Monday morning dawned bright and clear, bringing with it a decided chill in the air. Bundling up in her thick winter stockings, Hermione pulled on her jumper to add some extra warmth. Taking an extra moment, she considered herself in the mirror. She wasn't…ugly, per se. But she certainly wasn't pretty either, no matter what off-the-cuff complements Viktor occasionally gave her. Her teeth were much too big for her face, and her hair was unmanageable on the best of days. Her chin was too pointy to be fashionable and her cheeks too round. She'd been studying too much lately and had dreadful dark smudges beneath her eyes. With a huff, she dug around in her bag for an elastic and pulled back her hair, abandoning the mirror and the bathroom.
After a quick breakfast, she joined Harry and Ron on their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Moody was certainly a competent teacher, but there was something about him that put her on edge. Between his shouts of 'constant vigilance!' and his early-term practical lessons on the Unforgiveable Curses, Monday mornings had quickly become her least favorite time of the week.
Harry and Ron, however, didn't seem to share her reservations about Professor Moody. Both of the boys seemed entranced with his practical lessons, as if his class was an opportunity to play-act their own fantasies of being dark wizard catchers.
"Wonder what we'll be learning today?" Ron asked, his voice colored with barely-contained excitement. It was probably the only class she'd ever seen him actively look forward to outside of Dueling.
Harry shrugged. "I dunno. We finished redcaps and dugbogs last week. I think he said something about counter-curses, maybe."
Hermione took her usual seat next to Neville. Ever since their lesson on Unforgiveables, Neville had been even more anxious than usual around Moody, despite having been invited to tea with him. Perhaps because he'd been invited to tea with him. Hermione had taken to sitting with Neville ever since, and the two each enjoyed having a fellow classmate who was less than enamored with their professor and his teaching methods.
Moody stomped his way up to the front of the class, the door slamming behind him. He seemed to relish in dramatic entrances, the hush that fell over the class whenever he suddenly appeared giving him a certain amount of mad glee.
"Today we're having a special lecture."
His eye whizzed madly for a moment and he reached into his jacket pocket to take a healthy swig from his ever-present flask.
"Blood magic. Seeing as you all had an impromptu demonstration of it over the weekend from our…esteemed colleagues, I felt it prudent to introduce the basics to you."
What followed was one of the strangest lessons Hermione had ever had. After waxing poetic for fifteen minutes on the dangers of blood magic, he transitioned into story telling about all the dark wizards he'd caught and how twisted they'd become from dark blood rituals.
When half the class was over, he instructed each of them to grab their pen knives from their bags. Hermione's heart began to pound, but she obediently reached into her bag and brought out the tiny knife she used to sharpen her quills. Staring at it, she felt a little sick with anxiety. Beside her, Neville's brow furrowed as he glared down at his hands.
"I want to make sure each of you feels the power of blood once, so you know what it is and what it looks like. What it feels like. It's something you'll likely do once or twice in your lives. If you open a new vault in Gringotts, the little blighter's 'll stick you and make you bleed. Certain magical contracts are signed in blood, too.
"It's a powerful and dangerous substance. When you bleed, your magic bleeds too. It's this raw magic that you all saw old Krum use to heal himself on Saturday. Now I want to make it clear: I don't expect or want any of you to attempt to use blood magic. What I do want, is for each of you to prick your thumbs. Concentrate on the feeling of your magic. Try to find that magical signature as it leaves your body. If you're bleeding on a battlefield, knowing that feeling can help save your life. When you go to sign your marriage papers, you'll make less of a fool of yourself if you know how to properly find your magical signature."
The whole class was quiet. Uncertain.
"Now, go ahead and try. We've got a few minutes left. When you're done, there's a salve on my desk that'll heal you in no time."
Pricking her own finger, Hermione tried to feel the magic within her, but all she could find was the gentle throb of her own heartbeat in her thumb. She tried again, screwing up her face in concentration, but made no discernable progress. What was it supposed to feel like, anyway?
