CW: psychological distress, hallucinations, blood & gore. This chapter is the reason for the M-Rating, folks.
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.:.
Chèrie,
Andromeda told us about the Aurors, & what it may mean going forward. You deserve to know that your father & I have refrained from pulling you out of Hogwarts due only to the barbaric laws governing the enforcement of mandatory magical education & the (reputedly) inferior security of Britain & Ireland's other schools of magic— but we agree that it is well past time to revisit the pros & cons of continuing your education in France. We will not decide anything for certain without first discussing it with you, but please at least speak with Madam Maxine about the transfer process.
Remember: between true friends, distance is trivial. Just look at your Grand-mère and Tante Lulu! Anyone who truly merits your friendship will think of you and write to you no matter where you are— and France is hardly so far away, non?
Again, we'll not decide without a proper family meeting. Andromeda assures us that you might still have a future in magical Britain, though it will be even more complicated and frustrating than we've expected. She's also hinted that you may have something more to share with us in that regard; we know how busy things are for you right now, but do not keep us in suspense too long— for all we know, a missed update could mean some bizarre new creature has come along and turned you into a Faberge Egg or something!
But on to brighter things; tell us more about Viktor! You'll be pleased to know that I've talked your father down from delivering his Boyfriend Speech via letter; he's rather put out that he can't intimidate the boy in person, you see. I told him that a stern talking-to would hardly be very daunting to such an accomplished wizard, but no— fatherly obligations this, caveman instincts that, etc. Men!
I will pass on what your Grand-mère told me when I started dating (after the initial interrogation, that is): He does sound gallant enough, but no one is quite the same in private as they are in public. You must not underestimate the thickheadedness of young men— even the best ones tend to need a bit of training.
Since then, I've learned that it pays to establish clear boundaries & expectations early on, especially when you & your beau come from different cultures. Innocent mistakes & miscommunications can all to easily snowball if left unaddressed. Don't let them.
Now, how is Harry getting on? It really is quite noble what you're doing for him— just don't let it infringe upon your studies too much, compris? We've passed the wetsuit along to the Tonkses, who should get it to him within the week. Do you think he & Ginevra will make a serious go of it? I can't help but worry; what you've said about Padfoot hardly paints him as the sort I'd trust to teach a young man the proper way to treat lady. Another thing to reach out to the Tonkses for, perhaps?
I suppose I've gone on long enough. Even from across the country, I cannot resist fussing over you. Please stay in contact, and stay safe .
Bisous,
Your worried mother,
Joëlle Marion Granger
The worst of it all, to Hermione, was that they had poisoned the library for her. Even in its quietest, most secluded corners, she could no longer feel safe without multiple spells concealing her— and Notice-Me-Nots weren't enough with the whole bloody school keeping an eye out for her specifically. Every sitting required several minutes of spellcasting, every spell required renewal every time she got up to fetch or return a book, and every such trip was a potential opportunity for someone to do something to her things.
Thus the dueling hall, cold and grey as it was despite the slowly spreading arrangement of vivid posters and the auras of her friends.
(She'd considered building a campfire in the middle of it, but everyone had give her worried looks— and Dobby said the elves were obligated to nip that sort of thing in the bud. She really wished he'd accept tips.)
The moment Krum walked into the hall, Parvati knew Hermione had neglected to mention why she wanted to meet him there. He was hardly the most expressive of boys, but the confusion on his face was clear enough as he saw Harry dodging and deflecting hexes from Ginny and the Chasers… as was his disappointment at the sight of Hermione's frizzy-haired head bent over no less than four open books at their table in the corner, writing near-frantically with a muggle pen.
Parvati attempted a welcoming smile— until Ginny relieved her of the obligation by shouting:
"Oi superstar! Fancy a duel?"
(Harry was slumped against a column, catching his breath.)
"Ah." He hesitated, glancing at Hermione. "No, szank you."
"Suit yourself."
If Hermione noticed him approaching, she gave no sign. For a moment, Parvati was tempted to let her keep scribbling away, to sit back and watch Krum realize just how low he was on her list of priorities. Shame followed that thought, and slid her foot over to nudge Hermione's… to no avail.
"Maïa," she murmured.
"Mmhm."
Well, she'd tried.
"Bonjour," said Krum— and faltered once more, mere paces from the table, as Hermione held up one finger without raising her head. Or looking at him.
Any guilty pleasure Parv might have felt about it was overwhelmed by the effort it took not to physically cringe. Aaī would have sent to bed without supper for such discourtesy.
"Bonjour," she replied in Hermione's stead, donning her best apologetic smile and Hostess Voice. "Please, do sit."
"Merci." He gave his customary little bow and claimed one of the empty chairs, gaze darting over the numerous texts, muggle notebooks, rolls of parchment, broken quill laid off to the side—
"I trust all is well?" She asked. "How goes your preparation for the Second Task? I imagine our humble little lake must be positively balmy compared to the Baltic."
"…yes. Is not so bad. I have plan, and cold water, it iz güt for, ah… blood flow, ja?"
"Oh? Do you swim much at Durmstrang, then?"
It quickly became clear that he was quite unskilled at small talk, and acutely aware of it. Rescue for both of them came in the svelte form of Fleur Delacour (Iraultza and Sauveterre in tow), which smothered any relief Parv might have felt beneath a large helping of anxiety. She simply didn't know the Veela well enough to trust in her discretion… but Delacour traversed the courtesies and pleasantries without so much as a sly look at her. She seemed much more interested in casting worried glances at Hermione— who, to be fair, was looking quite frazzled.
Next to arrive was Cedric Diggory, arm in arm with Claire Zheng.
"Oh, wow." He smiled affably in the way that made so many girls giggle and sigh, further convincing Parvati of her lesbianism. "You didn't tell me you were throwing a party, Granger!"
"Nor I," said Delacour, just as unruffled.
