'I believe,' said Dumbledore quietly, with the air of someone confessing that he'd gotten a 'T' on his last Transfiguration test. 'that this, Miss Granger, will be an adventure.'

Hermione smiled, despite herself. 'I like to think I'm very good at that sort of thing.'

Dumbledore chuckled, as he waved his wand around the sparse room. The wallpaper was the brightest blue she'd seen; and Dumbledore was currently switching the colours of the sofa he had conjured. Several fuchsia pink cushions settled on the cream colored sofa, with a very, ah, unique pattern on it.

The bleakness of Durmstrang seemed quite far away; the weight of preparing for the second task that seemed to hang over her like some malicious shadow; the constant interjections of Sanne; all of this seemed years ago.

She stood there in mid-thought; whether she should press Dumbledore for information or not; whether corresponding with Andromeda Tonks and Harry Potter would be enough; whether she should even be this worried (no, her worries were quite accurate; this was a war that was going to start-)

'That will be sufficiently muggle for Dave and Meg Granger, Hermione?'

She glanced at the curtains with lilac and orange swirls designed on it. 'It's certainly very unique, sir.'

Dumbledore inclined his head, an amused smile on his face. They were in one of the rooms above the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for the scheduled meet with Hermione's dad's cousin; whom she had never heard of. She couldn't deny she was not at all nervous, but she was more excited than anxious.

'I need not remind you, then, on the consequences of tampering with the Stature of Secrecy.'

'Surely not, sir.'

He gave another amused smile and with a trailing tirade of how exasperating a Minister's job could be, he was gone in a furl of emerald flames and another last chortle.

Hermione looked around, wincing slightly. The pink was a tad too bright on her eyes. She waved her wand, settling for something lighter, as the sound of faraway voices reached her ears. Another pang of enthusiasm and anxiety, all together.

'...and yes, Dave, that was 1978, remember?'

'Well, I think you had to get a tooth removed-'

'76, Dave.'

'Oh, yeah. My bad. Damn, you'd never have guessed how spacious these rooms are from the outside, would you?'

'Well, that Rehana lady seemed the sensible kind. It's just that bearded man- what was his name again- Albert something-'

The door opened.

'Hello.' piped up Hermione. Meg Granger (she had no idea what her maiden name was) had the bright blue eyes and dark, shiny hair pulled back in a neat braid. She was somewhat short, and as she met Hermione's eyes, she made a sub-conscious nod, her face breaking into a wide smile.

The three of them shook hands, all the while glancing uncomfortably at the violent orange curtains with lilac swirls.

There were introductions. An awkward joke. Another corny one to accompany it. Thankfully, none of them laughed, even though Hermione was an expert at fake laughs by now.

'Now,' said Dave Granger, resting his hands on his knee, as he looked at Hermione, who was sitting across him. 'I must say that Will and I - we weren't terribly close.'

Hermione nodded briefly. She had expected this.

'He was, I think, at the least seven years older than me. Never saw him much growing up.' His dark eyes were lost in some reflection, while Meg was staring at the curtains. Hermione had no idea what to address them. By name was too uncomfortable. Mr. and Mrs Granger was just-

It was strangely painful.

'He well, we exchanged gifts at Christmas and stuff; atleast the few years we visited Britain. I think I got him a huge pile of books on aeroplanes, once. My seven year old self thought he'd be impressed by my intelligence.'

Meg gave an indulgent smile. 'Cool older cousins, eh?'

'Yeah,' he said, nodding. 'Cool older cousin. And well, I met Jean only once- but she was very intelligent. Very clever. Had a way of trapping you with your own sentences.' Dave chuckled.

And Hermione understood, perhaps she had known this from the moment they had entered; that Dave Granger barely remembered Will and Jean and had probably never imagined he would once be telling their daughter about her dead parents. She could hear it in his voice; it was nostalgia, and she had no place in it. To him, those were perfect days of his childhood, to him, Will Granger was another distant relative he'd somewhat admired at eight. To her; they were books never read; people she didn't know; that she could never see it all with fond reminiscence.

He paused, looking at her.

'You don't look like her much. More like your daddy.'

'Yeah, Dave,' Meg said. 'I think we have a photo-?'

