In the week following what Hermione had come to call "the incident," she had never been more grateful for her friends. The very next morning, when Hermione was released from the hospital wing, she marched over to the Slytherin table with her head held high.

And Ginny Weasley marched right with her, plonking herself right next to Hermione and loudly proclaiming that she didn't see what the fuss was all about.

"After all, you know that certain people are just jealous. I mean, you've got brains, looks, and a dreamy professional quidditch player desperately in love with you." Here, she'd paused to dramatically flip her hair over her shoulder, an impish little smirk stretching across her face. "It makes sense, really, that they're jealous. Only natural. The closest they can get is layering on the beauty charms and throwing themselves at the richest wizard they think will take them." This last bit she'd said loudly while pointedly staring at Pansy Parkinson, who seethed from her place on Draco Malfoy's arm.

She'd never loved Ginny more.

Even if it meant poor, baffled Viktor had had to sit across from her at the breakfast table when he arrived.

That next afternoon, Fleur, Marie, and three Durmstrang girls—whose names she was embarrassed to say she almost immediately forgot—happily invited her to eat lunch with them at the Ravenclaw table. Wrapped up in their conversation and comradery, she could pretend that no one in the Great Hall was glaring daggers at her. No one was secretly wondering if she brewed love potions in her spare time. No one thought she didn't deserve her hard-won happiness.

Viktor stared longingly at her from the Slytherin table, but smiled warmly when she caught his attention. Catching sight of them, one of the Durmstrang girls—Irina, she thought—leaned in and dramatically whispered "I swear, Granger has turned Krum into a little puppy. Is good for him, I think, to have someone he wants to please." With a coy glance at a certain group of girls at the Slytherin table, she finished with a delicately arched brow "instead of little witches who want to please him."

Fleur chuckled, the tinkling bells of her laughter drawing the attention of half the male population of Hogwarts. "I told you, little lion. He is yours."

When Hermione did nothing but blush, Fleur laughed even harder, deep and from her belly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.

This time, even Hermione felt like she'd be willing to do anything Fleur asked of her.

By the end of the week, even Hermione was ready to welcome the weekend with open arms. She had entirely too much studying to do, after all: essays in Charms, Transfiguration, and another in Potions. And the library, once a blissful and calming retreat, had begun to feel like a prison that was slowly closing in on her, ready to bury her alive if she spent even one more minute in it. In fact, she was so tired of hiding there that she'd even accepted Harry's invitation to join him in the Champions' dorm for Friday night butterbeers.

And chocolate.

Harry had promised her chocolate. Most explicitly.

His overtures had started earlier in the week.

On Monday, he'd walked her to every one of their shared classes. Silently of course, because she wasn't interested in listening to anything he had to say.

On Tuesday, he'd tried to walk with her all the way to Ancient Runes, which of course was silly. He had divination—and what a load of drivel that was! He was such an idiot for remaining in that class—which was as close to being on the opposite side of the castle as one could get.

On Wednesday, he'd plied her with sugar quills. Her frosty mood began to soften.

On Thursday, he delivered Hagrid's sincerest apologies and a tin of rock cakes. Her mood decidedly worsened.

And Friday morning, he'd put on his bravest face and joined her at the Slytherin table for breakfast. Seeing him sitting there, staring at the kippers and eggs like a frightened first year confronted with their first potions practical, she began to think she could forgive him.

And so it was, that at the end of the longest, most horrid week that Hermione could ever remember, that she found herself walking up the grand staircase after dinner, arm in arm with her best friend.

"Have you started your Charms essay, yet? I was doing some research last night and I think it's going to take a very long time to do it proper justice."

"Hermione, could we possibly talk about something else? It's the weekend." To punctuate this, Harry swept his free arm out, indicating all the other students cutting loose, as if to suggest she should emulate them: their loosened ties, their Muggle jeans and trainers, their messy hair and makeup.

"Like what?"

"Literally anything."

Hermione crinkled her nose at him before grinning broadly and squeezing his arm tighter.

"All right then. How about Transfiguration?"

Harry groaned loudly and shook his head.

"Only you, Hermione. Only you."