Glancing around, she saw roughly half the class seemed to be having the same difficulties. Beside her, Neville shrugged and whispered "I give up" before heading to the front of the class to use the bottle of salve. Hermione considered going with him but shook her head, determined to get this right.
"Easy there, Potter," she heard from the front of the class. "You don't need to stick the knife clean through. Go get up and get yourself some salve." Harry trudged forward, looking sheepish as he wiped his very bloody thumb on the side of his trousers.
When class was finally over, she'd made absolutely no progress whatsoever. Dunking her thumb in the salve, she winced at the sting and strode out of the classroom with Harry and Ron.
"What a load of crock. He didn't even give us any proper instructions."
Ron grinned. "You're only saying that because you couldn't get it. I felt my magic just fine, thanks."
Without a backwards glance, Hermione stormed off in a huff. She could practically feel Ron laughing at her the entire way to Ancient Runes. Git. He was probably lying, anyway.
=/=/=
After lunch found Hermione ensconced in her armchair in front of the stained-glass window in the library. She desperately wished she had a cup of hot tea to calm her mind, but she'd settled for kicking off her shoes and curling her feet under her as she gazed out the window.
She didn't know why she'd gotten so upset that Ron had succeeded at something she hadn't. It wasn't like it was a big deal.
At least, it shouldn't have been.
But it was. To her.
She was better than Ronald. She'd always told herself she was better than all the people who complained that she was a great, ugly old swot. But here was something that Ron was obviously better at. She wanted to tell herself it was because Professor Moody had given incredibly poor instructions, that if she'd just had a proper teacher she'd have gotten it first. But maybe she was being ridiculous. In her heart, she knew she couldn't be the best at absolutely everything, but that had never stopped her from trying.
The sound of a bag landing on the table startled her.
Viktor looked at her with mild concern as he unpacked one of his textbooks. "Ok?"
She sighed. This scene felt entirely too familiar. Was she coming to rely on Viktor too much? She bit her lip in worry before raising her eyes to meet his gaze.
It was the first time she'd seen him since he'd entered his name into the goblet on Saturday, and part of her wished he'd look at her with that heavy gaze again, instead of the mild concern that currently furrowed his brows.
"I'm fine. We had a really strange lecture in Defense today. It's left me a bit out of sorts."
"What was about?"
"Blood magic."
Viktor's eyebrows shot up almost comically high.
"Professor Moody wanted us to know about it after, well, after Saturday and with the tournament and all. He tried to get us to 'feel our magic' or some such nonsense."
"Da. Is first step in blood magic. Very basic."
"Well it certainly didn't feel basic," she spat. Trying to run her fingers through her hair, they only got caught and tangled. Utterly frustrated, she wrenched out the elastic, grimacing as it yanked out a few strands of her own hair.
"I said is basic. Did not say is easy." He let her stew for a long moment. "You like me to teach you?"
Biting her lip, Hermione considered her options. If she succeeded, she could go on happily telling herself the problem was Moody and nothing else. If she failed, she'd not only embarrass herself, but she'd do it in front of Viktor.
The smug look on Ron's face that morning made her decision for her.
"Yes. Yes I would. If it's not too much trouble."
He gestured to the chair next to him and drew the small silver dagger from the depths of his school bag. The leather sheath was stained dark black and richly stamped with intricate runes etched in silver. He passed it to her so she could take a closer look.
"Does everyone in Durmstrang learn blood magic?"
"Da. Is very useful. Good for healing, warding, ritual magic. Is required until year four."
Passing the dagger back to him, she asked "Did you study it after year four?"
He paused, gently setting the dagger on the table.
"Still study it. Is, how you say? Best subject."
"Oh." She hated how small her voice sounded. How hesitant. Viktor carefully laid his hand on top of hers.
"I know is different. You do not have to learn."
Steeling her resolve to overcome this anxiety, she shook her head. "I'd like to learn." She pulled the elastic from her wrist and began to tie her hair back and out of her way.
"What is that?"
"What's what?"
"That." He pointed to her hair.
"Oh! The elastic." She paused before taking it back out of her hair. "It's for holding my hair up, so it stays out of my face." When he continued to look intrigued, she passed it over.