'Yeah, we got it for you, darling.' He smiled, and there were little crinkles around his eyes; his curly brown hair a mess.

Hermione reached out for the photograph, crumpled slightly; yellowing at the edges. Don't call me darling, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue.

Learn some tact, Hermione. You don't need to be so defensive all the time.

Will Granger had his arm around Jean, who had dark eyes and long, brown hair. She was grinning; and Hermione thought they might have been laughing at some joke; because Will was laughing too, his messy hair falling in his eyes. Hermione thought of Wizarding photographs and then she looked at the eternally frozen image of her mother laughing like nothing could scare her.

But that did not hide, she thought angrily, that did not hide the fear; the anxiety in Jean Granger's voice when it echoed in her dreams, that did not hide the screams that merged with the green light; that did not disguise the fact that Jean Granger would not laugh like that ever again-

Her father was wearing an oversized T-shirt with some band logo on it; her mother, on the other hand, was wearing a very formal looking shirt. He had brown eyes, a somewhat angular face. Purple flowers crept across the wall behind them, dry, yellow leaves fallen on the ground, but she could not see the tree. Perhaps there was no tree.

'Yeah,' said Hermione softly, trying to pretend that she didn't notice how tightly her fingers were clutching the picture; like it was the last thing aloft of a shipwreck, like she might drown without it.

'I do look a lot like him.'

They were polite. Kind smiles, a few bad jokes. They asked her if she would like to come to America. Twice. They started talking about funerals and immediately swallowed their words. And again, it hit her like a train wreck; they did not know her parents apart from a few scattered memories.

Hermione refused. She said she was very happy at Britain. She smiled when they complimented her on getting a scholarship to a very exclusive boarding school. She rambled a little on a fabricated exchange program to a German school. They did not say your parents would be proud, darling and she was very grateful for it.

When they left, the gift wrapped copy of a book with German translations remained on the table, the glittering red wrapping only half peeled.

To Hermione,

She couldn't read any further.

Granger,

Right. How's Durmstrang? Dad's always said its like a more extreme version of Slytherin. Suits you, anyway.

And sorry, but I can't write formal letters. All those "I would be highly obliged" and words like "esteemed, concerned authorities, like to highlight"; that stuff isn't for me. By the way, are you sure this won't go through Durmstrang's thousand and one security checks. Like, Hedwig's extremely intelligent and all, but you know.

'Idiot,' muttered Hermione under her breath. She had clearly written that the letters wouldn't be traced. It was just like Potter to be lazy and glaze over everything.

'Why am I asking him for help, again?' she asked herself, shaking her head. His illegible scrawl continued into another ramble. She wasn't sure if it was on purpose or he just wrote the same way he spoke.

Right. You want to know about him. It's the same as last summer. They haven't met again, but Merlin, my house is like a funeral scene. All these stupid what ifs. They think I don't hear them, you know. Anyways, I'm assuming you don't want to be bored with my adventures at Hogwarts; and anyways I highly doubt you've ever trusted my words. Besides all this saving the world complex you have, why do you want to know about Sirius? He's a Death Eater, Granger. Spy or not, he's with the Death Eaters now. And hey, I know what you're aiming at. I know this isn't just because of Sirius. And even if you add more words in your next letter that I have to go hunt through a nineteenth century dictionary to decipher, my answer's going to pretty much the same.

a) Lucius Malfoy is turning out to be a more worse villain than Voldemort.

b) The Prophet's become a propaganda machine. Sirius is not in correspondence with anyone, except perhaps Dumbledore. This, of course, helps neither you nor me.

c)Dad and Mum are eternally busy. This translates that the Order is continuously busy.

d)This translates that whatever they want is not happening.

e) All of this can be summed up in one word: Trouble.

Payment is always appreciated,

Harry.

Andromeda Tonks' did not ramble.

Hermione Granger,

Don't get yourself involved in things you don't understand. Darling, you're not the only Slytherin who believes they know better. Believe me, you don't want to cross that small line between reckless and insane. Insane as in "can get you killed." Durmstrang and Hogwarts do not share the same levels of tolerance.

A.B Tonks

Hermione did not continue any future correspondence with Andromeda Tonks, but instead made a point of keeping Potter in her contacts, as less as they were. As long as she could feed himsome information on what she knew, she reckoned he would send her information too.

