Chapter Text
Hermione woke on Halloween with a scream. Heart racing, gasping for air, she sat up, blankets clutched in a death grip between her fingers. A strange constriction tightened around her chest, making it hard to breathe. Tears welled in her eyes as she made a desperate attempt to regulate her breathing. Her nerves burned with white-hot pain; her skin chilled to ice, the cold creeping up her spine. Then, as if fleeing from the dawn, the pain retreated, and her muscles relaxed.
The tears fell from her eyes, slipping down her cheek as she looked about. The curtains were drawn over the four-poster bed. For a brief moment, Hermione wondered if anyone heard. From the silence and soft snores, it was safe to conclude a sound ‘no’. Her brain searched frantically for a reason behind the reaction. It couldn’t have been a heart attack. She was only fifteen, after all. A panic attack, perhaps? Hermione had not had one for years, not since her first year at Hogwarts, but the vague memory of a dream, something to do with a black figure, a dark glade, and the scent of lilacs and something akin to spring rain. It must have been, perhaps conjured from that horrific lesson with Professor Moody, witnessing the Unforgivable Curses. The memory left as soon as it came, and Hermione rose from bed, determined to forget.
She joined Harry and Ron a half hour later and found they were not the only students to rise early. The entrance hall boasted more bodies than Hermione had ever seen this early, all chattering and gossiping about the Goblet of Fire. She almost forgot, too concerned with her panic attack. But there the goblet sat, stationed on a three-legged stool, its blue and white flames dancing eagerly, hungrily awaiting the names of those daring enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament. The goblet’s only line of defense was Dumbledore’s Age Line. The thin, gold circle had only a diameter of ten inches, but those ten inches stood in the way of every under-aged student’s aspirations of glory.
Hermione huffed at Ron’s wishful gaze. Honestly, it frustrated her - Ron’s irrational need for justification. She wished he could appreciate his own talents, his own skills, and opportunities. He was an excellent strategist, had a sound mind he unsoundly refused to use, and had passion and determination most people lacked. Instead, he became overwhelmed with what he wasn’t: he wasn’t rich like Malfoy, he wasn’t famous like Harry, he wasn’t popular like his brothers, he wasn’t a good student like her - the list went on and on, and now he would never be the school champion. Hermione was getting frustrated by the blinders he wore, and after her panic attack, she had less patience for his complaints than usual. Harry appeared the only sensible one among the boys. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding his disappointment, but he at least wasn’t staring at the goblet like a heartbroken schoolboy.
“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third-year girl eagerly.
“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”
“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” Harry mumbled. “I would’ve if it had been me…wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?” Hermione was about to comment; however, a laugh from behind them interrupted. Turning, she saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan practically flying down the staircase, grinning like fools. Hermione cringed, realizing what was to come.
“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Just taken it.”
“What?” Ron asked, his nose scrunching. It was a habit of his, she noticed. Hermione couldn’t say she hated it. Ron looked a bit like a rabbit, and she thought it adorable.
“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” Fred responded.
“One drop each,” George continued, rubbing his hands together, looking far too excited. “We only need to be a few months older.”
“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” Lee jumped in, flashing them a white-toothed smile.
“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” Hermione finally spoke, “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”
She should have known they would ignore her. All three were far too star-struck to even hear logic. Teacher’s pet Hermione Granger knew nothing of breaking rules, she thought spitefully, so why listen to her? It’s not like she had read about Age Lines. It wasn’t as if she knew there was a defining method incorporated in the Age Line to deduce someone’s age, and since physical age was too obvious she was sure Dumbledore would be prepared for aging potions. What the method of determination was, Hermione could only guess at. So, the bushy-haired witch held her tongue. She knew when her advice wasn’t wanted.
“Ready?” Fred was practically hopping with excitement. “C’mon, then - I’ll go first -” He withdrew what Hermione could only assume was his submission to the goblet and walked right up to the line. He rocked on his toes, and Hermione thought, for a wild moment, he would resign. But sensibility was never a Weasley strong suit. Every eye was on him as he took that fateful leap over the Age Line. When nothing happened, Hermione gasped. It couldn’t be that simple! Surely Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of their time, wouldn’t be fooled by a simple aging potion? George let out a triumphant cry and joined his brother beyond the line.
Their victory was short-lived. With a sizzling sound, both boys were hurled from the goblet, landing with a painful popping noise ten feet away. It was only a moment later that Hermione realized the popping noise wasn’t their joints or bones, but a jinx that caused the twins to grow large, bushy, white beards. The entrance hall erupted with laughter. Hermione felt a smug smile cross her own lips as Fred and George joined the ululation.
“I did warn you,” Spinning on her toes, Hermione found Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall, eyes twinkling in amusement. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”
“I knew it!” Hermione whispered in victory, watching the twins head towards the hospital wing, accompanied by a chortling Lee Jordan. Her eyes darted to Harry and Ron. Both of their faces scrunched in confusion. She just sent them a small smile before following them into the Great Hall.
