Hermione had spent the rest of her birthday pretending that nothing untoward had happened. She mentioned nothing of the hexed gift to anyone, instead she laughed herself hoarse with Ron, Maddy, and Harry at the Three Broomsticks, where they drank enough pints of Butterbeer to leave them almost as off-with-their-heads as Nearly Headless Nick. Afterwards, Maddy and Hermione had dragged Ron and Harry into Tomes and Scrolls, where she browsed through an enormous heap of books for what was—to her delight, but to Ron's utter torment—almost an hour.
By the end of the day, she had received even more presents, some arriving by owl post and others handed to her in person. All were unexpected—except, of course, Hagrid's. After lunch, an owl had arrived carrying a note written in penmanship almost as dreadful as Ron's. It read:
Happee Birthdae Herminee!
Te kip aul yer books in.
Hagrid.
Alongside the note was a rather oddly shaped package, which turned out to be a Curious Travel Tote—something Hermione did not technically need, now that she had extended her portmanteau, but still found useful and appreciated nonetheless. Later, she, Maddy, Ron, and Harry had popped over to Hagrid's to thank him for the gift.
At the Three Broomsticks, Luna had drifted up to their table in her typically Luna way and placed a colourfully wrapped box in front of Hermione.
Hermione had blinked at it. "What's this?"
Without missing a beat, Ron had scoffed, "A present, you troll-brained git."
Instead of scolding him, Hermione had flushed red and turned to Luna. "Oh—thank you. That's really kind of you. You shouldn't have."
Luna had waved a pale, slender hand airily. "I had a feeling I had to—it came to me when the waxing gibbous was in Capricorn, early Friday morning."
"Right," Hermione had said, forcing a tight smile.
"When what was waxing?" Ron had asked.
Hermione had then proceeded to shoot him an immediate Why-the-fuck-would-you-ask-that?-Now-she's-going-to-be-here-for-ages look. And sure enough, Luna had launched into a detailed recap of first-year Astronomy and third-year Divination, while Ron had struggled to keep up.
Meanwhile, Hermione had unwrapped the gift, revealing a box of See But Don't Drink Me coffee grinds. She had stared at it—a thoughtful gift, just not for her. This was something Maddy would have appreciated, given her love for coffee—and the fact that she had been the only one genuinely interested in Luna's insights on moon phases and the energies they brought. The strangest gift, however, arrived whilst they were walking back to Hogwarts from Hogsmeade.
A magnificent white eagle flew in, without stopping, and dropped a small parcel into Hermione's hands. The four of them stared after it as it disappeared into the sky.
"I didn't realise you had rich friends," Ron remarked. "Or any other friends at all—'cept us." Hermione frowned, watching the bird vanish from sight. "That's because I don't."
"Ooh, a secret gift. Open it!" Maddy exclaimed excitedly.
Hermione exchanged a look with Harry and Ron. Just like the hexed gift now hidden at the bottom of her school trunk, they all knew what secret presents for her had been like in the past. Particularly Tom Riddle's journal which had mysteriously appeared in her basket of books at Flourish and Blotts—only to be revealed as a gift from none other than the seven-times-widowed Ms Ignis Zabini…
Cautiously, Hermione unwrapped the parcel to reveal a small box. It was blood-red velvet, reminiscent of a ring box, with C. C. embroidered in silver on the lid.
"Fuck Merlin and all his slags," Ron muttered, his mouth falling open.
"Ron!" Maddy gasped.
Blushing, he mumbled an apology. "Sorry, babe, but that's a Cornelian Carat. Those things are—" "Fucking expensive," Hermione finished for him.
Without another moment's hesitation, she flipped open the box. Inside, resting on a black silk cushion, was a silver pocket watch. But not just any pocket watch—this one was oddly shaped. Almost oblong. Instead of a traditional chain, it was attached to a delicate silver necklace.
"Is that—an egg?" Harry asked, just as Ron said, "A pocket watch?"
Hermione opened the watch to reveal a simple silver face with visible clockwork. Turning it over, she searched for engravings, any clue as to who had sent it. But there was nothing. Not a scratch, not an initial.