'We have four houses in Hogwarts, yeah-'

'And you are in Slytherin, yes?'

'Yeah. We have a Common Room and separate dorms. It's also like, hidden - if you don't know where exactly it is, you'll never find out.'

Krum's smile seemed a little too understanding for Hermione to be comfortable. But talking about Hogwarts, anything Hogwarts really; it always made her feel special.

'It all seems very interesting.' Krum said. They were in the library; at a desk that overlooked the frosty windows. In the far distance, Hermione could see the dark lake, like some bizarre ribbon unfolding over lush grounds.

'And confusing,' added Hermione. 'The staircases change and stuff; and you have to remember which step to skip past and things like that. It's a very beautiful castle.'

'You'll find Durmstrang very boring then.'

Hermione laughed. 'Really, I've always liked visiting places.'

'Then you should come visit Bulgaria in the summer. It has a lot of interesting- magic.'

'Talking about magic, does Durmstrang really have hidden rooms I need to know about?'

'Durmstrang,' Krum said. 'It's a very orderly place.'

She talked and talked and he listened with rapt attention; about four poster beds and treacle tart and even that mysterious room that had provided her everything she'd needed and even, as she did, she could feel the unabashed enthusiasm in her voice, elation and intensity that had been missing for so long.

And she liked it this way; when they weren't talking about jealousy and disturbing friends and surviving a bloody flock of birds.

It wasn't very different from talking to anyone else, she found; but Hermione kept steering the conversation away from the Tournament. It felt like she wanted a respite from all that; an imaginary world where all she was doing was chatting with a world known Quidditch star who fancied her. This, the way Viktor Krum looked at her when she talked about libraries and what a television was, like nothing could be more fascinating than the words that came out of her mouth; it made her feel strangely admired; it made her feel special. She liked it.

This time she didn't try to stamp it down. But she wouldn't let it grow either.

(All dreams had to end.)

The dark was creeping in slowly; the lights were far away; more and more people were leaving.

He was talking about the Yule Ball; and Hermione had no idea how the conversation had shifted from his little brother to Hogwarts' Christmas decorations to the Ball without making a stop at the Tournament. Maybe she was becoming an expert in handling these things. Even then, it was the most endearing conversation she'd had.

She smiled at him; half nervousness; half over-confidence.

'You'll teach me to dance?'

'I am not a very good dancer,' said Krum.

'It doesn't matter,' she said and leaned forward to catch his lips with hers.

By the way, what's this tosh about the Yule Ball?

Witch Weekly again? scribbled Hermione wearily. Ron's writing came back a second later; all jagged lines and ink blots.

Don't avoid the question, Merlin, this is exasperating on paper. Do not tell me you're going with some Durmstrang bloke who doesn't know his head from his arse.

Ron!

Still avoiding the question, I see.

You're believing a stupid article over me?

Why, yes.

'Arse,' said Hermione aloud, but she was smiling.

'And that, folks, is why the Lake's Grindylows are terrified of Johnson!'

Firewhiskey and Butterbeer crates filled up the Hogwarts compartment; the place was lit in an amalgamation of colourful lights and the loud, raucous laughter filled her ears. It was clear that everyone there was homesick, what with the very warm welcome their hosts were giving.

In the middle of the room; filled with Conjured sofas and carpets that switched patterns every few minutes, Cedric Diggory was chatting animatedly; as the Gryffindor girl, Johnson rolled her eyes. Hermione didn't know why she'd dropped in. Maybe because she was desperate for a date.

She watched as Johnson chugged down a large glass of Firewhiskey and god knew what else. Someone stumbled past her, tipping a half full glass in her hands; most of which spilled on the floor. She shifted to the door, feeling so out of place she was struck with a sudden desire to do something wild.

Hermione bumped into Pucey, who too, was standing at the door, cradling a drink in his hands. He was very drunk. Maybe this evening might be a little fun.

House parties in Slytherin were rare and far when the entire House celebrated. Too much of daft politics and bad blood came between it. And because they always liked torturing her, they had often tried to get her to one of them but Hermione had never made the mistake. She knew the signs; she knew she would only be humiliated and hurt at the end of it.