She was excited to learn of Angelina’s entrance. If any student could survive this competition, it would be a Gryffindor. All the while, as Harry and Ron chatted about the tournament, Hermione found her thoughts returning to the Age Line. Three attempted aging potions had been thwarted by the line, and that was a clear indication that physical age wasn’t the defining factor of admission. How could the Age Line decide if someone was of age or not if someone’s physical age was irrelevant? She pondered this all through breakfast until they left the Great Hall. As she, Harry and Ron passed the goblet once more, dreading another Care of Magical Creatures lesson with the Blast-Ended Skrewts, an idea struck.
“Memory,” she gasped, stopping dead in her tracks, staring in wonder at the Age Line.
“What?” Ron asked, scrunching his nose once more. “What’re you on about?”
“The Age Line!” Hermione said, excitedly. “It’s fascinating! Think about it: four people tried the same aging potion, but to no effect! The Age Line knew they were underage, even with their bodies aged! It doesn’t depend on physical age - it depends on memory! All four people still remembered their age! A very strong memory charm must be incorporated with the Age Line!”
“Blimey!” Ron exclaimed, shoulders sagging. Of course, Hermione thought, the simple thrill she experienced from the discovery hadn’t thrilled her friends in the same manner. Harry seemed passively impressed, but the revelation sent Ron into a tantrum. “That’s not fair!”
“Ron,” Hermione began, slightly exasperated, “It’s not meant to be fair. It’s meant to keep under-aged wizards and witches out. It’s reinforcing the age limitation - the only logical part of this whole tournament, might I add!”
“It’s impossible! How are we supposed to get around that?!” Ron exclaimed.
“A memory charm to take away the memory and one to replace it with your new age, of course, however that is too dangerous and too advanced for anyone to even attempt! That. Is. The. Point!”
Suddenly the doors to the Great Hall swung open and the delegation from Beauxbatons entered from the grounds, all marching in two straight lines. A flash of memory struck an amused Hermione, remembering Ludwig Bemelmans’ Madeline: “They left the house at half past nine, in two straight lines in rain or shine - and the smallest one was Madeline.” She looked to the end of the line, expecting to see frizzled red hair, but instead saw a flicker of silver-gold, and crystal blue eyes. The girl from the night before, the one who asked for the bouillabaisse, was among the delegation, sashaying at the back of the line, like a lion surveying her pride. Hermione felt her face flush, a frown catching the corner of her lips. There was something off about that girl - she felt it the night before, as well, when the students from Beauxbatons arrived, shivering and huddled together, certainly in no straight line.
“I could do that!” Ron exclaimed loudly, eyes following the blond witch as she and the other Beauxbaton students lined up at the goblet, the fire hungrily consuming their names. Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes.
“No, you couldn’t, Ron,” she said firmly.
“It seems dangerous,” Harry admitted, turning to Ron. “You saw what happened to Lockhart.”
“That’s different!” Ron insisted, “This one will only be temporary, right?”
“There’s no such thing as a temporary memory charm. There's a theoretical spell that might repair the memory if it’s small enough, but it's extremely risky!”
“How do you know so much, then?” Ron challenged, flushed. She noticed it was a natural defense mechanism with him - attacking others when he felt small. He seemed more touchy than usual, perhaps because the French students were watching their argument. She tried not to take it personally, though she grew uncomfortable with the volume of his voice.
“I’ve read about them, of course!” She hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “Professor Flitwick has given me a few advanced charm books, and there’s no way you could pull it off!”
“Brightest witch of our year afraid to try, is she?” Ron scoffed, a scowl and a pout combining on his face to make a very unattractive expression. “Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean Harry and I are! We’d do it!”
“What?” Harry gaped, “Don’t drag me into this!”
“I never said I would do it! And you don’t even know the spell, Ronald!” Hermione hissed.
“And you do?!”
“Yes!” She exclaimed, instantly regretting raising her voice. All eyes were on her, including those crystal blue eyes looking down at her in amusement.
Amusement?! What exactly did she find so amusing, Hermione wondered, flustered and thoroughly offended. Meeting those eyes, Hermione scowled, refusing to look away. At that moment, the blond witch sent her something - something that filled her with irrational anger.
A smirk.
She bloody smirked.
That little Barbie doll had the nerve, the utter gall, to smirk at her! Hermione had been smirked at before. Malfoy practically trademarked his, but the blond’s smirk was like nothing she had ever seen. The blond simply rolled her eyes as she stepped over the Age Line, submitting her name with a flourish. The rest of the Beauxbatons students were led from the hall, back towards the grounds. Indignation filled her, and with a huff, she turned back to Ron, who had said something, scribbling ink across a piece of parchment.
“What did you say?”
“Prove it!” Ron exclaimed, holding out the parchment. On it, in shaky handwriting, read Hermione Granger - Hogwarts.
“Are you mental?!” she shrieked, “I don’t want to enter!”
“Want to - or can’t?!” Ron challenged. “You act smarter than everyone, Hermione, so why not prove it?”
“What would this solve, Ronald? I’m not going to attempt a spell I’ve never used and submit my name to this awful tournament just to prove I’m right!”
“I knew it,” he finally said, crossing his arms. “You’re bluffing. You just like to sound smart, so you pushed that drivel about the Age Line. You’re not willing to put it to the test.”
