...
The Burden of Fate
... ... ...
If it wasn't for Krum, she'd feel completely isolated from the rest of Hogwarts.
The morning of the First Task, she wakes up curled on the library floor surrounded by scattered books. Bulgaria's best seeker is lying with the side of his face against an open book, and she watches the pages flutter with each of his deep exhales. She envies his ability to sleep so soundly; her night had been punctuated by yellow eyes and fangs licked by flames.
They'd spent the last three-ish days constructing different ways to take down a great scaly beast. Krum had a far more advanced understanding of magic, but he still treated her as an equal, helping her with intricate wand movements and tongue-tying incantations. If she lives past today, she's confident that she'll pass her magical creatures OWLs and NEWTs with more than flying colours.
Instead of heading down to breakfast, she decides on some last-minute scouring for anything that could help her. Learning spells for an exam is one thing — she would've spent an entire school year preparing herself for it. Thinking on the spot while a blast of flames is hurtling towards her is entirely another thing… especially when she's had only just over a week to practice incantations she'd never even known existed.
Hermione knows that resourcefulness will be her truest ally in this task.
Karkaroff had been meticulous in gathering information for his star pupil. "There are four dragons for each of the champions," Krum had murmured on Saturday morning, the flickering candlelight of the library dancing across his eyes as grey clouds swarmed in the sky from the window behind him. "The Swedish Short-Snout, the Common Welsh Green, the Chinese Fireball, and the Hungarian Horntail. Each have their own physical strengths and weaknesses — our key in research would be to find out what."
The Short-Snout can breathe fire for the longest amount of time, but its range is only ten metres in comparison to up to fifty metres on the Horntail's end. Distance is key with this one.
The Welsh Green has a keen sense of smell, accompanied with terrible eyesight. Her and Krum had discussed spells that could mask their scent; ones that could represent what the Welsh Green is most accustomed to, such as Fen Violets or cornflower, but they were reminded by several textbooks that the dragon is technically not blind, so they'd still have to tread carefully if they were to face it.
The Fireball is the shortest but stockiest, also more tactical in its hunting techniques, which means it won't go straight for an attack, allowing more time to think and plan.
As for the Horntail, well, it's the most intelligent of the four — it's like the grizzly bear of dragons. It has no physical limitations, has lethal adaptations that give it its name, and will kill anything whether it's hungry, protecting its young, or not. Although it's the most ruthless and terrifying reptilian creature she's read about, the Horntail's lack of patience is what makes it easier for dragon keepers and wizarding 'pest control' (to which, despite what she would be facing, Hermione had scowled at) to catch.
Hermione herself had never been one for patience. If she knows her luck, she'll be at the foot of the last, short-tempered beast come this afternoon.
Krum's grumble draws her attention from her brooding thoughts. With unrested eyes, she watches him stretch as he gradually blinks awake. He meets her gaze with bleary eyes. A smile emerges on his lips, and she wonders how on Earth he's capable of conjuring one. Maybe he's forgotten the First Task is today. Or, he feels incredibly confident. Why wouldn't he? This is what he signed up for, after all. Not to mention the fact that he's well accustomed to crowded arenas.
So many eyes. They'll all be watching her. This afternoon. Nobody's going to be by her side, though. It's just her. And the Horntail. She's sure of it.
"Good morning, Herm-own-ninny."
Hermione runs her dry tongue over her dry lips. "Morning," she croaks.
They spend another half-hour going through pages of volumes, muttering last-minute tips and techniques they'd coveted to each other, before Krum suggests that they get something to eat. Even though she suspects she won't be able to keep anything down, Hermione begrudgingly agrees and follows him to the Great Hall. At the entrance, she lingers in the shadows and keeps her head bowed down to a book titled 'Parseltongue and Other Reptilian Languages'. An established agreement between her and Krum, because he hates attention and she wants to avoid it.
As Krum gathers portable food from inside the Hall, in the past few days, Hermione mostly had to endure some feeble and uncreative taunts that either involved Skeeter's disgraced article or her heritage. Nothing that could piss her off enough to even look up from whatever book would be in her hands. On Sunday evening, she'd heard Ron's laugh echo from the staircases, making her chest ache. As his clumsy footsteps accompanied Harry's shuffling ones, she had kept her eyes firmly on the page, although she was reading nothing.