She glanced at him. His shoelaces were untied; Hermione wondered if he was drunk enough to trip on them. Maybe she could help. Landing face first in a puddle of Butterbeer and god knew what else ought to wake him up.

'Gran-ger,' he stumbled, throwing a hand around her shoulders. 'I'm going mad around the Gryffindors.'

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. 'No touching the mudblood, Pucey.'

He giggled madly and Hermione desperately wished she had a camera. 'No mudbloods in Durmshtrange.'

His tongue seemed to have tied itself up.

'Language, Pucey.'

'Of courshe,' he agreed, nodding so vigorously, she reckoned his mead might actually fall of. 'We must say no to pureblood supremacy, right Adrian? No wait, that's Father- no, Laura?'

From the other end of the room, lit in blue light for a second, the striking cheekbones and dark eyes of Aafreen Zaidi met Hermione's for a second.

Hermione laughed; half biting; half because it was genuinely amusing. She didn't need a camera; Zaidi would do the job.

Hermione stuffed her gloved hands into the pockets of her warm cloak, watching little whorls of snow float down on the blood red petal of a flower.

'Granger, yes?'

She turned, to see one of Durmstrang boys standing there, cheeks flushed.

'Yeah, that's me.'

He blinked; his curly hair falling in his eyes. 'Vell, I am Illian. Durmstrang. I vas, ah, hoping, you vould come with me to the Ball?'

Hermione successfully managed to not roll her eyes. 'Sorry, but I've already got a date.'

There was no change in his facial expression. He simply nodded and was gone in another whirl of the cold wind.

Why were boys such idiots? Just a day or two earlier and this would have been a partway success. She'd been waiting for someone- anyone to ask her- and when the days to the Yule Ball were only hurrying faster than she could count- had she managed to convince Cedric.

"Just the first dance," she'd said, feeling somewhat grown-up. "If you would oblige I'd never forget the favour. After that you can go snog Pucey if you want to."

"Liar," Cedric had admonished. "You'll forget about me and everything else in not less than two days."

"Ouch."

"Don't worry," Cedric had said, smiling as amiably as ever. He winked at her. "I can oblige you one dance. Free of cost."

'Need more blackmail material?'

Aafreen Zaidi glared at Hermione, her dark hair spilling out of a twisted bun. Zaidi was wrecking a tsunami in the little compartment; riling through her charmed trunk.

'Unlike you, Granger, I prefer not to show up for social events in rags.'

'Petty,' remarked Hermione and went back to the book she was reading; Fire disasters of Wizarding Europe; Fiendfyre.

And it was petty. Zaidi was rich; and Hermione was not. But that did not matter now; as far as she was concerned; the Yule Ball was a formality. To the likes of Zaidi, it was something exclusive because the rest of Hogwarts could only imagine itself in these shoes. To Zaidi, it made her feel special, made her unique and noteworthy.

Hermione simply didn't give a fuck.

Anyways, Hermione had never been the forgiving kind, however petty it was. It was time to make some use for all those people who wanted to forge awkward conversations with her.

In the end, it was very simple.

'And who are you going with, Sanne?'

Sanne smiled, her blue eyes bright.

Hermione could hardly believe this was the same girl who'd threatened to carve out a boy's eyes.

'Viktor, of course.' Sanne said, leaning against the stone wall. A throng of red robed students skipped past the staircases to the right. There were very few portraits in Durmstrang, which was because, Viktor claimed, that they were a liability to the castle's security.

The thing with Sanne, as Hermione had figured out; was that she was increasingly talkative. A few prompts went a long way. Soon enough, she was rattling about her dress.

'Oh, Hermione,' she gasped suddenly, slurring the syllables of "Hermione" in a way that made her wince. 'you never told me what you were going to wear?'

'I haven't quite decided yet,' said Hermione airily, feeling satisfied that Sanne had reached this point with very less prompting.

'That isn't good now, is it?' said Sanne, her eyes taking on an excited fervour. 'We must find something. I will help, of course. You'll look krasiv.'

Of course, stressed Hermione to herself, this had nothing to do with Zaidi. At all. That would be too petty.