Hermione’s head snapped around at the sound of uncontrollable giggling. The blond witch had lingered in the hall, standing with three other girls and a boy, watching her and Ron’s exchange. She heard them whisper something, only catching one word in every four. They quickly switched to French, seeing Hermione’s eyes.
“How silly,” the boy said in French, leaning towards the others, not bothering to monitor his voice. “Children bickering in the middle of the hall.”
“Is that little girl entering?”
“Of course not,” the blond witch responded. “This is no game for babies.”
“Babies?!” Hermione scoffed, eyebrows furrowed at the French students. They seemed surprised, caught off guard by the fact that Hermione understood them. They even looked a little ashamed. Not the blond, however. She simply raised an eyebrow, returning Hermione’s gaze.
“Oui. Bebes,” she finished, that bloody smirk returning to her lips. Hermione huffed, almost stomping her foot in frustration. Instead, she snatched the parchment from Ron’s baffled hand and saw his eyes grow wide.
“Wait, Hermione, I didn’t mean-”
“Shut up, Ronald Weasley!” she hissed, turning to the Goblet of Fire. For a brief moment, her rational mind protested. “This is crazy,” it said. “You’ve only read the theory, never actually tried it before! A professor could walk in from breakfast at any moment, you’re going to be late for class, you could make a mess of your memories, or worse, get expelled!” A thousand reasonable thoughts floated in her mind. The only thought that surged forward, however, was that bloody smirk. A baby, was she? She was the brightest witch of her generation, and by Merlin, she would prove it and wipe that smirk right from blondie’s pretty face.
With a sigh to calm her nerves, Hermione pointed her vinewood wand to her own forehead, the tip cool against her skin. It warmed, sensing her intention. There was a sudden pulse of fear, but she threw it aside as she whispered, “Obliviate,” concentrating as hard as she could on her own age: fifteen. A wave of fog rolled over her mind, and for a moment, it was left blank. She couldn’t hear Harry yell her name or Ron rushing to keep him back. She couldn’t hear heels clicking up behind her, she couldn’t hear the gasps of the other students. Instead, all she heard was her own voice inside her head. Implantantur Memoriae. She knew the words, knew she was supposed to focus on the memory she wished to implant. With a surge of willpower, Hermione whispered, “Implantantur Memoriae,” and thought very hard on what would happen on her seventeenth birthday.
Harry and Ron, older than they were, now entered her vision, both scruffy with facial hair, wave a birthday cake under her nose. The twins play exploding snaps in the corner. Her mother and father, smiling, hold a small gift. Mr. Weasley tries to operate the blender in her parents’ kitchen and Mrs. Weasley slaps his hands away. People all around wish her the best as she came of age and sang her the birthday song. She stands there awkwardly, never liking to be sang to. She smiles and blows out her candles. Raising her eyes, she was met with silver-blond hair and a crystal blue gaze.
Blue eyes scanned her face, one hand gripping her shoulders, the other gripping her wand arm. For a moment, Hermione simply stared at the woman, dazed by the fog rolling across her mind. Then her eyes fell to the slip of parchment in her hands. Blankly, she stepped over the Age Line and watched as the Goblet of Fire consumed her name. She stumbled back, and the blond witch caught her. Hermione heard Harry and Ron rush to meet her, but she held out her hand.
“Not yet,” she gasped, trying to keep her memories straight in her head. She couldn’t look at them. She knew that seeing the boys' youthful, childish faces would rattle her sensitive mind. She had to remember the proper spell - the one to repair her memories. It, in itself, was a theory, but one Hermione hoped would work. She took up her vinewood wand once again. The blond almost stopped her, but Hermione cast her a hard glare, shaking her head. “Just…hold me up, will you?” She saw an argument dancing at the woman’s lips and the troubled look on her face. Hermione spitefully wondered whether she was bothered by having a child cling to her so. But the woman’s hold tightened, giving her some comfort that she wouldn’t collapse. Hermione brought her wand to her forehead once more and searched her memories, as jumbled as they were, piecing together the spell, letter by letter.
“Memoria reparare,” the blond whispered in her ear, tightening her grip.
“Right,” Hermione breathed, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks, feeling the woman’s breath on her skin. “Memoria reparare,” she repeated, and everything went dark.
Many things played through her mind. She saw her fourth birthday party, a cool September day in 1983, when her grandmother presented her with her first book: Dr Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham. She saw children laughing at her outside her primary school, throwing acorns into her hair as she clutched books tightly to her chest. She saw Professor McGonagall sitting in her living room, morphing into a cat before her very eyes. She changed back into an old woman before lighting the fire in the hearth, saying Hermione would learn to do the same. She saw the Great Hall and heard the sorting hat yell, “GRYFFINDOR!” Her heart beat like a drum in her ears, hearing the troll enter the girls bathroom - felt panic as her face grew cat fur and a bushy tail sprung from beneath her skirt - the chilled metal of the time turner in her hands - the absolute awe of seeing Harry summon a corporeal Patronus - and finally, a pair of crystal blue eyes staring down at her.
She heard noises, a verbal spat of some sort. She vaguely recognized the Scottish tone but had never heard it so high-pitched. She heard a calmer, dreamy voice attempting to reassure and comfort, but to no avail.