"Nothing so pleasant, I'm afraid." Hermione scribbled down a final line, double-checked the text she'd been reading, swiftly set bookmarks in all three, and closed them with a wave of her hand. Only then did she look up to survey everyone with bleary eyes. "Thank you all for coming. I'm sorry we don't have seats enough for everyone, but we'll just have to make do."
She stood, swiping a few unruly curls out of her face, only for them to immediately fall back down. Her audience helped Parv smother the urge to assist.
"I feel I should preface this with an apology." Hermione crossed her arms to stop from fidgeting (unsuccessfully), and began to pace. "I've been so focused on the potential danger to Harry that I neglected to adequately consider the danger to all of you— until recently, that is."
The champions exchanged looks— Diggory humoring, Delacour worried, Krum dourly inscrutable.
"We may not know who entered Harry into the Tournament or what they're planning," she continued, "but we can make several assumptions with a fair degree of confidence. Firstly, the culprit is a highly capable mage most likely affiliated with the so-called 'Death-Eaters', who are best known for their rampant use of the vilest, most vicious sorts of magic— often on the innocent and defenseless. Secondly, whatever they're planning will most likely take place during the second or third Task… which means that the three of you," she glanced at Krum, Delacour, and Diggory, "may well find yourselves caught up in it— either as obstacles, diversions, or pawns. The moment something goes awry, you must treating it like an impending murder attempt because it very well could be."
"Sorry," said Diggory, "pawns?"
"Imperiusing one of you is only the most obvious and expedient method a Death Eater might employ to harm Harry during one of the Tasks," she said in one breath. "How many of you can resist it?"
A pause.
Krum raised his hand, and appeared to immediately regret the attention it brought him— though he did hide it fairly well. "I can… some-vot. Not always."
Hermione nodded, unsurprised; they must have discussed it already (which Parv felt absolutely fine and normal about). Then she looked to Delacour, who sighed: "I should… theoretically be capable, but I 'ave not tested zat theory."
All eyes turned to Diggory, who actually looked a bit awkward for once.
"I've, ah… not had much success with it, no."
"We can remedy that," said Hermione. "I advise you all ask Professor Moody for lessons. You should also start training together, and prepare contingency plans in case something happens during one of the Tasks— I've prepared a list of suggestions…"
Parv passed her the stack of papers to distribute to the champions... of whom only Diggory looked out disconcerted. Delacour was watching Hermione shrewdly, while Krum—
"I agree," he said. "Karkaroff is acting strange, recently. Shifty, I szink you say. Some-sing worries him."
Uneasy glances were exchanged.
"I vill speak wiss Moody. And train wiss all three of you."
"I… don't know," said Diggory. "I know Harry didn't enter himself, but this is…"
He looked at his fellow champions, and at each expression grew more worried.
"You really think it's that serious?"
"By my count," said Hermione, "since the beginning of his first year, Harry has survived no less than ten different incidents which could all too easily proven fatal— or worse. And that's a conservative estimate."
"Ten?" Asked Katie.
"Worse?" Asked Cedric.
Hermione took a deep, miffed-looking breath, and rattled off: "Hexed broom, Halloween troll, unicorn-killer detention—"
"What."
"—Quirrell, Whomping Willow crash, Acromantula nest—"
"What."
"—Chamber of Secrets, Dementor on the Express, Wormtail-Werewolf-Dementor incident —which arguably counts as three— and possibly the World Cup riot."
Those not previously in-the-know stared at her for a moment, and then at Harry. Harry smiled the most awkward smile Parvati had ever seen.
"…I'm going to need a bit more than that," said Diggory. "Not that it wasn't, ah… efficient!"
"Maybe," said Delacour, "you should start from the beginning, non?"
Hermione looked at Harry. Harry looked at Hermione. They both looked very tired.
"Right," she sighed. "Do you want to tell it, or shall I?"
.
.o0o.
Cedric and Claire excused themselves first, needing time to consider what they'd heard. Fleur and her friends went next, citing a need to consult with their Headmistress. Viktor lingered, first to quietly question Harry, then to re-read Hermione's list of suggestions and jot down some notes on it.
"Thanks." Harry slumped into the chair beside hers. "For doing all the talking, I mean."
Hermione bumped his shoulder with hers, and tactfully refrained from commenting on his storytelling skills.
"Maïa." Viktor, evidently finished reviewing her list of suggestions, approached with a crease between his brows. "May we speak?"
A bolt of anxiety pierced her desire to remain seated. "O-of course."
She followed him across the hall, just past one of the columns. There he turned, looking down at her with clear worry, and asked: "What do you need?"
…hm.
Hermione's mind didn't go blank so much as just… foggy. She wasn't even sure where to start. One couldn't very well ask their sort-of-exchange-student sort-of-boyfriend for judicial reform. Or a miraculous rehabilitation of one's reputation. Or a complete restructuring of the Ministry.
"Maïa?"
She blinked. His expression had grown even more worried.
"Er," she said wisely. "I… don't suppose you have any Wit-Sharpening Potion to spare. Or dreamless Sleep."
"…No."
Right. Of course not. Stupid.
"I can… go to Hospital Wing to ask…"
"No no, that's alright, I just…" she huffed. "I just need a good night's rest."
Which, between all the study time she'd shuffled around to make time to help Harry and the lovely psychological effects of being terrorized by police-wizards, she would almost certainly not be getting.
Needless to say, she declined his invitation to another jaunt through the Forest that weekend as gently as she could… which probably wasn't very.
(Tact was difficult enough when she wasn't struggling to balance so much.)
She did, as he departed, at least gain her another data point in favor of that stilling of one's aura being disappointment.
She'd hardly been sat down again for five minutes when Parvati scooted closer, and in that terribly gentle tone that was so hard to ignore or refuse, said:
"You know, the longer you wait to tell him…"
"What?"