The walk up to the second floor Champions' Dorm was mostly silent, but for the first time that week it felt like the comfortable kind of silence. Harry wrenched on his own tie one-handed and flushed dark pink as they passed Cho Chang headed away from the second floor looking distinctly rumpled.

"What's the story there?" Hermione asked, intrigued more by Harry's reaction than anything Cho might have been up to.

"Er," Harry started, sweeping his hand through his hair just as he always did when he was nervous.

She waited, raising her eyebrows comically high when he glanced her way.

"She and Cedric have been…having some fun in the dorm."

"What do you mean? I thought the Champions' Dorm had charms against that."

"Know a lot about that, do you?"

It took her a long moment to understand why Harry was grinning all of a sudden, but when she finally did, she swatted him on the arm.

"Oh…hush."

"Cat got your tongue?" Harry leaned in closer, waggling his eyebrows. "Or does Viktor?"

"I will not dignify that with a response."

A moment later, they were both laughing like they hadn't laughed in ages. As Harry dropped her arm to step up to the portrait and open the dorm, she felt her face fall a little.

When had her relationship with Harry gotten so strained? They used to laugh like this all the time. In fact, she could honestly say that she couldn't remember feeling…comfortable together in months. All school year, really. Her relationship with Ron was simple: she could trace every moment where it had faltered until it finally went entirely off the rails. But she couldn't do that with Harry. Had he pulled away from her? Had she left him behind? Was it her? Was it Viktor? Was it the Tournament or You-Know-Who or Sirius or Cho Chang snogging Cedric too often in the dorm?

The portrait in front of them swung open, the busty hag grinning lewdly as always and whispering something in Harry's direction that she didn't even let her brain dwell on long enough to remember.

The first thing she registered was loud, rapid-fire Bulgarian and the smell of firewhisky.

Stretched out on the sofa was Viktor and one of his friends, a boy named Poliakoff who's singular intensity always left her feeling wrongfooted and a bit wary. Viktor's left arm was stretched along the back of the sofa as they laughed together, his right hand coming out to gesticulate wildly and emphasize…whatever it was he was saying. The amber liquid in the glass he held sloshed as he shook it particularly sharply, punctuating it with something that sounded somewhat rude. The sound of the tinkling ice cubes went nicely with the deep rumble of his laughter.

Poliakoff had kicked his shoes off somewhere and rested his stockinged feet on the low table. With a grunt, he muttered something unsavory and attempted to bend himself entirely in half to reach the half empty bottle on the table. With a final heave and lunge, his fingers just wrapped around the neck before sliding off and knocking it to the side. Faster than she could react, Harry reached forward and caught the bottle up.

Stupid seeker's reflexes.

"Nice catch, Potter," said Viktor, reaching forward to take the bottle from him. Pointing at him, he grunted "but you are too little for whisky. You see me in years, da?"

"I think you mean he's too young," Hermione said, stepping out from behind Harry.

Viktor smiled broadly, his face lighting up fetchingly. "Da. Too young." He glanced back at Harry, the smile still on his face. "But too little, too."

"Hey!" Harry cried, clutching his heart as if he were deeply offended. "You should give me some so I don't rat you two out for drinking in the dorm."

"Little Potter," Poliakoff started, leaning forward to pluck the bottle from Viktor's hand and pour himself another drink. "I think you no tell. Or we need" he paused a moment, "or we need mstít."

"Huh?"

"Mstít. Retaliate. Revenge." Viktor supplied.

Harry mouthed the word, wrapping his tongue around the syllables.

"So that's Bulgarian for revenge, huh?"

Poliakoff scoffed. "No. Is Russian. Durmstrang speak Russian."

"Jeez. How many languages do you guys speak, then?"

Poliakoff counted on his fingers: "Me? Russian. Polish. English little."

"English very little," Viktor supplied, laughing as he got to feet, setting down his drink and walking over to them.

When he met her eyes with that impish expression he got every once in a blue moon, she steeled herself to accept whatever embarrassment she was about to undergo.

With one smooth gesture, Viktor gently took her hand before bowing. He'd done the same often enough that she almost got through the gesture without blushing. Almost.

It helped that she realized a beat after that the lack of distinctive heel clacking was because he, like Poliakoff, was only wearing his socks.

"Nu zhe, potseluy yeye, idiot!"

