Hermione Granger awoke on Sunday morning with purpose. Harry had gone down to see Hagrid last night and then he'd talked to Sirius—at least one of them might have had something useful to say about the first task.
She'd studiously avoided talking to Harry about it—tried to avoid even thinking about it. If she had a clue, something to go off of, something to research, then she could do something. She'd spent a fair bit of time researching past tasks of the Triwizard Tournament to try to learn something helpful—obtaining a hair from the tail of an erumpent, getting past fiendfyre and inferi, stealing treasure from a griffin, curse-breaking a five-hundred-year-old crypt, killing a manticore… It seems all she'd learned was that the tasks were practically impossible.
But if Hagrid or Sirius could point them in the right direction, she knew that together she and Harry could come up with a solution. They always did.
Figuring Harry was likely to sleep in—he had a late night after all—she went down to breakfast alone, slipping into the seat next to Ginny.
"Hello," she said, pouring some pumpkin juice.
Ginny looked up from her porridge. "You haven't heard, then?" she asked, a look of unease on her face. "You must not have. No way you'd be this matter-of-fact."
"Heard what?" Hermione asked warily.
"About the ruckus in the common room late last night," Ginny answered. "Woke up half the house."
Hermione felt her heart sink. Had Sirius been spotted? But no, surely if a fugitive had been seen in the common room fire, Ginny would've led with that.
"What happened?"
"Harry and Ron," Ginny replied. "I'm not sure how it started—I didn't see any of it, just heard about it this morning—but I know it ended with Harry chucking a Potter Stinks button at Ron's head. He said something about Ron being jealous of his scar, too."
Hermione felt her heart sink lower. These boys were impossible.
"Oh, no," she murmured.
"Dean told me Ron refused to go back up to the dorm after," Ginny added. "He ended up bunking with Fred and George and the other sixth years."
She waved her spoon around, indicating the other students. "Half the school's heard by now," she said, and as Hermione looked around, sure enough, she caught snatches of conversation, and they all involved the words Potter, button and scar.
"Ron's going to go mental when he finds out everyone's talking about it," Ginny added, looking around in concern.
"Have you seen either of them?"
Ginny shook her head, then made a face. "Can't imagine either of them will be great company right about now though," she said.
She didn't know the half of it. If Ron had interrupted Sirius, Harry must be furious.
Hermione got her answer when Harry entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, stood wordlessly beside her until she finished her bite of porridge, then grabbed her hand and dragged her out for a walk around the lake.
"We have to talk about the fight," Hermione said firmly, as soon as they settled into a rhythm around the shoreline.
"I'd rather talk about the dragons," Harry replied.
Hermione stopped short, and Harry turned to look at her. "Dragons?" she whispered. Harry nodded grimly.
She felt faint. Dragons were in the most dangerous class of magical beasts. This Triwizard tournament was supposed to be reformed. What was Dumbledore thinking letting them on the grounds? It was reckless, it was risky, it was irresponsible—it was insane!
Hermione felt the hysteria wash over her, and took a deep breath. Quirrell, Basilisk, Dementors. Quirrell, Basilisk, Dementors.
She repeated it over and over in her head, her small reminder that while dragons were an impossible task, Harry had faced impossible tasks before, and always managed to make it through. This would be no different, she thought firmly.
"What do you have to do with the dragons?" Hermione asked quietly.
"Oh, the usual dragon stuff: Brush its scales, bake a cake, try not to get burned to a crisp by its mouth full of fire," Harry replied. His tone was dripping with sarcasm, and she observed the way he held his body taut, except for his fingers, which were drumming against his leg. He was scared.
"Harry—"
"I know," he added, cutting her off, smiling apologetically, as if he needed to apologize for having fears. And then he told her all about the meeting with Hagrid, about having to get past the dragons, about seeing Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, about what Sirius had to say, and finally, about Ron and Neville interrupting their talk.
"Did anyone see Sirius?" she asked.
"Ron might've."
"Right," Hermione murmured, going over it all in her head. "Well, let's tackle the dragons first."
"I'm not certain that's the best way to get past them," Harry replied, giving her a hollow grin.
Hermione looked at him and tried to smile, but failed, feeling the enormity of the task at hand. She gave her head a little shake: That attitude wouldn't do at all. She now had something to research, she now had something to do. She now had a way to help.
"Let's go to the library," she said, resolute.
And so they went, where they read about everything from treating scale rot to dragon dentistry, but couldn't find anything useful. Neville had joined them after a while, tentative at first, as if he wasn't sure Harry would want him around after last night. Harry didn't seem to notice Neville's hesitation, which might have been the best thing, Hermione thought, because as Harry continued to treat Neville like it was any other Sunday, she saw the shorter boy start to relax.
