Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, the carriages trundled up the sweeping drive, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Neville jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps, too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit Entrance Hall with its magnificent marble staircase.
"Blimey," said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere. "If that keeps up, the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak— ARGH!"
A giant, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from the ceiling onto Ron's head and exploded. Drenched and spluttering, Ron staggered sideways just as a second water bomb dropped. It narrowly missed Hermione but burst at Harry's feet, sending a wave of cold water over his trainers. People around them shrieked and started pushing each other to get out of the line of fire. Hermione chanced a look up: Peeves the poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, was 20 feet in the air, getting ready to drop another water balloon at any moment.
"PEEVES!" yelled an angry voice. "Peeves, come down here at ONCE!"
Professor McGonagall came dashing out of the Great Hall. Suddenly, she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling. "Ouch – sorry, Miss Granger!"
"That's all right, Professor!" Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.
"Peeves, get down here NOW!" barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upwards through her square-rimmed spectacles.
"Not doing nothing!" cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. "Already wet, aren't they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!" He aimed another bomb at a group of second-years who had just arrived.
"I shall call the Headmaster!" shouted Professor McGonagall. "I'm warning you, Peeves!"
Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.
"Well, move along, then!" said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. "Into the Great Hall, come on!"
Hermione, Ron, and Harry slipped and slid across the impressive (yet wet) Entrance Hall and through the double doors on the right. The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles floating over the tables in mid-air. The four long house tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer there.
Hermione, Harry, and Ron walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semi-transparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet with a particularly large ruff. It served the dual purpose of looking extra festive and ensuring his head didn't wobble too much on his partially severed neck.
"Good evening," he said, beaming at them.
"Says who?" said Harry, taking off his trainers and emptying them of water. "Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I'm starving."
"Can you not do that at the table?" Hermione sighed, though it was lost in the din of the Great Hall. Boys were so disgusting.
Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table, "Hiya, Harry!"
It was Colin Creevey, a third-year to whom Harry was something of a hero. Hermione had met him and his family at King's Cross during her second year - they were Muggles as well and had the same issues Hermione and her family had in finding Platform Nine and Three Quarters.
"Hi, Colin," said Harry warily.
"Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!"
"Er – good," said Harry, but Hermione could tell he was just being nice.
"He's really excited!" said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?"
"Er – yeah, all right," said Harry. He turned back to Hermione, Ron and Nearly Headless Nick. "Brothers and sisters usually go in the same houses, don't they?" he asked.
"Oh, no, not necessarily," said Hermione. "Parvati Patil's twin's in Ravenclaw, and they're identical. You'd think they'd be together, wouldn't you?"
Harry nodded, looking relieved, and glanced up to the staff table. Hermione followed his gaze. "Where's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Hermione. They had never yet had a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Professor Lupin, their professor last year, had resigned. "Maybe they couldn't get anyone!" said Hermione, feeling anxious. She was really looking forward to that class, especially after reading this year's textbook twice.
"Oh, hurry up," Ron moaned beside Harry. "I could eat a Hippogriff."
As soon as Ron uttered the words, the Great Hall fell silent. The massive doors of the Great Hall had opened, and Professor McGonagall led a long line of first-years to the front of the hall. Hermione did a double take at how incredibly young the shivering students looked. There was no way Hermione and everyone else in her year were ever that small.
And while she was still wet from the rain, it was nothing to how these first-years looked. If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have said they had swum across the lake rather than sail. They were positively soaked to the bone and shivering violently. There was at least an inch of water left in their wake, like a small river. The smallest of the first-years could barely walk under the weight of what Hermione recognised as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. The coat was so oversized for him that it looked like he was draped in a furry black marquee. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey's eye, gave a double thumbs-up and mouthed, "I fell in the lake!" He looked positively delighted about it. Hermione recognised the boy from the train station as Colin's little brother.
Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and an ancient, dirty, patched wizard's hat on top of it. The first-years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:
'A thousand years or more ago,
When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown,
Whose names are still well known:
Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,
Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.
They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,
They hatched a daring plan
To educate young sorcerers
Thus Hogwarts School began.
Now each of these four founders
Formed their own house, for each
Did value different virtues
In the ones they had to teach.
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;
For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favourites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?
'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!
Now slip me snug about your ears,
I've never yet been wrong,
I'll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong!'
The Great Hall erupted in applause as the Sorting Hat finished.
"That's not the song it sang when it sorted us," Harry said with a confused look. Due to Harry's penchant for meddling, he had missed the Sorting Ceremonies from their Second and Third years.
Ron beat Hermione to the explanation: "Sings a different one every year," said Ron. "It's got to be a pretty boring life, hasn't it? Being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one."
Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.
"When I call out your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool," she told the first-years. "When the Hat announces your house, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.
"Ackerley, Stewart!"
A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on and sat down on the stool.
"Ravenclaw!" shouted the Hat.
Stewart Ackerley took off the Hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him. As each student was sorted, each table celebrated their new housemate.
"Baddock, Malcolm!"
"Slytherin!"
"Branstone, Eleanor!"
"Hufflepuff!"
"Cauldwell, Owen!"
"Hufflepuff!"
"Creevey, Dennis!"
Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid's moleskin coat a few times before making it to the stool. He sat down and put the Sorting Hat on his head.
"Gryffindor!" the Hat shouted.
Hermione and the Gryffindor table erupted in cheers and applause (though Harry's excitement seemed slightly muted) as Dennis Creevy, beaming widely, hurried over to join his brother, Colin.
"Colin, I fell in!" he said shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. "It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!"
"Cool!" said Colin, just as excitedly. "It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!"
"Wow!" said Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. However, Hermione understood the excitement - the Wizarding World was absolutely incredible.
"Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?!"
Hermione glanced at Harry, who had gone red in the cheeks and turned away from the brothers, pretending to be interested in the Sorting Hat, which was now sorting Emma Dobbs.
The Sorting continued. Hermione was glad to see that this year's group of first years was bigger than the last few - she had a theory that her class was so small because they were all born around the first Wizarding War and not many people made it out of it alive. But, now numbers were going back up, indicative of life after the Wizarding War resuming. Hermione sat back and listened to some of the names of Britain's newest class of Witches and Wizards.
"Haught, Jillian!"
"Gryffindor!"
"Leschinsky, Owen!"
"Ravenclaw!"
Hermione's ears perked up at that last name. It sounded incredibly familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. However, as soon as she looked up at the newest Ravenclaw, she realised she recognised him from Lavenham! That was it! Her father had talked about him and guessed he'd be a Wizard someday! Hermione made a mental note to write to him and let him know.
"Oh, hurry up," Ron moaned, massaging his stomach, snapping Hermione back to reality.
"Now, Ron, the Sorting's much more important than food," said Nearly Headless Nick, as "Madley, Laura!" became a Hufflepuff.
"'Course it is, if you're dead," snapped Ron.
"I do hope this year's batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch," said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as "McDonald, Natalie!" joined the Gryffindor table. "We don't want to break our winning streak, do we?"
Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row.
"Pritchard, Graham!"
"Slytherin!"
"Quirke, Orla!"
"Ravenclaw!"
"Whitby, Kevin!"
"Hufflepuff!"
Finally, Professor McGonagall was finished. She picked up the Hat and stool and carried them to the side.
"About time!" said Ron, gripping his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.
Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet as a hush fell over the Great Hall. He was smiling at the students, his arms wide in welcome. Hermione appreciated Dumbledore's intelligence, but she found him quite odd.
"I have only two words to say to you," he told them. "Tuck in!"
"Hear, hear!" shouted Ron and Harry as the empty dishes magically filled before their eyes.
Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as Hermione, Ron, and Harry loaded their plates. Unfortunately, ghosts could not eat food. Hermione caught Sir Nicholas's gaze and tried not to be as excited about the food as she felt. She certainly didn't go as crazy as the boys.
"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," said Sir Nicholas. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."
"Why? Wha' happened?" said Harry with his mouth disgustingly full of steak.
"Peeves, of course," said Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head which wobbled dangerously. "The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast - well, it's quite out of the question. You know what he's like, utterly uncivilised. Can't see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghosts' council. The Fat Friar was all for giving him a chance, but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down."
The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent spectre covered in silver bloodstains. He was the only person at Hogwarts who could really control Peeves.
"Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something," said Ron darkly. "So what did he do in the kitchens?"
"Oh, the usual," said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits –"
Hermione's whole body snapped to attention, and, in the process, her hand knocked over her golden goblet with a clang. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen.
"There are house-elves here?!" she yelled in anger. "Here at Hogwarts?!"
"Certainly," said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."
"I've never seen one!" Hermione said, still in shock and rage.
"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" said Nearly Headless Nick. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning, see to the fires and so on. I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"
Hermione stared at the ghost as rage coursed through her whole body. "But they get paid?" she asked through clenched teeth. "They get holidays, don't they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"
Nearly Headless Nick chuckled so much that his ruff slipped down, and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle still attached to his neck. Hermione couldn't help but think he deserved it.
"Sick leave and pensions?" he said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it with his ruff. "House Elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"
Was this all a joke? Did Sir Nicholas honestly think this, or was this one of Peeve's tricks, and Sir Nick was just in on it? There was no way an institution as hallowed as Hogwarts could participate in something so barbaric and morally reprehensible. She looked down at her hardly touched plate of food; all she could see were the small, enslaved hands that tirelessly made them. She put down her knife and fork and pushed the plate away in utter disgust.
"Oh, c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," said Ron with a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding that sprinkled Harry across the table. "Oops, sorry 'Arry," he said, swallowing. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"
"Slave labour!" said Hermione with a quiet rage. She was far too angry to raise her voice. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labour!"
She vowed then and there not to eat another bite.
The thought of a hundred or so poor House Elves slaving away in a hot kitchen under the Great Hall made her physically ill. While she had her issues with Dumbledore, Hermione always thought he was, at the very least, a decent and fair man. Only a monster would subject poor, second-class citizens to slave labour to feed hundreds of hungry teenagers. What was next? Disavowing Mudbloods from school? Maybe Dumbledore was secretly disappointed the Basilisk was defeated in their second year.
With every scrape of a fork, Hermione got angrier and angrier. She looked around at the excess food and the ungrateful teenagers shoving it into their faces without a single care for the poor creatures who were forced to make them. What was worse was that the House Elves were brainwashed into thinking they actually enjoyed this.
Soon, it was time for dessert, and a plethora of delicious, perfect looking goodies appeared on the table. "Treacle tart, Hermione!" Ron said, deliberately wafting its smell towards her. "Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!"
But Hermione just stared at him and let the anger pour out of her eyes. Of course, Ron Weasley would think it was all a joke - his pureblood magical privilege was on full disgusting display.
When the puddings, too, had been demolished by ungrateful children and the plates were left sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore himself got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once. All that could be heard was the howling wind and pouring rain. However, if anger had had a sound, everyone would have been able to hear Hermione's.
"So," said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered-"
"Hmph!" said Hermione crossly.
"-I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices. Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr Filch's office if anybody would like to check it."
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the Forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.
"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-house Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.
"What?" Harry gasped. Hermione nearly laughed at the utter horror on Harry's (and the rest of the school's) face. They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. Their misguided disgust was appalling. Imagine getting that upset about sports instead of slave labour.
Dumbledore continued, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy – but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts –"
But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder, and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A mysterious man stood in the doorway, illuminated by a cinematic flash of lightning from the enchanted ceiling. He was shrouded in black, clutching a long staff. With another brilliant flash of lightning, the man removed his hood, revealing a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair.
