The next days passed quickly. Hermione knew it was a coping mechanism her mind was using to protect her. She understood a lot of things about the human mind and how it worked thanks to some books she had borrowed from Mrs. Pomfrey. Technically, Muggleborns were prohibited from studying magic by Ministry Law, but there was no mention about Muggle studies. She had used this loophole and read obsessively every book that had crossed her path. The stern librarian never commented on her reading choices and Hermione never asked how the Potions book appeared.

Still, there were some things she wishes she could forget entirely, such as the other three Ceremonies. The Squib one was particularly sad affair since all the champions were children, no older than 13 years old. Hermione always felt sorry for them, even more than her fellow Muggleborn. Purebloods took great joy in killing them, coming up with new and exciting ways to do so. They were the first people to die. (Well, usually the first. She remembers fondly a little old lady who had unleashed her wild cats to her opponents. She had managed to survive almost the entire Tournament until she was killed attacked by Inferi.)

The Pureblood Ceremony was a different story, though. When the Half-blood, Muggleborn and Squib were selected, they usually reacted like they were going to their funeral. But Pureblood Selections was treated as a grant party.

The champions' names could barely be heard over the loud cheers. Everyone tried to hug the champions, to touch their arms, anything. She had recognized the blond man who tried to curse her. This time he wasn't cheering or cursing anyone. He was standing completely motionless. Hermione wondered what had caused this reaction when she noticed her new opponents. One of the younger champions born a remarkable resemblance to her attacker. She wanted to feel satisfaction for his distress but the only thing she could feel was pity.

The Half-Blood Ceremony was a mixed bag, as usual. Some reacted to their selection as a chance to achieve eternal glory, some as a death sentence. This year, all the champions looked confident which made sense, since they were the only one who stood a real chance against the Pureblood.

With the ceremonies out of the way, Hermione didn't have a clue about what was next. She woke up in the same room she was sleeping since her name come out from the Goblet. It wasn't much but it was definitely better than one she was sharing with the other Muggeborns. At least now she had the bed for herself.

The last days had left their stain because Hermione felt extremely tired, even though she hadn't done anything. She wanted nothing more than to stay in bed forever.

Shower, she though sleepily. She stood up with difficulty and walked to the bathroom. She was wearing the same clothes for two days straight and it showed. She missed her wand. If she had it with her she could scrousify and be done with them. Unfortunately, if they had discovered it, they would have skipped the Tournament and kill her without a second thought.

She undressed carefully, trying not to move her hurting limps much. There was a big mirror next to the showering stall. She examined her body like she was looking at it for the first time. There it was her old tattoo. She had been marked the very first day she arrived. A rose strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. A symbol to remind her of her new position.

She showered quickly and dressed in a red robe she had found in a closet. She had just returned to her bedroom when the door opened and a large man entered.

"Good Morning!" He sounded like he was hit by a permanent cheer charm. Hermione, who couldn't handle so much cheeriness on her best days, just nodded.

"How are you feeling?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Please, come with me," he said and walked out of the room.

Startled by his sudden departure, it took a moment for Hermione to realize what happened. Haltingly, she followed him. The man waited her impatiently. "What are you waiting for?" he asked and grabbed her hand. "Hurry! The others are already here!"

Hermione couldn't believe that a man of his size could move so fast. Before she realized, they had reached their destination.

They entered one of the ugliest rooms she had ever seen. The rooms were painted a dull green color. She instantly felt dizzy. The sun was shining brightly from the windows located on the eastern wall. Hermione figured it was magic; she knew they were underground although she couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

At the center of the room, there was a wooden table where Dean and the other two Muggleborn Champions were seated. Dean was drumming his fingers against the table and the boy was whispering something to the girl's ear.

"Please, sit down," the large man said and gestured at the chairs. Hermione sit next to Dean. He smiled at her and she did the same tentatively.

"Now we are all here, I would like to introduce myself. My name is Osvalt Slughorn and I'll be your assistant until the Tournament begins. We have a lot to do so let's get started!" He looked at them expectantly. Hermione couldn't muster any real excitement, and from the guarded looks on everybody's faces, she guessed she wasn't the only one.

"Any questions?" Again, without waiting for an answer, he continued. "Firstly, we should find you wands." He waved his lazily and a small box appeared.

Of course, Hermione though bitterly. Muggleborns were forbidden from carrying wands. If you were caught, the penalty was death. The only time they were allowed to use magic was during the Tournament.

Slughorn pushed the box towards Dean. He looked at it like he was afraid it would explode.

"Are you going to open it? We don't have all day!"

Dean cleared his throat and opened it. Inside there were the most pathetic-looking wands Hermione had ever seen. Some of them didn't look like wands; more like drumsticks. Some of them were snapped in half and were only held together by a tiny thread of wood. The bigger one was covered in some kind of yellow goo. Hermione counted them quickly; There were eight wands. Four for them, four for the Squibs.

"Aren't they great?" Slughorn asked.

