Hermione exited the cave hoping that the cool air would help calm her down. She'd never thought Professor Snape was a great man—no matter what a rule follower she was, no matter how much everyone thought she idolized her professors, she still had eyes and a brain in her head. She saw how he belittled Neville, how he taunted Harry, how he favored the Slytherins over everyone else. She'd heard him call her an insufferable know-it-all. Professor Snape was a bully and he always had been.

Yes, she'd defended him at times when Ron or Harry thought he'd been behind some of the nefarious things that had gone on—but that was because there was a difference between a bully and a Death Eater. After he had saved Harry's life first year, she had figured he was just a disagreeable, despicable man—but not an evil one. After all, Professor Dumbledore vouched for him every day he employed him.

But now? She trudged down the mountain, unsure how to feel. What were you supposed to do when you found out your teacher had been a Death Eater? Even if he really had changed, even if he had decided to stop killing and torturing muggles—that's what Death Eaters did, wasn't it?—how did she know he didn't still believe all of that blood purity rubbish? Maybe he just switched sides because he saw the writing on the wall, and he wanted to save his own skin. After all, he did favor the Slytherins—a bunch of purebloods and halfbloods—and the three students he seemed to hate the most were a muggleborn and the two boys whose parents had been members of the Order of the Phoenix.

They finished their descent in silence, and Hermione looked at Harry and Neville when they finally reached the bottom. Neville's face was a mixture of sadness and apprehension, while Harry looked concerned.

"You all right, Hermione?" he asked.

"No," she said honestly.

"I shouldn't've said anything," Neville jumped in hastily. "I'm not even really supposed to know, I don't think. Gran hasn't mentioned it at all since I started Hogwarts, but when I was younger, my family used to talk about it all the time. I'm sorry, Hermione."

"For what? I'm glad I know," she responded, and to her great annoyance, she had to blink back tears. It wasn't because of Snape, she vowed to herself. For the first time in her life, she was questioning her very education, the people who were entrusted to impart learning.

She started walking briskly down the street. Harry and Neville followed quietly.

And then she blurted, "It's just… I'm not stupid."

"Everyone knows that," Harry said.

"I do understand what Lupin was saying. When you're fighting a war, if someone from the enemy side wants to fight for you, of course you let them," she said. "And afterward, if the help they've given you was really extraordinary—if they helped save a lot of lives, if they helped win the war—maybe that means they don't get punished for the things they've done… But there's a huge difference between keeping someone out of Azkaban and letting them roam free in a school."

She bit her lip, looking at her friends. Harry glanced at Neville.

"You won't get arguments from us," Harry said. Neville nodded.

Hermione faced forward, and they continued walking. What had Dumbledore been thinking when he hired Snape? Between that and him continuing to send Harry to the Dursleys—even though he knew how Harry was treated—she was beginning to question some of his judgment. She knew he meant well, trusted that he had good intentions—but the Dursleys were abusive and Snape had been a Death Eater. What possible reason could there be for Harry's living situation or giving Snape a teaching post? Dumbledore must have one—but even good intentions could sometimes lead to extremely bad decisions, couldn't they?

"Why didn't you ever tell us?" Harry asked Neville.

Neville's face burned. "I don't know," he said. "There's a lot of things that get said in magical households that we don't really talk about much. The war wasn't that long ago, and everyone remembers. Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle's dads—they all talked their way out of Azkaban, too. And there were loads of others. But you're supposed to just…pretend in public. Like if we don't mention it, it didn't exist. Like all of the prejudices and war crimes just disappeared along with You-Know-Who."

He glanced at Hermione. "But when I heard you defending him," Neville added, his face burning brighter, but his jaw set, "I couldn't not say anything."

Hermione felt revolted. No, he must've felt sick, listening to his muggleborn friend defending a former Death Eater. She certainly did just thinking about it.

She smiled at him, small but reassuring, and squeezed his hand briefly. As awful as this news was, ignorance was even worse.

They continued down the lane.

"What do you reckon about all that stuff with Crouch?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Hermione replied. "Winky might know something, I suppose."

