. “Then I shall, ’ow you say, take words with zem!”

Hermione nodded. “Good luck, Fleur,” she replied.

“Merci et bon chance!” Fleur hailed before stripping off her outer layers of clothing, revealing a slip over her underwear. This she swiftly Transfigured into a one-piece silver swimsuit, in which Fleur looked impossibly at home. She cast a Warming Charm on herself, and then she ran into the shallow water before diving and moving away in a front crawl with deep, deliberate strokes.

Hermione stood for a few seconds watching the receding witch, before reminding herself that time was now definitely an issue. Except, she realised, swimming three miles or so was utterly beyond her capacity. All her original planning assumed she would start the Task from the Hogwarts shore, not face a long-distance swim.

She doubted she had time to circumnavigate the Black Lake on foot, and still reach Harry’s underwater location before sundown.

She needed options. She needed ideas. What she needed was a boat…

Her eyes blinked wide open in surprise. ‘Boat… or boot?’ She bent down and unlaced her left boot, slipping it off, then picking it up and carrying it to the edge of the lake before resting it in a few inches of clear water.

With her wand trained on the discarded boot, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Hermione focussed her entire concentration…

When she opened her eyes, her first thought was: ‘Well, what did you expect? The QE2?’

She had conjured a strange canvas and plastic construct that had some semblance of a rugged South Pacific islander’s canoe; that is if one could imagine such a canoe lacking smooth lines, with no raking bows and with an oddly curved stern.

Still, it floated, or did so until Hermione stepped very carefully into it. Despite her exercising extreme attention, or as much as possible for a landlubber like her, the moment she put any significant weight on the boat (or boot) it promptly capsized. She ended up on her backside in about a foot of cold water.

She identified at least one distinct similarity between her concoction and a South Pacific canoe: no keel.

But South Pacific canoes were not a pure single-hulled vessel...

‘Wait! That’s it!’

Quickly, Hermione reversed her Transfiguration, by then lying soddenly on its side. After a quick Drying Charm, she scanned the foreshore for any driftwood. Spying a promising piece, she summoned it. Then she removed the laces from her empty boot.

Soon she found herself looking at the same canvas and plastic hulls, linked together fore and aft by thick straps to two stout pieces of bamboo.

Hermione tried boarding again. The contraption was rather shaky, and she found if she leaned to one side the other almost lifted the other out of the water, but at least it did not seem prone to tipping over. Her first effort at maritime construction had mercifully been so poor that it never left shore. Of course, if she capsized mid-lake, that would have been a different question.

Hermione had no idea how to row a boat, or how physically hard that might be. Instead, she had a magical solution.

“Mobilinavis!”

Grabbing an uneasy hold of the sides, Hermione steadied herself as her strange and ungainly floating transport started to move at a stately pace away from the safety of land and towards far-distant Hogwarts.

Despite the absence of tide, wind and waves, Hermione’s boat still swayed, worse when she leaned some ways than others. She was reminded that she had often felt sea-sick on the safe bulk of cross-Channel ferries, and did not have sea legs. She also hoped no-one had prevailed upon Hagrid to provide any marine predators for this Task, although the presence of the Lake’s own inhabitants would almost certainly have ruled out the magical equivalent of a crocodile or Great White.

Glancing at her watch, she realised she only had just over an hour and a half to complete her Task. She did not reflect on the change in her perceptions that she no longer trusted the abilities or influences of Professor Dumbledore to keep Harry safe should she fail.

As the boat puttered along, Hermione allowed herself a little rest. She was not only physically tired, but the effort of continually casting low-power spells such as Warming Charms, along with secondary burst of more vigorous efforts such as Reductor Charms, had started to take their toll on her magical reserves. That realisation only added to a sense of frustration, and perversely she put a little more speed on her boat, running the risk of ploughing and drawing off even more of her own reserves.

She experienced one brief moment of terror when a huge sucker-covered tentacle broke the water’s surface and curved into the air, looming above her flimsy craft. Was this another of the Task’s defenders? Surely they had not brought a Kraken along?

Instead the football-sized eyes of the Giant Squid hove into view just feet below in the clear water of the lake… or, as Hermione’s rational mind calculated, what should really be called a loch. She knew that there were sea-water as well as fresh-water lochs in Scotland, whereas there were no saline water lakes in England, but from her training sessions in the Black Lake… sorry, Loch… she knew that the water was salt-free. Which should be a problem for a normal huge cephalopod, but at Hogwarts anything seemed possible!

Her idle thoughts returned to the present as the boat rounded a headland, Hogwarts loomed directly into view, about a mile and a half distant. In front of the Castle, at the foot of the lawns that sloped down to the Black Lake, now visible as the mist started to lift, were some unusual constructions. Tall and wide and filled with people, it seemed the Quidditch stands had been relocated for the day.

Obviously, thought Hermione, these were temporary stands for the spectators. And, if they were placed so, it was a reasonable assumption that she was close to the finishing point, so the crowd could view at least a small part of the Task.

Digging into her rucksack, Hermione withdrew the sealed plastic package of priceless Gillyweed. She took the plant out, slimy over her fingers, and quickly stuffed it into her mouth.

It was cold and rubbery, but there the similarity to undercooked calamari ended; it tasted foul and Hermione fought to chew and swallow it before she succumbed to temptation and spat it out.

As she swallowed, and overcame the urge to vomit, Hermione congratulated herself. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

With sudden and shocking swiftness she realised she could not breathe. Something was suffocating her! She felt dizzy, when someone also decided to attempt to slit her throat. Unbearable pain lanced from both sides of her neck. Hermione reeled, too hard and fast for the faux-boat to stand. One of the supports holding it together snapped, the hull lurched swiftly to one side. She stumbled heavily and the other support fractured. The entire boat capsized, tipping Hermione backwards into the freezing cold water.

Merlin, she was going to drown! Her mouth filled with water, suddenly no longer as ice cold as she feared, and as she fought to clear her mouth she…

...Realised she was not suffocating anymore.

Looking around in shock, the first thing she noticed was that her hands were now webbed, slender skin joining her fingers together.

A dull pain emanated from her left foot, the only one that still bore a boot. On her right foot her boot had turned into a large flipper, just like a diver’s, her thick woollen hiking sock already split and torn from the pressure within… except she was not wearing her right boot, she remembered... With a swift lace-loosening spell she cast off her left boot and eased another flipper into view, a little bloodied where it had tried to force its way out from the constricting boot.

Hermione raised her hands to her neck, where the sharp pain had receded as soon as she was submerged. Not at all unexpectedly, she found two large slits protected by flaps. Well, this was a new experience; she was now equipped with a fully-functioning pair of gills.

The water no longer felt at all cold, and Hermione quickly tore off most of her now unnatural and restraining clothing. She transfigured her bra and knickers into a black swimsuit, feeling far more comfortable, if not as suited to it as Fleur. Even the pressure inside her head had disappeared as if washed away.

Visibility was poor, only extending to about ten feet all round, so she swam with her wand held ahead of her, its lighted tip providing a little more vision. She was surprised to find that swimming underwater with her “modifications” was a lot easier and instinctive than it had been on the surface. She could really take to this!

She shook off such frivolous thoughts and reminded herself that she was not down here to enjoy herself. Somewhere in these depths Harry Potter was secreted away. She had less than an hour to find him, before the effects of the Gillyweed ended.

Which way to go?

Down, past the rocky outcrops and huge thickets of black weed that loomed out of the murk.

She assumed that the Merpeople would most likely be found on the loch bed.

A huge shadow passed over her, plunging the pellucid water into darkness. For a second her heart froze, until she realised that it was the Giant Squid, seemingly ignorant or benevolent towards her presence in its element. It hesitated, as though deciding what to make of this new denizen of the depths. Gracefully, it changed direction and glided down to Hermione’s right.

As she watched, the Squid brushed a large clump of weed. In its wake the water seemed to boil, as a school of Grindylows debouched from the weed’s cover. Had they been waiting in ambush? Or had the faint trail of blood attracted them?

Whatever their original intentions, their present ill will could not now be doubted. The small water-demons advanced towards her. Whilst individually stronger than their size indicated, even a teenaged wizard could cope with one Grindylow. But Hermione was facing twenty or more, a far different matter. If they grabbed hold of her, Hermione could find herself dragged down to a grisly fate in the weed beds.

“Lumos Maximus!” The Grindylows, unaccustomed to bright lights in their natural habitat, shied away from the source, inhibiting their advance.

“Sonorus!” Hermione steadied herself before letting loose a roar that she did not know she possessed. The sonic pressure waves she generated crashed into the Grindylows, and they slammed their long fingers over what passed for ears, reeling away as though inebriated.

With swiftness that she was equally shocked to find she had, Hermione shot through the midst of the water-demon pack before they could react. With her upgraded body parts they would never catch her up.

Her fundamental problem remained, however. Harry could be anywhere. Even assuming that the Grindylows were hiding somewhere near the Champions’ expected route, that could lie in any direction. She was lost.

The Giant Squid floated nearby; although she could not see it, its shadow betrayed its presence. It appeared almost to be waiting for her. Had it deliberately disturbed the Grindylows? Without it, Hermione would have walked - no, swum - straight into their trap. Could it be..?

The shadow seemed to turn then moved ahead of her. She caught glimpses of the cephalopod breaking the murk as it moved deeper. Perhaps if she followed it?

With no better ideas, except that the merpeople probably lived in the deepest part of the loch, as far away from the landlubbers as possible, Hermione decided to follow.

She had been swimming for a good half hour according to her well-nigh indestructible watch, casting Warming Charms on herself as she tired, before the Giant Squid halted its progress and floated in the dark green curtain ahead of her. Obviously, her guide was going no further. Hermione swam forward cautiously, then a glint of something ahead caught her eye. She headed determinedly in that direction.

The glint had been silver, and Hermione quickly came across the Delacour sisters: Fleur, with the aid of a Bubblehead Charm, was moving upwards; one hand firmly grasping the smaller form that was, Hermione presumed, Gabrielle, seemingly unconscious. Fleur’s deductions had been correct.

As Hermione approached, the Frenchwoman twirled and aimed her wand before recognizing who it was. With barely a glance at Hermione’s transformed hands and feet, and unable to exchange any words, Fleur aimed her glowing wand downwards. A bright golden trail blazed through the murk.

The message was unmistakeable. Hermione gave Fleur the thumbs-up and dived deeper.

Soon she could catch snatches of melodic and haunting song.

Champions of heart and skill

Visit our realm if dare you will

Hear yee the cadence of our song

But time passes, tarry not long

Trusted with a treasure are we

Whose loss to you would painful be

Increasing her pace, Hermione steamed past a series of algae-covered cliffs and down to the loch floor, before entering what could only be the home of the merpeople.

A strange cloud of plankton emitted a sickly yellow luminescence. In the eerie half-light Hermione could make out crude stone dwellings, with dark doorways and what might be windows, all stained by the ravages of weed. Although not ruins, they seemed abandoned.

The sounds came from further on, and Hermione swam deeper towards the village centre.

Lament you would, and cry and pine

For what was yours is now all mine

Sunset is the appointed hour

To return to the castle tower

For what we have we always hold

Ends now this does our story told

Now she spotted the first of what she assumed were mermen and mermaids, with powerful fishtails covered with silver scales. They all watched her with interest as she passed, and some followed in her wake. Hermione ignored them. What mattered lay ahead.

The singing reached a crescendo, and then died away suddenly as Hermione came across an area clear of dwellings, a courtyard of sorts. Directly ahead stood rickety wooden structure, maybe the remains of a ship, or the age-blackened skeleton of some great marine creature, where a host of merpeople awaited her. Others were perched on small, weed-covered rocks or huge shells.

Hermione would normally have enthused over an opportunity to meet an unknown, to her, magical species, perhaps even take the time to try to converse with them.

Not now.

Her attention was fixed on a series of large iron cages that lay before her and her marine audience.

Three had opened gates and were empty.

One was still sealed and occupied.

Hermione raced up to the last one and grabbed hold of the rusty bars with both hands.

She saw Harry. If not for the continuous thin stream of bubbles that meandered upwards, Hermione could have sworn he was dead. A quick glance at her watch gave her about ten minutes' grace.

“Harry!” she yelled, her voice sounding alien in the surroundings.

He did not stir. Like poor Gabrielle Delacour, he seemed to be in a deep sleep, his head lolling on his shoulders in the slight current.

Hermione shook the locked and barred gate cut into the ironwork. It would not budge. She floated back a few feet, and aimed her wand. No time for ingenuity.

“Bombarda!” With a flash and burst of bubbles the lock exploded and the gate swung open. Hermione shot into the cage and grasped Harry.

“Harry! Harry! Wake up!”

No response.

Hermione manhandled Harry along behind her, out of the cage, and into a crowd of celebrating merpeople.

“Out of the way! Please get out of my way!”

She fought her way through the admiring throng, her mind fixed on one objective: to reach the surface as soon as possible. She had no idea if the Bends might affect either Harry or her. She was running out of time, and had no choice but to ignore that risk.

Breaking free of the well-intended embraces of Harry’s hosts, Hermione swam determinedly upwards. She was starting to feel exhausted. Maybe another Warming Charm would help send fresh blood into her tired muscles.

The water, still a dark green, lightened imperceptibly. From nowhere a sudden and savage pain shot through her right hand. She lost grip of her wand.

Somewhere Professor Moody would be cursing her inattention.

Hermione’s heart froze as she realised that a Grindylow had attacked from a blind angle. It sunk its teeth deep into her wrist, her blood seeping out in a dark cloud. The creature dug its inhumanely strong talons deep into her flesh, twisting hard.