"A water-making spell?" Neville offered.
Hermione shook her head. "You'd need to create quite a lot to counteract a dragon's fire, and we haven't learned water spells that large yet," she said. "It's supposed to be something simple."
"A banishing charm?" she asked. They were supposed to learn those next term. That must qualify as simple.
Harry looked at her like she'd gone mad. "On a fifty-ft. dragon?" he said incredulously.
"Right."
Harry stared down at his book, his eyes never leaving the same spot on the page—clearly his brain had shut down, and he was panicking.
"Can dragons see through invisibility cloaks?" he asked a bit desperately.
"They'd still be able to smell you," Neville shuddered, and Harry deflated a bit.
Hermione grabbed another book and brushed her hair out of her face. There had to be something.
"Hey guys."
She looked up. It was Dean Thomas, holding a book on the Goblin Rebellion of 1628. He must be writing their History of Magic essay. Hermione had finished it a week ago.
"Hey," Neville said, subtly moving a copy of Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, to hide Dealing With Dragons: Deferring A Dreadful Death.
"Hey," Harry added, warily eyeing Dean. She knew what he was thinking: Dean had been hanging out with Ron so much—was he about to brand Harry a liar, too?
But Dean turned to Neville. "You all right?" he asked. "Nasty fall you took last night."
"I'm fine," Neville squeaked, and Dean nodded, his eyes moving to Harry.
"Alright there, Harry? You look a bit green."
"Yeah," Harry responded slowly, a bit unsure. "Why?"
"I spent all morning making your banner for Tuesday," Dean told him, grinning. "Want to make sure you don't keel over before the first task."
"You—you made me a banner?"
Harry was surprised, but so was Dean. He was looking at Harry like he had three heads.
"Don't I always?" he asked, bemused.
That was true. Dean was a particularly talented artist, and he always made some sort of sign for Harry's quidditch matches.
"Right—thanks," Harry said, grinning widely, as if he'd just realized there were actually people besides her and Neville who still liked him. Hermione felt a rush of affection for Dean.
"Well, I'd better go get to this," Dean said glumly, pointing to his history book. Neville groaned and Harry nodded at him in commiseration.
"You might want to go straight to chapter 23," Hermione called out, as Dean started to walk away. "There's some useful stuff about Gelric the Ghastly in there."
Dean smiled at her and found a table, and the trio settled back into their research, but regardless of how many books they searched, nothing seemed to be clicking. Then Hermione heard the familiar footsteps of Viktor Krum slouch in.
"Ugh," she groaned. "Let's go back to the common room before his fan club shows up."
But the common room wasn't much better. It was true that Fred and George had done the brotherly thing for Ron the night before, but the twins had clearly decided that 10 hours was long enough to be nice to their little brother, and couldn't pass up the opportunity to cause a bit of mayhem.
Obviously, they said, the whole point of a Potter Stinks button was to chuck it at someone. And so, the common room was alight with people tossing buttons this way and that.
The Gryffindor chasers, no doubt feeling a bit of cabin fever owing to their canceled season, participated in the game with particular relish. Fred and George summoned their beater bats from their dorm, and the five of them began playing the world's weirdest version of quidditch.
Cormac McLaggen took 12 buttons to the face—Ginny had quite good aim—and Seamus entertained Parvati and Lavender by juggling every button they threw at him until he had a bunch going in a circle. Neville kept half ducking under the table to avoid them, and built a tiny fort for his toad, Trevor, out of Hermione's books, once one of Alicia's throws went off course and narrowly missed Trevor.
Not everyone was happy, though. Ron was sitting in the corner, glaring at everybody, but mostly glaring at Harry, as if his brothers' penchant for mischief was Harry's fault. Hermione was very glad indeed that Harry's back was to Ron, so he couldn't see the look on his face, as she was certain it would cause another fight.
She had thought about going over there, but Ginny had tried. Hermione had watched her sit down, put her hand on Ron's arm consolingly, a compassionate look on her face, but Ron had jerked back, and whatever he said to Ginny made her roll her eyes and stalk away.
Hermione doubted she'd fare much better, and in any case, she'd retrieved six more books from her dormitory to sort through, and Harry was racing against time.
"Sorry, Harry," Katie Bell said with a smile, when she landed a button directly on his head. "But I've got to keep up my skills for next year, or you might be after my spot. Who knew seekers had such great aim?"
Ron scowled and Harry, unaware of his reaction, casually tossed the button back to her. Fred nicked it and lobbed it up at Nearly Headless Nick—whose head flopped helplessly to the side when he moved to duck—before it fell into a jug of pumpkin juice, splattering three second years.