Neville shook his head. "I can't imagine he's gone dark, though," he said, and then he added in a quiet voice, "He's the one who sentenced Barty Crouch Jr. to Azkaban for life. Gran says Crouch was really angry at the trial—completely disowned his son. Crouch hasn't looked her in the eyes since."

She heard the hurt in his voice, and watching her two friends walking side by side was another kick to the gut. When Sirius had been going on about Lily and Alice earlier, the pain that both of her friends felt had been almost too much to bear. Neville had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, and this time was no different: She'd seen the longing on his face as he'd looked at Harry, could see him imagining a past where they had grown up as friends. She could only imagine how different Neville would be—how much more confident he'd be in himself—if he'd had someone like Harry all along.

Harry was the exact opposite when it came to feelings. He tried to keep his emotions in at all times—unless that emotion was anger. He had looked away from Neville the second his own feelings began to show, concentrating on the floor, patently refusing to look even at her. And yet, she knew him well enough to know he'd been fantasizing the same as Neville.

They both should have led very different lives, and not for the first time in the past few months, she was exceedingly glad they had found each other.

They reached town, which was quite busy now, and Hermione saw Luna sitting on a bench outside Gladrags, reading The Quibbler.

"Hi Luna," she greeted her, and Luna looked up at them all.

"Hello," she said, studying them. "You all look sad."

Hermione felt Harry fidget uncomfortably behind her. As angry as she was about Snape, Professor Lupin and Sirius had a point about not telling others what they knew. And she definitely didn't want to spill Harry and Neville's emotional scars about their parents in the middle of Hogsmeade.

Hermione forced a smile. "We were just out by the Shrieking Shack," she fibbed, hoping it would quickly end the topic of conversation.

"Oh, yes," Luna said, nodding sagely. "I can see how that might be upsetting."

She turned and led the way into the store. When they reached the socks section, Luna asked, "What kind of socks does Dobby like?"

"All kinds," Harry answered. "The weirder, the better."

But he needn't have added that, because Luna had already gravitated toward a pair with blue and orange stripes covered in green cats, with a glittery pom-pom attached to the back of each sock. They were the ugliest pair Hermione had ever seen. Dobby would love them.

Harry wanted to get Dobby a pair too—likely for his help with Sirius—and Luna advised him to get a pair with tiger stripes that roared when you touched them.

By the time they were done picking out a few more pairs—dissecting all the way whether Dobby would prefer neon yellow socks that faded to brown the dirtier they got or finger-toe socks charmed to play the piano with your feet—they were all in a better mood.

They exited the store and Luna turned to them. "This was fun! Thank you," she said in a tone that sounded like a goodbye.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked incredulously. "We haven't even gone to the Three Broomsticks yet."

A wide smile formed on Luna's face. "No one's ever invited me to the Three Broomsticks before!" she said gaily.

The pub was busy. Hermione saw Ginny and Michael Corner sitting in a private booth, and Hermione was very glad that Ron and his brothers were on the other side of the pub with Lee Jordan, unable to see Ginny.

Luna and Neville went to grab a table, and Harry and Hermione walked toward the bar to get their drinks. They passed Cedric and Cho, sitting with a few of their friends. Cedric nodded at Harry as they passed, and he nodded back. Hermione looked at him—he didn't seem to have any sort of reaction to Cho at all.

"You never did tell us how your talk with Cho went," she said.

Harry shrugged. "Fine," he said. "Bit awkward, actually. Turns out we don't have much in common besides quidditch."

"Oh," Hermione said, feeling pleased by that. Neville had been right. "Well, better to find out now, I suppose."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Plus, it makes talking to Cedric a lot easier."

They reached the bar and Harry ordered the butterbeers. Hermione added on an order of chips—after the conversation they'd had with Remus and Sirius, they could use it. Madam Rosmerta looked at them appraisingly, a bit disappointed when Harry asked for four butterbeers instead of two.

People had been doing that a lot lately—ever since the second task, all of Hogwarts seemed to be under the impression that the matter of the love triangle was settled. In some ways, it annoyed her. When Cho had asked her which champion she thought she was there for, the answer had seemed exceedingly obvious to Hermione. She'd known Viktor for a few of months, but she'd been friends with Harry for years.