She cast a meaningful glance at Harry, who was once more ducking and weaving as Ginny and the Chasers pelted him with hexes.
Ah.
"I know," she huffed.
For all his moments of studiousness and compassion, he was also a bit hot-headed… and a lot un-fond of having information kept from him. If she waited too long, he would not be anywhere near as understanding as Parvati had been about her extracurriculars (or her backup wand).
Yet she couldn't help but think of the wide-eyed look on Harry's face that night in the Shrieking Shack, as he'd realized just how angry his Godfather was, and how far he was willing to go.
(She thought of the delay in her own reaction to the prospect of a man, however wicked and pitiful, being killed right in front of her— and then pushed that thought away.)
True, they needed Wormtail alive to have any hope of exonerating Sirius, but that wasn't the only reason for Harry's mercy— or even the primary one. He was too compassionate for that.
Which meant this would be unpleasant either way.
"As a veteran sister," said Parvati, "I feel it's my duty to advise you that he probably already knows you're up to something."
"To be fair," Padma said without looking up from her their grimoire, "she's almost always up to something."
"True."
It was then that one of Ginny's hexes caught Harry in the thigh, sending him stumbling right into one of Katie's. He fell with a— well, sort of a squawk, really, which everyone but Ginny graciously ignored. Harry sat up with a half-hearted glare as she snickered, but couldn't hold back a smile for long. It was the thought of that look contorting in anger that made up Hermione's mind.
She told him as soon as the Chasers had left.
He stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it again, frowned thoughtfully, and asked: "What are you feeding her?"
"…leftovers from the kitchens," she replied, caught-off guard. "Vegetable bits, mostly, since I'm fairly sure that's what most beetles eat, though I haven't had time yet to search the Library for entomology texts, but she has been eating them, so…"
"Right. That's... good, I 'spose."
"I've paid Dobby to fetch them," she went on (for fear of the thoughts that awkward silences tended to conjure). "The leftovers, I mean. Mostly so that no one sees me pocketing bits of salad and starts speculating."
Harry nodded, gaze on the floor, eyebrows pinched together. "…You'd think someone would've found her out before now."
Maybe if she still expected mages to exercise common bloody sense, she would.
"Not everyone has the benefit of an invisibility cloak, a map keyed into the school wards, and magesight," said Parvati.
…also true.
"Yes, well." Hermione kept her chin up. "Regardless, she won't be spreading any more lies about either of us."
Harry frowned.
"And I've enchanted the jar for hardiness using runes, so we won't have to worry about her escaping."
The frown deepened. "What if she tries to?"
"Well," Hermione hesitated, biting back a very frank answer at the last second, "I imagine she would strongly regret it. But I made sure she knows that, so she won't."
Still that dubious look on his face.
"She may be lacking in morals, but she's clearly got enough intellect— she would've been caught ages ago, otherwise."
"Right." Another nod. His expression shifted from 'dubious' to 'uncomfortable', and Hermione's anxiety ratcheted up accordingly. "And… you're sure keeping her in a jar is… our best option?"
The 'our' was a bit reassuring, but still...
"What else would you have me do?" She replied, a bit more sharply than intended. "Report it to the Aurors?"
He winced. "No, yeah, that's right out."
Alright, so far so—
"But what about Dumbledore?"
…Really?
Hermione took a deep breath. "He had his chance."
This garnered surprise and (mild) confusion from all but Ginny.
Hermione forcibly un-grit her teeth. "Wormtail, Harry. A mass-murderer right under the faculty's nose for years— and what does Dumbledore do, after it all comes out? Does her reinforce the school wards to repel uninvited Animagi, or at least alert him to their presence?"
"I get it," he said tersely, gaze fixed on the floor—
"It might not be that simple," Padma interjected. "Who knows how complex the wards are, after a thousand years of adjustments? Pettigrew and Skeeter were both former students— that could have been a factor."
"What about the elves, then?" Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Or all the cats in the castle— at least some of whom are Kneazles, who could easily communicate and coordinate with feline Animagi? And those are only the alternate detection methods I can think of. Dumbledore has over a century of magical experience!"
None of them had a response to that.
"Anyway, I can attest that he distrusts the Aurors to some degree— which means if we gave him Skeeter, he would probably do something like exposing her publicly in order to make it near-impossible for her to escape justice no matter how Aurors responded.
"Right." Harry nodded. "Sorry, what's wrong with that?"
"It would deprive us of leverage." Obviously.
"…leverage?"
She sighed, and refrained from saying think about it, as that was one of several phrases Parv had very diplomatically told her could come off as a bit patronizing to less discerning individuals (such as boys).
"Harry," she said, "how much trouble have you had with public opinion?"
His expression dimmed.
"And how many people read Skeeter's articles?"
"Several thousand at least," Parvati supplied.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up further, and crossed his arms. "So what's the plan, then? You'll let her out to interview me or something?"
"…well, not yet. I hardly think she'll have learned her lesson in only a few days."
Parvati and Ginny both gave her very shrewd looks then… but mercifully refrained from mentioning the other factors in that particular decision.
"But once she has," she quickly added, "then yes. We'll have her write a truthful article about you. Multiple articles, if necessary. Whatever you want the world to know. Whatever it takes to make people stop being idiots about us."
Harry's mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. "That might be a bit of a long shot."
"True. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Now, have you noticed anything out-of-place via the Map?"
"Er… about that…"
Needless to say, Hermione was a bit cross that he had the audacity to nit-pick how she chose to protect his reputation when he'd just gone and handed over one of their primary threat detection methods. Granted, Moody was probably the best possible person he could've handed it over to... and it wasn't as if Harry'd had much of a choice, after two Professors had caught him with it, and Moody wasn't wrong about the ability of certain parties to suborn Aurors indicating that school security was even worse than anticipated… and as a Professor he could get a lot more use out of the Map than some busy 4 th -years… but still.