Their sudden silence told her they were both staring at her.
She had wanted so badly to reach out to them, but her pride wouldn't allow it. Something told her that was the same case with the pair of them. Hermione hadn't even told Harry that she'd given Diggory a fair chance.
They were hesitating at the doorway, and she felt like Ron was going to say something, but then Krum chose that moment to push through the door with a basket of bread, cheese, grapes, some goblets and a bottle of pumpkin juice. "Hungry, Herm-own-ninny?" he'd asked, and when she'd torn her eyes from the book to his grin, she could tell in her peripheral vision Harry was gawping at her and Ron was going as red as his hair.
When she'd grinned back at him, turning her backs on Harry and Ron as they ambled out of the castle, towards the Durmstrang Ship, she wondered if that had sealed something permanently. Even now, on the morning of the First Task, she wishes she'd at least made eye contact with them.
Any lessons she's had with them since, Ron would refuse to even look in her direction. Harry, she's noticed, has been casting more and more troubled looks at her, brows furrowed, lips thinned. It provides some consolation that he seems to still care about her, assuming his concern is centred around the dragons.
She hasn't realized she'd zoned out until a nasally voice drawls a taunt. "Will you ever stop rubbing your nose against a book, Granger?" One would think he'd dragged himself from his hiding place just to piss her off on this day. Or unsettle her, like she had him. But with what she knows… Malfoy will never have the upper hand.
"Well, well," she hisses, a smirk climbing her lips as her eyes move off the reptile runes to meet steely orbs. "The wolf has left his den."
Malfoy has been practicing. There's not even a twitch of his eyes, his smug sneer fixed in place. "I hope everyone can see how dirty your blood is today, when it's spilled on the ground," he murmurs, eyelashes flickering as his gaze darts over her face. "Whatever filthy creature you're to fight can't be worse than you." Keeping her passive expression that she reserves specifically for Malfoy, she's amazed that that's the most foul thing he can think of saying.
"You're getting sloppy, Malfoy," she whispers, taking a bold step towards him. "There isn't an insult that's come out of your mouth I haven't heard." The only thing between them is the book laying forlorn in her hands. Hermione expects him to draw back, hissing at how disgusting she is. Instead, intriguing little bursts of silvery-blue flecks scatter around the rim of his pupils, the steely expanse of grey surrounding them getting darker.
Then, he takes a step forward, too. In her stubborn determination to stand her ground, Hermione is forced to press the book flat against her stomach as he closes all distance between them. It's surreal, being this close to Malfoy. She's not even sure if she's even had this much proximity with Ron in the more vivid sections of her imagination.
The tip of his nose almost brushes her own. His eyelashes nearly reach her skin as he stares down with hooded eyes. Slowly, he raises his hand to her jaw, but her skin only quivers under a ghost's touch. The only part of him that's truly touching her is each breath of his exhale. It makes her reminisce of summer nights picking fresh green apples from a nearby orchard, and coming home to make apple pie with her parents.
Eons pass before he finally mumbles, "You're getting loose, Granger. If you're not careful, you'll let anyone into your pants, not just celebrities like Saint Potter and Krum." White-hot fury seeps down her body as he takes several steps back, smirking. Such a vile thought hadn't even crossed her mind. "Of course, you'd be lucky if I even touched you."
That evil little cockroach — he's turning towards the staircase to the dungeons. It's only now that she realizes she had been holding her breath, and as Hermione fumbles with a comeback to throw at the back of his retreating white head of hair, she nearly screams, "If I may be loose, I can assure you you'd still be the very last on my list!"
It's a feeble insult, her insides squirm with how pathetic it sounded leaving her lips; it seems to do the trick, though, as Malfoy pauses, his fists clenching. Narcissistic arse. Then, he speedwalks down the dungeon staircase, casting her to her storm of thoughts.
More than anything, she's infuriated that she's allowed him to get to her. For the first time since Second Year, while the blood of Muggle-borns etched propaganda onto the castle walls, Malfoy has weaselled his way into her head again.
On the day of the First Task.
She'll be fighting a dragon.
