Chapter 16: Best-Laid Plans
For the first time in Hermione's life, she couldn't properly remember how she'd gotten from the Great Hall and the feast all the way upstairs to the common room, or, for that matter, how on earth it had got to be nearly midnight. Ginny stood beside her, uncharacteristically quiet and ashen-faced, shoulders slumped slightly in defeat.
"Well," she said at last, and though she was nearly whispering, her voice sounded like gunfire. "I suppose it's the one place we haven't really checked."
Hermione chose not to tell Ginny she'd freely surrender every cent she'd ever had to her name if Harry was in that common room. They'd heard the party from all the way at the end of the corridor, and from the look on Harry's face as Dumbledore called his name, Hermione would be very surprised to find him in the celebrating mood.
"Let's go, then," she sighed, gazing up at the Fat Lady and half expecting her to begin reading their death sentence. Instead, she simply gave them a very disdainful look.
"Go in, don't go in, it doesn't make a difference to me," she snapped. "Yes, I'll just sit around all day and watch this thrilling conversation…"
"Balderdash," said Ginny shortly, and snatched Hermione's hand. Before she could pull her through the portrait hole, however, Ron burst out of it, clearly in something of a hurry. He brushed past Hermione and Ginny without a word, and pelted toward the grand staircase.
"Ron!" cried Hermione, launching herself after him. "Ron!" He was nearly to the end of the corridor when he skidded to a stop and turned to face her.
"What?"
"What d'you mean, what?" said Hermione incredulously. "Have you seen Harry?" Ron looked at her as if this were a peculiar question.
"Oh. Yeah, I saw him." Hermione waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't.
"And?" she demanded, after a moment. To her extreme annoyance, he simply stared blankly back.
"And what?"
"And, is he all right?!" she fought the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. Ron raised an eyebrow, and there was something subtly nasty about his expression now.
"Yeah, he's all right," he snarled. "Didn't get into trouble, did he?" Hermione frowned. She couldn't see what that had to do with anything, and Ron's expression was sending a chill down her spine.
"What...what're you talking about?" she asked uncertainly. He shrugged.
"What are you talking about?"
"The tournament!" cried Hermione, beside herself.
"Oh, fucking hell," came Ginny's voice as she drew level with Hermione. She was studying Ron intently as if he were an unknown but highly objectionable substance on the bottom of her shoe. "You think he did it, don't you? You think he put his own name in the goblet." Ron gave a huge, exaggerated sort of shrug.
"He says he didn't do it."
"Well, of course he says that!" snapped Hermione. "Honestly, did you see his face when Dumbledore read off his name? Ron, this is serious, someone could be trying-" she broke off here, unsure both how and whether she wanted to finish her sentence. Ron simply frowned at her.
"Well, if you want to fawn all over him, be my guest. You'll be in good company, I expect." With that he turned on his heel, ignoring Hermione's stammered pleas for him to wait, and marched off down the corridor toward the staircase. Hermione stared after him, stunned. It had been obvious at the feast that Harry was as shocked as anyone else to hear his name read out from the goblet. Hadn't it?
"Oh, yes, don't mind me!" called the Fat Lady behind them. "I'll just hang here, wide open, until you're ready, shall I?"
"Yeah, that'd be swell," snapped Ginny over her shoulder. "Thanks!"
The Fat Lady's disgruntled huff was drowned by a particularly loud burst of noise from the common room, and Hermione grimaced. Clearly, Harry's predicament wasn't obvious to everyone. It just hadn't crossed her mind for a second that "everyone" would include Ron.
"What an ass," sighed Ginny. "C'mon." Hermione turned and allowed herself to be led back toward the portrait hole, but as they prepared to step inside, Ginny held her back.
"Wait," she breathed. Hermione frowned.
"What?" Ginny gave her a quick, mischievous grin and stuck her head just inside.
"Honestly!" she called out, in a very good imitation of Professor McGonagall. "I am delighted to hear that you all are so enthusiastically behind Mr. Potter, but this cannot go on! It is one o'clock in the morning! Go to bed! All of you!"