She just didn't feel as safe knowing the Map was no longer available to help her deal with the likes of Skeeter, but even if she was, in a very real sense, part of Harry's family now, it didn't count as her heirloom. She knew Harry would probably argue otherwise, of course, and then probably feel even guiltier about handing it over— so she elected not to voice that just yet.
Parvati's advice was encouraging, but she still would have paid quite a few galleons for a written guide on how to be a good sister.
"Rita."
Don't change back don't change back don't change back don't change back
"Reee~taaa…"
Didn't matter how much she wanted to, how much she wanted out, wanted fresh air and light and any sound at all other than the horrid rasp of chitin on chitin every fucking time her legs rubbed her face without her permission—
"Rita!"
Didn't matter how much she itched to change, to have hands again—
"Insignificant grasping little insect that's what you are what you've always been—"
Didn't matter didn't matter didn't matter. Unbreakable jar runes ambient magic stronger than her— changing would crush her. Change was death.
"Leech."
Don't change back don't change back don't change back don't change—
Unless the little twat had lied.
(Unless Granger hadn't told her and she'd figured it out for herself)
No no no she'd been over this before, 'round and 'round in circles within circles because it didn't matter— even a tiny chance of death was too much. Had to be patient, had to outlast the bitch, had to show her who she'd fucked with.
"—started it you started it—"
"Insect."
"—terrorizing a little girl—"
"—shameless cow—"
"Insect!"
Only two months only two months only two only two only two—
Minimum.
Surely it wouldn't be so long now— had to have been at least a month already, or at least a few weeks.
"How do you know?"
No clocks no bells no sun nothing but guesswork wishful thinking fumbling in the dark in the dark in the pitch black midnight absolute darkness—
"My money's on a few days."
"—hours hours only hours—"
—which meant she couldn't see anything, which meant there were no worms or blobs or fireflies in there with her no matter how they glowed or multiplied of squirmed closer and closer in the edges of her eyes nothing and no one was in here with her
"So rude, Rita."
Mother was ten years dead.
"Do you want to be lonely?"
Those horrid sisters were far away, the worst of them locked away—
"What good is there in lying to yourself?"
Stop.
"Well on her way to madness, she is."
Stop!
"Mad! Mad! Mad as a Black!"
No one else no one else no one else no one—
She'd craved light for so long. She'd never imagined it could hurt so much. By the time her (tiny) mind could comprehend anything but pain her body had already burrowed into the dirt at the bottom of the jar, away from that horrible, deafening grinding. By the time she'd worked out what that grinding must be, it had already ceased— and even then she couldn't force her legs to move or her wings to flap, could barely think through the primal terror—
The grinding returned, more horrible for her knowledge.
No no no no
Silence returned, and so did utter darkness.
It was hunger that drew her out of the dirt and blindly crawled her towards the pile of leaves.
"Look at you."
"Pathetic."
"No escape."
Rita had long since lost track of how many times she'd tried and failed to scream.
February 23rd, 1995
"Wait, he imperiused you in private?"
Hermione set her jaw, but her gaze flicked back down to the notebook in her lap. "To add practical, educational value to a well-deserved detention, yes."
Ginny… didn't even know where to start with that. Luckily Parv was quicker on the draw.
"Hermione, testing us in class is one thing, but to do it without any witnesses—"
"I know how it sounds," Hermione huffed. "Look, you know I was suspicious of Moody at first—"
"With good reason!"
"Yes, and that reason was precedent—not anything to do with him personally." Hermione looked up from the notebook as if they were being awfully rude distracting her from it. "Not every Defense Professor we've had has been up to something nefarious, and really, he's outdone Professor Lupin as a Defense instructor. I can resist the Imperius now, and I've finally gotten to practice defending my mind!"
"Wait, you mean he also—"
"And before you ask, he didn't manage to find anything incriminating. Sure, he's a bit off— I'm not denying that. But who wouldn't be, after everything he's survived? Who are we to judge a veteran of multiple wars on how his trauma manifests? Besides, he didn't even try to make me do anything awful, just… humiliating enough to better motivate me to resist."
"Do you realize how that sounds?" Asked Parvati. "You have to realize how that sounds."
"I won't pretend that Moody doesn't make make me uncomfortable," Hermione replied, "but I would rather be uncomfortable and prepared than comfortable and vulnerable. And he's right about us needing to experience these things for the first time in a controlled setting."
"I'm not disagreeing with that—"
"You think I haven't considered the possibility that he might be more Quirrell than Lupin?" She lowered her voice despite the privacy charms around them. "He shows no signs of possession, and unlike Lockhart, he's been a friend of both Dumbledore and McGonagall since the Forties."
"Just the other day you were telling us not to trust Dumbledore with— you know!" Ginny hissed.
"Yes, but that was different."
Ginny and Parvati exchanged a Look.
"Just— think about it for a moment," Hermione urged. "If I was being controlled or impersonated, don't you think at least one of you would notice?"
Ginny actually wasn't so sure she would, having barely spent any time around Hermione before the Halloween, but it didn't strike her as the sort of thing one admitted to their Coven-Mistress. Thankfully Parvati answered for her: "…yes, but—"
"And we've only known each other for four years, not four decades!"
…that it was actually a solid point just made it more frustrating.
"If he was after Harry, it would be in his best interest not to teach us as much as he has, let alone give us practical experience."
"That could be what he wants you to think," Parv pointed out.
"Perhaps," Hermione said grudgingly, "but even without going to the lengths he has, he would still be the best Defense Professor we've had. Besides, if he were up to something nefarious, it would be in his best interest not to call attention to himself— and you can't deny that he's done that quite thoroughly."
Ginny and Parvati shared an uneasy glance. Neither of them had a good response to that.