“This is Flitwick’s fault! Giving the girl advanced charm spell books!”
“You admitted yourself, Minerva,” the calm, smooth voice responded, sounding almost amused, “to have encouraged Miss Granger to steeper feats of knowledge. You, after all, were the one to recommend her for the time turner last year.”
“Well,” Professor McGonagall sputtered, “that isn't the same! At any rate, Mr Weasley should not have provoked her!”
“I'm afraid the only one to blame, Minerva, is Miss Granger herself.”
“He's right, professor,” she mumbled, “I'm the one who couldn't control my foolish pride.”
“Miss Granger!” She heard the professor rush to her bedside, but she didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to see the older woman’s disappointment. “Foolish indeed! A memory charm?! Two of them?!”
“Three, I believe,” she admitted, though unwillingly so.
“What possessed you to do such a thing?!” The last thing that passed through her mind's eye was a pair of pink lips and a smirk that sent irrational waves of ire crashing through her. Her eyes snapped open. She was in the hospital wing, staring up at the arching stone ceiling, Professor McGonagall’s tight-lipped disapproval looming above her. Hermione could not help but notice concern flickering in her eyes.
“I...Ron, I suppose. He was, as you said, goading me on. I knew what I was doing, knew he was just being childish, trying to look impressive. I shouldn't have tried to play the know-it-all.”
“No, you should not have!” McGonagall exclaimed, but Dumbledore stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.
“I believe the lecture can wait, Minerva. Miss Granger, how old are you?” She paused at the question, eyes staring blankly at Professor Dumbledore. Seventeen, she thought, but knew that was wrong. She knew it now. She still remembered bits of the birthday party imagined in her mind, with an older, more rugged Harry and an older Ron, far taller than either of them. But this was a fantasy, invented to fool the Age Line. Taking a deep breath, she sighed before responding.
“Fifteen.” She relaxed when the Headmaster nodded.
“Well done, Miss Granger. Not many wizards could boast such an accomplishment. How did you pass the Age Line, might I ask? Mr Weasley and Mr Potter were only able to tell it was a memory charm.”
“Three,” McGonagall repeated tersely, and Hermione knew she would have a time earning the professor's trust once more.
“I...obliviated the memory I was fifteen and to trick the goblet I implanted memories of my seventeenth birthday, making the Age Line believe I was of age. Then, after putting my name in-” Hermione froze, shooting to sit up in her bed. “Dear Merlin, I put my name into the Goblet of Fire!” She shrieked, “I am going to strangle that little French tart!”
“French tart?” McGonagall repeated in bewilderment.
“I assume you refer to Miss Delacour, of Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “She escorted you here, with Mr Potter and Mr Weasley.”
“Yes, well,” Hermione felt her face flush, rushing to continue her explanation. “After I put my name in, I used a rather questionable memory charm. I read a research paper a few days back. It only had a 70% response rate, but I suspected that was because of a fallibility in the method. Though since I'm in the hospital wing...I'm afraid to ask if it worked.”
“Spectacularly, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore answered, a smile touching his lips, “though I’m remorseful to have missed what sort of beard you would have grown. With your vivacious hair, it would have been just as spectacular, I'm sure.” Hermione couldn't help but grin, though her amusement was short-lived.
“Spectacular?!” McGonagall explained, glaring at Dumbledore. “She's been unconscious for hours!”
“Oh, no!” Hermione said, attempting to jump out of bed, “My lessons! I've missed two already!”
“Not so fast, Granger!” Madame Pomfrey screamed, appearing out of nowhere, pushing the witch back into bed. “You are not to move for another hour! And take this to sleep. Most like your memories still need time to sort themselves out. Dreamless sleep will do you wonders.”
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, “ Professor Dumbledore smiled, “And thank you, Miss Granger. It seems this day, you have taught me something.” She flushed at the admission and felt a strange swell of pride erupt in her chest. “I must go correct the Age Line, as you have shown a strong weakness in its defense. Feel better.” Once the headmaster left, Professor McGonagall moved to sit at Hermione’s bedside.
“Sleep, child,” she instructed, pointing to Madame Pomfrey’s sleeping draught. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione muttered, fiddling with the cup in her hands.
“Nothing to be done now,” McGonagall sighed. “Rest. With luck, you’ll feel better before the feast tonight.”
With a small smile, Hermione drank the sleeping draught, falling into a dreamless slumber. After the panic of her forgotten nightmare, the peaceful rest seemed divine. Memories flashed before her eyes, playing like a film for her amusement. When she woke, she found Professor McGonagall glaring sharply across her bed at Harry and Ron, who nervously stood a good distance away from the Scottish witch.
“Hi,” she rasped, voice hoarse from sleep.
“Hermione!” Both boys exclaimed, rushing to her bed, ignoring McGonagall’s glare.
“Merlin’s beard, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, “I didn’t want you to - I didn’t mean-”
“It’s fine, Ron,” she smiled, taking his hand in hers. His jaw was clenched tightly, face flushed as red as his hair.
“But it’s my fault-”
“No, it isn’t,” Hermione interrupted, giving his hand a squeeze.
