The centaurs, as per their custom, arranged a series of physical competitions for their guests.

-Sayern nar-Hazozh, (History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952

"Hermione!" Harry cried, embracing her in return. Had he been any taller or she any shorter, he would have swung her around in circles like he'd seen people do in movies, but they were both in their natural forms. Pollux could have swung Pallas around; Harry had to content himself with clinging tight to his friend, his dear friend, and never wanting to let go again.

Hermione hugged him back, of course, her arms strong around his trunk. "I missed you," she whispered. Something small and wet dripped onto Harry's shoulder. "All of you. And Mum and Dad, what about Mum and Dad…?" She tried to step away, but Harry wasn't ready to let her go yet. When she stepped backwards, he followed with a forward step that nearly landed on her toes.

"Your parents are fine," Harry assured her. The Ravenclaw's hair tickled his face. It was bushier than usual, probably because its owner had spent so much time sleeping lately. "They're mad as a nest of hornets and scared stiff for you, but they're fine."

Hermione's sigh rattled in her throat. "I wouldn't call that fine, exactly," she murmured. Slender hands grasped Harry's shoulders, gently pushed him away. "Poor Mum and Dad. Did they know about the changeling, or did she manage to fool them?"

"They were aware that we are different individuals," the changeling announced.

Hermione started; she clearly hadn't noticed her doppleganger. "Oh! I'm sorry." The Ravenclaw stuck out a hand. "I'm Hermione Granger, as you know. Thank you for… for covering for me." She blinked a few times, clearly bemused, but more grateful than anything else.

"You are very welcome," the changeling intoned. She reached out with hesitant, trembling fingers, grasped Hermione's offered hand. As they touched, the changeling's appearance changed. Starting with the place their fingers met, ruddy brown spread over the changeling's skin, which became rougher and lost much of its light covering of hair. The features changed, cheekbones widening, chin tapering to a sharp point. The hair smoothed out into a cascade of thick brown locks that reached past her waist. Large, acorn-colored eyes blinked rapidly.

Hermione grasped the construct's wrist. "Cousin," she intoned, "I hereby take you into my service and place you under my protection."

"Huh?" Harry gawked.

I give her to you, the knight replied. She is yours.

Hermione nodded, gracious as a queen, and for the first time Harry became aware of the differences in her. They were very minor, especially in the dim dusk light, but they were nonetheless there. Her eyes had grown brighter, were now flecked with—Harry squinted, not sure if he was imagining things—the tiniest flecks of orange. There was something else, too, but the Slytherin couldn't put his finger on it.

But the flecks of orange were enough to alert him that something was very, very wrong. Small though they were, they seemed enormous, all-encompassing.

"Hermione," he whispered, "what happened to you?"

She sighed again. "A human couldn't survive that curse," she explained softly, sadly. "Not even in the Otherworld. So he—isn't that just typical." For the knight had vanished without a sound. Hermione huffed, hands on her hips. "He gave me a blood transfer."

Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "What?"

"I did not know," the changeling whispered.

"I don't think you were supposed to," Hermione confessed.

Harry gaped at her, jaw slack, eyes still bulging. Those eyes followed the Ravenclaw's hands as they ghosted up to her ears, brushed aside the covering of bushy hair. Sure enough, a tiny point—so small, in fact, that Harry would never have noticed it if he hadn't suspected its reality beforehand, that he would never have thought odd if he hadn't seen Hermione's old ears—graced their top. It was nowhere as near as prominent as the Queens', but something well within the range of human variation. If he hadn't known what the slight sharpness meant, he wouldn't have blinked twice at such ears.

But he did know what that meant. At least, he had an idea.

"I met Niamh there," the girl mumbled, not meeting her friend's stupefied gaze. "Luna's ancestor. She told me that Luna's mum had ears like this."

"They made you part Fae?" Harry whispered.

