Despite the upcoming tournament, classes continued on as usual through September, with few to no changes. Hermione paid careful attention, trying to figure out if their teachers were letting any of the details about the tournament slip. There was nothing overt, but it seemed like several of the professors had slightly rearranged their curriculum for the year to serve some unstated purpose, and Hermione suspected the Triwizard Tournament to be the cause.

Professor Sprout went over dittany and its restorative uses, explaining how it could be used to treat severe wounds, bites, and burns. Professor McGonagall had them trying to do a variant of free transfiguration with dirt, seeing if they could shape it into something solid. Charms seemed to be following the expected curriculum, but she heard from others that Flitwick was reviewing the Bubble-Head Charm and Reductor Curse with his NEWT students instead of progressing into non-verbal casting. And Snape, eyes glinting, had them learn the Ageing Potion, dicing newt spleens and mushing bananas to make the sharp-smelling green potion.

Snape tested their potions on baby black mice, administering only a few drops. Hermione and Theo's potion resulted in an adult mouse, marking their potion as a success, but the class watched in horror as most potions caused the mice to rapidly grow, their hair to go gray, and gradually go still on the table, unmoving. Snape mercilessly swept the dead mice into a bucket for another class to dissect, and his meaning was clear: try the temperamental potion at your own peril.

It gave Hermione the impression that her teachers weren't thrilled with the upcoming tournament, and that they expected their underage students to try and enter anyway. Which was supposed to be impossible, but with the change to their lesson plans… Hermione wondered just what sort of age verification system the tournament would have in place.

Lockhart, on the other hand, openly embraced the upcoming tournament's news, interrupting whatever curriculum he had planned to instead do a unit on previous Triwizard Tournaments. The stories of tournaments past seemed perfectly suited to his sense of drama and storytelling, and though he wasn't much of anything else, Hermione had to admit that Lockhart was a good storyteller.

Lockhart took great care in making sure his class knew details about each contestant (their favorite classes, their family, their hopes, their dreams) to fully embody them as people, not just facts to memorize on a page. He would then (somewhat gleefully, Hermione thought) tell them about what had happened to the champions in the tournament – what the challenges had been, what strategies people had used, and how well it had worked for them. His class listened on in horror as Lockhart detailed how the contestants had been burned, frozen, electrocuted, scorched with acid, mauled, tortured, flayed, eaten, and killed in various ways over the years.

One tournament had been forced to end extremely early. The first challenge had been to see who could steal the most goats in an hour from a giant pen. The contestants were loosed at the same time as a pack of chupacabras, to give the champions a challenge to compete against. Witnesses to the challenge fast learned that chupacabras, though known for sucking the blood of goats, were not very particular about where the blood they consumed came from, and all three contestants had been screaming until the end as they were devoured piece by piece by the hungry horde.

The next Triwizard Tournament, they'd tried again, but slightly differently. There had been three pens of goats, each guarded by a different creature: a sphinx, a griffin, and a troll. Contestants could choose how they wished to proceed and what creature they wanted to steal goats from. Only one champion had died that time – from answering the sphinx's riddle wrong – a significant improvement in the eyes of the Tournament Officials.

Another challenge had trapped the champions in a pit of acid, with tiny footholds in the walls for them to cling to. They were instructed to escape, with the fastest one out being the winner and getting a higher standing for the next task. As Lockhart told it, there had been no real correct 'way' to escape; the challenge had been set to see what the champions would do. One champion froze a bubble of the acid, leapt onto it, and then levitated it up and out over the top. Another champion charmed his shoes and attempted to leap from bubble to bubble up to the top; one misjudged jump, and he'd fallen straight down to his doom. The third champion had cast a Bubble-Head Charm and boiled the acid until it had all evaporated, then slowly climbed out of the pit via hand holds on the sides. Miraculously, the champion didn't fall on their way out, but several spectators had been hospitalized for inhaling the acid gas, causing their lungs to be eaten away.

Another challenge had been a race through a forest with erklings loosed in it. Rather horribly, the youngest contestant (14) had been targeted by the creatures, meaning the two of-age contestants had a rather easy go of it, while the child champion had met a gruesome end.