There was a moment of pure, crystalline silence during which Hermione feared her lungs would burst from the effort of containing her laughter; then, to her astonishment, the din of frantic shouts and hurried footsteps as what sounded like the whole House tore up the steps to their dormitories. Ginny gave a thoughtful sort of shrug.
"I wasn't sure that would work."
"Thank god it did," sighed Hermione, as they clambered at last through the portrait hole and into the messy but blessedly quiet common room. They tiptoed up the stairs to their dormitories, though Hermione knew it was no use. Until she knew exactly who had placed Harry's name in that goblet and why, she wasn't sure she'd sleep a wink again.
"Did Harry put his name in the goblet?"
"I don't know."
"But Dumbledore isn't going to let him compete?" Draco sighed slightly.
"I don't know." He was sitting on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, Sirius pacing back and forth in front of him. The musty smell from the thin, bald rug underneath him was making him ill, but after the third time Sirius made him repeat his account of the evening's festivities in excruciating detail, he'd been too exhausted to stand any longer. He hadn't a clue what time it was; as luck would have it, he'd left his watch in the dormitory. Sirius paused, hands knitted together, lips pursed in thought.
"Tell me again about this goblet," he said gruffly. "What did Dumbledore say exactly?" Draco fought the urge to scream.
"I don't know." He paused. "Just that it's supposed to be an impartial judge. People put their names in, and it spits back out the ones it's chosen as champions."
"And to keep out anyone underage?"
"Dumbledore drew an Age Line." Sirius nodded thoughtfully, as if this were the first time Draco had told him.
"He can't have crossed that Age Line." Draco frowned.
"You can fool an Age Line with an Aging Potion," he said quietly. "Or someone older can put it in for you." He seriously doubted Potter had done either of those things, but regardless, they were the simplest possibilities. Sirius pursed his lips.
"Yes," he muttered darkly. "Someone else can do it for you." Draco frowned. Obviously Sirius meant Karkaroff, but doubt had been lurking in the back of his mind and growing steadily as they talked. There had been a great big crowd around the goblet all day, after all; he couldn't think of any earthly explanation the Headmaster of Durmstrang could provide for his approaching a goblet at all, let alone putting a name in.
"It was in the middle of the Entrance Hall," he said quietly. "And, I mean...well, Dumbledore's letting an old Death Eater live in the castle all year, he's going to be watching him like a hawk." Sirius gave a low, humorless laugh.
"If Dumbledore was famous for his impeccable security, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you," he said wryly. Draco supposed he had a point. Besides, although there certainly would've been no way for Karkaroff to get near the goblet during the daytime...well, didn't he know firsthand how easily the castle could be wandered about at night? With no dementors prowling the grounds this year, Karkaroff would've had a clear path up to the castle from the Durmstrang ship. And yet...the way Karkaroff had looked at Moody after the Welcoming Feast kept tugging at something in the back of his mind. Draco hadn't seen the face, that night, of a man prepared to execute his daring plan to bring back the reign of Lord Voldemort. No, that face was seriously considering sailing off in that ship of his without a backward glance.
"I don't suppose it really matters, does it?" When Sirius spoke, they'd been quiet for so long that Draco jumped. "How it happened. What actually matters is that whoever did this...whoever wants to see Harry killed...that they don't get what they want." Sirius had worn the same expression when he'd told Draco, in a matter-of-fact voice that belied decades of unspeakable pain, that he'd been responsible for his best friend's death. Just like that ghastly afternoon last spring, the air froze in his lungs until he feared he'd choke to death.
"He's not...very good in lessons, if you want to know the truth." Draco heard the words leave his mouth, but wasn't aware of speaking them. Sirius glanced up and studied him, a slow, calculating look filling his eyes.