Hermione may have heard, or perhaps just felt, a snap as her bones fractured.

Damn it, the same wrist Malfoy had broken!

In agony, and with her free hand keeping a tight grip on Harry, Hermione barely noticed her wand gently sinking out of sight.

What she did see was another group of Grindylows closing in on them.

Twisting with a litheness that she did not normally possess, Hermione savagely drove her left knee into the Grindylow’s face. Its grip weakened a shade. Again Hermione desperately smashed her knee into the demon’s skull. It fought back, trying to slash her face. Its claws only nicked her chest, but its arm presented a target. Almost weeping tears of frustration, Hermione returned the favour.

She bit the Grindylow’s forearm with all her might, ignoring the unimaginable taste.

That gained its attention. Its mouth loosened its grip on her wrist, blood flowing freely from the wound it had inflicted. Hermione did the same, with the same result. Quickly, she contorted her body so that she could force its remaining grip with both feet.

Just in time the injured and half-stunned Grindylow lost its hold. Before its fellows could close in, Hermione pushed herself upwards, Harry in her slipstream, kicking furiously towards freedom.

Hermione could not spare her injured wrist any attention. Her arms and legs were starting to cramp up. She started to incant another Warming Charm, when the loss of her wand struck home.

Crying fiercely, in part from her rising pain, but more from sheer frustration at the unfairness of the whole situation, she swam harder, pushing herself as the light became a bit brighter and the verdant shades started to pale.

‘Not far now; not far now,’ she urged herself onwards.

‘Nor far now, not - aargh!’

Pain flared behind her knee as a cramp cut in hard in her left calf muscle.

‘Not now! Please, Merlin, not now!’

Her progress rapidly slowed to a halt. With her left leg suddenly all but useless, she could barely keep herself from sinking. With her damaged right hand she reached awkwardly down and tried to massage a little feeling back into her muscles. That hurt her arm more than it helped her leg.

But the pain in her left leg paled into insignificance, replaced by a growing pain in her chest. Hermione instinctively took a deep breath and then nearly choked as, for the first time in an hour, breathing in water became a problem.

One glance at her near normal hand told her the fatal story. The Gillyweed effects were wearing off and fast. Throbbing from her rapidly closing gills reinforced the message.

Hermione needed oxygen, and fast. A Bubblehead Charm was no use. Even if she had her wand; she had no air to trap within it.

She had to move up towards the dim light.

Sobbing, her lungs starting to protest at the lack of oxygen, she kicked off with her right leg.

How close to the surface was she? She had to make it; had to!

The pressure within her chest increased.

‘Damn it, Granger! Kick!’

Harry’s weight suddenly disappeared. Fearing she had lost her grip, Hermione twisted and turned to see what had happened. She saw a pair of legs and a dark cloak floating a few feet above her. She tried to reach out towards what must he Harry, but found him just out of her reach.

“Ha-”

The pressure in her chest was unbearable. She could feel blood pounding in her head. She had to exhale, but the water filled her mouth, forcing its way down her throat, choking her cry of despair.

Choking for a few seconds, Hermione’s vision started to close down, the translucent water turning darker as she slipped further away from the safety of the surface, now tantalisingly but forever out of her reach. Her movements slowed despite her increasingly panic-stricken state. The pressure behind her eyes was nigh unbearable, as her vision started to first turn red, then start to close down as the edges turned black.

Hermione could no longer raise her arms. Instead of obeying orders and striking out vainly for safety, they floated out until she was in the cruciform position. Her head tilted back and her last air bubbled away in front of her tortured eyes.

Harry was moving away from her, she thought. Or was she moving away from him? It was so difficult to tell…

‘It’s cold… and I’m tired, so tired…’

She had escaped a Death Eater’s curse, only to drown a few hours later.

Something or someone roughly took hold of her left arm. Hermione wished they would just leave her alone. She had lost sight of Harry. She had failed; no, worse - she had failed Harry.

‘I’m sorry, Harry...’

Light! Perfect light!

Hermione was being hauled out of the water, urgent shouts ringing in her ears. She opened her mouth to breathe but found she could not.

‘How? Why? I can’t drown on dry land can I? That doesn’t make sense.’

Her body landed painfully on its side with a loud thud on a solid, wooden surface. Normally she would complain, but now just lacked the energy or the drive. Instead Hermione lay on one side, trying desperately to retch.

“Anapneo!”

She succeeded in retching and breathed in sweet, chilled, damp Scottish air, coughing out water and exchanging it for oxygen, before flopping back onto the decking.

“Let me see that wrist.” A hurried yet professional tone. Her right arm was lifted unresistingly off the deck. Hermione was not concerned. What little strength she had left was directed towards lifting her head, searching for what she knew she had lost.

“Episkey!” The pain in her wrist disappeared, but Hermione had no time to waste.

“No,” she groaned despairingly. “Not me… Harry… find Harry.”

In her mind, she was trying to jump back into the water, after Harry. Yet her movements were those of a fish on a dock, flopping around uncontrollably.

Somebody cast Warming and Drying Charms. Somebody else, Hermione was not sure who, was trying to wrap her in a huge soft, fluffy towel. She fought against this too. “No! You must find Harry!” She struggled to free herself, her eyes darting across the now grey water. “He’s still there. I - I let go of his hand.” Her eyes pricked with tears.

“Miss Granger, you must remain -”

“No!” Hermione nearly screamed; at least she thought she did. Why did these people not understand? What did it matter if she were safe when Harry was not? “You must find Harry!”

Uncomprehending faces stared back at her. Were they all mad?

“He’s probably drowning by now.” Her exhausted mind raced with panic-stricken possibilities. Where was her wand?

A strong pair of hands grabbed her not unkindly by the temples, and she found herself staring straight at the pasty-faced but serious visage of Neville Longbottom.

“Hermione,” he said urgently. “Harry’s okay. Look.”

Neville turned her head in the indicated direction. Hermione’s heart almost stopped when she saw a familiar messy mop of black hair swaddled in more huge towels.

“You did it. You got him back,” Neville added, although his admiring words meant nothing. Hermione’s mind was already refocusing on the reality of the situation.

She wanted to sprint over to Harry, to hug him, to check that he was not some mirage driven by oxygen starvation. But her tired muscles simply would not respond, and she found herself again sprawled on the deck when she tried to break free of her own pile of bath linen and blankets.

The commotion drew Harry’s attention to her, and his pale, tired face broke into that familiar grin, followed by a wink of one eye.

Finally, convinced Harry was not about to expire on the spot, and was actually in good hands, with Ron and Ginny making sure he was being looked after, and Madam Pomfrey fussing between the two Gryffindors, Hermione allowed herself to relax for the first time since… well, probably sometime yesterday.

She did wonder why Ron was sopping wet when every other spectator was dry.

To her surprise, when Hermione took in closer surroundings, she found Viktor Krum kneeling at her side alongside Neville. She was about to ask what her supposed opponent was doing when a raised voice stilled the hubbub.

“… Broke the rules, Albus. She must be disqualified!”

Karkaroff’s anger, synthetic or not, was evident in the edge in his voice.

“Come now, Igor,” Dumbledore’s calm reply drifted across the water. “The Task was to return the prize to the surface, which was easily…”

The rest was lost as two stern-faced witches, Pomfrey and McGonagall, loomed over Hermione.

“I don’t care what the Headmasters have to say on the matter,” the nurse said waspishly as she leaned over to carry out a closer examination. “I want all four - well, I’m not sure what they were, but all four contestants and their companions - in the Hospital wing as soon as possible. We could be talking about nosocial pneumonia, all sorts of things. And Miss Granger’s wrist needs proper attention.”

“If you say so, Poppy.” McGonagall regarded Hermione with a critical eye. “Well, do you think you can make the Hospital Wing under your own steam, Miss Granger?”

Hermione tried hard to rise, but her tired muscles refused to cooperate. She staggered and sank back to the swaying wooden deck of what she now grasped was a large pontoon moored to the lakeside. “I’m sure I can,” she said with little respect for the truth, refusing to admit defeat.

She would crawl if she had to.

“No, you stay there,” McGonagall said firmly. She stood back, and immediately Madam Pomfrey filled the gap, handing a steaming mug to Hermione.

“Here, drink this.”

Following instructions, Hermione did so, and felt warmth flood through her body as the potion did its work. She thought steam might have exited her ears, but that was probably a trick of her exhausted state. In the background she could hear McGonagall ordering somebody around.

“Is not necessary,” she heard Viktor say. “I vill carry Herm-own-ninny.”

“You will not, Mister Krum!” Madam Pomfrey’s command was issued in an iron tone that brooked no argument, world-renowned Quidditch star or not. “I shall not have the competitors put under any further strain. You will accompany Miss Granger in order that I can check up on you as well, but that is all.”

Viktor’s expression moved from surly to… well, Hermione assumed it was a state of aggravated surliness.

“Attention, attention… Sonorus!” Ludo Bagman’s magically amplified voice drowned all other conversations. Hermione looked beyond the small knot of people on the pontoon and saw the Headmaster and the other judges now in a box atop the largest of the freshly-erected stands. “That’s better

“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have reached their decision, which will be final.” Hermione swore that as Bagman spoke, Dumbledore spared a glance at a still obviously seething Karkaroff.

“The Task was concluded when each Champion’s prize was brought safely to the surface. In reverse order of finishing, in fourth place, was Miss Granger of Gryffindor and Hogwarts.”

To Hermione’s surprise there was quite a cheer from the crowd.

Bagman waited for the applause to die away. “In third place, only minutes behind our second-placed competitor, was the Champion of Beauxbatons, Miss Delacour.”

As once again polite applause rippled through the crowd, Hermione glanced around but did not spy her new friend or her sister.

“In second place, representing Hufflepuff and Hogwarts, was Mister Diggory.” The cheers for Cedric were slightly louder than those Hermione received, but not by the margin she expected.

“And, in first place, and the clear leader in the Triwizard Tournament, is Master Krum from Durmstrang!” The cheers resounded around the valley, although Hermione noticed only a desultory clap of the hands from Karkaroff

“The third and final Task, and the award of the Triwizard Trophy, will take place on the evening of June the twenty-fourth. The nature of this Task will be revealed to our four Champions one month before that date. I want to thank all of…”

Hermione allowed Bagman’s voice to drift away. She noticed someone standing still on the shore, staring motionlessly at her.

It was Draco Malfoy, and his look could only be described as one of deep surprise.

Her view of the Slytherin was almost immediately blocked by McGonagall, who was dragooning the Weasley Twins onto the pontoon, with an ancient-looking stretcher levitated behind them. “Now, you two can help Miss Granger up to the Hospital Wing. And no dropping the stretcher!”

Hermione’s mind discarded thoughts of Malfoy and finally fixed on the absence of her wand. “Professor? Professor McGonagall?” The older woman turned back, a quizzical eyebrow raised. “My wand… I lost my wand,” she admitted feebly.

“Indeed?” McGonagall looked a little disappointed. “I assume that this was at the tail end of the Task?” Hermione nodded. “I will see what can be done, Miss Granger. I shall have a word with the Headmaster immediately.”

As McGonagall set off on her task, and Ron moved over to check that she would be safe in, or maybe from, the tender mercies of his older brothers, Hermione reflected: ‘Two down, one to go.’

* * * * *

The “Men from the Ministry” was a popular radio situation comedy that was broadcast in the 1960s & 1970s, so I remember it from my childhood. The civil servants there were bumbling and incompetent, as opposed to their magical counterparts who are bigoted and… incompetent.

Thanks to beta reader George for the following Bulgarian translations:-

Smyrtnozhadni laina = Death Eater shit.

Ti ne si mi kazal za nikakvi pravila = You didn't tell me about any rules.

Skupi mi, Viktore, ti ne slushashe li kato ti kazvah, che Quiditcha ne e vsichko? Zatova magareshkia inat shte ti struva skupo edin den = Dear me, Victor, you did not listen when I was telling you that Quidditch is not everything? That's why your donkey stubbornness will cost you dearly one day.

Madame Maxime suggests Karkaroff might face the sack. This was a suggestion of beta reader Bexis, who made a very good comparison of the International Confederation of Wizards to the old Holy Roman Empire: no real power but enough weight to meddle.

The Entente Cordiale was an informal arrangement made by Great Britain and France in 1904 that resolved outstanding colonial disputes, primarily over North and Central Africa. Brought about in part by both countries concerns re: the rising power of Kaiser Wilhelm’s Germany, it was a major factor in the collapse of diplomacy that led to the Great War. Hermione and Fleur come to a similar informal arrangement to overcome their immediate mutual difficulties.

JKR has provided contrary information regarding the positioning of the Forbidden Forest. In the books it is placed to the west of Hogwarts, but the map she drew placed it to the east. I am following the books.

Mini Cooper is the world-famous British small car from the 1960s, probably best known for winning the Monte Carlo Rally (before the organisers changed the rules) and featuring in both the original and the (lousy) re-make of ‘The Italian Job.’ The model continued in production until 2000.

Hermione’s and Fleur’s escape from the Acromantulas is stolen straight from ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.’ And Fleur is a Gallic Dirty Harry.

We know from canon that Hermione hates flying. Is it because she was put off by her first flying lesson, when she could not raise her broomstick? Reading ahead does not help her on that score. Or, as she declares in the film version of Prisoner of Azkaban, is it that she hates heights. I have favoured the latter option, as I prefer my heroes / heroines to have flaws, so this Hermione suffers from vertigo. So do I, although strangely I don’t mind flying once I’m in the air; of course, it’s the method of coming back to earth that is the problem!