Each time they learned of a tournament, Lockhart would again emphasize the potential for glory and gold, the hopes and aspirations of the champions, and the terrible fates that befell them. For those that survived, he detailed what they'd gone on to accomplish – some had found success for themselves, but it was not uncommon for champions to die within ten years of the tournament, whether from liver failure, potion abuse and overdose, or exposure. He painted a very bleak picture of it all, smiling his charming smile all the while, and Hermione wondered exactly what Lockhart's goal was here in going so over the top. Her class was all underage, and, judging from the green expressions and nausea on everyone's face as they learned of champions' sorry fates, none of them were likely to attempt to participate even if there wasn't an age restriction.

But after Charms one day, she heard Ron Weasley talking about what he would do with 1000 galleons in the hallway, while Terry Boot and Michael Corner argued how they would have best escaped the acid pit, each detailing an insanely ambitious magical scheme, and Hermione rather wondered if their professors' thinly-veiled subtlety was lost on even the smartest of their class.

The Triwizard Tournament mania seeped into the Wizengamot, too. Now that the Tournament had been officially announced, it seemed everyone was concerned about it. Sacred 28 families with older children demanded details on safety precautions put into place, while Ludo Bagman insisted that everything was fine, and that he couldn't give out specific details on the challenges because it would be cheating. It was very clear that some of the Ministry Heads were well aware of what was going on, though, with Royce Fiddlewood loudly proclaiming the difficulty of the magical creatures his department was helping to import. Era Hornbeam's theory was that Royce was trying to deflect from the disastrous situation he was trying to keep quiet with the goblins – apparently, the goblins had sent a diplomatic envoy to the Ministry, which his department was desperately trying to keep very hush-hush. The only reason Era knew about it was her department had to keep covering up for when the goblins were seen by muggles, an event that was becoming more and more common to occur.

Hermione wondered what the diplomatic envoy had said. She wondered if Bloodthorne would tell her if she asked.

After one Wizengamot meeting, Hermione was surprised to be approached by Barty Crouch.

"You are the only student in the Wizengamot," he said.

Hermione blinked. "…yes?"

"As such, you will have an exclusive opportunity to learn more about what magic Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have taught their students," he went on. He fixed her with a tight look. "Hogwarts is considered the best wizarding school in the world. I would like to keep it that way. If you could note what the other schools are learning that students at Hogwarts are not, I would be pleased if that information found its way to my desk."

Hermione was surprised but nodded her assent. She had a direct interest in making sure the Hogwarts curriculum was the best in the world, too. Barty had thanked her and headed off, while Hermione was left to wonder if she should mention the obvious – Durmstrang learned the Dark Arts and Dueling, while Beauxbatons learned literature, language, and ethics.

Maybe that wasn't obvious, though – she'd learned that much through speaking directly with students from the respective schools. Durmstrang learning the Dark Arts was the only one widely known, she supposed – they rather made it a recruitment technique, it seemed.

It was all too easy to immerse herself back into the thrill of learning new magic and practicing new spells, and her classmates seemed to do likewise. Hermione opted to let everyone relax and settle into a comfortable routine for a while, to readjust to life at Hogwarts, while she quietly planned and plotted, dwelling on what soon needed to be done.

After all, she still drained her magic into the diary every night, giving Tom Riddle as much of her magic as she could. If he was going to face down another portion of Lord Voldemort's soul, he'd need all the strength he could get.

Harry approached Hermione one Friday morning at breakfast, rather miserably.

"Sirius is writing to you?" Hermione asked. She took the letter from Harry's outstretched hand, puzzled. "And… this is a bad thing?"

"Yes? No? I don't know." Harry sat down with a huff, utterly ignoring the looks he was getting from the Slytherins at the table. "It's like… he wants to build a relationship with me or something."

"Is that bad?" Hermione asked. "He is your godfather."

"It's just…" Harry sighed, gesturing at the note. "Go on. Read it."

Hermione took the letter, eyes taking in the untidy scrawl.

.

Harry—

Glad to hear you made it back to school safely. The recent news with Death Eaters at the World Cup leads me to believe more is going on than the Ministry wants us to believe. While you're safest at Hogwarts during the school year, the idea that you'd be safe with the muggles over the summer is absurd. Remus and I are writing to Dumbledore to win him over to letting you stay at Grimmauld Place on your break. Dumbledore may be stubborn, but we've got nearly a year to win him over yet.