"Have seen you wear this before. Thought it was strange jewelry." He gave it a brief tug, seemingly impressed by the stretch. "My cousin, she wears hair up. But always clips. Combs. Never seen…elastic."
He pronounced the word slowly, looking at her face to gauge if he'd gotten it right. She'd been a never-ending source of new words and corrected pronunciation in the last two months and no longer hesitated to correct him. She'd discovered he was delighted to find someone willing to help him with his newest language and happily took her suggestions and corrections.
"I suppose you've never seen it because it's Muggle."
The word came out a bit slowly, as if it stuck in her throat. The difference in their blood status was something the two had never explicitly talked about. She'd asked him tons of questions about wizarding society, but so far she'd found herself unwilling to talk much about her own life growing up, her own society that was so very different from his.
"Make sense. Have been in Durmstrang and playing quidditch. Do not visit Muggle Sophia very frequent. Don't notice Muggle hair elastic."
"Often. Very often."
"Often." He paused again, searching her face. "You let me keep?" He slipped the elastic onto his wrist and mimed showing it off like it was a designer bracelet, a boyish grin on his face.
"Why?"
"Is good luck charm. Champions chosen tonight. I wear token from pretty witch. Brings me luck."
She laughed. "You are ridiculous. As if you need any luck. Everyone's certain you'll be chosen."
Something passed over his face, a brief flash of anxiety she'd seen from him often when he was around other people but rarely when he was here with her.
"Do you…do you want to be Champion?"
He considered his hands for a long minute.
"Sometimes. Am not. Am not brave when not on broom. But, am, what is word? Competitive. Like to win."
"Really? The greatest seeker in the world likes to win? I never would have guessed."
He smiled ruefully, but seemed a little cheered.
"You can keep it if you'd like. I have dozens of them. I'm always losing them and Crookshanks is always stealing them to play with. I keep finding them in the strangest places."
"Blagodarya. Thank you." She colored slightly as he settled the elastic on his wrist right above his watch.
"Now. Blood magic. Still have time. You want to learn?"
"Yes, please."
Withdrawing the dagger from its sheath, he extended the hilt to her. It felt cold in her hands and slightly frightening.
"Magic lives in you. In your blood. When you bleed, magic comes out in blood. That magic is still yours. It will always be yours, even when you are gone. Is very powerful and very personal. Small amount blood means small amount magic. Big amount blood, big magic. To do, you must learn to find magic in your body."
"But how do I do that?"
He slowly extended a hand, as if waiting for her to push him away. When she didn't move, he placed the tip of one finger on her belly, right between the flare of her ribs.
"Lives here. In core."
His finger barely touched her jumper right above her heart.
"Lives here. In heart."
She felt the loss of that tiny connection profusely when he placed his hand back on his thigh.
"Heart moves blood, moves magic. Source of magic is in core. Is deep well. As magic grows stronger, bucket in well gets bigger, brings up more magic. But well is," he paused, seemingly growing frustrated before reaching in his bag for the small dictionary he brought everywhere. "Is finite. Can't draw more magic than you have. Must not let well go dry, understand?"
"I think so." She nodded, confused at the strange warning.
"You are Muggleborn. I am thinking they do not teach these things at Hogwarts. Is important to know. Especially if you want to learn blood magic."
"Ok. So what's the first step, then?"
"We try same thing professor did. Small cut, small magic. Reach out and grasp magic. Should feel familiar because it is also in you."
She stared at the small blade in her hand, strangely hesitant to try this again. Summoning up her courage, she gently pressed the fleshy part of her thumb to the very edge of the blade, wincing at the sharp sting and fighting the urge to stick it in her mouth to stop the bleeding.
"Good. Now, feel. Feel core and heart. Then find that feeling in blood. Will know when successful."
She tried. Oh she tried. But after fifteen minutes of scrunching up her face and concentrating so hard she thought she'd break into a sweat, she was finally ready to admit defeat.
"I'm never going to get this. I just don't understand what I'm supposed to feel." Frustrated tears pricked at her eyes.