Walt Disney’s version of Sleeping Beauty, which features the barrier of thorns, was based more upon Charles Perrault’s version of the story as opposed to that of the Brothers Grimm. I do not believe that the Perrault story, which was longer and darker, would be one told to young children. Hermione is confusing the film and the book versions.

Zariba is a protective thorn hedge placed around villages or camps in the Sudan.

Bexis suggested a boat some months ago, as it was a safer and quicker option for our bookworm, and was not an idea we could recall from another story. Ironically, the very next day after writing that scene, I read a story where Harry conjured a raft!

The QE2, as the Cunard liner Queen Elizabeth 2 was colloquially known, was the most famous British liner of the time, and was undergoing an extensive and much-publicized refit at the time this story is set.

Apparently, drowning people are psychologically and physically unable to cry out for help. Apparently, in the case of the latter, the body’s respiratory system takes over, and the need for breath takes precedence over the need for speech. Neither can they wave for help when on the surface, as the natural reaction is to press down on the water and leverage the body out of the water.

If you can’t speak French… well, I am sure you don’t need me to translate Fleur’s insults for you!

For all those of you who read chapter #15 and left it with Hermione still underwater, please go back and read it again, otherwise this chapter will not make sense. The original upload of the last chapter cut off the end, and although this was fixed as soon as I became aware, some of you may have only read the incomplete version.

As ever, I owe a great deal to my beta readers, Bexis and George. And to JKR, who allows us to play in this world without owning anything of it. It is all hers.

“Why do I always end each Task retching?”

Gentle laughter greeted Hermione’s mock-plaintive question as she sat up in the bed she currently occupied in the Hospital Wing.

To her delight, the quiet, appreciative chuckle from the next bed over proved that Harry Potter had somehow, though not entirely through her own efforts, been safely retrieved from the bottom of the Black Lake, while suffering no apparent ill effects. It was only Madam Pomfrey’s preoccupation with seven other patients that kept Harry here, biding his time until he was released.

Hermione was in that strange mood that accompanied accomplishment: a kind of boneless, nerveless, totally exhausted satisfaction. She eased back, propped up by plump pillows emblazoned with the Hogwarts’ coat of arms. She had already disclosed most of what had happened over the previous twenty-four hours to her friends, but kept one crucial chapter secret.

A handful of Gryffindors surrounded the two beds: four Weasleys and Neville Longbottom. Surprisingly a lone Ravenclaw, the quiet but fascinated Luna Lovegood, had somehow tagged along.

“You know what I really can’t understand,” Ron opened with a less-than-serious air.

“Most things,” Ginny shot back. In was a measure of how relaxed the air was that Ron did not explode, instead smiling resignedly as his brothers cracked up.

“Cheers, Ginny. No, I mean, I would never have thought that Harry would be regarded as your treasure…”

Ron Weasley was not Fleur Delacour. Hermione felt herself tense, in case Ron was his usual self and made some unthinking comment that started an argument. She barely noticed three other Weasleys check their breath.

“Now, that damned ugly cat, I could understand,” Ron continued, “but I would have laid a Galleon or two on Hogwarts: A History being dumped in the lake for you to find,” he finished anxiously, by then realising that he had stepped onto uncertain ground.

It seemed that the other Gryffindors were awaiting some serious response from Hermione, but she surprised them by lightly smacking Ron on the arm in mock admonishment. “Ron!” she said with just a hint of humour, which was altogether lost in the nervous laughter than then surrounded her bed. “So, how did I end up a drowned rat on the deck?”

“It was Harry,” Ginny pointed out. “Your ‘treasure’ turned the tables.”

“With a little help from Viktor Krum,” Neville added. Ron’s low grumble did not go unnoticed by Hermione, but she let it pass. Ron’s petty jealousy towards Viktor could be ignored for now.

“Yes,” Ginny bit back, “but Harry was first.” She beamed at the other bed’s occupant, who looked embarrassed at the attention.

“Nothing much to say. I sort of woke up and found myself splashing about in the lake,” he shrugged, visibly straining his memory a little. “Then I saw a hand poking out of the water before disappearing. That made me regain my senses pretty damned quick. I realised where I’d been and it was you who was dro- struggling, rather,” he added sheepishly.

“Then Harry dived under and dragged you back to the surface,” Ginny finished the story. “Krum dived back in and helped Harry, but Harry already had you back up. He was the one who saved you.”

Hermione’s eyes locked with Harry’s. Suddenly nobody else in the room mattered. “Harry,” she said quietly. “You can’t swim.”

“Umm… I might have splashed around a bit,” Harry admitted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what I did or how, but I could hardly leave you there and do nothing. Besides, it was Viktor who dragged you to dry land. Ron had to pull me out.”

Hermione knew that, regardless of any service she had completed on Harry’s behalf in the last day, she now owed him a debt. Her heart lurched a little more as the implications of his unselfish action sunk in, especially as Harry could not swim. She became a little guarded as she realised that the two of them still had an audience.

Breaking eye contact with Harry, Hermione swiftly changed the subject. “So, that explains you being sopping wet, Ron.”

Ron shrugged. “Didn’t do much. My best mate didn’t look too clever,” he said with rather unusual modesty.

“Well, I was bloody glad you were there,” Harry replied. “Cheers.” That brought a smile from Ron.

Hermione took another sip of vile tasting Skele-Gro. She had suffered a distal radius fracture to her right wrist, along with severe and deep lacerations thanks to the talons and teeth of that Grindylow. Her right forearm was magically splinted and bandaged whilst the potion worked its magic. Her left foot had been badly bruised as a result of being constricted by her boot during its Gillyweed mediated transformation, but an anti-swelling potion had quickly worked its magic.

Neville completed the short story. “Krum hit the water as soon as he saw you two in trouble, and while Ron landed Harry, he swam back to the pontoon with you. That’s when Karkaroff blew his top, started shouting that you should be disqualified.”

Hermione was not worried about that. The judges had already ruled that the Task had been completed when Harry broke the surface, although the irony that her situation could have been ruled: ‘Task successfully concluded; the competitor drowned’ was not lost on her.

“Malfoy didn’t take it well,” Ron said with an air of satisfaction. “Your reappearance, that is. He’d been boasting all day that we’d seen the last of you.”

“He seemed pretty damned convinced,” Neville added.

“Yeah, but he was absolutely stunned when your head bobbed out of the water. Strange that,” Ron mulled. “Normally he looks pig-sick whenever you show him up, Hermione. This time he just seemed… well, Neville got it: shocked.”

“Positively ashen,” George added.

“How could you tell?” Ginny replied. “He’s so bloody pale he’s more ghost than ferret!”

“Positively anaemic,” Fred commented.

George sported an evil grin. “Probably can’t get it up,” he added.

“George!” Hermione squeaked in admonishment as the boys guffawed.

As the Weasleys swapped stories and joking insults between each other and with Harry, Hermione sank back into her pillows and took in the other occupants of the infirmary.

Interestingly, although Viktor Krum had barely detained Madam Pomfrey, he remained in the infirmary, ensconced behind privacy screens at the bedside of Penelope Clearwater, who had been his ‘prize.’ Hermione hoped that this boded well for the two of them.

A privacy bubble surrounded the beds of the two Delacours. Madame Maxime had not been quick enough to raise it before Hermione caught the gist of an argument indicated by an incandescent Fleur. As far as her linguistic skills could make out, there would be hell to pay when the two Mademoiselles Delacour informed Monsieur Delacour and Madame Delacour of what had transpired. Judging by the severe expression worn by the towering Beauxbatons’ headmistress, Hermione gained the distinct impression that she was already regretting her compliance with Tournament rules.

Finally, Cedric Diggory sat in quiet and tender conversation with Cho Chang, whom he had rescued from the depths. Hermione found she envied the ease of the couple’s conversation. If only her relationship with Harry could be on so sound a footing!

A slight but insistent tugging on her hospital gown sleeve broke Hermione’s idle wishing. “Did you meet the merpeople?” Luna wanted to know. Hermione nodded. “I thought I could hear their singing,” the Ravenclaw added, her smile wide and genuine.

“They were,” Hermione confirmed. “It was beautiful.”

A dreamier than usual look alighted on Luna’s face. “We must go back and visit them again one day, to be sure.”

“I’d like that,” Hermione replied automatically, before realising that she actually meant it. “From what I saw of their village, it looked like a place that I’d love to take time to study.”

“Good. And maybe we can look for Blibbering Humdingers while we’re there.” Hermione blinked at another of Luna’s fantasies. The Ravenclaw cocked her head, as though the world was out of kilter, and regarded her new ‘friend.’ “I think I’ll see if there’s any pudding left.” With that she skipped off.

Ron shook his head, but Hermione’s knowing look kept his silence. However, Hermione’s unsatisfied appetite was reawakened by Luna’s mention of pudding. As if by magic, Madam Pomfrey appeared, levitating a tray that settled floating a few inches above Hermione’s lap. It contained a huge steaming bowl of Scotch broth and a mountain of sandwiches.

“You must be famished,” the nurse said, “so tuck in.”

Hermione, seeing Ron hungrily eyeing up the food, picked up a beef and horseradish sandwich. As she munched on it, she had to smack away Ron’s hand as he reached for the cheese and pickle. “Ow!”

“If you’re hungry, Mister Weasley, you could leave now and still catch dinner,” Madam Pomfrey observed. “In fact, Mister Potter is free to leave, so if you don’t mind waiting outside whilst he gets dressed, he’ll be able to join you in the Great Hall for dinner. I’m sure you’re just as hungry as Miss Granger.”

Harry beamed at that news.

“Come on, Ron,” Ginny urged, almost having to drag Ron away from the food in front of him. “Dinnertime!”

The Gryffindors drifted away, and Madam Pomfrey drew some privacy screens around Harry’s bed, so that he could dress whilst she fussed over her remaining patient. The nurse clucked as she drew her wand over Hermione’s right wrist, and then cast a few wider directed spells, umm-ing and aah-ing, before drawing back.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that I want to keep you in overnight.” As Hermione started to voice her disquiet, the nurse hushed her. “Nothing to alarm you, just your magical energy has been drained, and I’d rather make sure you were well rested.”

Hermione’s protests were half-hearted, as she knew the nurse was correct. That was one reason she nearly drowned. A whole day’s effort on almost no food had exhausted her physically as well as magically. Not that, she worried, she had her wand to use magic. Fretting about what would happen if her wand was lost forever, Hermione stared thinking about possible replacements, none of which could ever work as well as her trusty vine wood and dragon heartstring. Obviously that could mean her grades would start slipping…

“I’ll leave you to get on with your meal, dear.” Hermione hardly heard the nurse as she started to work herself up towards a panic attack. Luckily that train of thought was derailed when the privacy screen moved aside, and Harry stepped out, dressed in his school robes.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded. “I’m stuck here. Keeping me in overnight,” she said tersely.

“Why?” His brow furrowed in concern.

“Magical exhaustion, Madam Pomfrey thinks.” Hermione’s shoulders slumped a little. “Not that it matters now.” She grimaced. “I lost my wand.”

Harry’s expression brightened a little. “You can replace a wand, Hermione,” he said quietly. “A friend’s a lot harder to replace.”

Hermione experienced that little flutter in her heart again.

He moved to sit on her bed’s edge. “Looks like I owe you again,” he said lightly.

“No, you saved me,” Hermione pointed out. “I would have drowned.”

“Only after you’d dragged me up from the bottom of the lake,” Harry parried.

“You were stable there. I almost didn’t make it. If it hadn’t been for you…”

Harry shrugged off the praise. “I only did what came naturally. Viktor dragged you out of the water.”

“But it was you who brought me to the surface… where I could breathe.”

“After you’d saved me.” Harry reached out and swiped a sandwich. Hermione was not minded to bat his hand away.

“What happened to you?” Hermione asked as Harry bit into and savoured the snack. He struggled for a moment to swallow, then relaxed and finished chewing.

“Dunno. I remember being called out from Potions, which annoyed Snape -”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“- no end. He complained about both of us being unworthy celebrities, as per bloody usual. Anyway, I was called to see Dumbledore, and the next thing I know I’m swimming in the bloody lake!” He shook his head, and then took another mouthful of red salmon and cucumber. “Mmm! Good these,” he muttered through a full mouth. “Could do with just a splash more vinegar.

“Anyway, it was like a long sleep. No dreams or anything, just a feeling that I was floating. Nice and peaceful.”

Hermione thought through Harry’s short story. “They must have turned you over to the merpeople as soon as we’d been sent out to start the Task.” She shared a look with Harry. “You were trapped in an iron cage in their village. I don’t think they would have hurt you, but I wasn’t going to leave you down there.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied honestly. “Would have put a damper on The-Boy-Who-Lived’s reputation!” He smiled.

“Yes, well, I suppose it was my fault you were down there.” Hermione reawakened thoughts she had when talking with Sirius. “If I hadn’t interfered with that spell…”

“Don’t be silly, Hermione.” Harry ignored her little glare. Then his expression turned inscrutable. “Is it true,” he said slowly, “that I’m something you treasure?”

Hermione caught her breath. What could she say? ‘Of course you are, Harry. I think I’m in love with you’? She was suddenly and acutely aware of his searching look. “You’re my best friend, Harry,” she temporized. “Of course I treasure you - your friendship,” she caught herself. “I haven’t got many friends, and I’d like to keep those I have.”