And yet, even knowing that it should have been Harry, when she'd opened her eyes in that icy water, and looked into Harry's green ones, she'd felt a little thrill go through her. There was no denying that they'd gotten closer this year; ever since the ball, when she'd confessed to him that she had sometimes felt she'd come second to Ron, he'd been different.

When Malfoy had hexed her teeth last November, she hadn't seen Harry until the next morning at breakfast. But when she'd gotten a letter filled with undiluted bubotuber pus, he'd visited her in the hospital wing right away, even though it wasn't that serious and she was allowed to leave within a couple of hours.

He'd clearly taken what she'd said to heart, and even though Harry didn't get to choose his hostage, he knew she was his the second he realized people had been taken—it hadn't even occurred to him that she might be Viktor's hostage. Harry might not have been the one to pick her, but it all still felt like a symbol of…something. Whatever it was, it made Hermione feel inordinately happy.

Madam Rosmerta came back with their food and drinks, and Harry and Hermione made their way back to Neville and Luna.

"So you won't be coming with us tomorrow?" Luna asked Neville, as Harry and Hermione sat down.

Neville shook his head. "Professor Flitwick offered to help me with my banishing charm, but it's the only time he has available," he said. "But I promise to come with you the next time you visit Dobby."

Luna picked up her butterbeer, offering a thanks to Harry, and took a sip. She looked around, taking in the Weasley twins, who had just turned Lee Jordan's hair orange; Hagrid, well on his way to sloshed, in the corner with Professor Moody; the group of Hufflepuffs playing exploding snap in the center of the room; and Madam Rosmerta at the bar, making a complicated sort of drink involving fire, blue smoke and a sugar quill.

"What do you think?" Harry asked, as he popped a chip into his mouth.

"I think it's superb," she beamed.

Breakfast the next morning was not particularly pleasant. It had started out well enough, but then Hermione had gotten her daily dose of hate mail. She'd picked it up, planning to burn it all, but someone had gotten a bit exuberant with their undiluted bubotuber pus, and a small amount of it had leaked out to the outside of the envelope.

"Ow!" she yelped as a few of her fingers quickly became covered in painful sores.

"We'd better get you up to the hospital wing," Harry said, as he leaned down to gather her bag.

"No need," Hermione replied. "This isn't as bad as last time. Madam Pomfrey gave me some ointment last time around, just in case. It's there in the front compartment if you can grab it." She dipped her napkin in her water goblet and wiped off the pus, and then Harry applied the ointment to her hand.

He looked down, inspecting his work. "I think the swelling's gone down a bit," he said.

"Thanks," Hermione replied.

By the end of breakfast, the swelling had indeed gone down, but her hand was still an angry shade of red.

"Maybe you need something stronger?" Neville suggested.

Hermione sighed. "Madam Pomfrey warned me that it could take awhile to take full effect."

They stood up from the table, gathering their things, and walked out to the entrance hall where Harry and Hermione were supposed to meet Luna.

"Why don't I stop by Professor Moody's after I meet with Professor Flitwick?" Neville suggested. "His office is nearby, and he used to be an auror—I bet he knows loads of tricks for dealing with wounds like that."

"From the look of his face, he's never used any of them," Harry said dryly.

Neville shrugged, grinning. "All the better to intimidate dark wizards, I suppose."

"Thanks, Neville, that would be great," Hermione said, hoisting her heavy bag a little higher on her shoulder. He waved goodbye to them and headed up the stairs.

Harry was frowning at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Hermione, it's Sunday."

"Well-spotted," she teased.

"What could you possibly have in that bag?" Harry asked, eyeing the way it was weighing down her shoulder.

She blushed. "Oh, just a little research project I'm doing," she replied. Harry looked at her expectantly. She led him over to a bench, dropping her bag onto it, and reached past a few books to pull out a thick set of parchments.

"Well, you know how I've been researching the Triwizard Tournament?" she asked. Harry nodded. "Well, the library has books that are filled with details on all of the tasks. The first two are always completely different. But I've noticed a pattern with the third task: It's almost always an obstacle course of some sort."

