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The Great Hall. The Eye of the Storm.
The silence in the Great Hall was heavy, pressing down like a physical weight. Hundreds of eyes—accusatory, jealous, confused—were fixed on the small, dark-haired boy standing alone by the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter looked around, his face pale. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. He instinctively looked up, searching for his anchor.
"Hermione..." Harry whispered, his eyes filled with pleading and confusion. Fix this. You fix everything.
Hermione met his gaze. She didn't look worried. She didn't look surprised. She strolled leisurely to his side, her hands in her pockets, looking for all the world like she was inspecting a mild curiosity rather than a disaster.
She patted his shoulder stiffly.
"Relax, Harry," she said, her tone flat and professional. "It's just a competition."
Harry blinked, hopeful.
"At most, you'll lose an arm or a leg," Hermione continued casually. "Or get burned alive by a dragon. But you probably won't die. Statistically speaking."
She leaned in closer. "By the way, did you buy insurance? Who did you name as the beneficiary? If it's Ron, you might want to change it. He looks like he wants to strangle you."
Harry: "..."
His face darkened further. The hope vanished, replaced by a deep, existential dread.
That was your comfort? Don't do that next time.
Up at the Staff Table, the heated, hushed debate between the Headmasters and Barty Crouch finally broke. Madame Maxime looked furious, Karkaroff looked smug, and Crouch looked like he was about to faint.
Albus Dumbledore turned to the crowd. His face was grave, the usual twinkle in his eyes dimmed.
"The Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding magical contract," Dumbledore announced, his voice echoing with finality. "Harry Potter has been chosen. He must compete."
He looked down at Harry. "Harry, did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire yourself?"
"No, Professor!" Harry shouted immediately, his voice cracking. "I didn't! I was in the dormitory!"
"We believe you, Harry," Dumbledore said gently.
Then, the Headmaster turned his gaze to the side.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione looked up. "Headmaster?"
"Given the irregular nature of this selection... and the possibility of unforeseen circumstances..." Dumbledore's eyes flashed with a hidden meaning. "The Headmasters of our three schools have agreed on a compromise."
"We hope that you will serve as the Special Safety Officer for this Triwizard Tournament. Your duty will be to ensure the safety of the champions during the tasks and prevent any... outside interference."
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
Safety Officer?
She saw Karkaroff and Maxime glaring at her. They clearly didn't want Hogwarts to have an advantage, but they were terrified of Dumbledore—and terrified of her. Having the "Witch" as a neutral-ish referee was the only compromise they could stomach.
Goodness, Hermione thought. Old Deng manages to find me work every year. He just wants a legal excuse for me to be in the arena.
"Okay," she agreed readily. "I'll do it. But I charge overtime."
This was perfect. She had been worried about how to steer the plot toward Voldemort's resurrection without being suspicious. Now, she had a front-row seat.
The Corridor.
The feast ended in an eerie, tense atmosphere. The Hufflepuffs were furious that Cedric's thunder had been stolen. The Slytherins were sneering. The foreign students were suspicious.
Harry tried to leave quickly, but he was immediately surrounded near the entrance hall.
"Wow, Potter!" a sixth-year Hufflepuff spat sarcastically. "The Savior is something else. He got chosen even without voting, stealing everyone else's glory! Cedric is the real champion!"
"I didn't!" Harry protested urgently, backing against the wall. "I really don't know what happened!"
"Come on, who would believe that!" a Ravenclaw chimed in. "You must have used a Dark Arts cloak or something! Always have to be the center of attention, don't you?"
Ron Weasley stood on the periphery of the crowd. He looked at Harry. His face was red, his expression complicated—a mix of jealousy, betrayal, and stubbornness. He didn't step forward. He turned and walked away.
Harry felt his heart crack.
Just then, a cold, drawling voice cut through the noise.
"Shut up, you idiots."
The crowd parted. Draco Malfoy leaned against a stone pillar, his arms crossed, looking bored.
"Malfoy?" Harry asked, confused.
Malfoy ignored him. He glared sideways at the jeering Hufflepuffs.
"Even if Potter is detestable—and he is—he is still a Champion chosen by the Goblet," Malfoy sneered. "He represents Hogwarts."
Malfoy straightened his robes, looking down his nose at the foreign students watching nearby.
"Do you want Durmstrang and Beauxbatons to laugh at us? Do you want them to think Hogwarts is divided? Stop acting like peasants. If Potter fails, we all look bad."
His words were less about helping Harry and more about saving face for the institution of Hogwarts. It was pure Slytherin pride.
Upon hearing this, the students shut their mouths. It was hard to argue with Malfoy when he was actually making sense.
Harry looked at Malfoy in surprise. "Uh... thanks?"