Harry stared into her eyes, sighed and looked down, where Hermione’s left hand had unconsciously taken hold of his. Before Hermione could pull back, he ran his thumb over the back of her undamaged hand, and Hermione felt a little thrill.

“You know,” Harry began, his voice oddly thick, “I think that -”

“Ah!” The remaining privacy screens parted of their own accord as Professor McGonagall moved towards the bed. Guiltily, both teens snatched back their hands, although the teacher seemed not to notice their sudden flushes. “There you are, Potter. Be off with you - the Weasleys are blocking the corridor awaiting your appearance. And Miss Granger needs to eat.”

“Oh, right.” Harry rose rather unwillingly from his perch and stood. “See you tomorrow then, Hermione.”

“Yes, of course.” Hermione tried keeping disgruntlement from her voice. Her normally favourite teacher had shown awful timing.

“Och, you’ve let a fine broth go cold!” McGonagall scolded her student, and cast a warming charm on the bowl, which started to steam lazily again in seconds. “Now, I have some good news for you. The Headmaster retrieved your wand from the lake, and it is in fine working order.”

“Oh good! Thank you.” Hermione stretched out her good arm but found McGonagall shaking her head.

“Oh no, child. Poppy informs me that your magical reserves are severely depleted. I shall keep this with me, and return it to you at breakfast. Now, you get that fare down you, and get some sleep. You’ve deserved it.”

Hermione hid a scowl and started to sup on the admittedly excellent soup.

As she did, McGonagall cast Muffliato around the bed.

“The Headmaster will be in to see you later tonight, after the corridors clear. He says he had a visit from a four-footed friend” - McGonagall invested those words with a heavy emphasis “- and wished to discuss events with you.” Stepping back, she dispersed the spell.

“Nevertheless, you did extremely well, Miss Granger. You have acquitted yourself well in competition with older and more experienced students and achieved your goals so far. We are all very proud of you.”

Sensing McGonagall on the verge of sounding emotional, Hermione had one subject she wished to raise.

“Professor, you knew, didn’t you, that Harry was going to be my ‘prize’?”

McGonagall stiffened slightly. “That is true.” Her expression changed. “A most lamentable state of affairs, one from which I promise you I dissented. However, I can assure you that Mister Potter was never in any real danger, or so I was informed.”

Hermione thought for a moment, then pressed on. “Did you really believe that?”

McGonagall hesitated over her reply. “Not really, no,” she admitted. “I was concerned for all of our students’ safety. I was aware of the dangers you might face, but as to what would happen should any of you failed, I feared the consequences.” For a second that stern mask slipped a little. “If only this damned Tournament had never been resurrected.”

Hermione stayed silent. She had planned to ask how the ‘treasures’ were selected, but decided that perhaps she was better off not knowing.

McGonagall seemed to recover her equilibrium. “Still, at least the Second Task is complete, and you emerged with nary a scratch, comparatively speaking. You have qualified for the Final Task, and then this whole matter will be laid to rest.

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Good, then I shall see you at breakfast, rested and raring to go. I will leave you to finish your broth and such. Goodnight, Miss Granger.

* * * * *

Tired though she was, Hermione found rest elusive.

She expected the Headmaster to arrive before the long hours, so she tried to stay alert until then.

She could not help replaying the events of the last two days: the murder committed before her eyes; her own narrow escape from the same grisly fate; and her despair she had felt when she thought she had lost Harry in the Black Lake.

Those moments were the darkest she could ever recall. Strangely, her own seemingly imminent demise played little part in her calculations. When Harry slipped from her grasp and she could not find him, desolation had weighed her down as much as the water.

It was dark now. The lights had been extinguished, save the night light burning at the far end in Madam Pomfrey’s office. Hermione wondered idly if the nurse ever slept. She wished she had asked for something for that annoying headache that, fuelled by stress and worries, stealthily made a return.

She was the only occupant of the ward. All other champions and their ‘hostages’ had been given a clean bill of health.

Fleur and Gabrielle had both stopped by to express their thanks for her help, and to wish her a quick recovery. From the younger sister Hermione received the Gallic triple kiss on the cheeks. Gabrielle was young enough not to be as embarrassed as Hermione was.

Cedric Diggory had also come to wish her well before leaving, although Cho Chang hung back from Hermione’s bedside. He had been able to maintain a Bubble Head Charm for hours, and had rescued his girlfriend with time to spare.

Finally Viktor turned up at her bedside, more taciturn than ever. Hermione noted that Penelope Clearwater had already left – alone - reinforcing her own observations of the couple’s tense discussions on the other side of the ward.

As tactfully as she could, Hermione inquired about Penelope’s well- being. Viktor looked rather downcast and resigned.

“Pay-nay-low-pee vos not enjoying,” he muttered. “She says I am to blame for her being cold and vet.”

Hermione had expressed sympathy for Viktor’s predicament, but recalled how the older Ravenclaw had been amongst the many who initially believed Hermione cheated her way into the Tournament. Perhaps Ravenclaw’s reputation for intelligence was not as cracked up as it should be.

Viktor left after enquiring about her well-being, and indulged in protocol with small talk about the Tournament. The lights were lowered, and once again Hermione was once again left alone with her thoughts. She had already mentally composed her latest letter home, but her restless mind continued its analysis of events.

Hermione could not get Fleur’s words out of her mind. She repetitively sifted through her emotions and more particularly her feelings for one Harry Potter. Was she in love with him? Fleur disclaimed expertise, but the Beauxbatons’ girl obviously saw something strong between the two of them.

All Hermione knew was the ache she felt in her heart when she thought she had lost Harry. Was that love? Hermione could not say. She had never experienced anything similar before. This was all new – and preferable to the grimmer memories of the last twenty-four hours.

Suddenly, a noise, unidentifiable and almost inaudible; so faint that Hermione might have imagined it, but the night was so still and silent.

She knew she was someone’s target, and reflexively reached for her wand… Damn it! McGonagall still had it!

She stilled her breathing, concentrating hard, suppressing every sense save hearing. She strained to catch any sound, but all she heard was the abnormally loud thump of her heartbeat.

Her skin prickled, hairs standing up and goose bumps forming.

She was sure she was not alone.

A glance towards the faint illumination of Madam Pomfrey’s lamp did not suggest the nurse’s presence.

As quietly as she could, Hermione reached for the only potential means of defence at hand. Her fingers closed around the ice-cold metal bedpan that had been provided in lieu of magic.

She slipped from between the blankets and winced as her bare feet touched cold stone. Oblivious to the ridiculousness of her predicament, Hermione slunk to the privacy screen that divided her bed from what had been Harry’s, and raised her unusual weapon, ready to strike.

Yes… someone was there! A marginally blacker shade moved against the black background.

Hermione drew back the bedpan, ready for a swing against whoever stepped out…

She blinked furiously as the entire ward was bathed in light.

“Alastor.” Dumbledore’s quiet but authoritative tones carried no hint of surprise.

Moody’s reply was terse. “Albus.”

Hermione peered around the screen. Dumbledore stood in the entrance, his arms folded gently across his chest.

Moody, to no-one’s surprise, had his wand at the ready and was perhaps five yards away from her bed.

“I assume you are here to protect Miss Granger?”

“Aye, that’s it. Lassie’s made some enemies. Don’t like it she’s up ’ere on ’er tod.”

“In which case, I believe we should not endeavour to alarm her any further.” Dumbledore switched his eyes to Hermione. “An interesting choice of weapon, Miss Granger. I do hope that it is empty.” His eyes shone with humour.

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding and lowered the bedpan.

Moody looked her up and down. “No wand, Granger? What do I teach you all, then? Constant Vigilance!” He roared the last two words.

“I do believe that Minerva is holding Miss Granger’s wand for safe-keeping,” Dumbledore interjected. “She is, after all, supposed to be resting.” He moved towards her bed. “My apologies for the lateness of the hour. Unfortunately acting as host carries time consuming responsibilities.”

Hermione relaxed and sat back down on the bed.

“Still don’t like it, Albus,” Moody grumbled. “A bad job… witch without a wand?” He tut-tutted and shook his head. “Still, yeh’d heard me, made the best of what yeh had. Can’t fault yeh on that.” He, too, seemed to relax just a fraction, although he did not holster his wand.

“Why did you creep up on me in the dark?” Hermione complained of her Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

“Thought yeh might be a’kip. Didn’a want ta advertise my presence.” Moody defended his action. “Catch ’em by surprise.”

“Them?” Dumbledore’s question was light in tone but heavy in content. “Is there something I should know, Alastor?”

Magical eye spinning in its socket, Moody appeared disgruntled to Hermione’s eyes. “Not in front o’the lassie, surely. Need t’know basis.” He tapped his incomplete nose.

“As this matter concerns her,” Dumbledore replied equitably, “I am sure we can count on Miss Granger’s discretion.”

Moody glared unhappily at the Headmaster. “I think we both know summat that we haven’t told,” he replied gruffly. “Received an owl from one of my contacts earlier tonight. Seems one of our old friends had a contract put out on Granger here.”

“Indeed?” Dumbledore raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I am intrigued. Do tell.”

Moody stumped around to the bed, his false leg striking the flagstones. “Seems some of our brood ’ere ’ad ’ad a skin full of Granger.”

Hermione thought the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, and shivered.

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “I assume your contacts mentioned some names?”

Moody nodded. “Yep! Seems that Lucius Malfoy decided our girl had run out of time.”

Hermione felt warm… hot… sick. Someone had actually decided she had to die, a former Hogwarts’ governor no less, and was willing to pay for the privilege.

Dumbledore obviously noted her distress. He promptly conjured a glass, filled it with cold water in a stream from his wand, and offered it to his shocked student.

“’Cos our girl turned up, twas obvious they’d failed,” Moody continued. “Thought somebody might try agin, p’haps from one o’those cowards they’ve in Slytherin.”

“Draco,” Hermione said quietly, drawing attention from both teachers. She looked up at them and elaborated. “Ron and Neville said he’d been sure I wasn’t going to make it. He had to know about it.” She shivered. “Apparently he was badly surprised I made it back in one piece.”

“Knew ’bout it?” Moody shouted. “I’ll bet my peg leg the little bastard asked Daddy to do summat! Since yeh rubbed his nose in dragon dung, I bet he’s been whingin’ asking for the uppity Mudblood to be put in ’er place.”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore admonished his old colleague. “Language, please.” He then peered over his half-moon glasses at the grizzled ex-Auror. “I did warn you that your little ‘exercise’ could have repercussions.”

“Aye,” Moody acknowledged, “that yeh did. I didn’t think the little bugger was that vindictive, but he’s his old man’s boy, that’s for sure.”

“I take it there is proof to back up these accusations?”

Moody shook his head in the negative. “Knockturn Alley scuttlebutt, no more.” Then he looked shrewdly at Dumbledore. “But I’m betting yeh know more ’bout this than yeh’re lettin’ on, Albus.”

Dumbledore ignored the point. “Who was the contractor?”

“An old Death Eater pal o’Malfoy’s: Walden Macnair.”

“Indeed?” Dumbledore appeared unsurprised. Then he turned to Hermione. “You have already made his acquaintance.”

Hermione was lost. “I don’t recall anyone of that name.”

“Macnair was the Ministry’s executioner for dangerous creatures,” Dumbledore explained. “It was he who was due to put down Buckbeak last spring, before you thwarted him.”

“Oh!” Hermione felt more nauseous, recalling a brawny moustachioed man with a large and exceptionally sharp axe.

Moody fixed both his original and artificial eyes on the Headmaster, and then switched to Hermione, alternating between the two of them. “So, tell me what happened then, Albus, ’cos I’m told Macnair ain’t been seen since last weekend.”

“The story is really Miss Granger’s,” Dumbledore replied. “But, before she tells us her tale, I need to reintroduce you to someone.” His eyes flickered to Moody’s right hand. “And I would beg you to keep your wand away.”

Moody looked suspiciously at Dumbledore, and unwillingly holstered his wand. He sat ostentatiously heavily on the spare bed next to Hermione’s.

The double door leading to the corridors opened, and Remus Lupin entered, followed by a large black dog which padded into the infirmary. Moody sent dubious glances at all three of the other human occupants, and then looked quizzically at the dog.

The canine outline seemed to blur and stretch, growing taller, before coalescing into the familiar shape and features of Sirius Black.

“Merlin’s balls!” Despite his seconds-old promise, Moody already had his wand re-drawn and aimed at the Ministry’s most wanted fugitive from justice. “Black!” Sirius just raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

“Alastor! Lower your guard, please.” Dumbledore spoke slowly and clearly, brooking no disobedience.

“He’s a convicted murderer, Albus,” Moody spat through gritted teeth. “He betrayed James and Lily Potter.”

“I didn’t.”

“He’s innocent, Moody!”

“He didn’t!”

Sirius, Remus and Hermione spoke simultaneously, but with no noticeable effect on Moody’s outlook, or his wand.

“Dammit, Albus, what gives?” Moody was both angry and confused.

Dumbledore alone had a calm head. “Alastor, it is a long story, which we will discuss later, but I can assure you that Sirius Black is neither traitor nor murderer. Now, please, put away your wand.”

“I can vouch for him as well,” Remus added.

Begrudgingly, Moody conceded to lowering his wand, but did not holster it, instead keeping it gripped tightly in his hand, resting on his wooden leg. “If’n I didn’t know yeh better, Albus Dumbledore, I’d question yer sanity or ask ’ose been casting spells around yeh.” His electric blue eye remained in a fixed orbit, guarding against any move Sirius might dare to make.