“Debatable,” McGonagall muttered hotly, but Hermione ignored her, sitting up in bed.
“Have I missed the feast?” she asked, hoping to divert McGonagall’s heated stare.
“No,” she answered, standing from her chair. “Though you might want to hurry if you wish to attend. I’m afraid I must take my leave. If there are any further complications with your memory, please inform me immediately.”
“I will, Professor,” she nodded. Hermione almost laughed as Harry and Ron visibly relaxed as McGonagall took her leave.
“Blimey,” Ron exclaimed, withdrawing his hand from Hermione’s. “Thought she’d maul us!”
“How are you feeling?” Harry asked as Hermione stood, feeling a bit uncertain on her feet.
“Foolish,” she confessed. “That was a childish, dangerous and completely juvenile thing to do.” Like a baby, she thought spitefully.
“But it was wicked!” Ron grinned encouragingly, and Hermione felt that sense of pride once more. “You fooled the Age Line! Reckon you could do it again?! Get my name in?”
“Dumbledore has already mended that little loophole, I think,” Hermione confessed. “He was here earlier.”
“Did you get in trouble?” Ron asked, cringing. She could tell he felt guilty. It was a nice change, though she wished it hadn’t taken three memory charms and a visit to the Hospital Wing to achieve.
“No, he simply wanted to know how I got passed and regretted not seeing what my bushy beard would look like.” All three laughed at that and the mood felt lighter than it had all day.
Packing up her things and accepting one more sleeping draught from Madame Pomfrey for later that night, Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way down to the Great Hall. It didn’t take long for her to notice the odd looks, people whispering behind their hands. As soon as they made it to Gryffindor table Fred and George jumped from their seats, rushing towards her.
“We saw them bring you into the Hospital Wing when we were getting our beards trimmed!” Fred exclaimed, a grin on his face.
“Did you do it?” George asked.
“Did you get your name into the Goblet of Fire?” Fred continued.
“I’d rather not think about it,” Hermione cringed, “I’ll be happy when this whole sordid affair is good and done.”
“So you did?!” they exclaimed, eyes wide.
“Yeah!” Ron answered, grinning from ear to ear. “She did! Shame I didn’t give her my name, too!” Fred and George gapped for a moment before throwing themselves down at her feet. She jumped when they knelt in front of her.
“We bow to your brilliance!” George exclaimed, causing the surrounding Gryffindors to laugh.
“Please forgive our ignorance!” Fred continued.
“We bow down! Bow before the Breaker of Rules! All hail the new Queen!” George exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Together, Fred and George walked behind Hermione and, before she could protest, she was hoisted into the air.
“Boys!” She shrieked, pushing down her pleated skirt as she sat on their shoulders, each supporting a leg. They were kind enough to ensure her decency was preserved as they marched her up the Gryffindor table.
“All hail the Queen!” They yelled, to the cheers and jeers of Gryffindor House.
“All Hail!” Half the table exclaimed, the other half looked positively perplexed. She heard Harry and Ron joining in and felt her face flush bright red. This only went on for a short time. She was eventually allowed to dismount from the twin’s shoulders. She slapped their shoulders furiously, though felt honored to have been included in the joke for once. Her cheeks didn’t pale to a normal color until everyone was distracted with copious amounts of food. Thankfully, Harry and Ron diverted questions of her earlier foolishness. For a brief moment, she could just enjoy the feast until the golden plates vanished and Dumbledore stood.
“Hermione,” Ron whispered, nudging her arm. “Hermione, what if you’re chosen?” He sounded slightly envious but she could tell he was more worried for her than jealous or excited.
“Ron, most every seventh year has entered their name. I highly doubt a fourth year would be chosen in such company,” she responded, though felt a jolt of fear. What if? Hermione was sure Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it. She had nothing to fear. Not only that, she was positive there were competitors better qualified to overshadow her name. This was her only comfort as Dumbledore began to speak.
“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” he began, “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions.” With a majestic wave of his wand, all the candles except those inside the pumpkins were extinguished, setting the ambience. The Goblet of Fire seemed much larger as the candlelight retreated, much more intimidating, the blue and white fire raging widely.
“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, three seats away.
The goblet suddenly breathed red flame, sparks shooting from the cup. A tongue of flame whipped into the air, and a charred piece of parchment spat from its mouth. The room gasped as Dumbledore caught the parchment in one hand and held it at arm's length to read.
“The champion for Durmstrang,” he announced, his soft voice booming through the great hall, “will be Viktor Krum.”
“No surprises there!” Ron yelled. Thunderous applause was met by the announcement. Hermione saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table, stomping up to the staff table before disappearing into the side room. Hermione heard Karkaroff yelling over the roaring hall but the raging crowd quieted as the goblet turned red once more. The second piece of parchment was ejected from the flame.
“The champion for Beauxbatons,” announced Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”
“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted over the applause. Hermione followed his pointed finger, her eyes growing wide. It was the French witch from earlier, shaking her silver-blond hair as she gracefully sashayed between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. With her nose in the air, this Fleur Delacour presented a triumphant smirk to the hall.