"If your Disillusionment Charm is anything to go on, you must be at the top of your class," he said softly. He paused, and to Draco's astonishment, the ghost of a smirk slipped onto his face. "Of course, I'd wager your girlfriend gives you a good run for your money." Try as he might to stop it, Draco felt his face grow hot.
"That's none of your business," he snapped, hating the childish, petulant tone of his voice. Sirius laughed.
"You shouldn't hold her hand on the grounds, then."
"You shouldn't be on the grounds, or have you forgotten the Ministry's after you?" The moment this retort left his mouth, Draco would've given anything to take it back. Sirius turned sharply away as though Draco had struck him, and when he spoke again moments later, it was scarcely more than a harsh whisper.
"He looked happy." Now Draco felt as if he'd been struck.
"I can't promise anything," he whispered. "I already told you, he hates me." Sirius didn't turn, but Draco could feel the smile light his face from across the room.
"Thank you, Draco."
Hermione rose so obscenely early on Sunday morning that the sky had scarcely lightened outside and a few stars still twinkled feebly here and there. Part of her wondered what the hell she was doing, but much stronger was the part that couldn't stand to lie pointlessly in bed any longer, staring up at the ceiling and wishing for sleep that refused to come. And so here she sat, in the largely deserted Great Hall, staring into a mug of hot chocolate which grew steadily colder until, to her enormous surprise, she felt rather than saw Draco slip into the seat beside her.
She kissed him more out of habit than anything else, then felt a frown cross her face as she drew back and took him in. He hadn't changed since yesterday. His clothes were wrinkled, which he didn't normally allow, and he looked so pale she half expected to see straight through him.
"You look terrible," she said softly. He attempted a smirk, which fell spectacularly flat.
"Thanks. So do you." She sighed as the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressed down harder than ever on her back.
"He doesn't believe him." Draco looked at her as if she were speaking a language he'd studied in school but couldn't quite understand in real life.
"I'm going to need a few more words than that," he told her. "Who doesn't believe who?"
"Whom."
"What?"
"It's whom. Who doesn't believe whom." Draco stared.
"You prefer correcting my grammar to answering my question?" She tried to laugh, but it stuck halfway down her throat.
"Ron," she said quietly, after a moment. "Harry says he didn't do it. Ron doesn't believe him."
Draco frowned.
"Do you believe him?" It wasn't a challenge, merely a question.
"Of course I do." She paused, then glanced around. The Great Hall was deserted aside from a few scattered first and second years, but even so, she drew Draco closer and lowered her voice so only he could hear. "There's no way he could've gotten over that Age Line. Fred and George tried it, and wound up in the hospital wing with-" she shook her head. "Never mind. He couldn't have gotten over, Dumbledore made sure of it. Besides...well, I think the goblet knows only three champions are supposed to compete. Which means…" What, though, exactly? If there was a Confundus Charm powerful enough to make the goblet forget its one job in this world, Harry certainly wouldn't be the one casting it. Draco was studying her, face strangely impassive.
"Fred and George tried it," he said slowly, "and what?" She rolled her eyes.
"Their hair turned white and they grew beards down to their feet," she sighed. "Madam Pomfrey had to sort them out." Draco snorted.
"I'm sorry I missed it." She sighed and, after a moment, voiced the thought that had kept her awake for most of the night.
"Whoever did this...I don't suppose it was because they wanted to give him a treat," she said carefully. Draco shook his head, face curiously blank again.
"I wouldn't think so," he said quietly. "They were doing it to support them," he added, after a moment. She shook her head, lost.
"What?"
"At the World Cup? Whoever conjured the Mark." He paused, staring intently at a crack in the stone floor a few feet away. "There's some sort of sign, isn't there? That he's…" he didn't finish his sentence, but Hermione heard a faint groan escape her of its own accord.
"Dumbledore must think so," she whispered. "That's why he's got Moody back." Draco gave a humorless laugh.
"It certainly isn't because of his stellar rapport with students." He frowned slightly, as though the crack in the floor had begun behaving in some new, strange way. "He's an old friend of my father's," he went on, after a moment. "Karkaroff?" He might as well have poured freezing water down her back.