Viktor rolled his eyes before bending down and, with a dramatic flourish, literally bent her backwards and kissed her.

If she'd read it in a book, the hero sweeping down to kiss the heroine, arcing her backwards so she had to cling to his big strong arms, she'd have found it terribly romantic. In reality, it wasn't particularly comfortable, something in her neck pinched sharply, and Viktor's athleticism was the only thing that prevented her from tumbling backwards and dragging him with her.

When he helped to right her, she shook her head and sighed.

"Are you drunk?"

He smiled again. "Not yet."

She felt like telling him off for being irresponsible. He had other things to do on a Friday night that would have been actually productive. He could prepare for the second task. He could practice flying. He could do homework.

It was only the knowledge that Hermione herself was here, in this very dorm, with the express purpose of drinking lightly-alcoholic butterbeer and not doing her homework that kept her admonishment behind her teeth.

That, and the fact that she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Viktor so carefree. He was…well, he was acting like an eighteen-year-old schoolboy. Which was, probably, something he needed to do now and again. It wasn't like she hadn't seen plenty of drunk upper years in the corridors, sneaking through the halls and trying not to get caught by a professor. All things considered, this was pretty tame.

So, instead of all the things she felt she should say, just in case he needed to hear them, she simply rolled her eyes and pecked him on the cheek.

"Don't do anything too stupid, alright?"

And left with Harry to go find those chocolates he'd promised her.

Harry, wisely, pretended the entire exchange hadn't happened.

When they were settled cross-legged on Harry's bed, both leaning back against one of the four posts, gorging themselves on chocolates and butterbeer, she finally asked the question she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to.

"So, where's Ronald? I assume you invited him, too."

Harry grimaced. "I said he could come over later. I thought you might, you know, appreciate some time without him."

Of course he did. Of course he didn't want to spend time just the two of them. Her heart sank.

"And when's he coming over?"

"Not until nearly curfew."

"Curfew!"

"Keep your voice down, Hermione." Harry whispered, gesturing at the door they'd left cracked open. After a long moment of tense silence, Harry sagged a little and continued. "You know I wrote Lupin a couple weeks ago, about Barty Crouch and Mad-Eye Moody?"

She nodded.

"Well, I got an answer back on Wednesday. He said he'd arrange a fire call for late tonight. Cleared it with Dumbledore and everything. Only, I don't think it's Lupin who's planning on showing up. He said he didn't know much about it but that Snuffles did."

"What's a fire call?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea. Guess we'll find out."

"What does all this have to do with Ron?"

"I got the letter at breakfast and Ron read it with me. He wanted to come. I couldn't tell him no, could I?"

She had no trouble believing that Harry was incapable of telling Ron "no" when it came to nearly anything.

"I wish you had. It's not like he's been actually helping with any of this. And I really don't want to see him. Or talk to him. I don't want to be in the same room as him." She paused, her anxious anger gathering steam. "So. You invited him at curfew and me over now, hoping, what? That I just wouldn't ask? That Ron would waltz on in and everything would be fine? Or that I'd leave before he got here and never know the difference."

Magic crackled along her limbs, egged on by the stress of the week and the numbing tingle of butterbeer drunk too quickly.

That delightful, friendly moment she'd had earlier with Harry couldn't have felt further away.

Harry stared at her before taking a swig of his own butterbeer.

The sound of loud guffaws filtered in from the common room.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Have your laugh." Apparently, Cedric was back from…wherever he'd been.

The distraction seemed to be what Harry had needed to formulate a response.

"I invited you over early because I wanted to see you. And I wanted to make sure you were ok. It was a tough week. And yeah, maybe I hoped you might want to stay and see Ron too? But it's not like I was going to make you."

"I should certainly hope not. He's such a prick these days."

"Yeah. But he's also your friend."

A long pause.

"Isn't he?"

Hermione didn't know.

Harry gulped air like the words he was trying to get out were drowning him. "Well, you're still his friend. And I know he's been a prat. He knows he's been a prat. But what is he supposed to do when you won't even talk to him?"

Her heart clenched with the rage and hurt and grief buried deep within her body. "He's supposed to grow up!" The bottle of butterbeer in her hand exploded with a sharp crack. She could feel it splatter against her face, raining little shards of glass into her hair. It drenched her skin, a particularly large drop oozing down her cheek, and sprayed all over Harry's bedding.