The dome shaped ceiling was a myriad of colours, with enchanting patterns of flowers and designs swirling together; in an amalgamation that seemed to change every other minute. Magnificent ice sculptures stood sentinel at the open iron wrought doors, the only thing that seemed brutal in the otherwise soft decor. When Hermione stepped in, skipping past the last two of the black marbled stairs, she felt like everyone was watching her and found, that strangely, she didn't mind. In the dark corner, somewhere near the rounded staircase, Johnson was snogging a Beauxbatons girl.

Cedric's arm was tightly linked with hers, and his handsome face broke into a smile, catching sight of the frost kissed windows and the shimmering bright lights and glittery gowns of the girls. Hermione looked around, feeling as fascinated as a little kid at an amusement park.

Across the room, Viktor smiled at her, hand in hand with Sanne, whose chubby cheeks were tinged pink. Her dress was blue, a floaty, glittery material. It looked very pretty on her.

Hermione's on the other hand, was a sort of shiny green, made up of a thousand sequins. It fit her perfectly, with a sort of cut that made it look like it was floating. Very expensive, by her own standards, but Hermione had saved up enough from years. Knowing the galleon to pound exchange rate always helped.

Her hair was no longer the bushy mess it usually was, but it wasn't a sleek, silky do either. Instead, it flowed down her back in precise curls ( a dash of magic never hurt ) and a thin, crystal pin settled in dark curls. Make up had never been her thing and she only wore a little. It had still taken her more than an hour.

Nevertheless, she was very satisfied with how things had turned out.

The attraction of the night, was of course, Fleur Delacour in her silver satin dress. Beauxbatons had been extremely bitter for their stay and so had made some sort of mission to be the stars of the Yule Ball. The huge hall, with its black marbled tiles and domed, dazzling ceiling was a flurry of dress robes and icy sculptures with floating snowflakes. It was unusually beautiful for Durmstrang, and Hermione found that she was enjoying it.

She felt graceful in Cedric's arms, as he twirled her around, curls framing her face, shining gown trailing around her. Hermione had never been in such a regal, luxurious atmosphere, everything here seemed to shout money more than anything else. Her heart was racing when Karkaroff's cold eyes met hers, as she swirled around; but she bit her lip; did not mutter any vicious remarks; pushed something ice like in her heart to be as polite as possible.

Zaidi danced with Pucey, right behind Krum and Sanne, who shuffled between rounds and rounds of enthusiastic dancers. To her word, Zaidi did look very beautiful, but Hermione didn't have it in her to be very scathing. She wanted to enjoy herself today, because this was her night, this was her victory, her showdown.

The night was a success; the first dance ended; she and Cedric parted ways; and she went to go get some drinks. More and more people were spilling out to the grounds, apparently in a strange hurry to get out of the clothes they had spent millions on.

She stood beside a floating table, a glass of champagne and god knew what else in her hand. She glanced at a mirror, and let a smile curve her lips. If only the rest of Slytherin could see her, she thought, as Viktor Krum met up beside her,( Sanne interjecting an excuse and swirling into the crowd for another dance). Parkinson would have been mental with the fury.

The mudblood, hmm? The mudblood bringing victory to Hogwarts. The mudblood had achieved way more than they'd even dreamt of. The girl who'd been expelled from Hogwarts dancing in the arms of an International Quidditch star. Her eyes scanned the room; it was extravagant enough for Witch Weekly too, and apart from remarks on her blood status; there was nothing anyone could criticize about her today. And if there was, indeed, anything about her blood status, well, Durmstrang had taught her a lot of things.

Krum's hands laced her wrist; she pressed the glass to her lips, downing it in one go. From the window, the Beauxbatons girl and Johnson were doing more than snogging now. And not just them, by the look of it.

Hermione smiled sweetly, downed another glass, and pulled him for another dance.

Soft music played from far away, petals of snow dusted her air. In the dark night, her green dress sparkled, even among the magnificent designs. When Viktor Krum's thin fingers intertwined with her, she let him. She looked into his dark eyes, when his lips met hers, one finger twirled around her curls.

'You look very beautiful, Hermione.'

'I should hope so; I spent a fortune on the dress.'

He laughed and she kissed him again, eyes closed tightly; struck with the sudden desire to cry.