"You don't mean…" She trailed off, for Draco was already nodding.
"He went to Azkaban," he whispered. "Got out, though. Obviously." Of course. Dumbledore knew he'd be welcoming an old Death Eater into his school, and brought in an ex-Auror to prepare for the occasion. For the first time in several minutes, Draco met her eyes.
"Whoever did it...well, obviously we know why they did it. But I actually think that's good." She frowned.
"Excuse me?" Draco shrugged and nodded.
"It means they aren't going to try anything directly, they're relying on the tournament to kill him. Which means...he's just got to make sure he's prepared for the tasks." Draco sounded so matter-of-fact that, for the first time in the last twelve hours, Hermione felt sure of herself again.
"Right then," she decided. "Let's go." She got to her feet, but Draco remained seated, frowning up at her.
"Where?"
"To find Harry, of course." Draco choked.
"Oh, no," he said at once. "No, I'm not ill. Thanks for checking." She ignored this and quickly gathered a few pieces of toast in a napkin, then snatched his hand to pull him up from the table.
"C'mon." Draco gave her a look of utmost distaste, but followed as she turned on her heel and marched purposefully toward the doors.
"Last time, you let me play Chess for it," he muttered darkly, and Hermione had to fight very hard not to smile at the memory of his face as he struggled to believe he'd lost.
"You said it wouldn't work again," she said lightly. "Besides," she added, unable to resist, "you lost."
"I let you win." She laughed.
"You certainly did not." He sighed, but allowed her to lead him up to the seventh floor. When they turned the corner leading to Gryffindor Tower, he caught her elbow and held her back.
"Hermione," he said slowly. "Have you thought about this? He comes out here and sees me, right? And how is he going to react?" She grimaced.
"Oh, he won't like it," she said flatly. This was true even at the best of times; at the moment Hermione shuddered to think what the next few minutes might hold, but whether Harry liked it or not, Draco seemed both to have information that could save his life and be in a strangely expansive mood. Now, however, he frowned and glanced over his shoulder as if the staircase behind them suddenly seemed very inviting.
"What, er…" he paused and shook his head slightly. "What sort of mood was he in when you spoke to him?" Hermione frowned.
"I haven't." Draco drew back as if she'd smacked him.
"You haven't spoken to him?" Her stomach gave an unpleasant sort of flip at the look on his face, but she knew better than to show it.
"Well, I tried to find him right after it happened," she said defensively. "But I couldn't, so obviously I-"
"Decided now would be the best time to surprise him with his least favorite person?" Draco's attempt at a sharp retort was undermined somewhat by the way eyes kept drifting irresistibly down toward the floor.
"You are not his least favorite person," snapped Hermione.
"I can't believe you haven't spoken to him," muttered Draco.
"Believe whatever you like then, it really makes no difference to me." Draco looked up sharply.
"I'm going back to the-" he broke off, and what little color he had in his face drained away at once. Sometime during the last minute, the portrait hole had opened and Harry had stepped out; he stood just inside the corridor, looking at the pair of them as if he intended to murder one of them but lacked the will to decide which. He looked even worse for wear than Draco, and Hermione suspected he hadn't slept a wink. She gulped.
"Hello," she said, as cheerfully as she could manage. "Want to go for a walk?" Harry gave no sign that he'd heard her, but continued staring blankly at Draco for another half-minute before turning sharply on his heel and starting back toward the portrait. The moment Harry turned his back, Draco turned to Hermione and mouthed I told you so. She gave him the hardest look she could summon, and leapt after Harry.
"No, wait!" she cried. "Look, I...I brought you this," she said breathlessly, holding up the toast from the Great Hall. To her enormous relief, Harry paused just in front of the portrait hole, and when he turned to face her his expression had softened somewhat. He studied her for a few moments, then snatched the toast from her hand. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Draco, who looked as if he were being tortured, then turned back to Harry and lowered her voice.