“What a pompous, self-satisfied, little-”
“Beauty,” Ron finished for her, eyes dazed as she walked by. Hermione frowned, elbowing him in the ribs. “Ow! Watch it, Hermione!” He whined, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. All she wanted at that moment was her warm four-poster bed and that sleeping draught in the pocket of her robes.
When Fleur Delacour vanished into the side chamber, the hall fell into still silence, the room palpable. Fred and George grinned at her, giving her a thumbs-up. She shook her head at the twins but felt her stomach jump into her chest as the Goblet of Fire burst into its red flames. Hermione looked away, eyes fixated on the stone floor. She repeated all of her perfectly logical reasons, trying to comfort herself, as she heard the goblet choose the final contestant for the Triwizard Tournament. She felt Harry take her hand, entwining their fingers. She gave him a small smile before Dumbledore’s voice echoed down the hall.
“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, his voice hesitant. There was a small pause, but as he announced the champion, an icy chill seeped into her body, “is Hermione Granger.”
There was no applause. The only sound she heard was a gasp from the staff table. Tears welled in her eyes, still fixated on the stone floor. Harry tightened his hold, and her eyes found his green stare. Even Ron, who had been so excited at the prospect of competing, looked horrified. She finally let her eyes sweep across the hall. Though confused, the students from Beauxbaton and Durmstrang could tell something was wrong. The Hogwarts students simply stared, shocked, at the Gryffindor table.
“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly, “Please, join the other champions.”
Taking a deep breath, gathering every shred of courage she possessed, she whirled around, standing from the Gryffindor table. If the visiting schools hadn’t been confused before, they were now. The students watched her inch towards the staff table with scrunched faces, whispering to the Hogwarts students for answers. Her loafers tapped audibly on the stone floor until she came level with Professor Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall stood at his side, holding the piece of charred parchment with Ron’s scribbled handwriting. She looked beyond horrified. The Scottish woman looked just about ready to fight the entire hall on the matter, but she kept her silence as Dumbledore smiled down at Hermione, gesturing her towards the side chamber. On shaking legs, she made her way to the door under the scrutinizing gaze of Madame Maxime and Karkaroff. Her mind tried to decide between a numb blankness and a frenzied panic. Before it could decide, Hermione joined the other champions.
The chamber held a small, roaring fire. There were a few chairs, but both Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum remained on their feet, standing on opposite sides of the room. Both Viktor’s dark gaze and Fleur’s crystal blue eyes looked up at her entrance, puzzled. The impulse to run filled every nerve she had, hands twitching, especially as Fleur’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Instead, she walked over the chair furthest away from either champion, sitting to calm her nerves.
“This isn’t happening,” she tried convincing herself, burying her face in her hands. “This absolutely isn’t bloody real.”
“Where is ze ‘Ogwart’s champion?” Fleur asked, but by the tone of her voice, Hermione suspected she already guessed the answer. Raising her head, she saw the blond witch’s arms crossed, a thin eyebrow raised accusingly. Krum simply watched in confusion. “Merde!” Fleur exclaimed when Hermione simply glared at her, “You’re just a-”
“Baby, yes!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “You’ve made your opinion perfectly clear!”
“But the Age Line,” Krum started, scrunching his face in confusion. Before she could answer, the door opened once more.
“Harry?” She gasped, rushing to him. “Did Dumbledore send you?” For one glorious moment, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Will there be a redraw? Oh, I just knew they wouldn’t let me compete! It would be preposterous, wouldn’t it?” She laughed, but Harry didn’t join her. In fact. He looked white as a sheet. Her smile faded. “Harry?”
Ludo Bagman burst into the chamber and clapped a hand over Harry’s shoulder, pushing him into the room. Hermione was pushed back as well, right into Fleur Delacour. She felt hands at her waist and gasped, jumping away. She still felt the tingles up her spine, cheeks flushing at the smirk catching the edge of Fleur’s lips.
“Extraordinary!” Bagman continued as Hermione fled to Harry’s side, glaring at the blonde’s amusement. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen…and ladies, of course. May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?”
“What?!” Hermione exclaimed, turning to face the wizard in question. “Harry?!”
“I didn’t!” He said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t, Hermione, I didn’t put my name in!”
“Wait,” Bagman interrupted, shaking a finger at her, “How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Hermione answered, “We need to speak with Professor Dumbledore! Harry and I - we’re not old enough to compete!”
“Well…it is amazing,” Bagman drawled, rubbing his chin. “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as your names came out of the goblet…I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage…It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged…You’ll just have to do the best you-”
The door burst open once more, and a large group of people charged into the chamber. Professor Dumbledore, Mr Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape clambered into the room. Immediately, McGonagall rushed towards Hermione.
“Are you alright, dear?” She asked, but before Hermione could answer, Fleur Delacour marched up to her headmistress and exclaimed,
“Madame Maxime! Zey are saying zese children are going to compete!” Harry turned to Hermione and mouthed, “Children?!” angrily. All Hermione could do give him a sympathetic look before Madame Maxime’s booming voice began her protests. Karkaroff joined in, claiming it was unfair to have two Hogwarts champions, but all Hermione wanted was to find a way out of this hullabaloo.