Malfoy just snorted. "Don't trip on your robe and die in the first task, Potter. My father has a bet on you."
He turned and swept away, his cloak billowing almost as well as Snape's.
After the crowd dispersed, Harry paced anxiously in the empty corridor. He eventually found Hermione, who was leaning against a suit of armor, waiting for him.
"Hermione!" Harry caught up with her, breathless. "What should I do? Everyone hates me. Even Ron..."
Hermione looked at him. "Do you want to participate?"
Harry thought for a moment, the sting of Ron's back still fresh in his mind. "Yes. I want to prove I didn't cheat."
"Then participate," Hermione said.
"But they all think I cheated..."
"Then withdraw from the competition. Forfeit."
"But withdrawing will make people see me as a coward..."
"Then participate."
"But only adult wizards can participate! My magical strength is no match for Krum or Diggory!"
"Then withdraw."
"But Dumbledore said the contract is binding! I might lose my magic!"
"Then participate."
Harry: "..."
He stared at her. "Thank you for your suggestion. It's very helpful. You're a great conversationalist."
"That's good," Hermione nodded, checking her watch. "You're welcome to come and talk to me anytime. I have a flowchart if you need it."
"I... I think I'll still participate," Harry finally gritted his teeth, his eyes showing a resolute determination. "I won't let them call me a coward."
Hermione nodded noncommittally. She knew he would. That was the script.
Just then, the shadows lengthened.
"Potter. Granger."
The two turned around. Severus Snape stood there, looming out of the darkness like a giant bat. His face was darker than usual, his black eyes sweeping over Harry like scalpels before finally settling on Hermione.
"Headmaster Dumbledore wants to see you, Miss Granger," Snape hissed. "Go to the Headmaster's office. Now."
Harry shrank back, terrified of Snape's murderous aura.
"Understood, Professor," Hermione said calmly. She gestured for Harry to leave. "Go to bed, Harry. Try not to have nightmares."
She turned and followed Snape into the dark.
The Headmaster's Office.
The office was filled with the whirring of silver instruments and the soft snoring of portraits. Fawkes the Phoenix sat on his perch, watching them with beady eyes.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking weary.
Hermione took a seat. Snape remained standing, pacing behind her like a caged tiger.
I don't know when it started, but whenever something big happens, this small meeting of the "Real Rulers of Hogwarts" had become a habit.
"Hermione," Dumbledore spoke first, tenting his fingers. "What do you think about Harry's name appearing in the Goblet?"
"He definitely didn't throw it himself," Hermione said directly, helping herself to a lemon drop. "He doesn't have the guts. Nor the skill to fool a powerful Confundus Charm on an ancient artifact. He's a decent flyer, not a magical hacker."
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "I concur."
"Did you do it?"
Snape suddenly interrupted. He stopped pacing and leaned over Hermione's chair, staring at her intensely.
"After all," Snape sneered, "you are probably the only one in the whole school who possesses the power—and the twisted sense of humor—to do something so... irregular."
Hermione looked extremely surprised. She placed a hand on her chest.
"Professor! Are you kidding me? I've been back at school for less than six hours! I haven't even unpacked my socks, and you think I have time to rig an international tournament?"
She paused, touching her chin thoughtfully.
"However... what you said has reminded me. If I had come back earlier... I might have found it quite interesting. It would certainly spice up the year."
Dumbledore: "..."
Snape: "..."
Both of them were speechless.
They trusted Hermione—in a way. They trusted that if she said she didn't do it, she didn't. But they also knew she was chaotic enough to consider it.
"You admit you thought about endangering the boy?" Snape growled, a vein throbbing in his temple.
"I think about a lot of things, Professor," Hermione smiled innocently. "It's called having an active mind."
"Since it wasn't you," Snape suppressed the urge to strangle his most talented student, his voice growing icy, "then who did it?"
Snape was furious. He hated Harry Potter—he saw James in every gesture—but he had sworn to protect Lily's son.
"The Triwizard Tournament is a death trap," Snape spat. "Sending Potter—a mediocre fourth-year—is sending a lamb to slaughter. Whoever did this wants him dead."
He looked at Dumbledore. "It's Karkaroff. Or Moody. I've seen them watching the boy."
"Or," Hermione interjected softly, "it's someone who wants him to reach the finish line."
Dumbledore and Snape looked at her.
"What do you mean?" Dumbledore asked sharply.
"If they wanted him dead, they could poison his pumpkin juice," Hermione said, analyzing the plot she already knew. "Putting him in a tournament implies they want him to win. Or at least, they want him to touch the Cup."
She looked at the two wizards.
"The question isn't who put his name in. The question is... where does the Cup lead?"