She laid some of her parchments out on the bench. They were filled with graphs and color-coded notes, and the data was charmed to sort itself by date, type of task, and host school, depending on how she wanted to look at the information.

"The judges want to make sure that the winner of the third task is clear," she explained. "This way, no judges could pick a winner based on favoritism. There's a race and whomever gets to the Triwizard Cup first wins."

Harry was looking down at her research, a befuddled look on his face.

"I wasn't going to show you until I was finished—but I'm nearly there, I suppose," she added. "The race isn't always the same, but like I said, it's some sort of obstacle course. There's magical creatures, charms and enchantments to deal with, in order to make sure the winner has a broad range of skills."

She picked up another piece of parchment, which had a list of about 50 spells on it, handing it to him. "I've come up with a few spells for you to learn," she added. "These will probably come in handy with the task."

Harry looked down at the list, his eyes wide, and then set the parchment down atop the others.

"You did all this?" Harry asked, awed.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Of course. You're my best friend, Harry."

And then he did something he had never done before, and he enveloped Hermione in a hug.

Hermione, blinked, surprised, but wound her arms around his neck automatically. She'd hugged him loads of times—and grabbed his hand and clutched his arm—but the only times she could really recall Harry initiating contact was when he was saving her from some danger or dancing with her at the Yule Ball. But he'd certainly never hugged her.

It was only a short time ago that Fleur kissed him on the cheek to thank him for saving her sister, and even then, Harry had looked more uncomfortable and embarrassed than she'd ever seen him. He wasn't someone used to physical affection.

But he didn't seem uncomfortable now, his arms gently pressing her closer to him. She leaned into it, trembling a bit at what a huge step this was for him—and that she was the one he took it with filled her with joy. By the time they let go, she knew she was blushing.

Harry was not, but his body language was unsure, and he smiled nervously at Hermione, as if he wasn't sure he'd done the right thing. She beamed at him to let him know that he had.

"This is really brilliant," Harry said, gesturing to her work. "Truly."

"Thanks," Hermione said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "We should probably start learning spells right away."

"Right," Harry said, nodding, as Hermione gathered up her parchments to put them back in her bag.

"There you two are!" Ginny called. She was on the other side of the entrance hall with Luna, walking their way. Luna was carrying a large, bright red folder. "I ran into Luna in the Owlery and she mentioned you all were visiting the Kitchens. Do you mind if I join, too?"

"Not at all," Hermione said, and the four of them set off.

Dobby loved Luna. He loved the socks she gave him, burst into tears and an embarrassed grin when she called him "sir," and delighted at answering all of her questions about his travels in the two years before he came to Hogwarts.

"Dobby knew Harry Potter has great friends," Dobby declared, "and you is just as good as the rest, Miss Loony!"

Harry, Hermione and Ginny flinched at Dobby's choice of nickname, but Luna beamed at him.

"What's your favorite part of working here, Dobby?" she asked.

"Professor Dumbledore is a great man," Dobby declared. "And he trusts Dobby, he does, with important tasks. And he is kind to house elves, not like the Malfoys—"

And then, to Hermione's horror, Dobby cut himself off and started to bang his head on the floor. Harry jumped up and grabbed him, setting him right.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," Dobby said, looking up gratefully at Harry. "Sometimes Dobby forgets…"

He shook his head and passed a plate of desserts he'd procured to Harry.

"Where's Winky?' Hermione asked, glancing around. But Dobby's ears drooped and he pointed toward a fireplace, where Winky was sitting on a stool, covered in filth, clutching a bottle of butterbeer. She looked drunk.

"Winky is pining," Dobby whispered sadly. "Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master, miss, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now."

Hermione moved toward Winky and sat down next to her. "Winky?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

But Winky merely sobbed and drank another gulpful of butterbeer.

Ginny moved to the other side of Winky. "Winky, if you're so sad, why don't you go and see Mr. Crouch? It would make you feel better, and I bet it would make him feel better, too," Ginny said kindly. Hermione couldn't believe her ears.

Winky looked up at Ginny with wide eyes, but Hermione frowned.