Dumbledore tried to calm frayed nerves. “Sirius, join us and take a seat.” He conjured up four comfortable armchairs arrayed around the foot of Hermione’s bed. Then he turned to Hermione. “Might I suggest, Miss Granger, that on a cold evening, you would prefer your warm bed?”

Slipping back between the blankets, Hermione had no intention of missing out on this discussion. She was grateful when Dumbledore Accioed a warm dressing gown from a far cupboard, and she wrapped it around herself.

Sirius sat near to her right side. “You did it then, kid,” he said with no little trace of admiration.

“Hello again, Hermione.” Remus appeared tired, and his clothes remained worn and a touch shabby, but his weak smile was genuine enough.

“Hello, Professor Lupin.”

His smile grew a little wider. “Just Remus, Hermione. I haven’t been your teacher for some months now.”

“Harrumph!” All heads turned to Moody, who loudly and dramatically cleared his throat. “Now that all the reintroductions ’ave bin made, p’haps we can turn to business?”

Remus grinned. “Sorry Mad-Eye. I see you haven’t changed a bit.”

Moody, who would not relax enough to take a seat, stood where he could keep watch simultaneously on both the entrance and Sirius Black with his magical eye. His natural one glared at Hermione.

“You bin keepin’ secrets from me, Granger?” he growled menacingly. “We’ll be ’avin’ words later, missie.”

The prospect of that conversation made Hermione shudder.

“If I tell you,” Dumbledore began, “that Sirius was not James and Lily’s Secret Keeper, and that Peter Pettigrew is still alive, would that make a difference, Alastor?”

“It might,” Moody responded gruffly. “Be one ’ell of a tale.”

“Well, as I am under strict orders from Poppy and Minerva that Miss Granger needs some rest, we will continue that story later. For now, I ask you to take my word that Sirius poses no danger to you, Miss Granger, or any other student.”

“Except for Draco Malfoy,” Sirius muttered.

“That is not helping here, Sirius,” Dumbledore said with a long-suffering expression. Sirius held up his hands in a compliant gesture.

“Anyway, as I said, the real reason we are here is to obtain Miss Granger’s version of events. The sooner we allow the young lady to start, the sooner we shall leave her to her well-deserved sleep and repair to my study for a nightcap.” Dumbledore turned to Hermione. “If you would be so kind…”

For the next twenty minutes, Hermione recalled the events of the previous night, answering searching questions from both Dumbledore and Moody. When she had finished, she leant back on her plumped-up pillows, nervous exhaustion starting to kick in.

“Hmm.” Moody scratched his chin. “Damn lucky escape.” He turned to Dumbledore, who was idly stroking his beard. “Any gen on who the other fella was?”

“None at all,” Dumbledore confessed freely. “I believe we will need to avail ourselves of a little extra help from Miss Granger.”

“I’ve told you all I can remember,” Hermione protested weakly.

“Other means exist for checking memories, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore observed. He drew his wand and lifted it high in the air. “Fawkes!”

At his cry, the Phoenix burst through the doors, trailing magical flames behind him. He alighted for a moment on the Headmaster’s lap, then disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

Moody lowered his wand, drawn instantly as the doors had burst open. “Bugger it, Albus,” he complained. “A word o’warning next time, please.”

Dumbledore chuckled. Hermione saw a large, shallow ornate stone bowl resting in his lap. He noticed Hermione’s interest. “Do you know what this is, Miss Granger?” he asked avuncularly.

Taking in the symbols and what looked like runes carved into the rim, Hermione’s thirst for knowledge was not quenched by her tiredness. “It looks like… is it a - pensieve?” she asked cautiously.

“Superlative spot. Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore beamed.

“It’s used to recall memories,” she continued. “But I’ve never seen one before, let alone know how it’s used.” She looked up anxiously at the Headmaster.

“Then let me guide you.” Dumbledore moved his wand towards Hermione’s head, gently placing the tip on her temple. “Just think about the events, and I will extract the memory from you.”

Hermione closed her eyes, and was certain she felt the memory leave her mind. When she opened her eyes, Dumbledore’s wand was retreating from her head, with a translucent sliver string that, like glue, joined her temple to its tip. When the string broke, Hermione found she could not recall the details of what had happened last night.

Noticing distress and confusion in her eyes, Dumbledore hastened to reassure her. “I will return the memory once we have viewed it, Miss Granger. Your head is perfectly capable of holding all your memories. I am afraid that when you reach my age, the head is overcrowded, and I find it provident to store some of my own thoughts and memories elsewhere.”

He deposited the memory into the pensieve, where it formed a cloudy, silvery-white pool.

“Now, gentlemen, if you would care to join me?” He looked at Hermione. “Miss Granger, I would understand if -”

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve seen that man…” she swallowed hard “…murdered once. I’ve no great desire to relive that again.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I quite agree. Well, you may find the next few minutes interesting from the outside. If you will excuse us.”

“I’ll stay with Hermione,” Remus said.

The three others moved around the pensieve, although Hermione noted that Moody kept his wand drawn. What threats he expected to find in a memory, she could not hazard a guess. She wondered if his paranoia ever rested.

To her surprise, all three could fit their heads into the pensieve. She watched until torn away by a diplomatic cough from Remus, who was observing her with the same degree of interest.

“How are you?” he asked quietly.

“I’m… okay, I think,” Hermione replied. “A few bruises, and a little magical exhaustion.”

“That’s good,” Remus said. “But I meant your frame of mind.”

“Oh.” Hermione hesitated.

“It can’t be easy, seeing death first hand and in such a brutal manner. I’ve still not got used to it.”

Hermione shivered. “It was… horrible… horrible. There’s no other word for it.”

“I know.” Remus looked incredibly careworn.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Hermione added.

Remus nodded in understanding. “You know, if you ever change your mind, there are plenty of people who’d be happy to help you: Minerva; Dumbledore even. Or, if you prefer, there’s me.” He halted for a moment. “Don’t keep it all bottled up inside, Hermione. It’s not healthy. Sometime soon you’ll want to - need to - let it all out. Promise me that, when you feel like it, you will find someone… Harry, perhaps?”

Hermione, her throat dry, nodded in tentative agreement.

“Good.” Remus appeared to relax a little. “Now, tell me about how you’ve been coping with your classes with all of the problems this year.”

Hermione talked quietly about the pressures she faced due to this year’s unique problems. Remus added his voice to McGonagall’s request that she not overstretch her reserves, mental, physical or magical.

Their three companions remained essentially motionless for about ten minutes or so, before they simultaneously stood back up. Dumbledore was thoughtful, Sirius a little shaken, and Moody ruminative.

“Definitely Macnair,” The ex-Auror commented conversationally.

“Oh yes, I am sure of that,” Dumbledore replied.

“No great waste, that one.” Moody appeared almost satisfied. Dumbledore frowned. He attracted the memory to his wand, and returned it to Hermione’s mind.

Hermione, her reminiscence restored, now asked after the most salient unknown. “Did you see who it was who killed Macnair?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, I am afraid that our views were subject to the limitations of your memories. I had hoped that perhaps some detail had been caught that you could not immediately recall, but the figure remained unclear. Alastor?” He turned to the Defence teacher, who was stood, watching Hermione with a thoughtful expression.

“Male, late twenties, possibly early thirties, slim build. No idea o’facial features or hair colour.” Moody shrugged ruminatively. “Could be any one o’dozens, if not hundreds of ne’er-do-wells.”

Dumbledore nodded. “But next to the question of ‘who’ is the matter of ‘why?’” he added. “Any ideas?”

Moody glanced at Hermione. “None at the moment - or none that anyone sane would entertain. Still, events seem to bear out that someone’s out ta get Granger.”

Hermione started to respond, but saw one of Moody’s fingers surreptitiously tapping up and down on his wand, indicating she could keep quiet.

“Malfoy and his cronies?” Sirius scoffed. “It’s about time I paid that snob and his stuck-up bitch a visit.”

“I would advise against that,” Dumbledore cautioned. “We have no proof that he is behind this attempt on Miss Granger’s life, if that is what it was.” He stayed quiet for a few moments. “And even if Macnair was acting on Lucius’ behalf, that does not explain the second gentleman, or his motives.”

Moody swung his wand in a low arc. “Anyone who offs a Death Eater’s done the world a favour in my books.” He looked up as Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly. “Yeh’re too soft, Albus. The girl’s alive ’cos someone got rid of Macnair. I’d call that a result.”

“You and I will always disagree on the necessity of killing, Alastor,” Dumbledore said. “Still, I would be grateful if you could ask your contacts to keep their ears to the ground and eyes open. Malfoy may well have been behind Macnair’s appearance. I believe I shall encourage Severus to pass on a coded message via Draco.”

“I don’t think we should be discussing this here and now,” Remus observed, indicating Hermione’s presence.

“I agree with Mad-Eye,” Sirius butted in. “We can’t leave Malfoy to strike again.”

Dumbledore appeared disappointed at his companions’ opinions. “If Lucius knows that he is being watched, I am sure that will suffice, assuming it was his work. I will also make sure that Draco receives the message that Miss Granger is under Hogwarts’ protection.” He shook his head. “I refuse to believe that one young man’s immaturity is the cause of this.”

Moody shook his head sadly. “Always willin’ ta believe the best. One o’ these days, Albus, that’ll catch up on yeh.”

Dumbledore looked up sharply but offered no response. Then, seeing Hermione try to stifle a yawn, he stirred himself. “Well, I believe that we have taxed Miss Granger’s endurance enough tonight. Shall we retire to my office and discuss the possibilities, gentlemen?”

“A firewhisky wouldn’t go amiss,” Sirius observed with a thirsty look.

“I think I’ll need it when yeh tell yer story, Black.”

“Very well then.” Dumbledore turned to face Hermione. “We will bid you goodnight, Miss Granger. I can only offer my apologies for what has befallen you over the last day or so. I will ensure that this room is fully protected tonight.” He turned to go.

“Headmaster?”

He turned back. “Yes, Miss Granger?”

“Could you please ask Madam Pomfrey for something for headaches?” she asked plaintively, as though ashamed to complain when someone had died.

“Of course.” Dumbledore did not seem to think her request out of the ordinary, but something appeared to catch his eye. “Alastor?”

Moody seemed distracted momentarily. “Eh? Oh, it’s nothin’ Albus.” He did not seem inclined to leave.

“I take it you will be joining us?” Dumbledore was heading towards the nurse’s office.

“Be with yeh in a moment, Albus,” Moody called out.

Hermione saw Sirius swap a brief doubting look with Remus before glancing at Dumbledore. “I’d be happier if we all left Hermione alone,” he said pointedly.

Moody’s magical eye swiveled and fixed on the fugitive. “What d’yeh mean by that, Black?” he asked menacingly. “I gave up chasin’ witches long ago.”

“Gentlemen,” Dumbledore stepped between the two, before turning to Sirius. “I cannot think of anyone more trustworthy to whom to commend Miss Granger’s wellbeing.”

Hermione thought Sirius was about to continue his protest. “It’s alright,” she volunteered. “I’ll be safe with Professor Moody.”

Moody continued observing as Remus placed a placating hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “Dumbledore’s right, Padfoot.” Her former teacher then favoured her with a smile. “Good night, Hermione.”

With one last meaningful glare in the ex-Auror’s direction, Sirius nodded and turned away slowly, followed by the Headmaster.

Moody waited until the doors swung shut behind Dumbledore the three, and then turned on Hermione.

“Sirius Black?” His magical eye spun on its axis. “Yeh consorted with a convicted murderer? Yeh certainly know him.”

“He’s innocent,” Hermione replied tiredly.

“So Albus tells me; I’ll be interested in that story. Now, as ta secrets, there’s another that we’ve ta keep.” He tapped the side of what passed for his nose. “Malfoy’s plan was exactly what I said: a one-off spur-of-the-moment effort. Whoever offed Macnair did us a favour. Lucius won’t move a muscle while he’s in the dark about what happened. I’ll wager a Galleon to a Sickle that an owl’s already landed at Malfoy Manor with dread tidings of yer resurrection.”

“So you want me to keep quiet about Macnair being dead?”

“Aye, that’s one thing.” Moody looked reprovingly at her. “T’other’s what I know about the mystery man.” He shook his head at Hermione’s enquiring stare. “Nah - no idea who he was. But I know one thing: he was on another mission, not to stop yeh, but to stop Macnair.”

“What!” Hermione’s weary mind struggled to take in that concept. “But you said -”

“I know what I said, girl!” Moody grumbled. “Yeh think I like keepin’ secrets from Albus Dumbledore?” He moved inelegantly around the ward, his false leg clunking on the floor. “There’s people around Albus that I don’t trust.” He paused. “Didn’t know about Black, but that’s another reason not ta say summat.”

“Look,” Hermione interrupted. “I don’t understand. Why would someone we don’t know set out to protect me in this competition – by killing someone?”

“It’s not yeh they’re interested in. It’s the Potter lad. Tried ta tell yeh that yesterday, that he‘d been taken, but Minerva wouldn’t ’ave it.”

“Harry? But you told the Headmaster -”

Moody turned on her again. “Yeh remember what I told yeh about this bein’ a plot ta get at Potter? Do yeh, miss? Well, I was right. Someone wants yeh still in this tin-pot cup. Somehow it matters; somehow yer takin’ part involves Potter. Can’t figure it out yet, but give me time…”

He stumped around. “Yeh canna tell anyone ’bout this. Not the Headmaster; not McGonagall; and especially not Potter. That hot-head would jump straight into whatever fire is cookin’, and now we know damn sure they’re playin’ fer keeps.” He fixed Hermione with a wild stare. “I need time ta solve this Granger. Can yeh promise me yeh’ll keep this between ourselves for now? Can yeh keep this quiet?”