"Only a little," Hermione assured him. "Just enough to ensure my survival. Not enough to…." She swallowed hard. "I'm still me. I just have better night vision and my magical affinities have changed some—they say I'll be better at illusions now and not so good at Potions—and I'll be mildly allergic to cold iron—but I'm still me." And sure enough, those pleading eyes were classic Hermione despite the sunset-colored speckles.

Harry nodded, recovered his voice. "Right. I know. I mean—it's just a shock, that is, to get you back and find out what they had to do, though I suppose this is why you could eat their food." He nodded. "It's not dangerous for you. Right. But—Hermione, did you really think I'd care? I'm just glad to have you back. I don't give a rotted fish head about your Potions grade."

Hermione smiled weakly. In a painfully obvious attempt to change the subject, she commented, "I do, though. Obviously."

"Obviously," Harry repeated. Then, because he'd missed her so, so much, he grabbed her in another embrace.

They held each other for several long moments, just taking comfort from the other's presence. Finally the still-unnamed changeling gave a little cough. Faces alight, the two friends separated. "Sorry," Harry mumbled. "It's just—I missed her."

"I know. You have said so several times."

Harry smiled. "I have, haven't I." He started. "The others! They've missed you just as much—"

"—and so have my parents," Hermione interrupted. "Harry could you and—I'm sorry. I never got your name?"

"I have not selected one yet," the changeling confessed.

"Oh." Hermione pulled up short. "That's a pity. But could the two of you please tell the others? I have to talk with Mum and Dad. They must be out of their minds with worry."

Harry grinned. "Consider it done."

"Right." Hermione stepped back, glanced at the changeling. "Would you like to come with?"

The changeling blinked. "I am uncertain."

"Well, then I think you should," Hermione said. "I was thinking that you could maybe stay with Mum and Dad while I finish up the school year. If you want, I'll send you copies of my notes."

The changeling stared. "If that is what you wish."

Hermione sighed; this was going to take longer than she'd expected. "All right. Harry, can you make us a Portkey?"

"Of course." He grabbed a twig from the ground, muttered the spell, and handed it off to his friend. "It'll go off in two minutes. I'm going to—wait, where should we meet? The others'll want to see you too."

"I don't think Mum and Dad will let me go until three in the morning, if that," Hermione admitted. "Can we just talk together after breakfast tomorrow?"

Harry froze. Tomorrow. Oh dear.

"Harry?"

"Er…Hermione? D'you know how long you spent in the Otherworld?"

Her expression grew puzzled. "They didn't give me an exact date, no."

"Yes. Well. It's been a month, and we went to break and back, and do you remember how the professors insisted we do the Hogwarts Task before it's time to study for exams?"

Hermione blanched. "It's tomorrow?"

"Yes." Then, figuring that she couldn't possibly kill him in the half-minute or so they had left, he added, "Also, I had to do your homework while you were gone."

"What?!"

The changeling grabbed the Portkey stick. Hermione lunged forward, eyes alight, but the magic tugged at her navel and she was gone, off to her parents' house. Harry sighed, sagged with relief.

Then he wanted to hit himself. If the changeling was with Hermione, who would impersonate her tonight? He groaned, wondering why he hadn't thought of that earlier. Probably, the boy concluded, because Hermione was back.

At that thought, the grin returned to his face. Hermione was back. Hermione, his friend, a dear friend, was alive and well and back, and he could see her again and all five of them could be together just laughing and talking. Life was good.

So with that in mind, he set off to find the others.

Not for the first time, Daphne cursed the secrecy in which she and her friends had to work.

She understood the necessity of playing like nothing was wrong, like she and the others were just schoolchildren with grandiose, naïve ambitions and a bestselling collection of notes. She understood that if Dumbledore or any of his cronies—and probably most Ministry employees as well, not to mention the Death Eaters' reactions if they learned who had spilled the beans on their master's shameful heritage—found out who they were, the game would end. She knew that someone, perhaps everyone, would die if they were exposed.

That didn't stop her from hating it. Not at moments like these, when the real Hermione, not her changeling doppelganger, sat down at the Ravenclaw table for breakfast for the first time in almost a month.