"It wasn't his idea," she hissed. "I made him come, but I promise I wouldn't have if…" she sighed. "Harry, please come for a walk with us." She leaned closer and lowered her voice as far as it would reasonably go. "Someone's trying to put your life in danger, and...we think we know who it is." Harry's eyes doubled in size.
"You don't think I…?" She shook her head.
"Don't be stupid," she said briskly. "C'mon. Unless you'd rather go to the Great Hall." She'd done it. Harry went briefly pale, then shook his head violently.
"Fine."
The walk downstairs and through the Entrance Hall seemed to last a thousand years. Harry kept firmly to Hermione's left side and scarcely took his narrowed, suspicious eyes off Draco, who stuck to her right and seemed physically smaller than usual. No one dared say anything in the castle lest a few early risers overhear them, but they met no one as they crossed the Entrance Hall without glancing at the Great Hall and stepped out onto the grounds, where the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship sat serenely in the distance. In broad daylight, Hermione thought both looked smaller.
"Right," said Hermione briskly. "Er-shall we go down by the lake?"
"I don't fancy hanging around until the Durmstrang lot wakes up," Harry muttered. Draco thought for a moment.
"C'mon." Without waiting for a response, he set off in the opposite direction. Harry frowned at Hermione, who shrugged and followed. Realizing where Draco was taking them moments later, however, she paused and frowned slightly.
"Draco, I...are you sure?" Draco paused just outside the Quidditch pitch and shrugged.
"It's Sunday. No one's ever training on Sunday." Hermione waved this away.
"Well, yes, but is it allowed?" Draco rolled his eyes slightly.
"We aren't going to get caught. I've been here loads of times with-" he broke off and went slightly pink, and Hermione had the distinct sense he didn't want to mention Ginny's name in front of Harry. Harry, to her enormous surprise, nodded.
"Madam Hooch doesn't really check the pitch," he said shortly. "Sort of lets captains see to that." He brushed past Draco and through the gates. Recognizing herself to be outnumbered and privately thrilled to hear Harry agree with Draco on something, Hermione followed.
"Right," she said again, as they fell in step around the empty pitch. "Well, obviously we know you didn't put your name in that goblet yourself. And we know that whoever did do it also Confounded the goblet into selecting a fourth champion, so it definitely wasn't a student, and they definitely weren't just having a laugh." She paused. "Draco...tell Harry what you told me. You know. About…" she trailed off. Draco sighed slightly and glanced up at the sky.
"Professor Karkaroff...used to be a Death Eater," he said slowly, without looking at either Harry or Hermione. "You do know what-"
"Yes, I bloody well know what a Death Eater is," snapped Harry at once. He, too, glanced skyward for a moment. "Moody seems to know him," he said finally, in an entirely different tone. Draco nodded stiffly.
"He went to Azkaban. I think Moody's the one who put him there."
"Which is why Dumbledore's brought Moody on this year," Hermione concluded. She turned to Harry, trying with limited success to arrange her face into something other than a worried frown. "What did they say?" she asked. "After you left the feast. What happened?" Harry was quiet for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his shoulders had gone stiff and his face had gone pale.
"I haven't got a choice. Binding magical contract, or something like that. I've got to compete." He paused for a moment, then stole a glance across Hermione at Draco. "If it was Karkaroff, he's a really good actor. He seemed furious about it." Draco frowned, as if considering his words very carefully.
"I'm not...entirely sure it was him." He paused. Harry rolled his eyes.
"You're saying there's another Death Eater running around Hogwarts, then?" he said irritably. Draco sighed.
"No," he snapped. "But you'd made it almost the whole morning without leaping to conclusions, I know how difficult-"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry interrupted, clearly nettled. Draco looked incredulous.
"You're not asking what leaping to conclusions means?" The look on Harry's face clearly spelled trouble, and Hermione laid a pacifying hand on his shoulder and shot a stern look at Draco. Harry brushed her hand away irritably.
"Forget it," he muttered.