"Well, whoever sent it doesn't know you very well," Ron said. "You were seventeen last year—bit late for a coming-of-age watch now."
"It's beautiful, though. Simple but…beautiful," Maddy breathed, admiring it. "Can I see?" Hermione passed it to her sister, watching as Maddy examined it with appreciative eyes—eyes that, Hermione could tell, were making Ron very nervous.
"Put it on," Maddy suggested.
"Uhm, I don't know if that's—"
"Oh, go on." Maddy stepped up to Hermione and, without waiting for permission, clasped the necklace around her neck.
There was a pause.
A long, dramatic one.
Ron and Harry stared at Hermione. Hermione stared back.
"I don't feel anything," she said after a moment. "I mean, it's cold, but that's it."
Maddy giggled. "That's because it's jewellery, silly. What were you expecting to feel?" Maddy stepped around Hermione and flipped the watch open again."I think it's white gold, actually—oh… That's strange…"
White gold? Hermione thought.
"What's strange?" Harry asked, stepping closer.
"The face—it's doubled—it's just doubled itself," Maddy said, frowning down at it. "That part—there—wasn't there before…"
They then took turns inspecting the watch.
"Ron, have you ever seen a watch like this before?" Hermione asked.
Ron shrugged. "Multiple hands, sure. We've got one at home. But this—a clock face within a clock face? Never."
"Strangest watch I know of is Dumbledore's," Harry said. "His is a pocket watch too, but it has twelve hands and no numbers—just planets."
"Why on Merlin's earth," Hermione began, staring hard at the egg-shaped pocket watch, "would someone anonymously send me an astronomically expensive pocket watch—shaped like an egg—with two faces?"
They all fell into silence, staring at one another for a good three minutes, the same thought running through each of their minds.
At the end of the day, Hermione had received one of her final birthday gifts—a surprise party. Harry and Ron had organised it in the Room of Requirement, inviting almost everyone who had once been part of Dumbledore's Army.
The celebration had been anything but quiet. The Weird Sisters and The Mandrakes had been playing on the wireless alongside the head-banging Double-Ended Brooms, the bass-heavy Tri-Snitches, and Ron's personal favourite, the Full Moon Bredrins—who, according to Hermione and Harry, sounded like the wizarding world's answer to Limp Bizkit.
Dobby had made an appearance as well, gifting Hermione a pair of woolly green socks, while the Hogwarts kitchens had secretly provided food for the occasion.
It had been well past midnight when Hermione had finally returned to her dormitory, relieved to find that, for once, no one had tampered with her personal space. Content, she had then collapsed into bed, still dressed in her day clothes, with her new pocket watch necklace resting against her collarbone.
And that night, when she had dreamt of Goyle's death—upon waking, she had merely yawned, turned over, and drifted back to sleep.
"Silence!"
The Great Hall instantly fell quiet. Professor McGonagall stood before the gathered sixth and seventh years at the head of the hall, a scroll in hand. Behind her, seated at the staff table, were Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Snape. Among them sat one individual Hermione recognised—Ginny and Ron begrudgingly did too—and another she did not. She glanced over at Harry and Ron, who were seated at the Gryffindor table. Ron nudged Harry with his elbow, muttering something in his best friend's ear while casting a dark look towards the staff table.
"We are gathered here this afternoon, seventh years," Professor McGonagall began, "for you to make a decisive choice regarding which scholastic game you wish to participate in and to officially sign up. Sixth years, today, a select few of you will be randomly chosen for the Beauxbatons student exchange programme.
Before we proceed, however, we have important visitors from the Ministry of Magic who will be addressing you first. May I introduce the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Mr Percy Weasley, and the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Mr Hamish MacFarlan."
She stepped aside as Percy and MacFarlan took to the podium together. Percy looked the same as ever—curly-haired and bespectacled—though beside his colleague, he appeared even smaller and more insignificant than usual. MacFarlan was a dark-haired Father Christmas. Though he did not wear a blindingly red suit trimmed with white fur, he carried a permanent, jolly smile on his podgy face. Percy, notably, was not smiling.