When she dies, she'll be remembered as a cheater and a push-over, desperate, know-it-all priss. Because she's heard the whispers. It's not just Malfoy's word. People have found a reason to fire up Skeeter's article to life, sourced from Krum's sour-faced fanclub peeking over bookshelves not so subtly. How the Slytherin has been keeping up with the school gossip is something Merlin only knows.
Krum finds her on the shore of the Great Lake, watching the Giant Squid's tentacles attempt to tackle the wards around the Durmstrang ship. The clouds are a sickly grey, but despite the insinuation from the sky that it will rain, the air is strangely dry and humid on this late November Tuesday morning. Wordlessly, he passes her Parseltongue and Other Reptilian Languages, which she supposes she'd dropped at some point during her encounter with Malfoy. Then, he places the basket on the grass on one side of her, and lowers himself to sit on the other side of her.
The only sound between them is the lapping of the water as the tentacles disappear into and remerge from the black, glassy depths. It creates littles waves which swirl against the shoreline, where the tips of Hermione's leather school shoes and Krum's thick heavy boots rest inches from.
"I had my first Quidditch game when I was thirteen years old." She nods, to show she's listening. Harry had his first game when he was eleven. A tiny part of her glows in smug pride about it, but she knows Harry would never brag about it. "I was quaking in my boots. I had no idea what was going to happen, because no game is ever the same. It's hard to plan for something unpredictable."
Hermione hums as one of the squid's tentacles rushes suddenly to the surface of the lake, causing an almighty splash. Neither of them flinch as icy droplets spray over them. From the corner of her eye, and from the way the side of her face burns, she can tell Krum's stare isn't fixed on the squid.
"You can prepare yourself as much as you would like. That can help you make it. But in the end, it's your instinct that will lead you to more than just making it." As the remaining tentacles sink back into the lake, she takes a deep breath, and turns to meet his burning charcoal eyes.
Without breaking the stare, she reaches into the basket and reaches for the goblets and bottle. It's always pumpkin juice, something he mentioned isn't very popular in Bulgaria; something he's grown quite fond of. The cork of the bottle is forced off by her thumb with a pop, and she pours into each goblet, not caring when some dribbles off the rims of the goblets into the crevices of her fingers. She doesn't want to break his gaze, and neither, it would seem, does he, as he takes a goblet blindly from her sticky hand.
Raising her goblet, she can't help herself. "To victory!" she bellows at the empty grounds, grinning when he flashes his own pearly whites.
Lessons were to end at midday so everyone could make their way to the arena on time, but Hermione skipped potions and herbology altogether. The last thing she needed was Sprout giving her filthy looks and Snape gifting her with snide comments and crude imagery hours before she's to fight a dragon. Instead, she and Krum spent their remaining dragon-free hours in the library. Their last-minute research wasn't as fervent as it perhaps should've been, but she's constructed a last-minute effort to rearrange her mindset to that of a champion, not a survivor.
In what felt like only ten minutes of browsing books, Professor McGonagall came swerving around the corner of the bookshelf, finding them bent over a large volume: Quick Curses to Cause Distractions. Her lips were thinner than ever, her face ashen, as she said in a rather shaky voice, "I had a feeling I would find you here, Miss Granger. I need you and Mr Krum to come down to the grounds now… all the champions have to get ready for your first task."
They trailed behind her, and between the tall, steady posture of Krum and the tensed shoulders of McGonagall, Hermione felt she was stuck somewhere in the middle.
They stepped out into the grounds, and the weather seemed to remember it was winter. Hermione's ears and the tip of her nose went numb as they advanced towards the Forbidden Forest. She scanned the treeline, even though she knew it wasn't the full moon, nor night, and Malfoy was in the dungeons somewhere. When she caught sight of that clump of trees, she had to take a few calming breaths.
Even champions got nervous — this was her first game, and she was going to win.
Instead of the four dragons she was expecting to glower down at her with smoke billowing from their snouts, a tent had been erected, screening their view of the dragon enclosure.
Professor McGonagall had ushered Krum into it, but kept Hermione out. The woman looked like she was going to be sick as her eyes bored into Hermione's. "I know how capable you are; I would like you to remember the same thing, no matter how out of hand the situation may seem…" She had faltered when Hermione plastered on a reassuring smile. "We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand—"
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione had heard herself saying. "But I'll be fine."