Hermione looked away before they could come up with one. Then she frowned, waved her wand, and the noise of the common room rushed back into their corner.
"Thank you," said the Prefect standing a few paces away— some 7 th -year, Stein or Stanton or something, "and please pardon the interruption. Granger, Weasley, the Headmaster would like to speak with you."
Ginny looked to Hermione, resisting the urge to fiddle with her wand.
Hermione had gone very still, gaze fixed on Stanmore(?) like a dueling partner. "Is that so?"
"Yes, I've just come from his office. Oh— you're not in trouble or anything."
"Then why does he need to see them?" Asked Parvati.
Stafford hesitated. "I'm… not at liberty to say."
Ginny gave into the wand-fiddling urge, and tilted her head all catlike. "You sure about that?"
"…yes…"
"Right!" A clap drew all eyes to Angelina, strolling over with the other two Chasers. "What's all this, then?"
"The Headmaster wants to speak with them. Professor McGonagall as well."
"Fancy that." She looked at Hermione. "Anyone else?"
"I'm not—"
"At liberty to say, right. Why not? What's stopping you?"
He looked at the Chasers. He looked at Hermione, Ginny, and Parvati. Then he sighed. "They've got two Ministry officials up there with them, alright?"
Hermione's heart skipped a beat—
"Not DMLE. No Aurors. But I'm really not supposed to—"
"Say anything, yeah." Angelina turned to Hermione. "Alright, Firebug?"
Hermione was too busy deep-breathing to glare at her for the nickname. "I suppose we'll see."
The Chasers and Parv insisted on coming with. They didn't see any Aurors on the way up, but Ginny kept ready to draw her wand just in case. She wasn't fool enough to think she could put up much of a fight against one, but nobody (except her brothers, Harry, and his other Tournament trainers) ever expected the tiny redhead to start slinging hexes. She figured she could at least buy time for Hermione to do something brilliant, if push came to shove. Pondering it was a decent distraction from the assorted bints and berks they passed in the halls, and all the things they 'whispered'.
"—caught her in the act this time?"
"—little savage—"
"—must've been voodoo, not potions—"
Et bloody fucking cetera.
There were no Aurors waiting by the gargoyle, either, but that didn't necessarily mean shite. Only when they stepped into the Headmaster's office and saw no red coats did Ginny really start to relax. Start being the operative word.
"Thank you for joining us," said Dumbledore.
"Welcome!" Said Ludo Bagman, raising his cup of tea. His all-too-familiar assistant did the second bit, but not the first.
"Oh hey Purse," said Ginny.
Percy's face went all sour. "Ginevra."
Barf.
"Miss Granger."
"No," said Hermione.
"…Excuse me?"
"I refuse to be a prop in your circus."
Percy sputtered. Bagman's smile just got bigger and faker. "Now now, you haven't even heard—"
"I've heard the clue. The second task is tomorrow, none of Harry's treasured possessions are missing, and you've summoned the Yule Ball dates of two champions." She arched an eyebrow. "Have I misunderstood? Do you not intend to convince us to wait at the bottom of the lake for at least however long it takes those champions to swim down, fight their way through some innocent merfolk, and free us?"
Bagman opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to scrape some brain together. "Well, no —though the Task will involve a great deal more than just—"
"That's very nice," said Hermione, "and I refuse."
"Same," said Ginny.
"Now see here," Percy prissed, "I advise you show the proper respect—"
—she scoffed—
"—due to official representatives of the Ministry."
"Sure thing, Purse."
Honestly, what was he even trying to do with his face? Looked like he'd gagged on a lemon.
"Girls," McGonagall said sternly, "while you are well within your rights to decline participation, it would behoove you to show a modicum of courtesy— and we must insist that you at least know the details of what you would refuse."
Fair enough.
"Very well," said Hermione.
"Right!" Bagman puffed up in his armchair, smile plastered on, and proceeded to babble a bunch of bollocks about how they'd be perfectly safe at the bottom of the bloody lake in the middle of winter while spelled asleep, and the glories of damp damselhood.
"So you see, it's really all in good fun!" He looked pleased with himself. "Any questions?"
"Yeah," said Ginny. "I got one."
"And what's that, my dear?"
(Ugh.)
She cleared her throat, clasped her hands over her skirts demurely, and asked: "Are you bloody daft?"
"Miss Weasley," said McGonagall.
She crossed her arms. "What? He must be a few bristles short of a broom if he thinks we'd trust the Ministry with our unconscious bodies."
"How dare you!" Percy's tomato impression was spot-on as ever— but Ginny wasn't in a mirthful mood.
"How dare I?" She advanced on him, fighting the urge to draw her wand. "I wasn't the one who bungled security for a death-Tournament or sent Aurors to humiliate a bloody schoolgirl."
"The protections surrounding the Goblet of Fire were the Headmaster's purview, not—"
"Both quite concerning matters," said McGonagall, "which we have not gathered here to discuss."
"…yes, quite." Percy straightened his robes. "Thank you, Deputy Headmistress. Let us focus on the matter at hand. Miss Granger, I urge you to consider the good that your… passive participation in the Task might do for your reputation. Merlin knows—"
Ginny drew her wand. McGonagall got her with an Immobulus before she could do anything with it, but it did speed things along well enough. Less than a minute later they were being ushered back down the steps and past the gargoyle, to where Parvati and the Chasers were waiting to fuss over them.
Back in the common room, Hermione stopped Ginny with a hand on her arm, looked her in the eye, and quietly said: "Thank you."
Ginny couldn't help but stand a bit taller. Hermione was odd like that. Intense. Most of the time it seemed like her mind was in ten places at once, each important enough that Ginny didn't want to interrupt… but having her complete, undivided attention made you feel like the most important person in the world.
.
.o.
.o0o.