"Master is ill?" Winky asked.

"No one has seen him since the first task," Harry said. "The Daily Prophet is saying he's ill."

"Master is needing his Winky!" she whimpered.

"There's no need to fret. You can just go see him," Ginny repeated.

"Why should she go see him, Ginny? He's the one who treated her abominably. He's the one who should be apologizing," Hermione insisted heatedly.

"But if she's so unhappy, and it will make her feel better, why not?" Ginny asked, confused.

Hermione was incensed. "Aren't you the one who told me that I shouldn't bother with people who treat me like dirt? Why should Winky? Because she's a house elf?" she asked, irritated.

Ginny's eyes widened at Hermione's vehemence, but Winky narrowed hers.

"Master is a good man!" she squeaked angrily. "Master always treated Winky well! It's not Master's fault Winky is a disgraced elf!"

"He's the one who should be disgraced—" Hermione argued.

"You is a bad miss!" Winky declared, getting off the stool, butterbeer in hand, and tottering away. The other house elves watched her with contempt.

They stood there silently for a moment before Ginny interrupted the silence.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Hermione—honest," she said, and Hermione nodded distractedly. She and Ginny didn't talk much about S.P.E.W., but she knew Ginny grew up in the same house as the rest of the Weasleys. And while Mr. Weasley had told her he thought the way house elves were treated was wrong, Mrs. Weasley saw nothing wrong with slavery, having told her children that she always wanted a house elf. And from everything Ron, Percy and the twins had said on the matter, the Weasley boys had all taken after their mum in that regard—she supposed she shouldn't be surprised that Ginny was no different.

At least she wasn't spouting nonsense like "But they like slavery!"

Luna turned to one of the other house elves. "I've got something for you all, too," she said.

The other house elves looked at her darkly. "We is good elves," one of them said, with a scornful look at Dobby. "We is not wanting socks, miss!"

"Oh, it's not socks," Luna said, pointing to her bright red folder. She opened it, and pulled out a beautiful drawing of the Great Hall filled with students eating a magnificent feast, and another of the library looking particularly tidy, and another of an expansive room in blue and bronze that Hermione figured must be the Ravenclaw common room. The drawings were detailed and intricate and incredibly lifelike. Luna had a gift.

The elves looked at the drawings happily.

"It's just that you all do so much hard work for us," Luna said earnestly, "and I wanted to show you how much we appreciate it. You're the ones who make Hogwarts look so beautiful, after all."

"Miss is very talented!" one of the elves declared. "We is hanging these, we is!" And she took the drawings to hang on the wall, while others surrounded Luna and guided her to a chair, offering her all manner of sweets and goodies.

"Thank you," Luna said, taking an éclair. "These are my favorite. Do you have a favorite?" She turned to one elf in particular, and to Hermione's shock, the elf—Geddy—actually gave Luna a straight answer—chocolate cake—instead of some crock about house elves only liking work.

Luna continued on like that for a while, drawing the elves in with questions that didn't irritate them. Hermione felt a flash of envy—she wanted to help the house elves, but everything she said just made them hate her more. She'd always been straightforward and direct, and while Luna usually was also—she was an exceedingly honest person—she had apparently learned the subtle art of patience that Hermione never quite mastered.

Luna asked about their favorite foods, and whether they'd always worked at Hogwarts, if they had to visit other wizarding institutions and homes during the course of their work, if they celebrated any holidays and how it felt when they were cooking or baking or doing laundry.

By the time they left the kitchens, Luna had succeeded in befriending a dozen of the house elves, and while they hadn't broached the topics of freedom or wages, Luna had gotten one or two of them to open up about the type of work they enjoyed. And perhaps that was a start. After all, if someone truly had a passion for baking, it was improving their life incrementally if they got to do that all the time instead of laundry or cooking.

It was nowhere near what Hermione wanted to do for them, which frustrated her immensely, but it was still more than she had been accomplishing before.

"I think the real problem is we just don't know much about how house elves became slaves in the first place," she declared, as they were walking back through the dungeons. "I've done all of this research, looked in every book the library has on the matter, but it seems no one has ever bothered to study it."