"What I was going to say," said Draco pointedly, "is that...you know. This? The Dark Mark at the World Cup? Don't seem like isolated incidents to me. So...even if it was Karkaroff, which I'm not saying it was...then I think this is bigger than him."
"And exactly what is it you know about the Mark at the World Cup?" Harry shot at Draco, who recoiled as if he'd been burned.
"I don't like that insinuation," he snapped. "I'm trying to help, in case you hadn't noticed." He paused. "Actually, I'm trying to help her-" he jabbed his finger in Hermione's direction- "and she's trying to help you, so-"
"The point," interrupted Hermione, for Harry looked positively murderous, "is that we'll need to make sure you're very, very prepared for the tasks, Harry." She paused here to give stern looks, first to Draco, then to Harry. "So, the first task. Do you know what it is?" Harry sighed.
"No," he said quietly, after a moment. "They won't tell us. It's supposed to test our daring." Draco groaned.
"Of course it is," he muttered. Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat with difficulty and opened her mouth to speak, but Harry interrupted.
"Have you seen Ron?" She might've expected this question, she thought crossly, as her stomach squirmed.
"Er-yes. Last night."
"Does he really think I entered myself?" His jaw was set, but his lip quivered almost imperceptibly and Hermione felt her heart break.
"Look, Harry, can we talk about Ron another time?"
"Yes, then." She sighed.
"Oh, Harry, he…" he's jealous, you idiot. "He'll come around, you know he will, he just-"
"You're right," Harry interrupted. "Let's talk about Ron another time." The silence that followed felt to Hermione like glue filling her lungs.
"You're probably fighting something big and dangerous," said Draco finally, and Hermione's rush of gratitude could've knocked her over. "For the first task. Seems like something they'd surprise you with, to test your daring."
"I believe I heard something about leaping to conclusions," said Harry flatly. Was it Hermione's imagination, or did she detect a faint sliver of humor in his tone? Draco turned away sharply, but he'd never been very good at controlling his face; there was no mistaking the tiny upward curve of his lips.
"You'll want to practice loads of defensive spells, then," she said briskly. "Jinxes, hexes, that sort of thing. Ooh, it'd be good to practice dueling…"
They didn't return to the castle until nearly lunchtime, when Harry announced, rather abruptly, that he needed to write to his aunt and uncle. Understanding this to mean he wanted to write to Sirius, Hermione accompanied him out of the Quidditch pitch and up through the grounds to the castle doors before turning back to face Draco.
"Thank you," she said softly, the moment Harry was out of earshot. "Want to go and have lunch?" He glanced up at the castle, then back at her.
"No, I don't." He took her hand and started back out into the grounds, and Hermione allowed herself to be led to the shade of an old oak tree. Draco leaned against the trunk and sank down into the grass, then cocked his head and looked up at her.
"Do you?" She laughed.
"No." The moment she sat beside him, he laid his head in her lap and closed his eyes.
"I'm tired," he murmured, and she relished the soft, sweet smile that stole over his face as she stroked his hair. After a few moments he opened his eyes again, and she could tell he was thinking very seriously about something.
"Hermione?"
"Yes?" He paused.
"Er...last year, when we...well, when we weren't speaking." He frowned slightly, as if trying to remember a very long and complicated list. "It wasn't...it made me sad." She froze.
"I-I know," she stammered. "Er...I'm sorry." He shook his head, sending his hair falling messily over his face.
"No, I just mean…not speaking to your best friend. It's...not exactly easy." He bit his lip, and she felt her heart swell as she caught his meaning. She reached down and took his hand, and he sighed slightly as she kissed it.
"Thank you," she whispered. He gave her an attempt at a smile, but his eyes were already closing again.
"I'm tired," he repeated. She brushed his hair back from his face, and he clutched her other hand against his chest, grip loosening slightly as he drifted off. It was cloudy and brisk outside, but suddenly Hermione didn't mind. She couldn't think of a finer place to spend a Sunday afternoon.