That's a mantra she tells herself now, inside the tent, staring at the sack of purple silk in Ludo Bagman's overblown hands. You'll be fine, she affirms, as hundreds and hundreds of feet march past their tent, a gladiator's audience. As she meets Krum's eyes, she convinces herself that she's totally capable. More than just making it.
Bagman, who looks like an overblown cartoon character who stepped into the wrong scene, had claimed their task was to "retrieve the golden egg", which should sound far less intimidating than "decapitate this great reptilian beast". But Hermione's watched enough documentaries to know that a great majority of animal-based casualties are as a result of mothers protecting their young.
Krum stands tall, his arms crossed, his eyes sliding between Bagman and Hermione. The thought of what Malfoy had said decides to now make an appearance in her mind. It makes her cheeks stain, as if everyone in this tent is thinking the same.
In actuality, their concerns are entirely elsewhere. Bagman's bumbling on about the preparation procedures, but nobody's paying him much mind. Diggory, who had offered Hermione a small smile upon her entrance, now looks rather green. Delacour appears to have something extremely sour in her mouth, slouched on a stool in the most natural position she's ever seen a Beauxbatons student sit in.
And Krum's eyes are burning an inferno.
The most comfortable individual in the tent says some words that pass over her head; it's only when she watches Krum step forward with the others that she follows suit. Everyone pulls their models out of the bag in Bagman's hands, and Hermione almost laughs hysterically at the sight of the Hungarian Horntail baring its miniscule fangs up at her from her palm, the number four around its neck.
"Well, there you are!" says Bagman. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Mr. Diggory, you're first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right?" Before he sets to leave, Bagman gives Hermione a final curious, lingering look, his mouth opening as if he's about to say something. Then, it clamps shut, and he bounces out of the tent.
It's at this point that Diggory starts pacing, and not a few seconds later, a distant whistle blows. As he exits the tent, looking a disturbing shade of green, Delacour retraces his steps, pacing back and forth as she continuously mutters something in French. Hermione slumps onto the abandoned stool, not sure if her legs would be able to support her much longer; Krum is quick to slouch by her side. "To victory," he murmurs in her ear; something electric shoots down her spine. It's hard to smile, so she gives him a nod instead.
Her blood thrums through her veins, through fifteen minutes of roaring, a combination of crowds and an infuriated monster, along with Bagman shouting things like "Narrow move, there, very narrow…" and "He's taking risks, this one!"
Adrenaline shoots through her heart as a final, deafening roar ends Diggory's task, dawning Delcour's one, who fixes her posture before strutting out of the tent like a peacock.
"Good lord!" cries Bagman. "She's taken on it with the spirit for the Battle of Normandy." Hermione doubts many people in the crowd could appreciate Bagman's poorly constructed, rather ignorant humour, which is why she isn't surprised when Krum raises an eyebrow at her breathy scoff. Sometimes she finds she prefers the magical folk who want nothing to do with the Muggle world than those who pretend they know what they're talking about. There's an expression on his face that suggests he wants to ask what it means, but in the end, it appears the nerves are starting to settle into his synapses, too.
The Welsh Green snorts violently, which means Delcour has either deliberately or accidentally masked her scent in a way that makes it difficult for the reptile to locate her. At one point, the meandering gusting whoosh signifies the dragon has given up on traditional tracking techniques and will bloody well burn her eggs to a crisp if it means she can catch whatever puny creature is skittering at her scaly feet.
It takes ten minutes for the crowd to erupt into applause — only now does Hermione register the concluding "Judges, hold up your scores!" — and she catches sight of Krum's surly expression. Only for a second. Then, he gives her a bold smile; one that she finds difficult to return. She watches his retreating back until the flap of the tent flutters shut, encasing her alone with her wild mind.
His task is taking the longest — of course, the Fireball is the most calculating of the four dragons. Twenty minutes pass, blanketed with gasps and the collective held breaths of the crowd, punctuated with an appraising bellow from Bagman or a guttural shriek from the Fireball. She's started practicing incantations under her breath, and without Krum's warm eyes, blind panic is ready to ambush her at the rim of her mind.