Harry just stared at her. He had no idea what to say. Which was probably for the best because she didn't either.

The laughter coming from the common room felt so incongruous and inappropriate it was almost funny.

But it wasn't.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this mortified.

Harry sucked in his lips like he was trying to swallow everything he'd probably practiced saying. Instead, he gently took hold of his wand and with a sharp tap vanished the glass.

"That was good. Flitwick only showed us that one a couple weeks ago."

The corner of Harry's mouth lifted, but it wasn't his characteristic wry look. It looked more like that side of his mouth had been sucked into his face and was trying to disappear. "I've been practicing."

Hermione nodded, before grabbing her own wand out of her bag and casting a quick "evanesco" on the quilt. It still felt a little sticky, but at least it wasn't uncomfortably damp anymore.

"I'm not trying to put you in the middle, you know." He stared at his hands. "I know how that feels."

A minute ago, she'd have dismissed Harry's comment entirely. What did he know about it, anyways?

But in the emotional clarity that always came after an unexpected outburst, Hermione was finally able to see things with just a hint of distance. And suddenly she couldn't stop thinking about her and Ron and how often they fought. And how often that left Harry smack dab in the middle of it.

Every fight about homework; each of them grabbing onto Harry to make him take their side. Last year's blow up about Crookshanks and Scabbers. Last year's second blow up about Crookshanks and Scabbers. The Yule Ball. The fights about Viktor.

Harry was in the middle a lot. Not that he was a blameless, hapless bystander. But she could admit that maybe her distance with Harry this year was the culmination of an awful lot of little things she'd never bothered to worry or think about before. Because Harry was her best friend; he was supposed to be a constant, unchangeable presence in her life at Hogwarts.

And maybe—just maybe mind, because she wasn't willing to commit to the idea yet—Ron wasn't the only one who needed to grow up a little.

Hermione fished around frantically for a topic to switch to, glancing around the room for inspiration. Her eyes landed on the golden egg abandoned haphazardly on Harry's desk.

"How's the egg going? Any luck with it?"

Harry squinted at her but let her change the topic.

"It's fine. Moody slipped me a hint about it that I've been working on."

"He's not supposed to do that! No one is supposed to help you."

Harry raised his eyebrows pointedly. She pursed her lips.

"So what did he tell you, then?"

"He said that putting the Champions all together was a terrible idea because he could hear those eggs screeching all the way in his classroom. Then he said that with as thoroughly as we covered dark creatures last year, he's surprised I didn't recognize it right away."

"Dark creatures? You're sure?"

"That's what he said," Harry shrugged. "I've been looking through every book on dark creatures I can find, but I can't find anything that talks by screaming nonsense. Ron even owled Charlie to ask if he knew anything that would make that noise."

"Well? Did he?"

Harry's face grew pained. "He told Ron that I had to figure it out myself. Ron said he was real smarmy about it, too."

She somewhat doubted that. Ron thought anyone who knew anything he didn't was a smarmy prick.

"So it's something that Charlie would recognize. I agree, it could definitely be a creature of some kind." She paused for a moment before continuing to think out loud. "It wouldn't be another dragon; getting the first four must have been a logistical nightmare. I can't see them doing that twice."

"And it'd be boring." Harry rolled his eyes dramatically before his gaze settled on the Hungarian Horntail figurine currently snoozing on the mantel, its snores punctuated by tiny whisps of smoke.

"That too," she conceded.

Hermione raked her fingers through her hair, her nails catching on snags and tiny shards of glass that she ruthlessly flicked across the room.

Remarkably, the two of them found their footing again as they waited for Ron to arrive. Harry asked about her week and seemed to genuinely want to know how she was doing. She tried her best not to harass him about the tournament, as much as she wanted to shout at him that at least one of the other champions had figured out the egg ages ago. But comparing Harry to Viktor seemed like a poor idea. He was, after all, doing his best to be supportive and had started going out of his way to interact with Viktor more often. Telling him that he should be more like her boyfriend and less like himself felt like a poor idea on her part. She'd come back to it later if he still wasn't making any progress.

