The Hogwarts Express chugged steadily along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against rails a soothing backdrop to the murmur of conversations and the occasional laughter echoing through the corridors. In one of the compartments, Harry Potter leaned against the window, watching the countryside blur by. Across from him, Ron Weasley sprawled out comfortably, absently unwrapping a Chocolate Frog while his other hand flipped through a well-worn deck of collectible cards.

"Still can't get a Merlin," Ron muttered, tossing a card onto the pile growing beside him. "I've got six Dumbledores and no Merlin. How's that fair?"

Harry chuckled softly. "Maybe you should start trading. Dean would kill for another Dumbledore."

Before Ron could reply, a frantic knock at the door broke the calm. The compartment slid open, and Hermione Granger stumbled inside, her arms stacked high with books teetering dangerously. "Help me—!" she managed before the tower collapsed.

Harry jumped up just in time to catch a few of the top books, but the rest spilled across the floor and seats. Hermione groaned as she collapsed onto the bench opposite Ron, pushing her wild curls out of her face.

"Blimey, Hermione," Ron said, sitting up. "Did you raid the library before we even got to school?"

Hermione shot him an exasperated look as she began gathering her books. "They're important, Ron. And I didn't have time to properly sort through them this summer because I was too busy dealing with—" She broke off, visibly frazzled, before slamming a book onto the pile beside her. "—everything."

Harry handed her the books he'd caught and sat back down, exchanging a knowing glance with Ron. Hermione in a state like this was never a quick story.

"What happened this time?" Harry asked, leaning forward.

"Oh, where do I even start?" Hermione sighed, brushing a curl from her face. "First, my parents decided we needed to renovate the house, and of course, they wanted my input on everything. Do you know how exhausting it is to discuss flooring options when you're trying to study? And then, they dragged me on this dreadful 'family bonding trip.'"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Didn't sound too bad when my mum suggested it last year. What's the problem?"

Hermione threw him a glare. "Camping, Ron. In the middle of nowhere. No magic, no Wi-Fi, and Crookshanks howling every night because the tent leaked! I had to read Hogwarts, A History by torchlight while fighting off mosquitoes. It was—"

"Wait," Ron interrupted, holding up a hand. "You brought Hogwarts, A History on a camping trip?"

"Of course I did!" Hermione shot back, scandalized. "But Crookshanks ruined it—ripped out half the pages. And do you know how hard it is to find another first edition? I couldn't even study properly."

Harry smiled faintly. "At least you're back now. Plenty of time to catch up."

"Oh, don't get me started on catching up," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms. "I'm already behind on Ancient Runes because the translation guides were sold out, and Arithmancy this year is going to be impossible. And then, as if all that wasn't bad enough, I ran into Gilda Harrow."

Ron and Harry exchanged a glance. "Gilda?" Ron asked cautiously. "What happened?"

Hermione's voice pitched higher, adopting a mocking tone. "'Careful, Granger. Wouldn't want to scatter all this precious knowledge.'" She scowled. "She stood there with that awful bird of hers, sneering at me like she's some kind of royalty."

Harry frowned. "Awful bird?"

"Yes! A horrible, hissing thing perched on her shoulder. It looked at me like I was some kind of vermin. And she's got this scar now, right across her nose, that makes her look like she belongs in Azkaban."

Harry and Ron stiffened slightly, their earlier ease evaporating. Hermione noticed immediately.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

Ron scratched the back of his neck. "It's... complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it," Hermione snapped, her frustration boiling over. "What's going on?"

Harry sighed. "Did you hear anything about the Harbinger Tournament this summer?"

Hermione frowned, her expression softening slightly. "I've read about it. It's cutthroat, isn't it? But still regulated by the Ministry. Brutal reputation, though... they say it's the closest thing to legalized dueling. Why?"

"Gilda competed in it," Harry said carefully. "And... she won."

Hermione blinked. "She won? That's surprising. She doesn't seem—" She stopped herself. "Well, what does that have to do with—?"

Ron cut in, his voice quieter now. "You remember Winnick Goldstein. Gryffindor. Quidditch captain."

"Yes, of course," Hermione said, her face lighting up with recognition. "She was lovely! I partnered with her in Herbology last year. What does she have to do with Gilda?"

Harry hesitated, glancing at Ron. When Ron didn't continue, Harry sighed and looked back at Hermione. "Winnick was Gilda's opponent in the final round."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And... she didn't survive," Harry said softly.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Hermione's jaw dropped, her expression flickering between shock and disbelief. "What do you mean, she didn't survive? It's a tournament. They're not supposed to—"

"Die?" Ron finished grimly. "No, but it's not unheard of. It hasn't happened in decades, though. Winnick's death... it's caused a huge scandal."

Hermione shook her head. "No. That's... no. Winnick was brilliant. How could—what happened?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Winnick was already down, but Gilda didn't stop. By the time the official intervened, it was too late."

Hermione turned pale, her hands trembling slightly. "I don't understand. She couldn't just—why?"

Ron sighed. "There's been a lot of debate about that. Some say it was the pressure. Gilda's family is known for being ruthless, and the Harbinger Tournament isn't exactly known for its sportsmanship. Others think she just snapped after Winnick broke her nose. It's hard to accept, but her only consequence was being named the new champion."

"She's being rewarded for this?" Hermione's voice cracked, her anger rising. "You're telling me they're letting her walk into Hogwarts like nothing happened?"