The day of the Third Task, Hermione did not get a chance to speak with Viktor, Fleur, or Cedric— and Harry looked nauseous enough already. Yet another reminder of how much danger he could very well be walking into was the last thing he needed in those final hours (a phrase she immediately and emphatically regretted thinking, but could not un-think—).
Warnings about how the process of elimination dictated that whatever was going to happen would happen that night or how they had no idea how many people were involved in setting up the maze or how thoroughly they were vetted crowded the tip of her tongue as he forced a smile and picked at his breakfast. As a Prefect led him away.
It was a very long day.
Parvati's hand anchored her through the crowded trek down to the Quidditch Pitch, and as they found their seats in the stands. It was Ginny who bullied enough people out of the way to get them aisle seats.
('Just in case', she said, but Hermione couldn't help but think When, when it happens—)
"Hey." Parvati laid her other hand on Hermione's arm and leaned in to be heard over the chattering and trumpeting and fireworks, soothing magic pressing close. "We've prepared him —them— as well as we can."
Hermione nodded. She'd certainly tried.
But how could anyone be prepared for a threat they couldn't see coming?
All too soon, the trumpets blared.
All too soon, her little brother walked out onto the pitch— and he really did look little down there, shorter than skinnier than the other champions. The crowd roared as each of them emerged, as they turned towards the amphitheater-like stands and smiled for the cameras. Hermione could not help but think of gladiators in the arena.
"Moritūrī tē salūtant," she murmured.
She felt more than saw Parvati turn. "What?"
But then the champions were taking their positions.
She squeezed Parvati's hand.
The cannon boomed, spitting multicolored sparks over the pitch.
Cedric and Harry walked side-by-side into the maze. The hedges rustled shut behind them. Then mist swirled up off the pitch, coalescing into a vertical pool of grey which soon bloomed with color— and those colors sharpened into a view of the boys from a few meters above and behind, following as they jogged along.
Hermione kept her eyes on them even as the cannon boomed for Viktor and then Fleur— watched Cedric's confident stride and Harry's light-footed one, his readiness to dart this way or that at the slightest notice —which could be his salvation, just like with the dragon—
She watched them breeze past Blast-Ended Skrewts, Boggarts and snares without breaking a sweat, and naively, foolishly began to hope that she'd been wrong… which, of course, was when the maze split them up. Just one too many steps apart, and a wall of thorny vines writhed up between them.
She watched the color drain from Harry's face. The reluctance with which he turned to the bleak path ahead.
Sitting still without a book was hard enough (ever since second year it had come with creeping, choking dread, wrenching her from the verge of sleep); sitting still and forced to watch as Harry walked into danger alone—
Gin would later joke that Hermione had started sweating before him.
"Breathe," Parv spoke into her ear.
Her heart had just begun to slow when Fleur rounded the same corner as Viktor… who took one look at her and raised his wand.
No.
But Fleur must've sensed something, because she'd cast a shield before his first curse flew. Her retaliation was nimble and dazzling, bursts of glittering light and phantom figures throwing off his aim as she flanked him. Viktor's defense was as solid as ever, but his movements were ever-so-slightly stiff and slow, his spells ever-so-slightly weaker than they should be. They still gouged the earth and scorched the hedges, but Fleur went untouched, evading with a dancer's grace to yank one leg out from under him and batter his shield with a fluid spell-chain, dimming it with each strike.
Then three Acromantulae scuttled over the nearest hedge— and completely ignored Viktor.
For all her agility, Fleur couldn't attack and defend at once. She maimed two of the beasts before the stunner struck.
Hermione lurched to her feet, a scream caught in her throat— only to see Viktor blast the third spider to pulp and send red sparks up over the maze before continuing on.
"Fuck," said Ginny.
"When?" Whispered Padma.
"Who?" Asked Parv.
Moody was nowhere in sight. McGonagall was seated three rows below. Hermione nearly broke her neck rushing down the steps.
"Miss Granger!" The Professor steadied her with one hand. "What on—"
"He's Imperiused!"
"I beg you pardon?"
"Viktor! He's Imperiused! I knew this would happen, I told them—"
"Miss Granger—"
"She convinced the champions to train together," Parv cut in, smoothly authoritative as a cross Madame Patil— "to work together in the event of a Task gone wrong— and Krum was the first to agree."
"He's the least resistant to the Imperius!" Hermione shouted. "He said so himself!"
McGonagall stared at them for a moment, color draining from her face.
(Moody was nowhere in sight.)
Then she conjured a sheet of paper, spelled text onto its surface, folded it into an airplane with a flourish of her wand, and sent it sailing over to the judge's box. Dumbledore plucked it out of the air and read it with a swiftness that belied his age, then turned to speak with the Minister.
"Thank you, girls," said McGonagall. "Please return to your seats."
It was Hermione's turn to stare, indignation crackling through her… with nowhere to go. There were Aurors (uselessly!) guarding the maze— they wouldn't listen to her and do their bloody jobs, and even if she could get past them, then what?
The most powerful mage in the country was aware of the danger, and so was the head of state. Who appeared to be sitting back while Karkaroff and Maxine argued and Dumbledore attempted to mediate.
Hermione's heart sank like a stone.
(Moody was nowhere in sight.)
She didn't resist when Parv guided her back to their seats.
On the mist-screens, Cedric and Viktor were jogging. Harry was running, head swiveling at every turn, fork, and intersection. The first Acromantulae in his path caught an overpowered blasting curse with the face; its fellows scattered. He didn't even bother cursing the next Skrewt— just darted past it, deft as a footballer.
"He must've heard the fight," said Parv.
Viktor (or whoever was puppeting him while he watched helplessly from the back seat of his own mind) found Cedric next. Cedric could not sense emotions— but was a fairly good Seeker. The first stunner clipped his side. The second struck his shield as he stumbled back. Next came a blasting curse.
Harry paused, looking up. Then he started running again.
(Moody was nowhere in sight.)