Daphne considered her options as she buttered her croissant. She could stay here and wait to greet her friend until the final Task was complete. That was her least favorite option. No, what could it hurt if she went over right after breakfast? She could act casual, pretend that nothing was different, keep her excitement and happiness under wraps. Hermione, she felt confident, could do the same.

With that in mind, the Slytherin girl ate her croissant more quickly than usual. Anyone who noticed could pass it off as nerves before today's task. Nothing suspicious about that.

Breathe in, breathe out. Her parents had taught her the calming breath exercises almost before she could walk. It was a bit embarrassing to have to return to them now, but she couldn't risk betraying anything. Not when half the eyes in the Great Hall fixated on the Slytherin visiting a Ravenclaw mere hours before the last Task of the Tournament of Houses.

Act casual. "Good morning, Hermione. Are you ready for the task?"

The girl winced. "No," she confessed, hands wringing. Daphne silently cursed herself; of course this would cause her friend to freak out. "I haven't—I've barely prepared, I don't know what the task is going to be, what if we—"

Daphne cut her off. "If you fail in the task, people will still remember how you drove away the dementor last time. That was an incredible feat of magic, Hermione. No one will think any less of you." Which was, of course, a blatant lie. The magical world was fickle a best. But there was no point in letting Hermione work herself into a panic.

"Thank you," the older girl mumbled. Her fists clenched, nails digging into palms. "But I'm still…I didn't get much sleep last night." She yawned as though to punctuate her statement.

Daphne nodded. "Neither did I. I doubt that anyone involved in the Tournament of Houses slept well last night."

"I did," Luna announced.

"I didn't," Hermione repeated. She caught Daphne's eye. "In fact, I had to take a late-night walk just to calm down. It took forever before I could go back to my dorm."

Ah, so that was her excuse for not retiring to bed until everyone else was asleep. A good lie, plausible and capable of inspiring sympathy. Daphne nodded her approval.

"I had a bit of trouble sleeping myself for much the same reason." Which was true. It had been agony to lie in bed knowing that her friend, who had been on the verge of death for close to a month and had only survived by being changed in ways she didn't understand (ways like the orange-flecked eyes watching her intently), was so close and yet so far.

Hermione winced. "Sorry."

Daphne frowned. "No, don't be. It wasn't your fault, Hermione. If you want to blame anyone, blame the Headmaster. He is the one who came up with this idea."

Translation: did you ask to be cursed? No? Then put the blame where it belongs: on Albus too-many-names-and-titles Dumbledore.

"I know," Hermione sighed. "It's just rather hard, when…." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. We'll have to talk about it later, I suppose."

"Probably," Luna agreed. "Would you like another croissant?"

"I think so, yes. Thank you."

"I need to wish Astoria luck," Daphne said. It was true. She really did need to speak with her sister before the Hogwarts Task. "Good luck to you too, Hermione."

"And you as well, Daphne."

Astoria was sitting with the rest of her team, going over last-minute details. The Hufflepuffs quieted down as Daphne approached, probably fearing that she had come as a spy (as if she would betray her baby sister for her House! Her obnoxious, waste-of-space brother, yes, but never Tori), but the girl in question perked right up. "Hi Daphne."

"Hello Astoria. Do you think you are ready for the Final Task?"

Tori nodded, curls bobbing. "Yeah. I just wish we knew what we had to do."

"As do I," her sister grumbled.

"What about you?"

"I think my team is ready, though like you, I wish the headmaster had told us what we have to do. 'Go to the Quidditch pitch at ten o'clock' isn't very much in way of instruction."

Daphne grimaced. "Personally, I think he enjoys the rumors running rampant. He probably enjoys laughing at all the ridiculous things our fellow students come up with."

"So do I," Tori joked. "And don't you too?"

Her sister allowed herself a slight smile. "Sometimes, yes, but I think I would be more amused if I knew the punch line."

One of Astoria's Housemates cleared her throat. Daphne took the hint. "Would you like my sister back?"