The man started to make his way towards the teachers' table at the front of the Great Hall. A dull 'clunk' echoed through the Hall with every other step. He reached the end of the table, turned right, and limped towards Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped. She couldn't help herself. The lightning had thrown the man's face out of the shadows. His whole face seemed scarred, and a large chunk of his nose was missing.
But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening. One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side. It seemed independent of the normal eye, but Hermione knew that couldn't be the case… but then, it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head so that all they could see was whiteness.
The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand as severely scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it.
The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark grey hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages towards him, raised it to what was left of his nose and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end, and began eating. His normal eye was fixed upon the links, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.
"May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," said Dumbledore. "Professor Moody."
New staff members were usually greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid. Both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.
"Moody?" Hermione heard Harry mutter. "Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?"
"Must be," said Ron in a low, awed voice.
"What happened to him?" Hermione whispered. "What happened to his face?"
"Dunno," Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.
Moody seemed indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his travelling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, revealing several inches of a carved wooden leg ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore cleared his throat again.
"As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still staring transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody. "We are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event which has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" said Fred Weasley loudly.
The tension that had filled the Hall since Moody's arrival suddenly broke.
Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. Hermione smiled in spite of herself, but it only took a minute to remember the poor creatures hidden below her very feet.
"I am not joking, Mr Weasley," he said. "Though now you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag and a leprechaun who all go into a bar –"
Professor McGonagall thankfully cleared her throat, interrupting the no doubt inappropriate joke.
"Er – but maybe this is not the time. No,' said Dumbledore. "Where was I? Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament. Well, some of you will not know what this Tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation and allow their attention to wander freely.
"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry – Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the Tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities – until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the Tournament was discontinued."
"Death toll?" Hermione whispered incredulously. But, one look around the Great Hall told her she was, yet again, one of the only people worried about the safety of others. Many of the other students, including Ron and Harry, were whispering excitedly. Did no one care that children could potentially die? Children?! Hermione nearly pinched herself for fear of being petrified again and dreaming it all, but her still-wet shoes kept her grounded in reality.
"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the Tournament," Dumbledore continued. "None of which have been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Co-operation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that, this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger."
"The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."
"I'm going for it!" Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualising themself as Hogwarts champion. Hermione watched all of the faces around her light up as bright as Galleons, especially Ron's. He was practically counting the Galleons in his head.
"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age – that is to say, seventeen years or older – will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" – Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for Ron and several other people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious – "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the Tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion." His light-blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred and George's mutinous faces. "I, therefore, beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed towards the double doors into the Entrance Hall.
"They can't do that!" said George, who had not joined the crowd moving towards the door but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're seventeen in April. Why can't we have a shot?"
'They're not stopping me entering," said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. As if Fred, George, or anyone else had even a semblance of a chance of defying Dumbledore and the Ministry was laughable.
"Yeah," said Ron, a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons…"
"Come on," said Hermione. "We'll be the only ones left here if you don't move." She was over the whole night and just wanted to settle in her dorm room.
Hermione, Ron, Harry, Neville, and the twins set off for the Entrance Hall and up the stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room. Fred and George were debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the Tournament.
"Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who the champions are?" said Harry.
"Dunno," said Fred, "but it's them we'll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Ageing Potion might do it, George…" Hermione had a sneaking suspicion the impartial judge would probably be Ludo Bagman and/or Mr Crouch based on what was said at the Quidditch World Cup. Still, she wasn't going to be one to spell it out for them. If they weren't smart enough to put two and two together, she wasn't going to help.
"Dumbledore knows you're not of age, though," said Ron.
"Yeah, but he's not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" said Fred shrewdly. "Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore's trying to stop us giving our names."
"People have died, though!" repeated Hermione, hoping someone else had any sense, as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.