"Great is not the world I would use," Hermione said.

"They are special," Dean said. He reached his hand and grabbed the one closest to him. He examined carefully. "Is that bubblegum?" he asked Hermione.

She was surprised but decided to answer. "Let me see. No, it's just dirt."

"Pink dirt? Really?"

"It's special."

"Well, thank God. I was worried for a minute."

Slughorn looked like the salesman who tries to persuade you that twelve sickles for three rotten eggs is a bargain of a lifetime. "I'm sure they would be fine. Now, I know none of you have used a wand before – he looked at them. Hermione refused to squirm under his stare- so I'll show you. He made an elaborate move with his hand.

The demonstration was cut short when the young boy started to use his wand as a sword. His friend started to giggle, and soon after that they were engrossed in a sword fight. As Slughorn tried unsuccessfully to put an end to their game, Dean whispered in ear. "I need to talk to you."

"Talk then."

"Not here." He looked around suspiciously but Slughron didn't pay any attention to them. He continued. "Alone. It's important. I have already asked Colin and Martha about this, but I need your opinion."

"Who?"

"Colin and Martha? The children over there who pretend they are knights? These children you might kill soon? You should make an effort to know their names."

Hermione felt instantly ashamed. Dean looked a little guilty. When he spoke his tone was gentler.

"I'm sorry. This is not fair, I know"

"No, you are right. What do you want to talk about?"

Dean took a deep breath and asked: "When they call your name, did you see anything?"

Hermione stared at him. "Come to my room later. Do you know where it is?"

"I will find out." Dean smiled.

"For the last time, stop poking me!"

Slughorn finally had managed to stop the fight. He had lost his good mood, though. Hermione silently thanked the children – Colin and Martha, Colin and Martha – for that.

He had showed them some basic spells, such as "Alohomora" and "Lumos". Dean had commented loudly: "There would be many doors in an open arena, I guess." Slughorn had ignored him. The lesson had ended soon after that, and they were free until the afternoon when they had to return for more practice.

They went for lunch. Hermione didn't feel particularly hungry but she knew it was crucial to keep her strength. So she forced herself to eat everything they put on her plate.

Now, she was inside her room and was waiting for Dean. Maybe he would know, Hermione though. She tried to recall the vents of the dreaded morning. Her name coming out of the goblet, the announcement of her name, the vision, Jane holding her hand…

Jane.

She had tried desperately to not think about Jane. She hadn't spoken to her since her selection. She only had seen her from afar, when the other champions had been selected. She looked paler than a ghost. Was she sleeping enough? Was she eating? Who took care of her now?

The door opened and Dean came in. He closed it carefully and stared at her.

"This place is like a maze."

"You could knock, you know."

"Oh, sure. So everyone would know that I'm here." He sat on the bed. Hermione followed his lead and did the same. "I don't think we do anything forbidden, but better safe than sorry." He looked around suspiciously. "Do you think they can hear us?"

"Don't worry." She took her new wand and cast a spell. "What?" she asked when he saw Dean's face. "We can practice by ourselves. I asked Slughron. No one can hear us now.

"How do you know that spell?" His tone now was accusing. Hermione could see hostility written all over his face.

"I heard someone using it," she said quickly.

"Really." Disbelief was evident on his face. "You must have a great memory."

"Speaking of," Hermione tried to change the subject, "can we talk about what we saw?"

"You think it was a memory."

"I don't know," she closed her eyes, defeated. "No, I know. It was too clear to be anything else. I'm sure, it was a memory."

"What did you see?" he asked gently.

"I saw a woman. She looked like me. Except she was older, happier. I think….I think she was my mum."

Dean squeezed her arm. Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him. The hostility she saw before was gone. He looked very much alike like the first time they had met, young, sad and afraid.

"I think I saw her, too. Well, not yours, mine," he joked. None of them laughed. "Same with Colin and Martha."

"What does that mean? Do we get our memories back?"

"No, I don't think so. They brought us here; they erase our past, right? They use some spell, potion, I don't know…"

"Obliviate," Hermione said automatically. "It's a spell."

"Did you hear that somewhere, too?" Dean asked. This time, he didn't sound angry. "I should stick close to you, pick anything useful. The only thing I learn was unlocking doors," he said wishfully. "Anyway. To recap : They found us. They bring us here. They obliviate (or however you said that) us. We don't remember anything from our past life. Then we hear our names and it's like….a trigger. We remember pieces. Do you saw anything else?"

"No."

"Me neither."

They sat in silence for a while. Hermione asked what she knew they were both thinking.

"Do you think they killed them?"

Dean swallowed. His voice was trembling. "Maybe they had just obliviated them, too." He didn't sound convincing.

After a while, Dean spoke again. "You know, you are really good at this. Magic." He made a gesture with his hands. "Who knows? Maybe this year, the winner would be a Muggleborn."

Hermione laughed but there was no real joy in her voice. "Do you really believe that?"

"Not really, I am just trying to cheer you up," Dean said guiltily.