The Hufflepuff nodded, red in the cheeks. "Sorry. I know you're family and all, but Cedric just pointed something really important out and, well, I think we need to keep talking, so could you please…?"

"Of course," Daphne consented graciously. "Good luck to you. You've put up an excellent fight so far. I look forward to seeing who will win."

Tori rolled her eyes at the exaggerated courtesy but said nothing. Her fellow Hufflepuffs seemed rather flattered, and everyone within earshot wished Daphne luck as she made her way back to the Slytherins, who had been glaring at her impatiently as she talked with the other girls.

"What was that about?" Montague demanded.

"I wished Hermione and Astoria luck," Daphne explained unrepentantly. "After all, this is meant to be a friendly competition, not a fight to the death."

Montague's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but Daphne was a high-ranking member of their House. The older girl said nothing more.

For the next hour and a half, the Slytherins speculated wildly as to what could possibly be going on. More dangerous magical creatures? A platoon of deranged knife-wielding house-elves? What could possibly combine courage, cunning, compassion, and cleverness into a task to end all tasks? They didn't know, and that made them increasingly testy as time went on. No matter how many times Daphne reminded her Housemates that this was just a game, it's not like the losers would be burned at stake or used as fertilizer in the greenhouses, they insisted on working themselves into a fit at the thought of losing to Gryffindor—or worse yet, Hufflepuff.

As the team members went through strategy, ordinary students finished last-minute preparations of their own: bets. The Weasley twins had, much to the disapproval of their brother the Head Boy, started a gambling ring of which they were the bookkeepers. It contained bets on everything from what the task might be (the knife-wielding house-elves were currently at twenty-two to one odds. This was, after all, the product of one Albus Dumbledore's imagination) to who would lose to how long the firsties would spend in the infirmary. Daphne was disgusted to see Blaise approach the two Gryffindors and hand over a few coins.

In Blaise's defense, though, he'd only spent a few Knuts, something he pointed out to Daphne after coming back to the table.

Soon it was a quarter to ten. The students trickled out of the Great Hall into the grounds, making a living trail towards the Quidditch pitch. Even from a distance, they could see that it had changed. Someone had raised walls around it, thick, crude stones arranged in a perfect circle.

The stands had been segregated: the staff had their own box, and all the other seats had been died blue, red, green, or yellow. Daphne snorted. Ah, yes, 'promoting cooperation and kinship between the Houses' indeed. Yes, clearly, separating them from one another during the Hogwarts Task was just the sort of thing that would lead to unity.

Really, who did Dumbledore think he was fooling?

Or perhaps, she admitted to herself, the seating was more appropriate than she liked. It was the Hogwarts Task, and the Houses were facing it divided. Reality reflected in symbolism.

The champions were expected to stand in front of their House's sections. Daphne took her place in front of the green seats, noting a gap in the stone wall in front of her. There were four gaps in all, each roughly five feet wide and placed in the dead center of the House sections. This, then, was where they would enter.

"See anything on the pitch?" muttered Montague.

"No. Not that that means anything—Dumbledore could just Portkey something into it when the Tournament starts up."

"You don't think it's another dementor, right?"

"We discussed this already," Daphne ground out. "They have already used a dementor, and it was easily defeated by a solitary third year. They won't try that again."

"Well," her teammate defended, "it's not like they said they wouldn't use one."

They might have started an argument, but Montague cut them off. "Look, there's Dumbledore."

Daphne looked. Sure enough, their illustrious headmaster was making his way into the stands. She could hardly believe she hadn't noticed him before—those ridiculous purple robes were hard to miss.

It was almost time.

The students murmured, sounding like nothing so much as a swarm of bees. Then Dumbledore raised his arms and silence fell.

"Welcome, witches and wizards, students and staff, to the Final Task of the Tournament of Houses. This trial has been carefully selected to integrate traits from all four of our noble Houses: bravery and chivalry from Gryffindor, loyalty and hard work from Hufflepuff, intelligence and learning from Ravenclaw, and cunning and ambition from Slytherin."