What does ambush her is Harry, of whom she nearly hexes into oblivion. "Bloody hell, Harry!" she growls, heart slamming against her chest as he raises his hands with an apologetic tilt to his brows. The stool is knocked sideways, where she had kicked it while stumbling to a stand. "How did—?"
"Kinda judged from the direction the other champions came from," he answers early, shrugging sheepishly and rubbing the back of his neck. Perhaps she hadn't been able to notice it before, but up close, his skin is pasty, clinging to the frame of his face too tightly, making her wonder if he's been skipping meals. A stark contrast to his sickly complexion is his sharp green gaze fixed on her, holding a determination she's all too familiar with. "I saw what you did for Diggory."
Hermione blinks.
Harry smiles tentatively, now. "Thanks. Seriously. It was the right thing to do."
"How did—?"
"You know how his bag split?"
She remembers thinking how wonderfully convenient that timing was. "That was you?"
"I was about to tell him."
A huff of laughter escapes her. "Guess I beat you to it."
Harry hums quietly. "Guess you did."
They weigh each other's gazes as the Fireball gives a rumbling growl like thunder. Still guarded, Hermione doesn't allow her lips to twitch upwards; Harry's faint smile fades quickly. It hadn't even had the chance to reach his eyes.
"I finally managed to contact Sirius the other night, through the floo." Hermione tilts her head, achieving a small smile.
"How's he doing?"
"Alright. As well as he can do. But we were talking about the World Cup and some of the missing ministry workers—" Hermione remembers the conversations in hallways about the disappearance of the likes of Bertha Jorkins, a little while ago, but she hadn't thought much of it "—and he reckons that Voldemort's back." Hermione bites her bottom lip, refraining from pointing out that political outbursts can happen decades after a dictatorship has fallen. "Did you know Karkaroff used to be a Death Eater?"
"Harry…"
"Sirius says he'll do anything to save his hide. So if that means getting to me, but prior to that, you—"
"But this is all speculation, Harry." It's a very strange conversation to be having when she's about to face the most violent dragon breed in the wizarding world.
"He knows how close we are. He's also not past getting his hands dirty. Hermione… what if he does something to you? What if he's sabotaged this task somehow, or any of them? What if he's the one that put your name in the Goblet?"
The words that were about to leave her mouth die in her throat. As she pauses, Bagman screams, "That was so unbelievably close, seeker's reflexes!"
"Wouldn't it make more sense to put your one in?" she finally asks, brows furrowing. Running his hand through his already messy hair, Harry breathes out impatiently.
"That's what I told him. But Sirius says putting your name there wasn't some prank — it can't be a coincidence, with everything that's been happening this year."
Her teeth start nibbling her lower lip again. "Hermione, I don't think it's safe for you to go in that enclosure."
"It isn't safe either way," she deadpans, fighting the urge to laugh at his ridiculous statement.
"Seriously, Hermione," his voice is firm. "And… I don't think trusting Krum is the best option, either." She knew it was coming, but it doesn't stop her from scoffing. There's a glint in Harry's eyes as she jabs a finger at the outside of the tent.
"Ron can bloody well sod off—"
"This has nothing to do with Ron!" Harry says heatedly, taking several steps towards her. "You're in real danger, Hermione!"
She scoffs again. "That's rich, coming from you! Just last year you literally ran after Lupin—"
"Hermione," he beseeches, eyes glimmering now. It makes her pause, her boiling blood cooling slightly.
Tilting her head again, she searches his expression. "Sirius said something else, didn't he?"
When Harry clenches his unhealthily boney jaw and looks away, she gets her answer.
"What did he say, Harry?" she prompts. He shakes his head.
"Don't go out there, Hemrione," he mutters.
The dragon shrieks.
Taking several steps towards him, she growls, "Harry!"
An almighty roar, like the end of the World Cup, erupts from the crowd.
Quick as a flash, he seizes her and his arms wrap around her. She doesn't have the heart to fight him anymore, so she hugs him back, tightly, wondering what's haunting his mind as sure as the dragon she's about to face.
A distant whistle blows.
Her heart is hammering against her ribs. Harry's grip on her tightens, before his fingers slacken and he lets go. From behind glassy eyes, he watches her as she gradually retreats to the entrance of the tent. Until he's out of sight, she doesn't break his crystalline gaze.