Hermione sighed irritably. "Pure chaos," she muttered. "Fred and George are walking, talking chaos."
"C'mon, Hermione," Harry said. "It's not so bad."
He even managed to grin a little—and not the hollow, terrified grin he'd been sporting lately. She suddenly couldn't feel too cross at Fred and George.
The rest of the school was another story. On the way down to dinner—and even in the Great Hall in front of all the teachers—the other houses, having heard the story about Harry and Ron, had added onto their "jokes."
Now, after asking if Harry needed a tissue, they'd dive to the floor, covering their heads, as if Harry were going to chuck something at them.
Harry, of course, didn't, but Fred and George let loose a bag full of buttons—Hermione thought it might've been the entire collection that had been up in Gryffindor Tower—which they had charmed to attack anyone who was wearing a button.
And so, within minutes, the Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and especially Slytherin tables were descended upon by these tiny little bludgers—and Dumbledore didn't seem to want to do anything about it. Karkaroff was sneering and Madame Maxime—along with most of the Beauxbatons students—looked scandalized, but Dumbledore was chatting blandly with Professor McGonagall, who Hermione was almost certain had a slight smile on her face. Snape looked downright apoplectic, taking 20 points from Gryffindor for flagrant disregard for the rules, but Flitwick came by a few minutes after he swept out and gave Fred and George fifteen points apiece for what he deemed a clever bit of magic.
It was an amusing interlude, and seemed to serve to brighten Harry's spirits a bit, but as Harry, Neville and Hermione trudged up the stairs to the common room later, she felt her feet getting heavier with every step. The day was gone and they weren't any closer to figuring out what to do. Dragons.
Hermione found herself walking alone to Herbology the next day. Neville had gone to the greenhouses early to speak with Professor Sprout and Harry had gone sprinting after Cedric Diggory.
She began the long walk, the wind whipping at her, and her footfalls fell heavier at every step. She'd spent all night scouring her textbooks for simple spells you could use on a dragon and had come up with nothing. She wasn't used to coming up empty, and she found it was not a feeling she particularly liked, especially when Harry's life was on the line.
She took a deep breath. Quirrell, Basilisk, Dementors. Quirrell, Basilisk, Dementors.
A shadow passed over her, and Hermione looked to her right, startled to see Ron speed walking past her.
"Hey!" she called out, speeding up.
Ron half turned. "Oh, speaking to me now, are you?" he asked in a strange, stiff voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"You've made it pretty clear what side you're on," he muttered. "I knew you'd pick him."
Hermione thought that was a bit rich coming from Ron given that Ron and Harry had always picked each other over her, but she ignored that bit for now.
"There are no sides, Ron," Hermione replied.
"Right," he said mockingly. "You haven't spent all weekend ignoring me in favor of him. Even my own brothers are on his side with that stupid game. Do you know how much I got laughed at yesterday?"
Hermione frowned. She didn't usually approve of Fred and George's behavior, finding that most of their jokes either created bedlam or came at someone's expense. But she didn't think that Fred and George had been trying to embarrass Ron as part of some convoluted plan to show him they liked Harry better. She understood why Ron was resentful toward his brothers, but she didn't see what it had to do with Harry—or her for that matter.
"I'm very sorry your brothers hurt you. Honestly!" Hermione said, before hesitating and adding, "But I don't think... Isn't this just what Fred and George do? It wasn't their way of picking a side, it was just them seeing an opportunity to cause chaos and taking it."
"You don't need to explain my own brothers to me, Hermione."
"Fine," she said, "but I don't see what any of that has to do with me."
"Because you're just like them!" he roared.
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who's been trying to get you and Harry to talk to each other for the past few weeks, and you're the one who keeps telling me to mind my own business," Hermione snapped, feeling irritable.
"And while we're on the subject of things that are my business, why didn't you ever tell me that the Dursleys locked Harry up!" she added angrily.
"What?" Ron was bewildered.
"Your brothers told me about your trip in the car to Harry's house, how there were bars on his window and a cat flap on his door," Hermione informed him. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Why are we talking about this now?"
"Because you never told me then!" Hermione was exasperated.
Ron looked uncomfortable and tugged at his collar. "Well, because," he sputtered. "Harry didn't say anything so why should I? It was his…"
He trailed off, gesturing helplessly. "What does it even matter now?" he asked irritably. Hermione wasn't sure if he meant because it was years ago or because he and Harry were no longer speaking, but either way, she still felt cross.
"It matters because we should care when our friends get locked up," she muttered testily. "But I forgot, you're not big on people having freedom."