“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore!” Karkaroff exclaimed.
“Apparently not,” Snape snipped, eyes darting to Hermione. “Some at this school believe they can operate above the law.” Her jaw clenched at the way he seemed to relish the insult.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Madame Maxime demanded.
“Earlier today, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began, gesturing to Hermione, “Found a way to fool my age line.”
“So it was this girl?!” Karkaroff looked furious and amused at the same time, “This girl outwitted the great Dumbledore?!”
“Miss Granger is one of this school’s brightest students!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, and Hermione felt a rushing sense of gratitude. She knew the transfiguration professor would still be disappointed by her actions, but to know she was still on Hermione’s side meant more than anything. “She was the only one to deduce a fault in the Age Line!”
“Yes, and zis little girl ‘elped her little friends, too, it would seem!” Madame Maxime exclaimed, throwing a large hand in the air. “Zis is most unfair, Dumbly-dorr!”
“She did not, Madame.” Hermione’s attention shot to Fleur Delacour, eyes wide as the blond turned to face the giant Headmistress.
“Fleur?” Madame Maxime questioned, “What is the meaning of this?” She finished in French, looking as if the girl was being insubordinate simply for speaking.
“I was zere,” Fleur confessed, blue eyes flickering to Hermione for the briefest of moments before returning to address the room. “I was standing beside ‘er when she gave ‘er name. Zere was only one.”
Hermione could only stare, baffled. For one second, she wondered if she misjudged Fleur Delacour. The last thing she expected was the blond to come to her defense, to bear witness to whatever innocence Hermione could claim.
“And Miss Granger has been in the infirmary since this morning,” Professor McGonagall chimed in with a decisive nod. Fleur’s eyes returned to Hermione, meeting her bewildered gaze. Fleur's eyes flitted over Hermione, from head to heel, before rolling away, another smirk tugging at her lips. What was she on about now?! Looking at her like some insect! Heat rose in Hermione's cheeks once more and she briefly wondered if the constant blood rush would have permanent damage.
“We all know, at least, of Potter’s guilt,” Snape began, shifting targets. Hermione moved closer to Harry, wrapping her arm around his. He responded by clasping a hand over hers, fingers tightening as Snape continued. “Potter’s been crossing lines ever since he arrived here-”
“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted firmly, leaving a disgruntled potions master. Harry reaffirmed for everyone there that he did not submit his name to the Goblet of Fire, and the bickering continued until Karkaroff turned to the Ministry representatives.
“Mr. Crouch…Mr. Bagman,” Karkaroff began, standing behind Krum, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “You are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?” Bagman gave a laugh, trying to appear relaxed while Mr. Crouch stood by the fireplace, like a stone statue. He, for the first time, spoke.
“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”
“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” Bagman commented, as though the matter was closed. Karkaroff wasn’t happy at all to hear this, making demands and threatening to leave. Mad-Eye Moody entered the room, calling him on his bluff.
“You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete.” Hermione’s hope plummeted to the bottom of her stomach, sitting there like a rock.
“Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” Her grip tightened around Harry’s arm at the insinuation.
“Convenient?” asked Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.” But Hermione did.
“Don’t you?” Moody said quietly, “ It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”
“Evidently, someone ‘oo wished to give ‘Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!” Madame Maxime jumped in.
“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizard-”
“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” growled Moody, “but…funny thing…I don’t hear him saying a word…”
“Why should ‘e complain?” Fleur exclaimed, stamping her foot. “‘E ‘as ze chance to compete, ‘asn’t ‘e? We ‘ave all been ‘oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!”
“Harry is not one of them!” Hermione cried out. “Just because you’re all willing to die for a little attention and glory doesn’t mean Harry is!”
“Says ze little girl who ‘ad to prove she’s better zen everyone else!” Fleur hissed, hitting Hermione where she knew it would hurt. In that instant she regretted ever thinking a shred of decency existed in that slim frame, eyes burning as she returned Fleur’s stare with as much hate and anger as she could.
“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody said, interrupting their glaring contest. Ludo Bagman looked aghast, bouncing nervously up and down on his feet.
“Moody, old man…what a thing to say!”
“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” Karkaroff scuffed, “Apparently, he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too.” Hermione couldn’t help but stiffen. If any student should learn that lesson, it was Harry Potter. She, herself, had to save him on a number of occasions, and that wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg.
“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet…”
“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.
“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” exclaimed Moody, and Hermione suddenly realized where this was going.
“There are only three schools that have ever participated in the Triwizard tournament,” she voiced, eyes staring wide at Moody. He shifted his attention to her, his electric blue eye roaming her face. She swallowed a nervous sputter and continued, “I read it in Hogwarts: A History. How are there four champions if there are only three schools? It…had to have been a Confundus Charm, but even then…No seventh year, let alone a fourth year, could do such a thing. And if Harry was in his own category under a false school-”
“It ensured he would be chosen,” Moody finished, giving the girl an ugly smile. “Well done, Miss Granger. Quite the mind on this one, Dumbledore.”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” Karkaroff said coldly, “and a very ingenious theory by this girl - though of course, I heard you recently got it in your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…”
“It’s my job to think the way Dark Wizards do, Karkaroff - as you ought to remember…”
“Alastor!” Dumbledore said, warningly. Mad-Eye gritted his teeth but said nothing more.