As curfew approached, she felt herself getting increasingly antsy. She was excited that she'd get to find out more about Barty Crouch and maybe why he'd skipped the Yule Ball to prowl around Moody's office. But the thought of seeing Ron again, of suffering through his awkward attempts to pretend that he hadn't done anything hurtful, was hard. She didn't want to. She didn't. But Harry was also right: Ron would never apologize if she didn't give him the opportunity to. Unlikely as the idea felt.

She was tired of swallowing her pride for the sake of Ronald Weasley. But she would. She'd do it today and she'd do it again tomorrow. Because that's just how it worked with Ron.

And… speak of the devil and he appears.

Just as the curfew bell was ringing, Ron stepped through the doorway and into the Champion's dorm. The others, thankfully, had long since vacated the common room. If she concentrated, she could hear Cedric listening to the wizarding wireless. Fleur was apparently working on the riddle of the egg, which screeched loudly and for far longer than Hermione felt was warranted. Viktor's friend was gone, his door closed and silent before she heard him bang on the wall and shout something in…French?

The screeching stopped.

"Well, that's certainly a noise. How often do you have to listen to that bloody thing?" Ron said, loosening his scarf and shrugging off his winter cloak.

Harry shrugged. "Too often. But it's only Fleur, now. And me."

"That's rough, mate."

Ron flung himself down on the sofa next to Harry and seemed to realize for the first time that Hermione was there, too. He flushed deep red and didn't meet her eyes.

"Hey, Hermione. Sorry 'bout last week."

That was, as far as Ron Weasley went, a hell of an apology.

She hmm'd.

Their eyes met. Ron glanced over at Harry, who was staring contemplatively into the low smoldering fire. And just like that, they both decided to pretend that everything was ok.

Maybe she didn't need Ron. But she needed Harry. And Harry needed both of them. And maybe, just maybe, she could figure out how to be friends with Ron without needing him the way she used to.

Only time would tell.

The flames whooshed into life, startling all three teens.

"Whoa," Harry said, staring intently as the embers began to move, shifting and falling in little mountains and valleys. Slowly, the tiny hills and dips began to coalesce into the shape of…a face?

Hermione did not squeak when the face's eyes burst open and it began to talk.

"Harry. Are you there?"

Harry's entire body sagged, as if some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Snuffles."

The face…Sirius's face…broke out into a grin. It looked strange and somewhat demonic to see a grinning face composed entirely of fiery embers, but Harry just grinned right back, nearly tripping over his own feet to get closer to the fireplace.

"Harry," Sirius breathed. "It's good to talk to you."

"You too, Sirius. I've really missed you."

"Remus told me you've got some questions about old Barty Crouch."

"Yeah. You know, we've got the Marauder's Map." At this, Sirius' eyes seemed to light up and practically twinkle. "And Ron and I were looking at it the night of the Yule Ball and we saw Barty Crouch in Mad-Eye Moody's office. But then he never showed up to the ball and sent Ron's brother Percy instead. And Percy said that Crouch was so sick he couldn't make it."

Sirius was quiet for a moment.

"That doesn't sound like him at all. He was never a good man, but he wasn't known for sneaking around. You always knew where you stood with Bartimaeus Crouch."

"You knew him, then?" Hermione asked from her place on the sofa.

"Oh. Your friends are here." Even with the relatively low-quality reproduction of his face in the embers, she could easily see that Sirius was surprised and maybe even a bit flustered.

"Yeah. Ron and Hermione. Sorry."

"Well…" Sirius cleared his throat. "We don't have much time. I knew Barty Crouch. Worked for him back when he was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's not one to cross. He's suspicious. Hardnosed. No room in his heart for sentiment. Sent his own son to Azkaban."

In the silence that followed, the fire popped loudly, the flare of light gleaming off of a discarded "Support Cedric Diggory" button someone had kicked under the nearby bookcase.

Or was it a "Potter Stinks?" They looked so similar in this light.

"I didn't know he had a son," Harry said, his brow furrowed.

"Oh yes. Little Barty Jr. One of the only ones to get a trial, sham as it was. And his own father made sure he got sent to Azkaban. I saw him, you know, when they first brought him in. Just a kid, really. We all were, but he couldn't have been more than a year out of Hogwarts. He died there, barely a year in."

"What did he do?" Ron asked, his face pale.