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. It is indeed good to be back at Hogwarts," Percy began, speaking loudly and clearly—with the same mild obnoxiousness he had possessed back when he had been a Gryffindor prefect.
As he spoke, however, Hermione noticed that he was doing an excellent job of completely ignoring his former house's table.
"And good afternoon to you all, sixth and seventh years. To the sixth years, the Ministry wishes to impress upon you the great honour and rare opportunity that lies ahead. Of course, I speak to the top O-grade students when I say this." He straightened his shoulders. "You will be representing not just Hogwarts, but by extension, the Ministry of Magic and the wizarding community of this great country."
Percy gave a tense nod and continued unsmilingly. "That is to say, those of you fortunate enough to be selected will need no reminder of what your best behaviour should look like."
At that very moment, Hermione glanced at Ron, who glanced back at her. Together, they shared the exact same unimpressed look.
"This, of course, also applies to all seventh years who choose to attend Mahoutokoro School of Magic, located on the small but remarkable volcanic island of Minami Iwo Jima, or Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, nestled amongst the beautiful mountains of the Pyrenees in the south of France. You too will be there as representatives of your school, your Ministry, and your country."
A heavy pause followed—one in which Percy deliberately surveyed each house table, except for Gryffindor, as if silently issuing a warning.
"Now, my colleague, Mr MacFarlan, will address you all and explain the rules and regulations of both the Potions Championship and the Triwizard Tournament," he said.
Stepping aside, Percy barely had time to brace himself before MacFarlan clapped a broad hand against his back, making him shudder like a pencil trapped in an automatic sharpener. A deep, bellowing laugh erupted from MacFarlan—one that seemed far more fitting for the occasion than Percy's rigid demeanour.
"Thank ye, Mr. Weasley. Ah'm sure we're all just itching tae apply for the games now—ah know ah am," MacFarlan said with a wide grin and a wink.
Percy's expression grew even more serious as he nodded stiffly and promptly stepped far out of his colleague's reach.
"Now, lads and lasses," MacFarlan continued, clapping his large hands together. "Who's looking forward tae the tournament, the championship, and the exchange trip?"
Students across the hall exchanged uncertain glances and shrugged at one another before turning back to the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
"Ahh—come on, yees lot! Who's looking forward tae the tournament, the championship, and the exchange trip?" MacFarlan bellowed, pumping both fists into the air.
This time, most of the students erupted with a mixture of "Yeah!", "We are!", and "Woohoo!" alongside a healthy round of clapping.
"That's more like it! Now, ontae the important stuff," MacFarlan continued. "Ah want yees tae remember—when yees are out there, fighting tooth an' nail for the Triwizard Cup—"
Beside him, Percy nodded very seriously, his gaze sweeping over the students.
"When yer brains are whizz-zap-zapping, workin' fast tae figure the potion out—"
Percy kept nodding.
"And when ye're breakin' yer back at Beauxbatons, carryin' the reputation of yer school—yer Ministry—and yer country! Ah want yees tae remember most of all—"
Percy turned to his colleague with an approving, almost proud expression.
"Tae have fun!" MacFarlan bellowed.
A cheer rang through the hall as students broke into enthusiastic applause. Beside MacFarlan, Percy looked absolutely appalled. MacFarlan, unfazed, placed his hands on his stomach and let out a deep chuckle. Behind them, at the teacher's table, Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile too.
"And now—for the boring stuff." MacFarlan added clearing his throat.
The hall fell quiet once more.
"For our potioneers wishing tae enter the Potions Championship, that golden cauldron comes at a very costly price. Lives have been lost in the fight for it. I need not remind ye how dangerous an imperfectly brewed potion can be! So—think very carefully before ye apply. Once signed, the contract is magically binding. And nae—there'll be nae way out once ye are chosen tae compete—which brings me tae those who fancy themselves brave enough tae seek the Triwizard Cup!"
This time, when MacFarlan paused, the hall held its breath. Every student leaned in, anticipation thick in the air.
MacFarlan's voice, low and grave, carried clearly through the Great Hall. "The last tournament, back in 1792… Well, we all know why it was in the eighteenth century."