"I bet they have in the Department of Mysteries," Luna said. "But likely to see how wizards could increase their control over house elves."

Hermione snorted. "How much more control do they want?" she asked severely.

"But what does that matter?" Ginny asked. "We know how to free them—clothes."

"Except it doesn't seem to free them—not really," Hermione said, frustrated. At Ginny's confused look, she added, "Both Dobby and Winky are technically free, but Winky still wants to go back to Crouch, and Dobby couldn't help but punish himself when he started to badmouth the Malfoys—even though it's been two years. It's not just as simple as giving them clothes. There's something else at play here. I just don't know what."

"But then isn't it possible they just like being helpful and serving others? They're not human—No, don't get mad at me, let me finish," Ginny added hastily, when she saw Hermione open her mouth, an angry look on her face. "I'm not saying they're less than human, but maybe they just think differently than humans."

"But that doesn't explain Dobby," Hermione pointed out. "He is serving and being helpful—at Hogwarts. If that's all it was, he wouldn't feel the need to punish himself about the Malfoys."

"So maybe it has something to do with the original family that a house elf serves," Ginny suggested. "We don't know how it all got started. Maybe wizards didn't do anything in particular to earn loyalty from the elves. Maybe the house elves somehow need that bond with their original masters—and having it partly severed by the clothes they were given is why Winky is such a mess. She can't live properly without that bond."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione snapped. That was the biggest crock she'd ever heard. But before she could elaborate, Harry jumped in.

"If the elves somehow needed the bond, Dobby would be a lot worse off," he pointed out. "You all didn't know him when he was still bound to the Malfoys. He's gotten loads better—not worse."

Hermione looked at Harry gratefully. His face was a mask of concentration, the way he got when he was puzzling through a particularly hard problem. He clearly wasn't just humoring her—he'd been thinking of the house elves' well-being, too.

But, of course he was, she thought. Harry had always been against house elf slavery, even before Hermione knew it existed. He'd always been the sort of person to care about others—it's why he'd waited to save everyone in that lake, wasn't it? She couldn't help but smile at him.

"Figuring out how this compulsion got started won't be easy," Luna said thoughtfully, interrupting Hermione's thoughts, and Hermione was shocked to discover she'd been staring at Harry.

"Maybe it's that," Harry offered. "Compulsion. Some sort of super-powered Imperius curse."

"One that affects descendants, too?" Hermione asked skeptically. She'd never read about anything like that before.

"Why not?" Luna asked. "There's plenty of magic out there that's been lost to time, and plenty that hasn't been discovered yet. Ancient wizards could have come up with a spell that no one wrote down."

"Or that they realized was too powerful to get in the wrong hands," Hermione said thoughtfully. "So they obliviated it from existence."

"It would explain why it affects Dobby and Winky differently, too," Harry said excitedly. "Just like the Imperius affects some people more than others. Dobby's able to throw it off better than most."

"That's true," Hermione said, feeling the usual energy she did whenever they started brainstorming. "Or it could be some sort of Unbreakable Vow."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"It's a spell you can perform between two people, one of whom promises to do something—and they need a bonder to bind the spell. There's an incantation that's fairly complex—it's usually done nonverbally by the bonder, making it even harder to get right—but the short version is that if they don't do what they vowed to do, they die," Hermione explained.

"Fred and George tried to get Ron to make one once," Ginny offered. "It wouldn't have worked properly. They were seven and didn't know the right incantation, but dad was furious anyway. George said that dad said that with magic like that, it's intent that matters. So even if they hadn't done the Unbreakable Vow properly, they could've done some sort of alternate version of it with unintended consequences."

"Like forcing all of your descendants into servitude instead of dying if the vow is broken," Luna said.

They were silent for a moment before Harry shrugged. "Or maybe it's just Stockholm Syndrome."

Ginny and Luna looked confused, but Hermione smiled faintly. "So what, we just have to get all of the house elves psychiatrists?" she asked.

"Does the wizarding world even have psychiatrists?" Harry asked.

Hermione snuck a glance at Ginny, who had been possessed by a psychopath, and whose parents' solution was to take her on holiday to Egypt. Probably not.