Sirius' face turned dark. "He was one of the Death Eaters who went after the Longbottoms."

"What?" Hermione exclaimed. Sirius had said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a foregone conclusion that they already knew all about it. But she certainly didn't. And from the look on Harry's face, he was just as clueless as she was.

Ron gulped, looking at them both. "It's not a good story. Neville's folks were tortured in the first war. Cruciatus. Dad said they're still in St. Mungo's, but they're not there, you know?"

When neither of his friends responded, Ron shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Why did you think he lived with his gran?"

"Oh," she breathed out almost silently.

Poor Neville.

Well. That was all that needed said, really.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Well, I don't know why Crouch would be snooping around in Moody's office. They've worked together for years. Amicably, I thought. Or as amicably as either of them can be. But if Crouch thinks Moody's up to something, all those years of friendship wouldn't mean a thing. Man's got a heart of stone."

"But what would he think Professor Moody was doing? He's an auror, and Professor Dumbledore trusts him," Hermione asked.

Ron's brow furrowed. "Dad really likes Moody. And Crouch sounds like a real prick. What if we've got it backwards? What if Moody thinks Crouch is up to something, and Crouch found out?"

Harry latched onto the idea. "That would explain why he was in his office. He'd want to know what Moody was up to and if he'd found out anything."

Hermione sighed. "But about what? And how are we going to figure it out?"

"We could always ask Moody," Harry supplied. "He's been telling me I should come over to his office any time."

"I don't know, Harry," Sirius cautioned. "There's only two reasons I can see that Crouch would be sacking that office: either he's up to something, or he thinks Mad-Eye is. You can't just go waltzing in blind and expect Mad-Eye Moody to answer all your questions."

"I guess," Harry grumbled, disappointed to have no obvious path forward.

"Now Harry. I only have a few more minutes. I wanted you to know how proud I was when I heard how you beat that dragon. And I wanted to tell you to be. Careful. There's someone very dark and very powerful after you. And now that your name's come out of that goblet, you can't go pretending that Hogwarts is safe anymore. There's Death Eaters at that school, like Karkaroff."

"Karkaroff's a Death Eater?" Harry exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down," Hermione whispered harshly, glancing nervously towards Viktor's door.

"Oh yes," Sirius continued as if Hermione hadn't interrupted. "Moody was the one who caught him, actually. Small world." He chuckled for a moment, a dark, somewhat distressing sound. "He turned against his fellow Death Eaters in the end. Crouch would have presided over his trial, too, actually."

"What happened?" Ron asked, leaning towards the fire with a rapt expression on his face. She could almost watch him mentally assembling all the players onto a chess board.

"They obviously acquitted him," Hermione scoffed, "or he wouldn't be here as the Headmaster of Durmstrang."

Harry turned towards her and squinted. "What do you know about Karkaroff, Hermione?"

"What?" Sirius called from the fire. "What's Hermione got to do with Karkaroff?"

The boys glanced awkwardly between themselves, uncertain how to answer the question. She finally took pity on them. Sirius would find out eventually anyways. She was surprised he hadn't already heard of it in The Prophet. But perhaps he didn't get it regularly in…wherever he was hiding out.

Straightening her spine, she leaned forward. "Because my boyfriend goes to Durmstrang. And he knows their Headmaster is dark and he doesn't like it. It's not like there's anything the students can do about it."

"Be careful, Hermione. Durmstrang has a dark reputation."

"Obviously," she bit back.

But what did she care? She didn't answer to Sirius Black. "I'll tell you this: Viktor said that Karkaroff's been getting worse: paranoid, anxious. He won't say it, but I think the students are scared of him, now. I know I am."

Sirius' face disappeared for a moment and she thought she heard Professor Lupin's voice in the distance. After a tense moment, his face reappeared looking anxious and harried.

"Our time is up, I'm afraid. Any longer and someone watching could trace this call. You three keep close and protect each other. And good luck, Harry. Remus will see you at the next task."

And with that, the fire went dark, the embers entirely burnt out, and the room plunged into darkness. Behind them, she heard a heavy footstep.

In a flash, Harry whipped around, the tip of his wand illuminating the harsh planes of Viktor Krum's face.

"Potter. Why was a murderer in the fireplace?"