A pause.
Then, MacFarlan clapped—one hard strike of his broad hands echoing through the chamber. Students flinched in their seats—Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout, too.
"Hence why I'm here today—tae impress upon ye that when ye write yer name down and slip it into the magnificent Goblet of Fire, ye do so knowing yer life is worth the cost. Because once chosen—there's nae way out! It'll be every lad and lass for themselves! Ahh, but what glory awaits the one who claims the Triwizard Cup!"
Another round of applause and cheers erupted through the hall.
"Now—ah believe that's all ah have tae say. Good luck tae yees all—ah shall pass the stage back tae yer bonnie deputy headmistress." MacFarlan stepped aside, shoving Percy out of the way to make space for Professor McGonagall.
Professor McGonagall—her cheeks unusually flushed—nodded stiffly to the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Amazingly, MacFarlan gave her a wink. She pretended not to notice, clearing her throat as she placed the Sorting Hat upon a stool and unfurled the scroll she had been holding.
"Thank ye, Ministers," she said, without sparing them a glance. The two wizards returned to their seats. "Now, let us begin with sixth years—I shall read out the names of all who applied and qualified for the student exchange programme tae Beauxbatons. After which, the sorting hat will randomly select ten names from that list. Ye would do well tae keep very quiet in the process—lest ye miss yer name." She spoke sternly.
The Great Hall fell silent once more as Professor McGonagall worked her way through her extensive list of sixth-year names. All the while, Hermione sat rigid in her seat, wholly convinced she was sweating through her trousers onto the bench.
Championship.
Tournament.
No, no—Hogwarts.
Championship.
She argued with herself as Professor McGonagall continued reading out names.
I should stay here—that way I can be with Maddy too.
No, you should bloody well go with Harry and Ron to Beauxbatons.
You just need to be smart, Hermione. S. M. A. R. T. You go wherever Dumbledore goes.
Her internal debate was so loud that she was oblivious when Professor McGonagall finally reached the end of the list. She did not hear the Sorting Hat as it began announcing names—nor the bursts of claps and cheers that followed. She was even unaware when Luna and Ginny's names were called. Only when students started standing up and moving about did she snap back to reality.
"What's going on?" She asked aloud—more to herself than anyone else.
Nevertheless, one of her peers deigned to respond.
Theodore Nott looked at her as though she were something unpleasant stuck to his shoe as he explained, "You know when professors say there's no such thing as a stupid question? Yeah, well, that was a fucking stupid question, Mudblood."
Still half-distracted by her internal turmoil, Hermione impulsively rolled her eyes and spoke without thinking as she quipped back, "At least I don't look and sound stupid, Thumbelina Twatt."
Nott's mouth fell open at the uncharacteristic retort, and he spat something back, but Hermione had already walked away, too far to hear. She pushed through the crowd and found Harry and Ron.
"I wasn't paying attention—what's going on?" She asked.
"We've got to line up and sign up—over there for the championship—and over here for the tournament," Harry explained, pointing to two swiftly forming queues, the one for the tournament significantly longer.
"Did McGonagall say which professor will be going where?" Hermione asked anxiously. "Merlin, Herpes, what have you been doing for the past half hour? Mental alchemy?" Ron asked, shaking his head. "Slughorn's taking the seventh-years to the championship—no surprise there—and McGonagall's taking us to Beauxbatons."
Hermione snapped her head towards him. "What?"
"Herpes, are you all right?" Ron frowned down at her. "You look—you don't look too well."
It was true. Hermione did not feel well. At all. A loud ringing filled her ears, drowning out the noise around her. Something was pressing down on her, a force so immense it felt like she was being crushed flat. The weight of it, suffocating.
"Hermione?" She barely registered Harry's voice, muffled and distant, as though he were calling to her from underwater.
A hand grabbed her shoulder. Someone was tapping her. Then shaking her. She gasped—but no air came. Breathing had suddenly become a task she could not seem to get right. Championship.
Tournament.
Hogwarts.
Championship.
Tournament.
Hogwarts.