"What's a psychiatrist?" Luna asked.

"Er—it's sort of like a mind healer, I suppose?" Harry said, looking at Hermione. She nodded. That was probably the easiest way to describe it.

"Well, this is great," Luna said, looking pleased. "Now we have a few theories to research!"

How they were going to research them was another matter entirely—the Hogwarts library had been tapped out as a resource on house elves.

They reached the staircase that would eventually lead to Ravenclaw Tower. Luna said her goodbyes, but Ginny decided to walk with her—Michael Corner had mentioned that he'd be studying in the common room today, and Ginny was determined to coax him out for a walk.

Harry and Hermione set off toward the Gryffindor side of the castle.

"Do you reckon Neville's had any luck with his banishing charm?" Harry asked.

"I hope so," Hermione replied. "I've never met someone who tries as hard as he does."

They turned left and Hermione felt herself slow—they were nearing the Potions corridor. She had no idea how she would face Snape in class this week—or for the next three years.

"We can circle back around if you want," Harry said. That would take a little longer, but at least she wouldn't have to walk by Snape's office.

"No," Hermione shook her head. "This is our school. I'm not going to let him take any part of it from me."

They continued on, walking a bit faster now.

"Still," Harry said, "Potions is going to be a nightmare—not that it wasn't already. I reckon it'd be better if we just skived off the rest of the year and you taught us Potions."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "We need a proper teacher, Harry," she insisted.

Harry grinned. "Yes, well, you brewed a polyjuice when we were only second years," he reasoned. "I'm pretty sure you could handle teaching us fourth-year potions without Snape's ever-so-helpful teaching method of writing the instructions that are already in the book on the board, and flapping about the classroom insulting us."

Hermione grinned, felt joy bubbling up at his compliment, but then she heard a sound coming from Snape's office and her heart seized. She grabbed Harry, pulling him into a nook that housed a suit of armor.

Okay, so she wasn't going to let Snape ruin her school experience, but that didn't mean she wanted to run into him just yet.

They were cramped in a small space, wedged between the walls and the knight. She could feel Harry's breath in her ear, the way his hand had clasped her waist to still her. Her heart was racing—was his running as fast as hers?—and she found herself very aware of how close they were.

They stood perfectly still as they heard the door scrape closed and footsteps walk away. Only, they weren't normal footsteps—there was a decided repetitive clunk. Harry looked at Hermione, his brow furrowed, before leaning back to spot who was walking down the corridor.

"It's Moody," he mouthed, still looking perplexed. They waited for the footsteps to fade, and then backed out of the nook.

"What's Moody doing in Snape's office?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know," Harry said. "Maybe he was searching it? Everyone says he's always looking for dark wizards and—well—Snape was one."

"Maybe," Hermione conceded. "Wonder if he found anything."

"Hopefully," Harry said darkly, looking around. "Regardless, we'd better get out of here before Snape comes round and accuses me of stealing boomslang skin from his office again."

He started to walk, but Hermione stood rooted to the spot. "He accused you of stealing boomslang skin?" she asked sharply.

"Yeah," Harry said, confused at her reaction. "In Potions that day. You were there, looking for the fluxweed."

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I heard him accuse you, but he didn't mention any ingredients while I was near you," she told him. "You're sure he said boomslang skin?"

"Yeah," Harry insisted. "Why?"

It couldn't be, Hermione thought. And yet… it all fit in a sickening sort of way didn't it? Boomslang skin, bicorn horn, fluxweed—and someone had put Harry's name in the goblet of fire.

"Because boomslang skin isn't used in very many potions," Hermione answered. "And we saw Moody buying it and a bicorn horn in Hogsmeade."

"So what's it used to make?" Harry asked.

"Polyjuice," Hermione answered shakily. "And Snape must have thought so too because he noticed how big of a supply of fluxweed you had—and that's another ingredient."

"So you think Moody is making polyjuice to impersonate someone else?" Harry asked. "But why?"

Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest.

"We've been saying all along that someone put your name in the goblet of fire. And it's not like there are a whole lot of suspects—anyone who's new to the school and—"

"Snape," Harry supplied.