Harry's face darkened. "Not just that. Snape's going to enchant the Champion's Robe with Slytherin colors and present it to her after the Sorting Ceremony. Certainly won't be the same as last year's celebration."

"I would hope not! She's being recognized in front of the whole school?" Hermione's voice was shrill now. "That's disgusting!"

"I'm certain McGonagall's furious about it," Ron said. "But there's not much she can do. It's tradition. The winner gets the robe, no matter how they won."

Hermione sank back in her seat, her hand pressed to her mouth as she stared blankly at the books beside her. The image of Winnick—bright, kind, determined Winnick—lying broken on the ground, while Gilda Harrow stood over her, scarred and victorious, made her stomach churn.

"She didn't deserve this," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling.

"No one did," Ron said quietly.

The compartment fell silent, the hum of the train's wheels a hollow echo against the weight of their thoughts.

Hermione's face was still pale, her hand pressed to her mouth as she tried to process everything she'd just heard. After a long, tense silence, she dropped her hand, her expression twisting with disbelief.

"So, no one did anything? She just... walked away? Like nothing happened?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, both of them looking uneasy.

"There wasn't exactly a graceful exit," Harry admitted, his tone hesitant. "From what I understand, it was... chaos."

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ron leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the walls of the compartment might have ears. "Winnick's family stormed the arena floor as soon as it was over. Her father—he was screaming at Gilda and her parents, demanding justice."

"Justice," Hermione echoed faintly, her hands tightening into fists.

"It got worse," Ron continued, his voice grim. "Her mum... Winnick's mum. She went straight to her, trying to get her to move. She was shaking her, begging her to wake up, like she couldn't believe it was real."

Hermione let out a shaky breath, her expression crumpling at the thought.

"And Gilda?" she asked, her voice sharper now, laced with anger.

"Her parents were there," Harry said, his tone colder than before. "They had an entourage with them—pureblood supporters, ministry officials, you name it. Practically an army, batting everyone off and defending their 'perfect daughter.'"

"Consoling her," Ron added bitterly. "While Winnick's parents were losing their minds, Gilda's were treating her like she was the victim."

Hermione's face twisted with disgust. "That's revolting."

Harry nodded. "From what I heard, they barely acknowledged what had happened. Gilda was shaken—of course she was—but her parents were all over her, comforting her, shielding her from everything. They walked her out of the arena like she'd just finished a Quidditch match."

"And no one stopped them?" Hermione snapped.

"Who could?" Ron said with a shrug. "The Harrow family is... well, they're Harrow. They've got influence everywhere. It didn't matter that everyone was screaming for consequences. They had enough people on their side to make sure nothing happened."

Hermione was silent for a moment, her jaw tightening as her mind raced. "And the Ministry? They're just letting this happen?"

"It's complicated," Harry admitted. "The Ministry regulates the tournament, but the rules are... flexible. And the Harrows are good at playing the system. They're saying it was a duel gone wrong, not intentional."

"Not intentional," Hermione repeated, her voice dripping with contempt. "She slammed Winnick into the ground over and over again. How is that not intentional?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, neither offering explanation.

Hermione shook her head. "Unbelievable. Winnick was brilliant. She would never..." She trailed off, her expression hardening. "This isn't just about the tournament. It's about power. Gilda's parents made sure she walked away without a scratch on her reputation."

"Not exactly," Ron muttered.

Hermione looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Well, geeze, Hermione. People know what happened. They might not be able to do anything officially, but... they're talking. Everyone's talking. Gilda might have gotten out of the arena, but she didn't walk away unscathed. Her reputation's... well, let's just say it's not what it was."

"She doesn't care about her reputation," Hermione said firmly. "Not if her parents are still proud of her. That's all she ever wanted."

Harry tilted his head. "How do you know that?"

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip before replying. "I overheard her once. In the library last year. She was talking to Eleanor Selwyn, saying something about how everything she did was for her family. How she had to be perfect for them." She shook her head. "It's pathetic, really. All that talent, all that ambition, wasted on living up to someone else's expectations."

"Pathetic or not, it worked," Ron said darkly. "Her parents got what they wanted—a champion. And now Snape's going to parade her around in front of the entire school like she's some kind of hero."

Hermione's fists clenched. "It's not right. How can Dumbledore allow this?"

Harry sighed. "Dumbledore's not going to stop a centuries-old tradition. And Snape's the one presenting the robe. You know he's not going to let anything get in the way of Slytherin glory."

Ron leaned back, crossing his arms. "I'm certain McGonagall's not going to take it lying down, though. She was close to Winnick. Bet she's fuming."

"Good," Hermione said sharply. "Someone needs to stand up for Winnick. If no one else will, at least McGonagall will."

The compartment fell silent again, the weight of the conversation pressing down on them. Hermione stared at the books piled next to her, her mind racing.

"I don't know how she's going to face everyone," she said quietly. "The entire school knows what she did. They're not going to look at her and see a champion. They're going to see a murderer."

Harry exchanged a look with Ron before replying. "Maybe. But she doesn't strike me as someone who cares what people think."

"She will eventually," Hermione muttered. "People like that always do."

As the train rattled onward, the tension in the compartment didn't ease. The three of them sat in heavy silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the shadow of Gilda Harrow looming over their journey to Hogwarts.