Hermione was lost. “I… I’m not happy about keeping secrets from Harry,” she began, but Moody cut her protest short.

“Won’t be fer long, lass, and it’s fer the best.” He leaned forward. “Might keep both of yeh alive.”

Hermione considered this for a few moments, then, slowly, reluctantly, nodded her assent.

“Good girl,” Moody said patronisingly, which grated on her. “Now, all I’ve gotta do is persuade Dumbledore and Black ta keep what happened from Potter.” He shook his head. “Albus’ll do it. Lupin will too. Not sure ’bout Black though.” He looked up. “I’d better catch those three up afore Black drinks all the fire whisky.” Then he pointed at Hermione. “We’ll talk on Friday evening. Yeh were lucky last night. Let down yer guard. Still plenty of work ta do.”

With that he lumbered around and moved unevenly to the doors, extinguishing the lights as he exited.

It was not just the darkness that made it seem suddenly chillier to Hermione.

* * * * *

Hermione wished she had accepted the offer of a Draught of Dreamless Sleep.

Despite physical and magical exhaustion, her mind was restive, teeming with the paradox of maintaining separate stories for everyone bar Mad-Eye Moody, and keeping yet another secret from Harry.

That the father of a fellow student would undertake to arrange her murder also chilled her soul. Although she had been known of Lucius Malfoy’s part in the events that led to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, she thought that was more of an unthinking act of spite against the Weasley family.

This was a plot to kill her in cold blood.

And what had Draco Malfoy said to or begged for from his father? Had he actually sought her death? Hermione, like the Headmaster, struggled with the concept of such a warped sense of values. Surely nothing she had done at Hogwarts deserved this sort of reaction, even from such a spoilt brat as Draco Malfoy.

And what of her mystery protector? The man’s demeanour and body language proved that he was angry, and he certainly seemed ready to cast the Killing Curse on her. He had not hesitated to kill Macnair. He would have cast a spell at her when she was defenceless, she was sure of that.

And what strange set of contrivances had coincided to lead a group plotting against Harry to protect a Muggleborn? Even Hermione’s formidable intellect struggled with that notion.

When her mind finally ceased its struggle, sleep was not undisturbed.

Draco Malfoy chased her through the Hogwarts’ corridors, brandishing a huge axe, followed by a herd of Acromantula.

The dead, unseeing eyes of Walden Macnair bore ghoulishly at her, wordlessly accusing her of complicity in his murder.

The worst was when she watched Harry drift deeper into the water, his breath escaping as he chastised her for failing to save him. Despite her struggles, Hermione could make no headway towards Harry, who sank out of sight.

She awoke in a cold sweat after that nightmare.

Still drained in the morning, she told Madam Pomfrey a little white lie that she was perfectly fine. That secured her release from the hospital wing. Her headache, unalloyed by potions, accompanied her: stress, Hermione assumed, combined with fatigue.

After the previous evening’s revelations, the last place Hermione wanted to be was the Great Hall. How many of her fellow students wished her ill? Yet she had no choice: Professor McGonagall was there; and, more importantly, she held Hermione’s wand. She craved its return, especially now; she felt naked and defenceless without it.

She sidled into the Great hall with breakfast already under way. Trying to be inconspicuous, Hermione approached the Head Table, and quietly asked her Head of House for her wand. McGonagall favoured her with a frankly sceptical eye when Hermione proclaimed her good health, yet let it pass and returned the wand to its owner.

Hopes of a quiet return were spoiled when her friends spotted her approaching the space between Harry and Ron. First Harry stood up, followed a couple of second later by Ron, reluctantly abandoning his bacon and eggs. Then, like a wave, the rest of Gryffindor rose and started applauding. Fred and George added piercing wolf-whistles. Finally cheers broke out.

Blushing so furiously she thought she might burst into flames, Hermione ducked her head and sat down between her two friends. The cheering continued until Angelina hushed the Gryffindors. Making matters worse, she turned to address Hermione. In a loud and clear voice, she called: “Three cheers for Hermione Granger!”

“Hip, Hip, Hooray!”

As far as a thoroughly abashed Hermione could tell, each and every Gryffindor, from Seventh Year Prefect to lowly ickle firstie, joined in.

“Hip, Hip, Hooray!”

The Ravenclaw table and a fair number of Hufflepuffs joined in the hurrahs.

“Hip, Hip, Hooray!”

An eerie and disgusted silence emanated from the Slytherin quarter.

The Gryffindor cheers and clapping slowly ebbed, until the Headmaster’s magically amplified voice cut through the buzz.

“Thank you, thank you. And may I add my own congratulations to the fourth of our champions. Now, before I strain my voice, some boringly routine announcements…”

Hermione sat stunned at her reception. “What was all that about?” she asked a beaming Harry.

“Well, you weren’t here last night for dinner,” he replied. “Cedric, Viktor and Fleur all received standing ovations for completing the Task. It’s only fair that you should get the same.”

‘I must thank Angelina,’ Hermione noted, as the table started to hum with the normal morning conversations. Then, still hungry, she decided on some scotch pancakes for breakfast, along with some hot, sweet tea.

Before she could take a bite, her eyes wandered onto the Slytherin benches, reluctantly searching out that greased shock of silver hair.

She found Draco Malfoy’s cold, grey eyes staring back. The expression on his cruel, pouting face was totally new. He regarded her much as he would one of Lovegood’s nonsensical creatures, as though no rational reason explained why she was sitting there still alive and breathing.

That alone seemed to confirm Mad-Eye’s story.

Suddenly the prospect of food was completely unappetising. She gently pushed her plate away.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry peered at her worriedly.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she lied, avoiding his gaze. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

“Bollocks! I don’t believe you for a moment.” Her head shot up at that comment.

“Why not?”

Harry shrugged. “For one, you’re the same colour Ron was when he was belching slugs.”

‘If only it were simply slugs,’ she thought.

“I’m just a little… tired, that’s all,” she compounded the initial untruth.

Harry looked dubiously at her. “Umm… okay, but please, eat something.” He reached for the toast rack. “Here.”

Reluctantly, Hermione took the offering, and started to spread a thin layer of butter onto the slice.

“What’s Malfoy up to,” Ron muttered almost unintelligibly around a rasher of bacon he was stuffing into his mouth.

“Malfoy?” Harry offered. “No idea; why?”

Ron pointed at the Slytherin table with his knife. “He’s staring at us again.” He made a rude gesture in return.

Hermione made sure to keep her eyes fixed on the toast.

Harry was dangerously quiet. “I dunno,” he finally said. “But whatever it is, I don’t like it any more than Ron.” He turned and leaned in, seeking confidentiality. “I need to talk with you,” he said quietly but earnestly. “Privately. It’s serious.” Then, before anyone became too suspicious, he turned back to his breakfast.

Hermione wondered what Harry had to discuss, but as soon as she could decently retreat to her dormitory, she shot away from the Great Hall, muttering about collecting her books.

Hogwarts’ corridors, once so warm and safe, now seemed cold and unfriendly. Unable to remove the idea of Draco Malfoy actually wishing her dead from her mind, she idly wished she had access to a pensieve of her own.

Hermione’s fragile state persisted when she entered the Transfiguration classroom. Her participation in the class was noticeably less than stellar. She knew that Harry, Ron and Neville were worried about her, as they kept muttering and whispering, drawing disapproving glares from McGonagall. The whole equilibrium of the Gryffindor Fourth Year was upset; without Hermione’s lead they were rudderless and confused.

When class ended for the morning break, McGonagall asked Hermione to remain behind. Harry and Ron hung around until McGonagall pointedly asked them to close the door behind them.

“Please be seated, Miss Granger.” McGonagall waited until Hermione complied. “I believe you have a free period after break?” she asked rhetorically. Harry swore, and Hermione secretly agreed, that McGonagall had every student’s schedule engraved into her brain. In the absence of a magical equivalent of a computer, the Deputy Head was the next best thing.

Hermione nodded.

“Good,” McGonagall declared. She tapped her wand on her desk, and a house-elf appeared in a flash. “Blinky, tea, toast and two boiled eggs, please.”

The house-elf disappeared as fast as it had appeared, and was back in a few seconds with a tray containing two medium-sized plates, a steaming teapot, a pair of cups and saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl, a full rack of warm toast, and two egg cups holding brown eggs.

“Frankly, Miss Granger,” McGonagall began a soft lecture, “you look far from well. I saw how little you ate for breakfast. Here.” The professor passed over a plate, the toast, and then both boiled eggs.

Hermione shook her downcast head.

McGonagall sat opposite her pupil. “Now, Miss Granger, you need to maintain your strength. I do not want to order you to eat - to be honest, there I cannot force you to - but I am appealing to your common sense.” She halted for a second, and then decided to continue. “The Headmaster and Sirius Black have provided me with the gist of what occurred the two nights previous. I am fully cognizant of the situation.”

Hermione looked up. Professor McGonagall was tight-lipped with a mixture of suppressed anger and sympathy. “How can another student hate me enough to want me killed?” she asked plaintively in a small voice.

“He is his father’s son,” McGonagall observed. Neither woman needed to name the party concerned. “However, we have no evidence that he actually requested this of his father, if that is indeed what happened.

“There are other possibilities. The incident that Professor Moody ‘arranged’ was deeply embarrassing for Draco Malfoy. Had I known what Alastor had planned…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head.

“It must be remembered that Lucius Malfoy is an intensely ambitious political animal. He has no great desire to see you compete in the Triwizard Tournament; that was clear at the meeting with the Minister. The prospect of your continuing participation undoubtedly fills him with dread. As I warned you after that daft interview with that Skeeter woman, the Tournament provides you with a platform to attack some of the worst of pure-blooded prejudices. Perhaps Draco’s undoubted complaints were the straw that broke the Thestral’s back.”

Rational analysis was just what she needed; it allowed her brain to exercise something other than raw emotion. Before she knew it, Hermione had reached out and taken a slice of toast. McGonagall noticed with approval but said nothing.

“The child, even though a spoiled brat with the manners of a mountain troll…” That brought a glimmer of a smile from Hermione “… should not be blamed for the sins of the father, as slippery a beast as the latter undoubtedly is. And we only have Professor Moody’s ‘intelligence’ that points the finger at Lucius Malfoy.

“And my own observations of the young man’s demeanour… which without corroboration, prove nothing. Much as I hate to say it, we must give Draco Malfoy the benefit of the doubt.”

Hermione nodded distastefully. Now she reached for the nearest egg cup, drawing a wintry smile from McGonagall.

“That does not mean that we at Hogwarts shall not take precautions. Professor Snape has been instructed to make it clear to Malfoy that his actions are under close scrutiny, and that he should forgo petty thoughts of ‘revenge.’ Now, would you like some tea?”

By the end of the break, Hermione was feeling at least a little safer and a lot less hungry.

That did not, however, win her any immediate reprieve. Harry and Ron quizzed her over what McGonagall had wanted, and she parried them with an elliptic comment about the Tournament. The fleeting expression of disbelief on Harry’s face did not escape her.

Harry was obviously anxious to have his quiet word with her, but with Ron starting to look askance at his two friends, Hermione was granted momentary relief. With a free period coming up, Ron providentially dragged Harry off for a game of Exploding Snap. Hermione sought temporary sanctuary in the Library.

Harry could not achieve his aims during lunch, as the Great hall had too many pairs of eyes that would have been interested in a confidential tête-au-tête between a Triwizard Champion and her ‘treasure’ who also happened to be The-Boy-Who-Lived. Yet, as she placated her returning appetite with some sardines, Hermione was all too aware of Harry’s occasional reproving yet beseeching look.

Thursday afternoon promised a double period of Defence Against the Dark Arts. With Mad-Eye’s all-seeing gaze, Hermione yet again avoided her commitments to Harry. He had no opportunity to seize a quiet word. Yet Hermione knew that she was only postponing the inevitable.

Defence against the Dark Arts was once again an ordeal for Hermione, although for once no-one could blame Mad-Eye. The vigorous session stretched Hermione’s resources, her magical reserves still not quite up to normal, and by the end she was nearly fit to drop. A reminder from Professor Moody that she still had a detention to serve after dinner did nothing to improve her equanimity.

The need for fuel caused Hermione to really tuck into her evening meal. She stocked up with Irish stew, dumplings and mashed potato, followed by spotted dick and hot custard, her appetite even drawing an admiring glance from Ron.

As she rose from the table to head towards her ‘detention’, Harry followed suit. Hermione tried to wave him off.

“I don’t need an escort, Harry.” She was now certain that Professor Moody intended her no harm, intentionally, at least.

Harry gave her a cool, appraising stare. He cast an exaggerated glance over her shoulder to the Slytherin table. “Really?”

Hermione’s gaze quickly followed, her eyes searching immediately for Draco Malfoy. It was easy to spot his silvery head, and for once he appeared to be doing nothing out of the ordinary, just sitting among his acolytes. Her head whipped back to find Harry watching her with a knowing expression.

Perhaps she would feel just that little bit safer with Harry as an escort through the evening corridors. It would also finally allow them the chance for that quiet word he had been seeking all day.

Thursday evenings were usually quiet. Most students kept their heads down, completing homework in the knowledge that the next two evenings would be free of such pressure. Still, Harry was patient, waiting until there was no-one else in sight, and in a stretch of corridor that lacked portraits. He leaned tiredly against a wall, removed his glasses and rubbed the pinch-mark on his nose.