"Well, Moody is new to the school, isn't he?" she asked. "I don't think he's impersonating anyone. I think someone might be impersonating him."

She looked intensely at Harry, watched as the pieces fell into place, as realization dawned in Harry's eyes. She could practically see the weight of what they'd discovered pressing down on him. And then his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.

"The disturbance at Moody's the night before Hogwarts," he said. "Mr. Weasley had to go and sort it out—what if it really was an attack?"

And just like that, it was clear. The certainty of what must have happened filled her. Someone was impersonating Moody, had been for months. They were likely the person who put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire.

"But who?" Hermione asked.

Harry's eyes lit up. "The map!" he said, and took off at a dead run for Gryffindor Tower, Hermione on his heels. The map was able to see past animagi—maybe it could see past polyjuice, too.

They raced up the stairs, past Sir Cadogan looking for a fight, and through the Fat Friar—a decidedly unpleasant experience—before flinging open the portrait hole to the relatively quiet common room. It was a beautiful day out, and a lot of people were taking advantage.

They sped up the stairs, and Harry threw open his trunk, muttering the incantation at the map. They sat on his bed, watching the map come to life, words and blueprints scrawling across the page. Hermione's eyes searched for Moody's office—

"What in Merlin?" she asked.

There, in neat black print, was the name Bartemius Crouch.

"That's not possible," Harry said.

"No one's seen him since November," Hermione reasoned. "Maybe we got the timing wrong. Maybe Crouch has only been impersonating Moody since then. Maybe this has nothing to do with the goblet of fire."

"But why?" Harry asked, standing up and pacing. "And if he took Moody's place in November, he must have done it here at Hogwarts. How could something like that happen without someone noticing—not even a painting?"

"I don't know," Hermione said. "But Mr. Crouch couldn't have been here at Hogwarts since September. Too many people saw him at the Ministry."

"And they were both at the first task," Harry agreed. "Moody was waiting for me with Hagrid and McGonagall when Crouch was doing the scoring."

"So it wasn't Mr. Crouch who put your name in the goblet of fire," she said.

Hermione felt relief and weariness at the same time. The man entrusted to teach them Defense Against the Dark Arts hadn't been the one to try to murder Harry after all—but that person was still out there somewhere, and now they had this new mystery of what Crouch was doing to figure out.

Yeah," Harry said, scratching the back of his head, looking exasperated, "except your theory is a good one. Moody would be the perfect person to impersonate if you wanted to infiltrate Hogwarts. And what does Mr. Crouch have to gain from impersonating him now?"

"I don't know, but he is," Hermione said. "The map's never lied."

Harry picked up the map again, staring at it intently, like it would somehow reveal its answers to him.

"Unless he's not," he said shakily.

What?

"Hermione, the map only says Bartemius Crouch," Harry explained. "It doesn't say anything about Bartemius Crouch Sr."

Hermione blinked. "But the only other Bartemius Crouch was—"

"Barty Crouch Jr.," Harry finished for her, and Hermione found herself staring at Neville's empty bed, where he had sat and told them about Crouch's son, what he'd done and how he died.

"Harry, he's dead," Hermione said softly.

Harry looked up at her, his eyes glittering with anger and determination and resolve. "So is Peter Pettigrew," he said.

Could it be? Was it possible that Sirius hadn't been the first prisoner to escape Azkaban somehow? But Crouch had died in prison—there'd been a record of it.

"But how?" Hermione whispered.

Harry shook his head, looking down at the map again. "I don't know," he said. "But if we've learned anything by now, it's that things you think are impossible usually aren't."

Hermione stood up to stand next to him, looking down at the name: Bartemius Crouch. She wasn't someone who believed in impossible—even in a world where magic existed, there had to be rules—but if there was even a chance this was true, they had to tell someone right away.

And then she felt Harry's sharp intake of breath, saw his hand shake, and instantly knew why. There, walking toward Moody's office, was another name printed in clear, bold letters: Neville Longbottom.

He had said he would stop by Moody's office for her—and if she and Harry were right, he was about to step alone into a room with the man who had tortured his parents to insanity.