...
A tiny figure, being looked down upon by thousands of eyes. Entering the filthy enclosure of a creature. Fate burdens her with the purpose to be slaughtered in front of wizarding folk. His created badges are dotted all around the arena, flashing purple and green.
This is Granger's true place.
Draco's heart is thumping violently against his chest, albeit, for the wrong reason. There is no anticipation coursing through his veins; no smirk tugging at his lips. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and now he severely regrets heeding it.
Of course, he had come prepared. A few glamour charms, starting with a far less noticeable dark shade of blonde, means that most people don't spare him a second glance. He's put on some glamoured Beauxbatons uniform, too, so nobody really questions an unrecognisable face.
Merlin, it's great to have his wand again.
All things considered, most people wouldn't pay him much mind even if he wasn't incognito. Why would they, when there's dragons in the arena? The only person who'd probably draw more attention than such a great beast is Saint Potter.
Potter's best buddy is down there, right now, staring up at the beast with the most shiny scales, the most yellow eyes, the most horns protruding across its body — he swears her tail has been built like a mallet. Granger is so small in comparison, from where Draco sits in the stands, and yet, he is the one that's trembling.
The Hungarian Horntail is crouched low over her clutch of eggs, and like the golden snitch, the prized one glints up at him. With the way her vast wings are half-furled over the eggs, he suspects Granger can't even see them. She starts pacing, and the Horntail's head moves ever so slightly to the rhythm of her feet. The air tastes of hay and smoke today.
Running his dry tongue over his dry lips, he raises the binoculars he'd purchased from one of the many First and Second Year midgets that had been bouncing around the entrance of the stands. As it settles at the bridge of his nose, he furrows his brow while focusing on the much more detailed image of Granger — she's biting her lip, and he already knows that her mind is skimming through thoughts like flipping through the pages of a book.
The crowd is wilder than it had been with even Krum. Two rows behind him, Draco can hear that pompous Hufflepuff, Smith, he thinks, screaming an interesting list of profanities down to the arena. The dragon pays more attention to the crowd than Granger does, giving them a brief glance with her yellow orbs before snorting smoke downwards; Draco looks down in time to catch sight of Granger's funny little dance as some of the billowing grey passes her.
Diggory had stood back, at first, levelling his playing field, before he dove straight in for the egg, a true seeker, although Draco would be more likely to confess to the world about his condition than admit Hufflepuff has a good Quidditch player on their team. On the other hand, Delacour had been bold, marching straight to her assigned beast and infuriating it so much that Keepers had to loiter near the wards around the stands to make sure that her extensive amount of fire wouldn't shatter them, nor that it would roast Delacour alive. As for Krum, he'd been the most tactical, holding back, going in, then drawing back, confusing and tiring out the Fireball simultaneously; they were perfect for each other, hesitating at every move and considering the next course of action.
So far, Granger hasn't moved farther than a metre from the edge of the arena.
"So much for being in Gryffindor!" some Third Year next to him yells, and Draco would give him a filthy look for the ringing in his heightened ears if he wasn't so invested in the way Granger is pacing like her mind surely is. He hopes to Merlin she would turn around and leave, so not only would she become Hogwarts' hottest topic, he would also have something magnificent to piss her off with.
Like she had humiliated him, she would be humiliated, with nobody to blame but herself.
She doesn't turn around.
On the contrary, she stops in her tracks, and faces the Horntail directly.
Her mouth is moving, but even as Draco squints, he can't see her wand anywhere. He strains his ears, and although he knows he would be able to catch her words, the hundreds of jeers, taunts, and hollers of encouragement provide an irritating obstacle.
Bagman's booming, making his head pulse, "They're staring each other do—"
The rumbling growl cuts him out. It's repetitive, rhythmic, deep from the creature's chest like the way his grandfather's laughter sounded to him as a child. The whole crowd is silent, now. As Draco grips the binoculars a little tighter, he watches the way her lips stop moving, forming into a twist of a smile. In his peripheral vision, the dragon's head moves side to side slowly, as if she's chastising Granger, silly girl.