Ron was silent for a moment, but then scoffed. "How did we get to house elves?" he asked bitterly and a bit astonished. "Tell me, Hermione, is there anything at all you don't find irritating about me?"
He was scowling, but he also looked a little lost, and Hermione felt a bit guilty. She was mad at Ron for not telling her, and she did think his attitude toward house elves was positively barbaric, but the main thing she should be focused on now was fixing things between the three of them.
"Look," she said, in what she hoped was a placating voice, "I haven't been ignoring you. But the task is tomorrow. You're both my friends, but Harry needs me more right now."
"Of course he does," Ron said in that stiff voice once again. "He always comes first."
"Yes, Ron," she agreed. "Sorry if I think dementors and basilisks are more pressing concerns than your ego."
Ron sputtered a bit, but then surprised her by asking, "Is that what the first task is?"
"How would I know what the first task is?"
Ron looked at her skeptically.
Avoiding the question, she asked, "How much did you see last night?"
"You mean, did I see Sirius' head floating in the common room like he and Harry were about to sit down for some tea?" Ron asked.
Hermione nodded, feeling the uneasiness wash through her. Sirius had been seconds away from being caught by half of Gryffindor. If Seamus and Dean and the rest of the boys had come down the stairs a few seconds earlier, it would have been awful. Sirius had risked everything to be there for Harry, and if Harry lost the man he was coming to think of like family, she wasn't sure what would happen. She could feel Harry about to snap, like a fraying rope being stretched to its limits, and Sirius was one of the few things keeping him whole.
Ron clearly didn't like the look on her face because he narrowed his eyes, ears reddening.
"Oh, come on," he said, his voice sounding strangled. "You really think I'm going to go tell someone about that, sic the Ministry on Sirius? Just how low is your opinion of me?"
Hermione felt instantly bad. Of course Ron would keep Harry's secret about Sirius. She knew that. She'd just been so wrapped up in Harry's problems, in what could have happened to Sirius, she'd waited too long to speak and Ron had misinterpreted her silence.
"I didn't think—"
"Right." His voice was full of bitterness.
"Of course I don't think you'd do that," she said, turning to look at Ron, wanting him to see her face as she said it, see that she was being truthful. They'd reached the greenhouse and Ron went toward the workstation on the left, but he turned back to look at her, and she wasn't sure if he believed her.
"Good luck, Harry," Hermione whispered. "You'll be fine."
She watched him walk out of the Great Hall and toward the dragon enclosure with Professor McGonagall with trepidation. Quirrell, basilisk, dementors.
She had felt a lot better this morning. After Harry told her Professor Moody's advice about the first task, they'd spent all day Monday—with a small break for Divination and Arithmancy—practicing the summoning charm so he could retrieve his Firebolt. They'd even skipped lunch and dinner—Neville had brought them up sandwiches, and then sat in the classroom quietly writing his Astronomy essay while they practiced.
It had been hard work, but Hermione was fully confident that Harry had mastered it, and he'd be able to get his Firebolt just fine. It was the bit after that which worried her.
"C'mon," Neville said, quietly. "Let's go get good seats."
They found seats right in the center of the stands, surrounded by the rest of Gryffindor house. Dean hung the banner that he'd made for Harry, and Lee Jordan was taking bets on the outcome of the match. Hermione felt very much like throwing up.
She saw Ron walking up the stands and gave him half a wave, uncertain that he would respond. He moved toward her, climbing past the Creevey brothers, who both looked like they had had a few too many Fizzing Whizbees.
Ron looked very white as he came to sit next to her. "I've just seen Charlie," he whispered, a bit dazed. "Is it really dragons?"
The dragon handlers brought out a blueish-grey Swedish Short-Snout.
"Yep," she responded, resignation in her voice and fear filling her. She had known it was going to be dragons, but seeing them made it real in a way that it hadn't been before. She tried to breathe, but found it hard and suddenly, she felt very hot all over. She loosened her scarf, wanting to feel the cool air—to help keep her from panicking—and tossed it carelessly on the seat behind her. The wind was bitter against her neck, but it shocked her into focus.
Cedric Diggory was first. Hermione didn't want to watch but couldn't look away. When the right side of his face was caught in fire, the crowd reacted in horror, and she heard her own voice whimper and felt her knees buckle, picturing a shorter, darker-haired boy in his place.
Quirrell, basilisk, dementors. Quirrell, basilisk, dementors. Quirrell, basilisk, dementors.