“I had a late night visit from Padfoot.”

Hermione could not help but give a sharp gasp. Surely Sirius Black had sworn secrecy to Dumbledore?

“He wouldn’t tell me what had happened.” The irritation was clear in his voice. “Just told me that I was to look out for you. He particularly mentioned the amazing bouncing ferret.” Harry lifted his head and fixed her with a stare. “Sirius said anything more I’d have to learn from you. I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten me, would you?”

Hermione felt her stomach drop away. She gulped, her mouth now strangely dry.

She absolutely, positively despised deceiving Harry, actively or passively.

Harry watched for a couple of seconds, and then smacked the palm of one hand with the back of the other. “Damn it, Hermione!” he said vehemently. “Something big’s going on, you’re smack in the middle of it, yet no-one will tell me what the Hell it is!”

‘Damn Sirius Black,’ Hermione thought. ‘He might have had the best of intentions, but now…’

“I’m not thick, despite appearances,” Harry added. “This has everything to do with you and the Tournament, hasn’t it?” He glanced up and down the corridor, hoping no-one had heard his raised voice. “Mad-Eye’s involved; you can’t tell me these are detentions. And what does Si-” He caught himself just in time, and took a noticeable effort to keep calm. “What does Padfoot have to do with it?”

Hermione shook her head remorsefully. “I’m sorry Harry. I can’t tell anyone. I promised.” The hurt in his eyes was crystal clear, and the guilt tore at Hermione. “It’s safer that way…”

“Safer,” scoffed Harry. “Not for you. There’s more to this than just the Second Task. What in Merlin’s name went on out there?”

She so wanted to tell him, to relieve herself of the crushing burden of secrecy and lies. “It’s… complicated,” she said lamely.

Harry moved towards her, and placed his hands on both her shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly. “You’re scared.”

She knew that if she broke down now, she would spill everything. Moody’s warning of Harry’s hero complex rang jarringly in her head. Her trembling worsened.

“Why Draco bloody Malfoy?” Harry persisted. “He’s a bully and an obnoxious prat, but you beat him. Has he threatened you? If he has, I’ll -”

“Harry.” She raised her arms and almost in supplication put her hands on his elbows. “Please. Don’t do this to me.”

He dropped his hands to his sides in a gesture of apparent defeat. “I thought we promised not to keep secrets,” he said sadly, turning aside.

This time Hermione, burning with guilt, who reached out, a gentle tug on his shoulder. “Harry, if I could, I would… Please believe me – at least about that.” Looking into his bewildered eyes, a grotesque image shot into her head. She glimpsed the same lifelessness in his bright green eyes as in Macnair’s only last night - no, the night before, she reminded herself.

Hermione shuddered involuntarily. “I thought I’d lost you in the Lake. I thought you’d drowned. It’s best you don’t become involved.”

‘Or more involved than you are already, whether you know it or not.’

Harry grasped her arm, not a hard gesture but one full of emotion. “And you almost did! If you’re involved, Hermione, then so am I. You’ve stood beside me every time I’ve needed help – every time. I’ll be damned if I stand aside now, whatever trouble you’re in.”

She wished she could hug him, but knew if she got that close to him her determination might well shatter. Still, his declaration filled her with an explosive mixture of giddy delight and utter dread in equal measure.

She wished she could at least tell him what see had seen, believing a trouble shared was a trouble halved. The problem was, knowing Harry, that Moody’s blunt analysis of her friend’s psyche was spot on. Telling him would result in a trouble doubled.

Taking a calming breath, Hermione met his inquisitive stare. “I know you would Harry. I’ve always known that.” Another deep breath. “But this is my battle to fight. I’ll tell you the moment I can, but that’s not now.” She found her free hand drifting towards his forehead, and gently brushed aside unruly hair that covered his scar. “It’s not the right time… or so I’m told,” she added with a little bitterness.

That only partially mollified Harry. Hermione could see how much he truly hated watching her current travails. It just reinforced her acute awareness of Moody’s prediction. It had to be this way.

Hermione just hoped he would forgive her if – once - she came through.

“Okay,” Harry finally admitted. “I know when I’m beaten. But that won’t stop me watching your back. If that little snake as much as sneezes in your direction, I’ll shove my wand down his throat before he can blink!”

She found her hand offer his cheek the gentlest of fleeting caresses before, aware of their location, she took half a step back, disengaging her other arm. “That shouldn’t be necessary, Harry. I’m told by highest authority that he’ll be behaving himself from now on.”

“Humph!” Harry was unimpressed. “Since when has Malfoy been one to follow the rules?”

This did bring a little smile to her face. “Hark who’s talking! How many rules have you broken, Harry Potter?” There was no admonishment, only a gentle humour.

“You’ve broken a few in your time, Hermione.”

“And if you don’t count the times you and Ron dragged me along?”

“Umm… possibly never,” Harry offered, a matching smile starting to break out.

“And what happens when I’m late for Professor Moody’s detention?”

Harry grinned ruefully. “I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.” Then he took on a serious mien again. “I’ll wait to see you back after.”

“I know. And I appreciate it.” She would not argue the point. Harry was, after all, only doing what Sirius had asked him to. She was sure that Harry would have done so anyway. And, to be fair, after the events of the last forty-eight hours, she would welcome a little comfort blanket.

As they walked side-by-side down towards the Defence classroom, Hermione slipped her arm though Harry’s, and admitted to herself that Fleur Delacour may well have been spot on herself.

* * * * *

“Krum’s the lad yeh’ve got ta keep an eye on,” Moody stated. “Lad’s the class in this competition. Diggory’s good, and the French lass too, but Krum’s the danger.”

“Viktor’s no danger,” Hermione replied quietly from her seat. “Not to me. I’ve no intention of winning the Tournament. My only concern is coming through in one piece, so I can stay here, and to uncover who’s behind the whole ridiculous affair.” For the second time that night she gave an involuntary shudder. “Someone’s already died. I’d rather not watch that number mount.”

Moody stared hard at her. “But yeh’r through ta the last event! Yeh can win the whole bleedin’ thing! Malfoy’ll ’ave a magic stroke!”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m in last place on merit. It’s ridiculous to think I could beat Viktor, Cedric and Fleur on a level playing field. As it is, they must all hold some sort of advantage over me going into the Third Task. After all, why have scores for each event? There must either be an overall score or some sort of penalty or some such.”

“I’m disappointed in yeh, Granger,” Moody admitted. “I thought yeh had more spunk than this.”

Hermione levelled her gaze. “I’ve nearly been killed twice - no, make that three times - in the last few weeks. I’ve seen another man murdered with my own eyes. I think I know the stakes by now.” She was starting to breathe hard now. “I never wanted to take part, but I’ve been forced to, and then you tell me it’s all some plot to get at Harry.

“I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” she finished, surprising herself with her passion.

Moody regarded her with evident disdain. “Yeh’ll never have a greater chance at makin’ a name fer yerself, Granger.” He sat down heavily in his chair, which complained under the burden. “Bein’ a Triwizard winner, the first fer a couple o’centuries, that’ll make yeh famous throughout Europe. Opens doors.”

“I’ve seen what fame’s cost Harry. I don’t want or need that, and I could care less for the money,” she replied a little more heatedly than she would normally to a teacher.

“Yeh just don’t get it, do yeh? Yeh’ve no magical antecedents, which makes yeh a rude word in some circles.”

“So? All I need to do is maintain my grades, pass my O.W.L.S. and .N.E.W.T.S. and then I shouldn’t have a problem. Anyway, this is beside the point.”

“Really?” If either of Moody’s eyebrows had survived, Hermione suspected they would have been raised. “If yeh believe that yer not as bright as some make out.” He brought out his wand and rapped it against his wooden leg. “Blood still counts fer a lot, more than yeh think. Don’t take my word fer it. Ask Minerva how easy it would be fer a Mu-” He caught himself. “Yeh know what I mean. Ask her how easy it’ll be fer one like yeh to walk into a half-decent job in the Ministry.” He held up a hand as Hermione started to protest. “Even with a cauldron full of qualifications. The answer might open yer eyes.”

That statement made Hermione pause. She had assumed that, outside the walls of Hogwarts, the magical world would turn out to be more or less a meritocracy. How could anyone ignore the evidence of passed exams and high grades? Although the bias against Muggleborns was more obvious amongst the older families, no-one in Hogwarts, in particular Professor McGonagall, had ever mentioned that it might be institutionalised. She filed away that question for a later date.

“Look, Professor, I have never entertained more than the prospect of survival. Winning is so unlikely that it’s not worth worrying about.”

“Have yeh ever thought that ta find out who’s after Potter, yeh might have to win the blasted thing?”

Hermione thought for a few seconds. “If that’s the case, then they’re worse than mediocre planners. It’s a pretty poor plot that relies upon a fifteen-year old student!”

She could have sworn that Moody’s scowl was deeper than usual, but did not let that put her off.

“I doubt the final position will matter. Whatever they’re planning, they will either come at me during the Task, or perhaps use it as a diversion and go directly for Harry.” That thought worried her. “You will make sure that Harry -”

“Aye, lass,” he waved her off. “I’ll watch over Potter, just as broody as those dragons, eh?” Moody slumped back in his chair. “I saw he dropped yeh off this evening.” This time he tapped his wand against his artificial eye. “This sees everythin’. Still playing at bodyguard, is he? I do hope yeh haven’t told ’im anythin’.”

Springing automatically to Harry’s defence, Hermione’s denial was a little intense. “Of course not!” Then, a little more reflectively: “I hate lying to him, keeping him in the dark.”

“It’s safer, Granger, fer both of yeh.” She could have sworn there was the merest soupçon of tenderness in Moody’s reply, but that didn’t last long.

“Trouble is we know they’re playin’ fer keeps. You’ll need to be at the top of yer game if’n they come fer yeh.” Then Moody pushed himself slowly out of his seat. “That means more practice.” He drew his wand, its tip starting to glow.

Hermione sighed and prepared herself for another exhausting evening.

* * * * *

Friday afternoon was never a favourite time for the Fourth-year Gryffindors. No-one in their right mind, even the Slytherins, looked forward to a double Potions’ session with Professor Snape. As the Lions shared their class with those self-same Slytherins, their prospects were even bleaker.

Hermione, who normally shrugged off these concerns in the pursuit of knowledge, was more concerned this time. Potions would be her first face-to-face encounter with Draco Malfoy since she had learned of his role in sending Macnair to his eventual death.

Not that she particularly worried about Malfoy junior: she expected him to be his loathsome self, but no more, given the assurances she had received from both Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress.

Her greater concern was for her own reaction, and what that in turn might provoke in Harry.

She managed the feat of actually increasing her anxieties over lunch, and was well on the way to working herself into a right state. She managed successfully to transfer some of that nervousness to Harry, who reacted with an extraordinarily grim demeanour as the Gryffindor party made its unwilling way towards the dungeons.

Turning the last corner, they found the Slytherins already waiting for them. Obviously Professor Snape had not returned from lunch. Her would-be nemesis stood with the usual suspects, his back to her. As they heard the approaching Gryffindors, Malfoy turned around.

The last reaction Hermione expected from Malfoy was a nervous expression, his uncertainty shining through.

That in itself gave Hermione more heart. Whatever Malfoy père et fils had planned, it had failed, although at a grisly cost. Hermione Granger remained alive and well – more than could be said for the unlamented Macnair - and still a Triwizard competitor. She straightened, held her head high, and ignored him imperiously.

Harry, his wand gripped tight in his right hand, was not so obliging. He stood directly in Malfoy’s line of sight, staring straight at his opposite number, daring him to make an aggressive move.

As Hermione turned to watch, she could have sworn that Malfoy’s nerve visibly crumpled as he took two short steps back. When she looked at Harry, she understood. She, too, would have quailed under that fulminating look of anger.

Everyone else, attention consumed by this vivid tableau, stood as if petrified. Only Hermione knew the full story behind this imminent confrontation.

For once, Professor Snape’s appearance came as a welcome relief to Hermione.

“What is occurring here?” he asked icily. “Potter? Malfoy?”

Hermione waited for the lies to spew from Malfoy’s lips. She was shocked when he stammered nervously that nothing was happening. Snape’s eyebrow lifted-off, but that was his only sign of emotion. “In which case, cease blocking the corridor and move directly into the classroom.” He stared hard at Harry, who showed no immediate sign of standing down. “Potter, that includes you.”

Without taking his eyes off the retreating Malfoy, Harry slowly stowed his wand, then stalked past the Potions’ Master. Hermione made to follow.

“Not so fast, Granger.” She was brought up short by Snape’s command. “A quick word.”

Why did everyone want a quick or quiet word with her these days?

Once the other students, relieved that Snape was ignoring them in favour of a juicier target, filed past, Snape slammed the door shut with a quick flick of his wand.

“No matter what may or may not have befallen you in recent days,” Snape intoned, “you are still nothing but an insufferable know-it-all who can regurgitate printed matter but cannot hold an original thought in your head.

“I may have given certain undertakings -” Hermione was sure she knew what he meant “- to the Headmaster, but that does not extend to giving you the run of my office.”

“Sir?” Hermione was perplexed. She could tell that Snape was quietly seething over some imagined breach.

“Gillyweed!” he said slowly. “I wonder where that came from?”

Hermione stayed quiet. She had no firm idea where Dobby had purloined the aquatic plant from, but she could make a reasonable guess.

“Stewed lacewing flies; powdered bicorn horn; boomslang skin. The primary ingredients for Polyjuice Potion.” She was fixed by his dark eyes. “Someone has broken into my private supplies, Granger.”