"Yeah," said Fred airily. "But that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?"
"What d'you reckon?" Ron asked Harry. "Be cool to enter, wouldn't it? But I s'pose they might want someone older. Dunno if we've learnt enough." Hermione bit her tongue.
"I definitely haven't," came Neville's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be upholding the family honour. I'll just have to – ooops …"
Neville's foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most older students to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory was notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out while a suit of armour at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.
"Shut it, you," said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed.
They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.
"Password?" she said as they approached.
"Balderdash," said George. "A prefect downstairs told me."
The portrait door swung open to reveal a hole in the wall, through which they all climbed, finally entering the Gryffindor Tower. The circular Common Room was full of squashy armchairs and tables. The room was spotless, and, with a twinge of anger, Hermione realised the horrible reason why: House Elves cleaned the whole place for them.
"Slave labour," she muttered, immediately surly all over again. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, you lot," she said and made a beeline for the doorway to the girls' dormitories. She climbed the spiral staircase in a huff and threw open the door to her (cleaned by elves) room. Two of her roommates, Parvati and Lavender, were already unpacking their trunks, giggling together and gossiping, no doubt.
"Hermione!" Parvati said brightly. "Good summer?"
"Yeah, you?" Hermione responded, not really wanting to get too much into it with her. Their friendship still was quite strained.
"Great, thanks!" Parvati smiled.
"And you, Lavender? Alright?" Hermione asked, even though she didn't much care whether or not she had a good holiday. It wasn't that Hermione didn't like Lavender. She just didn't care one way or another.
"Oh, I had a wonderful summer," Lavender giggled obnoxiously.
"Good to hear," Hermione said automatically, opening her trunk and starting to unpack.
"Don't you want to know why?" Lavender giggled after a moment of silence.
Hermione nearly said, "No," but knew that would be inappropriate. "Why was it so good?" she asked instead, hoping she sounded much more interested than she was.
"Lavender met a boy," Parvati said in a sing-songy voice.
"Oh?" Hermione said, safely rolling her eyes because her back was to the pair as she unpacked.
"His name is Rupert, and he's a Muggle," Lavender said dreamily.
"Oh?" Hermione said.
"Yes, maybe you know him? The last name is Grint?" Lavender asked.
It took all Hermione's self-control not to spin around and scream, "Just because I am a Mudblood doesn't mean I know all Muggles!" But she took a deep breath, plastered on a fake smile, turned around, and said, "No, it doesn't ring a bell, but he sounds dreamy." Hermione internally cringed at the word.
"Oh, he is," Lavender concurred.
There was an awkward moment of silence. Hermione wasn't sure what else to say. Parvati must have seen the panic of social interaction in her eyes because she grabbed Lavender by the arm and took her over to show her a new outfit, not before giving Hermione a wink.
Maybe their friendship was salvageable after all. Only time would tell. Nonetheless, Hermione had more pressing things to worry about: House-Elves.
Logically, she knew that it wasn't feasible to starve herself. Not only would that do absolutely nothing to lessen the work for the Elves, but she also wouldn't be able to keep it up for very long. Besides, she doubted Dumbledore would even care. She was just a Mudblood, after all.
No, there had to be something else she could do. Once Hermione unpacked her trunk, she pulled out some of her books for inspiration, pausing only to say a brief hello to her other roommates, Alice and Fay, when they arrived. Luckily for Lavender, Alice and Fay were far more interested in Rupert than Hermione, and the four of them were soon in deep discussions about Lavender's future wedding and seven children.
As Hermione poured over all of her books, she realised House-Elves were (unsurprisingly) not even an afterthought in most texts. Their lives, histories, and exemplary skills were completely and (it seemed) deliberately omitted from the mainstream textbooks assigned to them by the school. In another huff of anger, Hermione slammed the last of her books closed and planned to go to the library at the very first chance. She would not let the House-Elves and their treatment be overlooked any longer.