Viktor gently healed her thumb with a smart tap of his wand before grasping the knife. "Here, I show you."
He deftly slashed a small straight line down his palm, earning him a startled squeak from Hermione. Holding his hand up in front of him, he gestured with his other.
"Here, give me your hand. Press against mine."
The bloody one?
Oh, she didn't want to do this. She didn't think herself terribly squeamish, but this just felt so weird. So foreign. So gross.
Still, Viktor was actively bleeding and yet patiently waiting for her to find her courage. Trying not to think about bloodborne diseases or how bizarre this was, she lined her hand up with his, startling a little when he interlaced their fingers and pressed his palm strongly against hers. She could feel the warm blood against her hand and could even see a couple small drops on the library table. She hoped it didn't stain anything.
"Good. Close eyes. Feel. Concentrate on hand. I will push magic out with blood. Feel it."
She felt supremely silly closing her eyes, but did as he asked. When she was just about to interrupt the silence with an impatient "this isn't working," she felt the strangest sensation. It was much warmer than his blood and yet wasn't a physical warmth at all. It pulsed almost, strong and insistent at the center of his palm and losing strength as it snaked down his wrist.
When she opened her eyes, Viktor was smiling at her.
"You feel, da?"
Her beaming smile was answer enough.
=/=/=
The Halloween feast was always a spectacle at Hogwarts, but this year's was something else entirely. Live bats (Hermione desperately hoped they were only transfigured leather gloves) swooped over tables so laden with platters of food that Hermione swore she could hear them groan.
A shriek erupted from a cluster of Beauxbatons' students at the Ravenclaw table as a huge portion of the Headless Hunt materialized from behind the staff table and raced the length of the Great Hall, tossing heads to and fro and even batting one across the hall as if it were a cricket ball. Hermione pretended not to hear Nearly-Headless Nick's groan and huff of frustration at being upstaged by all of the fully headless ghosts. Harry, though, hadn't turned his attention away fast enough and was now attempting to act concerned and sympathetic to Nick's continued efforts to join the Hunt.
All in all, Hogwarts had pulled out all the stops. Perhaps, Hermione thought, the professors were feeling a little upstaged by the other schools. Professor Flitwick's touch could clearly be seen in the thousands of flickering orange and purple candles floating about the hall. Professor McGonagle was almost certainly responsible for the bats swooping gracefully between the Hogwarts banners. The massive centerpieces of live carnivorous plants and beautiful black roses were surely Professor Sprout's contribution. Even Hagrid seemed to have determinedly grown the largest pumpkins anyone had ever seen. Hermione was certain that several could have easily been carved into actual carriages, they were so massive.
And yet, all of the excitement was centered on the plainest decoration in the room: the Goblet of Fire. The anticipation was palpable and as much fun as the decorations and the food were, it was the Tournament that had truly captured everyone's attention.
And so it took little more than Professor Dumbledore placing his napkin on his plate for the entire hall to quiet. Only the creak of shifting students and the leathery flap of bat wings broke the silence as the headmaster pushed back his chair and stood, smiling benevolently at the upturned faces.
"Now that we have all supped our fill and gorged ourselves on sweets, it is with great excitement that I pronounce it is time for the highlight of our Halloween evening: the choosing of our Triwizard Champions. Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, would you care to join me?" He stretched out his hands and the three headmasters all made their way to the Goblet.
"If your name is called, please proceed to the door behind the staff table. There you will find the remaining judges for the Tournament awaiting you."
As if on cue, the glittering candles all slowly dimmed, their flames slowly turning black and sparkling like stars. The bright blue of the Goblet's flame illuminated the professors faces in harsh light, making Headmaster Dumbledore seem at once ancient and ageless.
All of a sudden, the Goblet whooshed bright red, flames erupting towards the ceiling as they spat out a tiny piece of smoldering paper. Dumbledore deftly caught the parchment and announced to the gathered crowd: "The champion from Durmstrang is…Viktor Krum!"