Cedric dove sideways as his shield popped, barely rolled out of the way of another stunner—
Harry found a sphinx. It smiled at him with slit pupils and very large fangs.
Hermione wanted to scream. She wanted to hide her face in her hands. She couldn't look away.
Cedric barreled around a corner, Viktor hot on his heels, clothes singed from near-misses as the sphinx's voice rumbled over the pitch. Hermione would later find that she could not remember the riddle— only that terrible, hungry smile, and the moment of breathless terror between Harry's answer and its disappointed nod, when she'd tried and failed to trust the Ministry or faculty's ability to stop it eating him.
She felt no relief when he reached Viktor and Cedric. Not after those Acromantulae attacked just as Fleur was about to win— which meant they were either Imperiused as well or drawn by some sort of lure (magical? Chemical?), which meant the culprit could very well be inside the maze with them—
And Moody was nowhere in sight.
No beasts intervened this time. Viktor fell to the ground, stunned.
The crowd roared— Ginny among them. Hermione just tried to breathe.
That can't be all.
She watched useless and breathless as they approached the cup together, gaze darting all over both screens for any sign of danger— a shimmer of disillusionment, a moving shadow or twist of fog...
Then they were gone, and she knew.
She did not share the crowd's confusion when they failed to reappear. Partially because she was busy hyperventilating, but mostly due to the sudden burning in her palm and over her heart— right where Harry'd pressed his hand as they swore siblinghood.
She would later barely recall rushing down to McGonagall, or what exactly she'd said to prompt the casting of a Patronus and the marshaling of Prefects. Her attempted meditation, however, was perfectly, horribly clear— the way merely closing her eyes stoked the panic, the way she could just barely feel Harry, too indistinct and distant to be of any use, the wracking of her brain for any rituals that might reveal his location and the maddening realization that every one would see her arrested by the Aurors standing around like bloody mannequins while her brother was in danger—
And she remembered that subtle shift in the air. That sour note tainting the symphony of Hogwarts.
She had relied far too much on her eyes, back then. Trying to search a crowd of hundreds by sight? Stupid. If not for the angry hiss so close to her ear, the utter loathing on Gin's face as she glared across the stands at—
"Malfoy."
Senior, specifically, who was descending the steps between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw sections with half-concealed haste, just tall enough for Hermione to see the bone-white tumor of foreign magic spreading sickly tendrils up his arm.
Every little hair on her body stood on end.
He walked right between the Aurors guarding the exit. One of them nodded to him.
And he wasn't the only one leaving. As she watched, several other adult wizards hurried down the steps, two with that same horrible, tumorous parasite burrowed into their spirits— and the Aurors did nothing. Her wand slid into her hand, only for Padma to grab her wrist and hold it still.
Hermione's panic left no room for the realization that flinging a curse would only have gotten her arrested— or for gratitude.
The judges were watching Dumbledore move his wand over an array of small silver instruments that had appeared on the table before him.
The last of the Marked men disappeared through their exit, leaving Hermione nothing to do but sit and watch the entrance to the maze.
She recalled a line of text then, from a French account of World War I.
The waiting was worse than the fighting. It gave us time to imagine.
In her mind's eye she saw dismembered boys screaming in the mud, crushed beneath tank treads or perforated by gunfire. She saw green light writhing over shattered, burning homes. She saw Harry laid out on a stretcher, covered in bruises and scratches, arm flopping bonelessly, his scar inflamed and the rest of him so terribly pale—
She was distantly aware of Parv's hand rubbing circles on her back, the soothing embrace of her magic, rhythmic words she couldn't hear over the babble of the crowd, the thunder of her pulse, and the burning, stinging warning in her palm and chest.
(It was, in hindsight, a very good thing she hadn't learned to apparate just yet. There was a significant chance the school wards wouldn't have stopped her, not that she knew that yet; even if she hadn't splinched herself across half of England or gruesomely failed in her rescue attempt, the Ministry would have been far too interested)
The burning stopped a heartbeat before the ambient magic warped in front of that maze— and out of that vision-bending contortion sprawled two figures. One was dirty and bloodied. The other was limp.
The band began to play.
Later, Gin would laud her aggression in shoving through the crowd, and how she'd apparently bowled over the large and small alike with startling strength. Later Parv would tell that the horrible, heart-wrenching wails had come from Amos Diggory. Later she would ponder how she'd known which way Moody'd taken Harry without consulting the Black or Potter magic— or any conscious thought at all.
In the moment, there was nothing but the chase.
She ran headlong out of the stadium and onto the grounds to the sight of the castle doors groaning shut. Ginny outran her then, sprinting up the slight slope to seize one of the wrought iron knockers and heave— only for the doors to swing wide open of their own volition just in time for Hermione to charge through. Her lungs were burning by the time they crested the first staircase.
So were her palm and chest.
The corridor leading to the Defense office seemed a mile long. The door of the office glowed with a multi-layered weave of charms and hexes and shields, sewn to the stone around it. She heard it groan as the echoes of their footsteps faded out. It absorbed half the energy of Ginny's blasting curse. It ignored Hermione's attempt to summon out the hinge-pins.
Her palm and chest burned hotter.
"Open," she rasped.
The door groaned again.
"Open!"
The many-colored currents of magic she'd seen flowing through Hogwarts' every wall window and staircase coalesced on the door like a ravenous amoeba, shredding strands of foreign spellwork—
"Open!"
It did.
Hermione barely caught Ginny's arm before the girl could charge in, and cast her strongest shield— which most likely saved their lives from the three curses that struck it the instant she stepped through the door. Before she could even take in the dimly lit room before her Ginny had already flung several curses right back without stepping out from behind the shield, only for them to burst on Moody's, illuminating his gruesome grin in flashes—
"There she is!" He crowed. "My star pupil!"