Without warning, a burst of flame billows from its jaws; Granger dives out of the way just before Draco drops his binoculars, which clatter to his feet only he can hear under the gasps and screams of hundreds of mouths around him. Cursing, Draco reaches for the ridiculous things — his hair falls over his eyes, and he curses himself again for forgetting he has his wand — before glowring flicker of orange, followed by the almighty roar, makes him whip his head back up.
Even without the binoculars, he can tell Granger has her wand out, waving it around as she darts here and there. The dragon's tail rises, hurtling towards the tiny witch. A rock appears in mid air, the creature's tail colliding against it; it shatters into hundreds of pieces like glass, and Granger has to wave her wand frantically to prevent any of them tumbling onto her.
But as Draco peers harder, he realizes that the rocks aren't being sent into any random direction: they fire straight towards the Horntail, cannonballs towards a monstrous reptile. Her great tail bats some of them out of the way, but her chunky neck doesn't allow her head to swerve out of the way on time…
Draco has forgotten the binoculars, his hands instead clutching the stands in front of him as the Horntail releases a shriek, one of her eyes exploding into blood and flesh fireworks in the air. There's a mixture of roaring praise and shocked screams among the crowd, Bagman's shouting something hoarsely, but Draco's not processing any words, not processing anything much else, really, except for the two creatures in the arena. As he struggles to swallow against his dry throat, the dragon rears to her hind legs, deep ruby liquid running a tear-track down to her jaw.
It's a wonder, considering the amount of fury she directs to people providing their House Elves with an amiable life. It's that heat of the moment.
The Horntail plummets down to Granger; the Earth shudders violently, more people scream, Granger zips out through dust and smoke. Within a fraction of a section, the tail has swooped backwards, and she has to duck to an awkward angle.
There's more collective gasps, and several people across him, Draco flinches at Seamus Finnegan hollering, "she's been hit!"
Swiftly, he swipes the binoculars off the ground where they had been resting at his feet, and he jams them against his nose again. Granger's face is scrunched up in pain as she clutches her left shoulder. His heart is wild in his chest. The keepers at the wards are getting fidgety, he notes, before moving the binoculars back towards Granger; his heart stops with the shrieks as the tail plummets towards her.
For a second, he expects to hear a sickening crunch.
As Granger rolls abruptly out of the way, however, the ground is only greeted with the deafening clap of horns against stone. People are positively howling with a combined excited fear, watching Granger stumble to her feet. Draco couldn't make noise if he wanted to.
Jets of light leave her wand, dancing around the Horntail. Its good eye flicker briefly to each in turn, but her focus never leaves Granger. Instead, another burst of flame threatens to consume Granger. The witch's wand raises, and with it, water.
Black smoke froths upwards. The dragon shakes its mighty head, and Granger uses the opportunity to shoot another spell in a direction behind it; some rock explodes, and the Horntail snarls as she whips towards it.
It's all the time Granger needs.
Although she's sprinting slowly as she grips her shoulder, she manages to reach the eggs and wrap her hands around the golden one before the dragon can comprehend her own panic as she whips back around. Like a seeker who's caught the golden snitch, Granger's grinning up at her audience.
The crowd's howling.
Bagman's hollering praise.
Draco finally notices the pounding headache behind his eyes.
With all the overwhelming noises, the mixture of so much sweat even in the November weather, the scent of the dragon's blood… he has to rest his forehead against the back of his hand where it rests on the stand. Breathing steadily, even though some Beauxbatons' shriek next to him makes him flinch with the sharp throb in his head, Draco wonders why he ever left the peace of the Room of Hidden Things.
Well, at first he had told himself he really wanted his wand; what better time than when everyone was out at the First Task?
Then, he'd convinced himself to taunt Granger… except, he was a coward, expecting that she would bring up everything she'd done to him. She would get to him before he could even try to get to her. So, instead of striding towards her in the Entrance Hall and taunting her like he'd wanted, he'd slunk into the shadows towards the dungeons so he could loiter about until it was safe to retrieve his wand.
That's when his feet carried him towards the arena, after his hands performed a bit of wandwork. He'd been merely following her scent.
If he focuses enough, he can catch the buttercream and rose through the sweat, tears and blood. Or perhaps he's imagining it.