The Durmstrang students cheered loudly, stamping their feet and clapping wildly. Hermione smiled and clapped, unsurprised that Viktor had been chosen. But also a little worried. This was a dangerous competition, after all, and while she knew he was a powerful wizard who could take care of himself, she couldn't help but feel nervous for him.
The last two champions were announced as Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory, both of whom didn't get nearly the warm Hogwarts welcome they deserved. The Gryffindors seemed generally to behave as if they were the only house who could produce a worthy champion. Certainly, after all, a Hufflepuff couldn't be brave enough to survive, let alone win.
Hermione shook her head in bemusement as her friends groaned loudly about Diggory. He wasn't her favorite person in the world, but Hermione could admit she'd never heard anything actually bad about the boy. And he certainly looked the part of the dashing champion.
She was distracted from her thoughts by the unexpected burst of red flame from the Goblet of Fire. The headmasters all looked surprised, and Dumbledore's ashen face when he read the paper confirmed Hermione's worst, unspoken fears.
This year wasn't going to go well at all.
=/=/=
"I can't believe him! How could he get past the age line and not tell me? I'd've entered my name if I knew how!"
Ron's face had achieved an as-yet-unheard-of level of puce. It was so dark she was beginning to wonder if there was any blood left to reach his brain or if all of it had collected in his cheeks. His protestations and shouts only grew in volume as the twins magicked a banner with "Harry Potter: Hogwarts' REAL Champion" to spread across the fireplace mantel in the Common Room.
Hermione sighed and collapsed into a chair next to the fire. The cheery flames did nothing to lighten her mood, and the blazing warmth wasn't nearly enough to thaw the terror that had settled into her heart.
"Come on, Ronald. You know Harry couldn't have put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Didn't you see his face? He looked terrified."
"Of course he did! He just didn't think he'd get picked!"
"Oh yes. Because of course Harry would want to put his life on the line yet another year in a row. You know he didn't want to enter anyway."
Ron's face screwed up into a harsh frown, his hands balling into fists as he marched over to her chair and looked down at her, looming over her in a way that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
"He just didn't want to share the glory this year. Wanted to do it all on his own. As if he even needs the prize money!"
The unspoken words 'not like I need it' hung in the air between them, unsaid but not unheard.
Hermione opened her mouth to retort but rational thought seemed to have escaped her. All she could do was worry. Worry about Harry. Worry about Viktor. Worry about…whatever was going on with Ronald.
In the momentary pause, Fred Weasley slid in between the two of them and pressed a butterbeer into each of their hands.
"Can I interest you in a celebratory toffee while we wait for the champion of the hour?" His face was stretched in a wide, mischievous grin, but the side eye he gave his younger brother made it clear his timing hadn't been incidental.
"Where is he anyway? I want to know how he did it! And why he didn't tell me!"
Butterbeer sloshed onto the carpet as Ron gesticulated wildly. The sweet scent of butterscotch permeated the air. In the morning it would be sour and dreadful, Hermione thought. Just like everything else around here.
It was obvious Ron wasn't going to stop any time soon and there'd be no talking any sense into him tonight. Hermione stood up from the sofa, placed her untouched butterbeer on the sofa table, and used Fred as a shield as she started to edge towards the stairs leading to her dorm.
"The champions get their own dorm, remember? He's probably getting settled." She supplied as she rounded the back of the sofa.
Fred snapped his fingers in exaggerated disappointment. "That's right! Too bad. Guess that means we'll have to drink all the Firewhiskey ourselves, doesn't it, George?"
"Too right, Fred. I'm sure Harry wouldn't want it to go to waste."
"Maybe we can save him a bottle for tomorrow."
"And where are you going? You must have told him how to do it. He's not smart enough on his own."
Hermione turned back towards Ron, weary and ready to disengage from this entire situation. She didn't have the time or the energy to babysit his mood swings tonight. To think a few short months ago she'd imagined herself head over heels for him.
"I'm going to bed, Ronald. And you should know I didn't help him. Because he didn't put his name in."
Marching up the stairs, Hermione prepared herself for a long night and a terrible morning.
And here she'd thought that Harry was finally going to have a quiet year.