Behind him sat Harry, tied to a chair by a truly excessive amount of conjured rope and staring at her with wide-eyed horror.
"No!" He shouted. "Hermione, run! Get—"
"'Fraid you're a bit late to the lesson, luv!"
Ginny's spell-chain faltered and Moody cast another volley, blurs of vicious white and green and light-swallowing black slamming into Hermione's shield— but she stood fast, mind racing through the problem of Harry being trapped in her bloody line of fire—
Fire.
The hearth was lit, flickering mere paces to Moody's side and behind.
"Gin, swap!"
"Protego!" Ginny shouted. Hermione dropped her shield and let her anger flow, swishing and whipping and flicking off a well-practiced chain of hexes that did little more than stretch his grin, and then—
"Oboedignis!"
The hearth-flames flared, whirled, and leapt from their grate, following Hermione's wand across the room and around Moody once, twice, thrice as she crept sideways with Ginny following to keep her shielded. Then he blew the flames away with a gust of icy wind— but dropped his shield to do it.
"Ceorfa!" She shouted, and followed it with every short-incantation curse she knew intermingled with disarmers and stunners and minor hexes to keep the wand-work flowing, each spell stronger than the last, ringing Moody's shield like a broken bell— but she had only mastered so many combinations. She still had to think between them, had to move her arm and hand and wand into position to begin the next, and as she did he struck.
His first curse popped Ginny's shield. His second threw Hermione back into a glass cabinet with enough force to shatter it. Razor shards rained down on her as he deflected the volley Ginny cast from half-behind one of the armchairs while Harry thrashed against his bindings. Hermione pulled her elbow out of cabinet and dropped into a crouch, aiming her wand at the ropes—
"Oh no you don't!"
She barely cast a shield in time, and couldn't help but shrink back from the light and noise and thundering pressure, barely feeling the glass that cut her knees—
"FUCK!"
—and then it stopped, courtesy of the dagger hilt-deep in his good thigh. He staggered back into his desk, barely deflecting Ginny's next barrage of curses. Hermione scrambled to her feet just in time to see him lurch sideways, face twisted in a snarl as he bellowed:
"DEPULSO!"
Ginny had ducked behind the armchair again— which made it the perfect weapon to launch her across the room and slam her into a solid stone wall. Her head bounced. Her wand slipped from her fingers as she fell, limp as an unstrung puppet. Harry screamed. Moody grinned.
The fire in Hermione's chest burned cold.
Then it surged through every bone, nerve, and muscle, devouring all thought and transmuting every drop of fear into incandescent rage.
There was no incantation— only a wordless roar tearing out of her throat and a jet of white-hot flame roaring out of her wand.
Moody's shield flared red on impact, barely wide enough to block it all, pulsing and wavering as her fury burned hotter, forcing him back one step, then two and three and four and five back into the corner—
"Hermione—!"
Triumph crackled through her, bright and electric.
"Maïa!"
Harry?
Still in the chair, wide-eyed and straining against those fucking ropes to lean away from the flames that were spreading over the arm of his chair.
That sight was all it took for her anger to flicker— and that flicker was all the Impostor needed.
The cabinet beside her exploded. Shards of wood and glass stung her cheek and leg as she flinched away, losing her hold on the flames entirely—
"Fond of fire, are you?"
The Impostor lurched forward, eyes bright and wild as he slashed his wand— Hermione raised her own—
She did not feel the curse, it first. One moment she stood with a shield charm on the tip of her tongue; the next she'd hit the wall shoulder-first and was sliding down it, trying to blink the spots from her eyes as her ears rang and her head spun.
Then burning agony lanced up her wand arm, stiffening every muscle and wrenching out a gasp she couldn't hear. She nearly fell over sideways lolling her head towards the pain, seeking its source... which took her eyes a long moment to make sense of.
Charred meat was not something one instinctively associated with their own extremities, after all.
Neither were the places that charring had split open to ooze brilliant red, or the slivers of white visible within. It was only when the slow creep of that red-and-black ruin sent another stab of pain up her arm that it she realized what she was looking at, what those crooked sticks of kindling were— and as if summoned by that knowledge, the full force of the pain engulfed her, burning and aching and stinging all at once, more intense with every horrible throb and slight movement. Even breathing. Tears filled her eyes.
Then through the ringing of her ears, she heard the clunk of Moody's wooden leg. She heard Harry shouting, but couldn't quite make out the words— or the ones shouted back to him. Her tears rendered the Imposter a dim, blurry figure, lurching closer... but the swollen bone-white tumor of Riddle's Mark was clear as day.
Her wand— where was her wand?
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she drew her knees to her chest, braced her uninjured hand on the floor, and—
"—earned this ten times over!"
…what?
"CRUCIO!"
A great many writers from a great many backgrounds have attempted to describe what it feels like to be struck by the Cruciatus. Often they resort to analogies of dragonfire or acid injections, full-body flaying, shattered bones, red-hot knives to the brain, and so on. Some have the decency to acknowledge such comparisons as woefully inadequate. No one who has felt the Cruciatus would use it to describe anything else, after all.
It is widely agreed that the cessation of the curse and the relief that often follows is much easier to convey in writing— 'the first breath after drowning' is a common refrain.
In this, Hermione's experience was highly unusual.
The torment did not simply cease, but was instead overwhelmed by a mighty flood of the same warmth that had subdued the Black and Potter magics, suffused with a rage so immense that there was no room left for pain.
After what could have been a moment or an hour or a day, that current gentled from a furious deluge to something more like a bath, embracing her and soothing her hurts. She went limp on the cold stone floor, cramping from head to toe, throat raw, hand and forearm burning and aching and stinging, but it was all sort of… dulled.
All was quiet save for the rasp of her breath, the thudding of her heart, and a muffled voice calling out. It sounded rather distraught.
The last thing she heard as darkness closed in was a distant door slamming open.