I'm sorry to hear Quidditch is canceled this year in favor of this tournament. I was looking forward to seeing you fly. Your father was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team too, you know? Brilliant Chaser. He'd be proud to see you as Seeker, now. I hope you know that. Both of your parents would be proud.

Little is new here. Remus and I continue to slowly clean and de-curse this wretched house, with no help from Kreacher. It's a marvel that my mother ever managed to live here, with how dark and dingy it is. We're almost done with the kitchen, cellar, and pantry. I'll be glad when I can get a sandwich safely without worrying what magic insect is going to fly out of the cheese and try to eat me alive.

Keep in touch. Give my best to your friends, Harry.

Sirius

.

Hermione rolled the letter back up. She handed it back to Harry, thoughtful.

"So… he wants you to stay with him over the summers," she started.

"That's absolutely not happening," Harry said immediately. A dark expression crossed his face. "I just got my freedom from the Dursleys. I'm not about to give it up again."

Hermione nodded, understanding. She paused. "What else about the letter bothers you?"

Harry groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don't know. The tone? The whole thing, really."

"How so?"

"It's just so bloody normal," Harry said emphatically. "It's so conversational, like we're best buddies, even though we're not. If I hadn't commented about living with my aunt when we were over there, you know he'd have forgotten me again and I'd be left with the Dursleys."

Hermione couldn't deny that. "I mean..."

"And what's all this about my father? My father, oh, he'd be proud of me," Harry vented, working himself up into a proper outrage. "My father, my father – I don't care about my father being proud of me. Or my mother. They're not here, are they? So what's the opinion of dead people even matter?"

Hermione's eyes were wide. She put an arm around Harry, tugging him into her in a hug. His green eyes were bright, but he didn't cry, just sort of leaned into her.

"It's okay to be sad your family isn't here," Hermione said quietly. "It's okay."

"I know that." Harry scowled, then sighed. "But what's not okay is invoking my dead family as a way of controlling or manipulating me. Whatever my dad would have been proud of me for or not – it doesn't matter, because my dad isn't here, is he?"

"I'm sure he's just trying to give you a sense of family—"

"I don't want his family. I don't need him," Harry said vehemently. "I have you. I have my coven. I even have—well, you know, the others, in the middle. And even if some of them are poncey gits, I bet I could count on them more than Sirius. Actually—"

Harry broke off, sitting up and looking across the table. "Oi, Malfoy!"

Draco looked up from his conversation with Theo and raised a lazy eyebrow. "Yes, Potter?"

"I need a wand silencer," Harry told him. "Can you get me one?"

Draco was taken aback.

"You mean a silencing handle?" he asked. "Those are very, very illegal, Potter. The Ministry doesn't like people artificially being able to cast spells without others being able to hear them."

"Does that mean you can't get one?" Harry said, meeting Draco's gaze squarely. Draco scoffed.

"As if. Just making sure you knew the risks, Potter," he sneered. "Do you want walnut or oak?"

Harry turned back to Hermione, grinning. "See?"

"I see," Hermione said, fighting back her own amusement. "And I imagine Sirius would demand to know why you wanted such a thing, try to talk you out of it, and outright forbid you from getting one."

"Probably." Harry shrugged. "I just… I don't know. I don't like the feeling like he's trying to emotionally manipulate me. He wrote me another letter over the summer, you know – said he added me to the wards, that I could come over whenever. Talked about naming me his Heir in his will."

"Harry, that's—that's a big deal," Hermione said slowly. "That would give you a Wizengamot seat someday. That's a lot of power. Not to mention his gold and house—"

"Yeah, but not for years, right? Not until after he dies." Harry scowled. "Mentioning it now – it's just another tool to use to try and control me. I don't like it."

Harry seemed determined to be in a bad mood over the letter Sirius had sent him. Hermione looked Harry over, evaluating, before coming to a decision.

"You say he added you to the wards?" she asked.

"Yeah." Harry made a face. "He says he did, at least."

A devious look spread over Hermione's face. "Then… how would you feel about maybe helping out with a heist on Grimmauld Place?"

There was an expression of shock on Harry's face, then a slow grin.

"Now that," he said, "sounds like something to do with Sirius that I would want to do."