‘Not me… at least, not this year.’ She wondered whether he could read her thoughts.

“Should I were to find that you were in any way involved Granger, I can promise you that finishing this tin-pot competition will be the last of your concerns.” Snape’s cold, emotionless delivery carried just as much menace as Harry’s visible burning anger. He slipped his hand inside his robe, and drew out a vial. “Do you know what this is, Granger?”

Hermione glanced at the crystal-clear potion within. Given the circumstances, it could only be…

“Veritaserum,” Snape stated. “A Truth Potion so powerful that one or two drops would reveal your innermost secrets to me – or the entire class.”

If he sought to intimidate her, Hermione confessed he was succeeding. “The Ministry guidelines -” she started with a wavering voice, but was soon cut off by Snape.

“…State that Veritaserum can only be used in strictly controlled situations. Yes, I know,” he said, leaning over her. “But imagine, if your limited mind can comprehend such an act, that some should find its way into your evening pumpkin juice. If you were to reveal what a cheat and a thief you were, in the Great Hall, consider how long your career at Hogwarts would be likely to continue. Weeks? Days? Perhaps only -”

“We need to talk.”

Hermione leaned to one side to peer at the interloper. To her surprise it was Karkaroff, and he appeared highly agitated.

Snape did not turn but straightened. “I will consider talking to you after my lesson, Karkaroff.”

“We will talk now,” Karkaroff insisted. “You’ve been avoiding me, Severus.”

Hermione thought the Durmstrang Headmaster sounded desperate. How, she thought, was he on first-name terms with Professor Snape?

“After the lesson,” Snape snapped.

“When you’ll run off again? I think not. It’s happening to you too, isn’t it?”

That remark obviously touched a nerve, as Snape spun round to face Karkaroff. Before answering, he spoke to Hermione with a cold air of command. “Get out of my sight, Granger.”

Hermione entertained the comment that he could not see her, but she was not that brave or stupid, so she ducked around him, pushed open the dungeon door, and then heard it slam shut behind her.

Every pair of eyes in the room was upon her.

* * * * *

“You coming to Hogsmeade with us, Ron?”

Harry, in Hermione’s opinion, was delighted with the announcement of a Hogsmeade weekend. It was an unspoken agreement that he would accompany Hermione. Not, she noted sadly, with any romantic undertones, but as part of Harry’s campaign to ensure she was not bothered by the likes of Malfoy.

Hermione welcomed that. She would feel more secure outside Hogwarts with Harry around; and Harry’s company was never an ordeal.

“Umm… yeah.” Ron appeared just a little shifty. “I’ll come down to Honeydukes, but then… well, I’ve sorta….” His reply drifted off in senseless mumbling.

“What?”

“Gotta sort of… date…” Ron admitted sheepishly, his now flushed face clashing with his flame-red hair.

“You sly old fox, Weasley!” Seamus had been ear-wigging in the common room. “Who’s the unlucky lady? Anyone we know?”

Ron mumbled something that Hermione could not catch, but Harry obviously did. “Eloise Midgen? What, the 'Puff with the… you know?” He put one finger up against the side of his nose and pushed the soft part to one side.

“Oh my! Not Madam Wonky-Konk?” Seamus cried.

Ron’s reply seemed to include the words “Not that bad… straighter than it was…”

Hermione sought to lift Ron’s spirit’s a little. “Never mind, Ron. Her acne’s cleared up a lot.”

Ron shot her an annoyed glare. Help like that he could obviously do without.

“So, do you like her then, Ron?” Harry was searching for more dirt. Hermione gave him a light punch on the arm.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. Hermione knew no fifteen-year-old boy would admit to liking a girl. Among present company was another who, although a few months younger, seemed even more oblivious to that prospect. She dimly recalled that Eloise had been Ron’s partner at the Yule Ball.

“So, is this that kind of date?” Dean asked.

“Oh, do leave him alone.” Hermione turned to Ron. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” Ron pulled a face. “Just, please, whatever you do, don’t tell Fred and George! Or...” his face blanched. “… Ginny!”

“What’s it worth, Ron?” Harry was not one to relinquish the upper hand in ragging his friend.

“Harry…” He turned as he recognised the command in Hermione’s one word.

“Only joking, Hermione.” He made a playful act of searching the common room for the Twins or Ron’s sister before finally putting his friend out of his misery.

Somehow Ron escaped more joshing and actually agreed to travel down in the same carriage. Hermione was happy, and not just over Ron’s romantic prospects.

If Ron was off on some kind of date with Eloise Midgen, then she would have more time alone with Harry.

Although a sliver of weak sunshine glimmered over Hogwarts’ lawns, no-one trusted the Scottish spring weather enough to leave their cloaks behind.

As the three of them walked slowly down towards the drive and the waiting carriages, Hermione reflected on how the bridge building between Ron and Harry and herself had gone. Harry and Ron appeared as firm friends as before, although Harry spent more time with her than he had done in previous years. Ron did not appear jealous; perhaps he had used this extra time with Eloise?

As for herself and Ron, there was no longer any doubt who was her best friend. She viewed Ron with a degree of studied neutrality. They had shared too much in their young lives to completely break all ties, but certainly Ron no longer stood out so brightly against her other Gryffindor contemporaries. She had brought him a nice Quidditch book for his birthday last Monday, and he had solemnly thanked her for it. But her ties with Ron were now mostly through Harry’s medium.

Harry was still teasing Ron unmercifully over his ‘date’, and Hermione was walking a step ahead of them as she approached the carriages for the short ride into the village. She glanced to see if there was a queue, and then stopped dead.

“What the -!” Harry cannoned into her back.

Hermione raised a wavering finger. “Wh-what’s that?” she croaked.

“What’s what?” Harry peered in the rough direction of her pointed finger.

“That!”

Ron looked at the carriage, then back at Hermione. “There’s nothing there.”

“Yes there is!” Hermione replied hotly. “Look! There! In the traces.”

What she saw was horrific. It could well have been the mount of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Harnessed, the creature carried the basic frame of a horse, and not much more, apart from outsized batlike wings of a thin membrane across bones. It carried little flesh, black skin hanging off the skeleton. The head was more lizard-like than equine.

Harry and Ron both regarded her warily. “There’s nothing there, Hermione,” Harry said in an obvious effort to calm her.

“It’s just the usual horseless carriage.” Ron sounded confunded.

Hermione fumed. How could they ignore the evidence of their own eyes? “No,” she said slowly but with mounting frustration. “They’re not horseless this time.”

“Nonsense,” Ron declared, striding past her. “You’re seeing things, Hermione!” As he approached the demonic-looking creature, Hermione put one fist to her mouth, worried that it might attack.

As Ron stood by the carriage tongue, the creature stared balefully at him. “See! Nothing to - Ow!”

As he swung his arm back to prove the traces were empty, his arm struck something hard. As a reflex action the creature shied and smacked Ron’s head with its own.

“Bloody Hell!” Ron leapt back, staring hard at thin air.

“See!” Hermione shot back, satisfied she had won the point. “I told you so.”

Harry was watching carefully. “Hermione, can you tell us what you see?”

She started to describe what she could see, but even then her mind was turning over how she could see the creature whilst it remained invisible to her two friends. Before Hermione reached any conclusion, Luna Lovegood caught her eye as she approached the animal and offered it a rather reddened apple.

“Luna!” The Ravenclaw turned and smiled, holding up the partially eaten apple.

“They like the blood, see.”

Hermione shook her head. “What do, Luna?”

Again, Luna brought the blood-smeared apple within reach of the creature. As it took another bite, she ruffled its rough mane with her spare hand. “The Thestrals. This one’s called Tenebrus.”

“You can see them?” Ron demanded.

“Oh yes,” Luna replied. “And so can Hermione.”

Confused, Hermione stepped forward, studying the animal. She was right: it was more reptilian. “Is this the first time that… Thestrals have pulled the carriages?”

“Oh no, they always have, at least since I’ve been coming here.”

Hermione doubted that. “Then why have I never seen them before? And why can’t Harry or Ron see them at all?”

Luna relinquished the apple to Tenebrus, and the stare she gave Hermione with her large eyes was full of compassion. “You can only see them if you have seen death.” She moved towards Hermione and reached out consolingly. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“What?” Ron barked. “Since when have you seen ‘death’?”

Luna assumed the question was meant for her. “My mother died when I was nine,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was there.”

This time Hermione reached out to console Luna, but the younger girl seemed not to need it.

“Not you,” Ron said a little unkindly. “Hermione.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. What could she say?

“Drop it Ron.” There was iron in Harry’s command.

“Huh?”

“I said drop it.” Hermione saw Harry’s clinched jaw and the same hard look in his eyes that had stared down Malfoy. He certainly had made the connection. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” Ron conceded slowly. “Invisible horses... What next?”

Harry shot another loaded glance in Hermione’s direction. She knew that there would be yet another quick word.

* * * * *

Harry was not happy, Hermione considered.

He had remained tight-lipped throughout the carriage ride, quietly stewing. That mood that not been tempered by the prospect of Honeydukes or the promise of a butterbeer.

Ron sat in the carriage looking alternately at his two silent friends. He could not comprehend what had frozen the atmosphere so suddenly and completely. He had sought freedom as soon as possible, improbably now seeking out Eloise Midgen earlier than he had arranged.

Luna had remained oblivious and regaled the other three with stories about Thestrals being ill-omens. In response, Harry hunkered down even more in his self-imposed purdah, and just a little more ice crept into Hermione’s heart.

As soon as Ron had scampered off, and Luna disappeared to who-knows-where, Harry took a tight hold of Hermione’s arm, and steered her away from the obvious destinations such as Zonko’s, Honeydukes, the Three Broomsticks or, considering his companion, Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop. Instead, careful that no-one noticed them, he led her towards the Shrieking Shack.

Hermione did not protest. At least, she thought with grim humour, if spotted, it would add more spice to her reputation as a scarlet woman!

They did not try to break in; instead Harry led her round the back, away from prying eyes. He spread his cloak on the grass, and watched as Hermione, a little warm, removed and sat down cross-legged on hers.

“You saw someone die.” Harry cut straight to the chase. “I’m assuming that was during the Second Task.”

Hermione, unwilling to trust her voice, just nodded.

“You didn’t say anything,” Harry observed ominously quietly. “At least,” he allowed, “not to me.”

“True,” Hermione conceded.

Harry stared long and coolly at her, before spinning around and thumping the rotting boards with the palm of his hand.

“Bloody Hell, Hermione! It could’ve…!” He gasped out between breaths, before recovering some composure and straightening up, although he did not turn back to face her. “I guess Sirius knows?”

“Yes.”

Harry exhaled deeply. “Thought so. That’s why he asked me to keep an eye on you, isn’t it?” Now he turned.

“I guess so,” Hermione said flatly.

“Who died?” Hermione saw sudden comprehension strike him. “It wasn’t Lucius Mal -”

“No,” Hermione confirmed. “It wasn’t.”

“So who was it then? And what has Draco Malfoy got to do with it?”

Now Hermione inhaled deeply. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Harry spat with more bitterness than Hermione had ever observed in him.

“Both.”

His eyes narrowed further. Now Hermione thought she knew how Draco Malfoy had felt down in the dungeons. Harry was struggling to keep his temper in check.

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Why won’t you Hermione? That’s what I don’t understand. Why can’t you trust me? Damn it, you’ve seen someone die. That’s spooked Sirius badly enough that he wouldn’t tell me either. I bet it’s tied in with those evening sessions with Mad-Eye as well.”

As always, Hermione found his instincts spot on.

“Harry, as I’ve said before it’s sa -”

“Yeah - Safer if you don’t tell me,” Harry interrupted in a sing-song voice. “That record’s got a scratch, Hermione.” He slumped back onto his haunches. “I know it involves me,” he said suddenly and heatedly.

Uncannily spot on! Hermione stared at him. How did he know?

Harry gave an involuntary flinch under her stare. “Knew it… you know… I mean, if it involves you, it automatically involves me,” he added hastily.

Leaning forward, Hermione crawled the few feet towards Harry on her knees. She reached out with both her hands and grabbed hold of his.

“Harry, we - I’m - doing all I can not to involve you.” She shivered, not from cold. “Please, for me, let it lie.”

Harry looked down at the grass and dirt visible at the edge of his cloak, shaking his head slowly. Blowing his fringe from his face, he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Finally, he came to a decision. Taking a deep breath, he looked up. Hermione could see the hurt in his eyes.

“Honestly, I don’t like it, not one bit. You’re far too important to me.”

Her heart managed to simultaneously leap and sink at that declaration.

“But,” Harry continued, “if you and Sirius both insist, there’s got to be a really good reason. So I’ll not push, for you.”

Hermione felt some of the tenseness flow away.

“That doesn’t mean,” Harry continued, “that I won’t help you in any other way I can.” He stood up and kicked at the earth. “I’m fed up with this place, and could do with a drink.” He extended his arm down towards her. “Fancy a butterbeer?”

Relieved, Hermione allowed him to pull her to her feet. “I’m buying,” she said, not quite able to keep a flutter out of her voice.

‘You’re far too important to me,’ she repeated in her head, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

* * * * *

I am assured that, in France, the polite gesture of welcome or thanks is three kisses on alternating cheeks. Two is apparently a Belgian version. For family members, I am assured six is the correct number! I assume that, when kissing a pretty girl, you manage as many as you can get away with…

Gen is British military slang for intelligence.

Spotted dick is not a medical condition, but a suet pudding with sultanas.