He paused, letting the excited students murmur amongst themselves for a few moments. When he felt he'd waited long enough, the headmaster resumed his little speech: "For obvious reasons, this was a very difficult trial to conceive. Few things require all those characteristics. However, after careful thought, I realized that there is a situation in which traits from each House are necessary. But what is this situation?"

The students were by this point literally on the edge of their seats.

Dumbledore smiled. "Combat. The Final Task, the Hogwarts Task, is a melee. The last House standing will win the Hogwarts Cup."

Protests broke out: what, then was the point of all the points? It seemed foolish to fuss so much over which House had how many points when they didn't matter anyways.

Once again, though, Dumbledore had an explanation. "That is not to say that you should not have worked so hard at gathering points. Each House will enter the field at a different time depending on how many points they possess. They may fortify their positions and iron out strategy however they wish. However, no one may attack until five minutes after the Gryffindors enter."

Oh. The students settled down. That was all right then.

"In first place, Hufflepuff has one hundred points. Hufflepuff House, enter the field!"

The badgers charged.

Daphne shifted her weight. "Does anyone know anything about creating earthwork fortifications? Perhaps we could use the rocks?"

Exactly sixty seconds after the Hufflepuffs were allowed to enter, Dumbledore announced, "Slytherin is in second place with ninety-nine points. You may enter!"

"Someone should Conjure some glass. We can get arrow slits and make a big wall out of the glass."

"Are you mad? Glass? What if it shatters?"

"We can hex it so it won't."

"Maybe incorporate Disillusionment Charms?"

"And risk bumping into each other?"

"No. We'd be close enough to see, see? But they couldn't."

"Oh. When you put it that way—is anyone good with Disillusionment Charms?"

"I am. I'll get you."

Hufflepuff's brooms zoomed into the pitch. It was a strategy which had worked well once before, they reasoned, so it probably would again.

"That's a good idea. Accio brooms."

Dumbledore spoke once more. "In third place, Ravenclaw with ninety-five points. Make your preparations."

"I told you that glass was a horrible idea! Vanish it now!"

"No, a glass wall protecting us is a great idea. This way we can see and be protected at the same time!"

"Yes, and if it breaks, we'll all be sliced open and bleed out right here on the green!"

"It's not going to break, you idiot, I'm enchanting it!"

"Knock it off, Emrys, Adrian. If you don't want to stay behind the glass, you don't have to."

"Turn it to ice," Daphne suggested.

"Good plan," Adrian Pucey said, grinning with relief.

"And now for Gryffindor at ninety-two points!" Dumbledore cried. "You too may enter the field."

"Didn't you Summon our brooms, Lisette?"

"I did, yeah. You think something's wrong? Oh. Never mind. Here they are."

"We should take on the Gryffindors first. Get them out of the running."

"No, they've done worst in every task so far. Go for Hufflepuff."

"You're both wrong. We need to strengthen our defenses and let them kill each other off. Then we take down whoever's left."

"I like that plan. Let's do it."

"You think I could Summon some Bludgers and Beater's bats?" Lisette Flint wondered. "I know Marcus has a practice set."

"They never said we couldn't. Do it."

The girl grinned and obliged.

They continued in much the same vein for the next few minutes, ironing out their strategy and adding to their defenses. Then the Gryffindor contingent, led by none other than Mark Potter, ran behind their defenses.

"You can't do that," Montague protested. "It hasn't started yet!"

Mark grinned at her. "Dumbledore never said we had to start in our own section."

Well, crap. He was right.

Speaking of Dumbledore, the man was rising once again to his feet. "The five minutes have passed," he proclaimed. "Let the Final Task of the Tournament of Houses now begin!"

Next chapter: this Tournament thing finally ends. It's due October 4 and will pave the way for the epilogue, which will in turn pave the way for book five (title unknown). I'm afraid that the changeling won't show up then, though she will in book five. Speaking of her, does anyone have name suggestions? She kind of needs one.

Will try to respond to reviews by Tuesday. Until then, au revoir!

-Antares