She felt a pudgy, clammy hand squeeze hers, and tore her face away from Cedric—who had managed to get away from the dragon—to look at Neville. He looked rather nauseated, his eyes wide and lip trembling, but he gave her a small smile and she smiled back, grateful for the friendship. She turned to watch Cedric make it past the dragons and caught the scowl on Ron's face as he watched not the enclosure, but their clasped hands.
Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were next, and Hermione watched in horror, screaming when Fleur's skirt caught fire and flinching when Krum made the dragon trample half the eggs. In no time at all, it was Harry's turn.
Hermione felt her indignation rising as Harry's dragon was brought out and she saw it had spikes on its tail. She wasn't alone.
"That's not fair!" Lee Jordan shouted. "Everyone else just has to deal with fire, but Harry gets a deadly tail, too?" He then said something very rude that would've gotten 10 points taken from Gryffindor had any of the professors been able to hear it over the crowd.
She vaguely noticed that the Gryffindors around them were shaking their heads in agreement but she was too busy mouthing "Accio Firebolt" under her breath, as if by saying it, she could help Harry get his broom. Stupid, of course, but she didn't dare stop lest it was somehow helping.
Harry looked up at the dragon, face resolute, but his eyes full of fear. His voice trembled a bit when he shouted for his broom, his wand motion a little jerky, as if he had just woken up from a 20-year sleep and was moving his arm for the first time. He didn't blink, and Hermione wanted to cry at the fright she saw in his eyes. She felt the dread filling her, and tried to tamp it down. No, she thought. Their plan would work.
And then she heard the familiar whoosh of his Firebolt. As he climbed on and soared upward, Hermione watched as his eyes narrowed in determination and his entire demeanor changed, becoming more relaxed, before he was too high above them, too small to see.
He dove.
She clutched her fingers under her eyes, fingernails digging in, serving to both force her eyes open and give her something to do with her hands while she fretted. Quirrell, basilisk, dementors.
Harry dove again, and this time one of the spikes hit his shoulder. Hermione flinched, feeling the pain as if it were her own. "Oh," she cried, trying—and failing—to push back the tears. Neville whimpered, clutching the rail in front of him, and Ron made some sort of strangled noise in his throat. She couldn't look at either of them—somehow, she thought, though it had absolutely no basis in logic, if she took her eyes off Harry, something even more terrible would happen. Quirrell, basilisk, dementors.
Hermione watched as Harry drew the dragon out, coaxing her away from the eggs, before diving on a burst of speed. And suddenly, he was flying over her triumphantly, egg in hand.
Hermione blinked. It was over. He was alive. Charlie Weasley and the other dragon handlers had taken over, and Harry never had to think about another dragon again. She watched as he landed, brushing the remaining tears from her eyes, and suddenly felt her feet moving.
"Come on," she shouted, and Ron started to follow, but then Neville joined her, and Ron stopped dead in his tracks.
"Aren't you coming?" she asked Ron, exasperated. Ron, impossibly pale, glanced at Neville, and shook his head. Hermione let out a yelp of aggravation and turned back toward Harry.
It took them awhile to get through the stands—no one seemed to want to move, eager to hear the scores, though most were sitting down now, waiting. Hermione was fairly certain she kicked three people in her effort to get to Harry, but she didn't care. Finally, she and Neville were at the first-aid tent and darted inside.
"Harry, you were brilliant!" she cried, and she knew her voice sounded far too squeaky for her liking.
Harry stood up, looking a bit sweaty and with his windswept hair sticking out in more directions than usual, but his eyes were calmer than they'd been in weeks, no longer lined with worry, and he was grinning—a grateful, triumphant sort of smile.
"Seriously," Neville said, his voice low and awed.
"You were amazing! You really were!" Hermione added.
She moved to hug him, but hesitated, afraid of hurting his injured arm; but then like an impulse she couldn't contain, she'd thrown her arms around him, clutching him tight, face burrowed between his good shoulder and his neck. Hermione felt Harry tentatively pat her back, beginning to return the hug, but his movements were unsure. They always were—he clearly was not used to basic displays of affection, which made her hug him harder and burst into tears.
Harry's hands were firmer on her back now, and she realized her tears were soaking his cloak.
"Sorry," she muttered, pulling away and patting the wet spot.
"There's nothing to cry about," Harry told her, a bit bewildered. "I'm fine!"
This only made her cry more.
But it was a good sort of cry. All of the fear, all of the tension, all of the worry she'd felt since Halloween flowed out of her body, and Hermione felt relief for the first time in weeks. Oh, there were still two tasks to worry about, but the first one was over, and Harry was okay.
"I'm fine," Harry repeated, as Neville handed her a tissue.
Harry gave her a smile, and she couldn't help but grin back. He was fine.