“It seems to me,” Dumbledore began, “No matter how this situation arose, Miss Granger and Mr Potter have been chosen to compete. This, therefore, they will do…”
“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr-”
“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.” When no response came, Ludo Bagman nodded, excitedly addressing the four champions.
“Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”
“Yes,” Crouch said, snapping out of his reverie. “Instructions. Yes…the first task…”
Hermione’s eyes flickered to Fleur Delacour, only to find her staring again. The blond continued her irritating trend of flashing Hermione that damnable smirk, throwing in a wink for good measure before Fleur redirected her blue eyes to Mr Crouch.
“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Hermione, Harry, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…very important…The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-term tests-”
“What?!” Hermione gasped, feeling rather foolish when she realized she said it out loud. Professor McGonagall simply patted her on the shoulder, shaking her head. Mr Crouch chose to ignore this, it seemed, turning to Dumbledore.
“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”
“I think so,” Dumbledore said, eying Mr Crouch with mild concern. Hermione could hardly muster any sympathy for the man, having been so insensitive to the needs of poor Winky at the Quidditch World Cup. After inviting all of the other judges for a nightcap, everyone began moving towards the door.
Madame Maxime wrapped an arm around Fleur’s shoulders, leading her swiftly from the room. As she passed, Fleur sent Hermione a smile, saying, “Au revoir, ma petite.”
“Why, you little-” Harry held her back as Fleur walked past. Hermione huffed, shaking Harry’s hold.
“French tart, indeed,” Professor McGonagall muttered as Dumbledore approached the pair of fourth years.
“Harry, Hermione,” he said, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a deal of mess and noise.” With a nod, they left together, arms still locked. After a while of walking in silence, Hermione released her death grip on Harry’s arm.
“Harry-”
“I didn’t do it!” He said sharply, almost desperately, “I didn’t put my name in!”
“I know!” Hermione reassured him, “I know. I believe you, Harry.” Harry relaxed a bit, letting out a breath of air he had been holding in since she saw him walk into the chamber.
“Whatever happens, Harry,” she said, taking his hand, “we’re in this together.”
“But Mr Crouch said-”
“Mr Crouch can shove off!” Hermione exclaimed, marching up the stairwell towards Gryffindor Tower. “I don’t know who put your name in, Harry, but whoever did was not doing you a kindness. And I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before abandoning you to that fate.”
“I-” Harry stuttered stiffly, flashing Hermione an attempt at a smile. He settled for a hug instead, wrapping his arms around her. “Thanks, Hermione. I know I can always count on you.” She buried her face into his shoulder, giving him a tight hug before releasing him.
“Come on, then. Fred and George will probably crown both of us tonight.”
Harry grinned at that, and she celebrated that little victory, yet she could tell a thousand worries still plagued his mind. She couldn’t blame him. Hermione, at the very least, knew it was her own fault. She had been prideful and stupid enough to submit her name, knowing the risks. Harry had no choice and no one to pin the blame on. She had to remain confident. With their heads together, maybe they would survive this foolishness.
After shooing the Fat Lady’s friend away, that nosy gossip, and giving the password, Harry and Hermione were assaulted by noise and light. Before they could protest, they were yanked into the common room with the entirety of Gryffindor House to meet them, all screaming, applauding and whistling.
“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” Bellowed Fred to Harry, though Hermione could only just hear him above the tumult.
“How did you do it without getting a beard? Hermione, did you help him?! You should have told us!” George roared.
“I didn’t!” Harry said. “I didn’t submit my name-”
But before he could get another word out, the mass of students descended upon them. People were shoving food into their hands, giving congratulations and celebrating the fact that Gryffindor had not one, but two champions to cheer for. The girls seemed more interested in Hermione than Harry, some muttering he shouldn’t even compete against Hermione, but she shooed these naysayers away. She managed to escape the crowd before Harry. She considered going back to rescue him, but she had a well-made bed and a sleeping-draught calling her name. Ascending the stairs to the girls' dormitory, Hermione was happy to see it abandoned.
After preparing for bed, she climbed into her four-poster, drawing the curtains to dissuade others from bothering her. Hermione drank the sleeping draught, relishing the warmth, anticipating the dreamless sleep soon to come. After the insanity of Halloween, she could do with dreamless sleep, though in hindsight, she had spent most of the day sleeping already. Collapsing on her bed, as the potion took effect, she shook the worries from her head, wanting nothing more than to forget this day ever happened. Forget the tournament, forget Ron’s childish behavior, forget her own damnable pride and forget Fleur Delacour.
She wanted to forget the very image of the French witch: her pointy nose stuck in the air, hair practically levitating behind her in a dramatic breeze, the sway of her skirt as her hips rolled with her long, confident strides. Her eyelids began to feel heavy, thinking of those crystal blue eyes, the natural pout of her lips, and that irrational anger welling in her chest as it stretched into a smirk. Sleep took her then, thinking of that smirk. A strange realization came to mind before all thought was lost. She smelled that smell again. The smell of lilacs and spring rain.