Hermione opened her mouth, tried to speak—but she could not hear herself. Everything was loud. And silent. As though she could not perceive the noise but she could feel the vibrations, thrumming through her veins. Momentous. This moment was momentous. Hermione could feel it. It was this feeling. This sense of intense foreboding. Something was coming. It felt like something was coming. Something crucial, like her N.E.W.T.s—but devastatingly more important. Something as vital as life and death. Hermione frowned at herself.
Life and death.
Death?
She had a choice to make. And she had to make it now. But what? Where should she go? Where did she need to go?
Suddenly, the jolting at her shoulders stopped, and something pale and almost white filled her vision. A soft scent followed—lilac and lavender. Luna. Hermione focused on Luna's lips as she spoke. At first, she could not understand a thing. Then, slowly, the ringing in her ears subsided, and words began to make sense again.
"Breathe," Hermione heard. "Breathe, Hermione. It's all right. Everything's going to be alright. I promise."
Hermione nodded. Then, she followed Luna's instructions, her lungs slowly beginning to function properly again.
"Nothing's going to hurt you," Luna reassured her softly.
Hermione nodded once more, then blinked as the suffocating haze lifted. She looked at Luna and mumbled, "Thanks."
Ron, Ginny, and Harry were staring at her, their concern evident.
"Are you all right?" Harry asked.
Hermione shook her head, but forced a smile and murmured, "Yes."
"Herpes, no one shakes their head when they're saying yes—unless they're lying," Ron remarked, still watching her as if she might collapse at any given moment, like a damsel in distress.
Hermione swallowed, taking a deep breath. Luna's hands were still on her shoulders—soft, gentle, warm. Hermione did not move away from them, not as she usually would have.
Luna smiled and announced loudly, "She's just having a moment—a hug should help."
Then before Hermione could object or step away, Luna wrapped her in a swift embrace.
Against her ear, she whispered, low enough for only Hermione to hear, "The Tournament. You need to enter the Triwizard Tournament."
All too swiftly Luna pulled back with one last knowing smile before turning to Ginny and tugging her away from the queue they had been obstructing.
Hermione blinked. Then, Harry was in front of her.
"Hermy? Hermione? Are you sure you're alright?" He asked, worried.
This time, she nodded as she said, "Now I am."
Harry pulled her into a hug. Hermione froze at the unexpected contact—then, slowly, relaxed, allowing herself to return it.
"I'm fine," she murmured into the warmth and scent of his school jumper. "I'll be fine."
"Oh, great," Ron muttered darkly.
"What?" Hermione and Harry asked in unison, pulling apart.
They followed Ron's gaze—towards someone further up the line. No, not someone—someones. Hermione did not smile. She did not frown. But her eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing. Gleamed the way her Patronus scorpion would.
"Well, it was a long shot—obviously Prince and Pug were going to try and enter the tournament with their lot," Ron grumbled. "For Merlin's sake, I was hoping for at least one year free of them."
Hermione could feel Harry's gaze on her.
"I'll be fine," she murmured again.
Because she would be. Especially now. Now that she had broken the hex on the birthday gift left on her bed. A gift that had turned out to be an original copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art by Owle Bullock. A book that rare—that dangerous—could only have come from one person. The wealthiest wizard she knew. Blaise Zabini.
Now, with his head tilted slightly, Zabini looked straight at her, a small but wicked smirk curling on his perfect lips. He lifted a hand lazily—then waved, fingers shifting up and down in a slow, half-hearted motion. Parkinson, catching the movement, turned from Zabini to Hermione. She grinned. There was not a sliver of kindness in it.
"Pure-blooded fucking pricks," Ron muttered.
Hermione did not flinch from their stares. Not even when the number of Slytherins glancing back their way grew—first Zabini, then Parkinson, then others, Bulstrode, Greengrass, Goyle, Crabbe, until an entire cluster of them were staring, smirking. Ron stared them down. Harry frowned. And Hermione? Well, Hermione made a promise to herself.
I'll go to the tournament, but you'll let me finally give it back to them.
Deep inside, the Slytherin in her smiled—just as Parkinson was smiling now.
Deal.