The Great Hall fell into a terrifying silence at first, but soon a low buzz began to ripple through the air, growing louder as students rose to their feet, scanning the crowd for the thief named Hermione Granger—the shameless girl who had stolen the honor meant to be shared fairly among all Hogwarts students. Those who knew Hermione stared at her in shock: this was the Hermione Granger who always preached about following the rules, yet now stood accused of trampling them in front of everyone. Slowly, the expressions of those who recognized her shifted from disbelief to disdain, while the searching eyes of others finally landed on their target.
The entire hall—every student and professor—turned toward Hermione Granger, their faces radiating anger or surprise (mostly anger). She sat frozen in place, as if struck by a Petrificus Totalus, staring blankly ahead.
"Hermione Granger! Where is Hermione Granger?" Dumbledore's voice rang out again as he stood by the Goblet of Fire, holding the scrap of parchment with her name.
"Go on, Hermione. Professor Dumbledore's calling you," Harry said, nudging her when he saw she hadn't moved.
"No… Harry, I didn't…" Even Hermione, who had faced a parallel world in her third year without losing her composure, was utterly rattled now. Her pleading eyes darted to Harry, Neville, Ginny, Fred, George, and the others, but aside from Harry, every face bore a look of disbelief. Ron, fortunately for him, was blocked by Harry, so Hermione didn't see the faint flicker of contempt on her supposed friend's face.
"Come on, Hermione." Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her an encouraging smile. "I believe you. You don't need to explain anything to me. We're friends, aren't we?"
Feeling the weight of his hand, Hermione took a deep breath and stood. Under a barrage of hostile glares, she walked toward Dumbledore.
"I'll say this, Harry—she doesn't deserve your loyalty," Ron's voice hissed behind Harry the moment Hermione was out of earshot. "She must've snuck out last night and tossed her name into the Goblet. As for the age line? If it couldn't stop me, how could it stop her?"
"Couldn't stop you?" Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised. "When did you put your name in the Goblet?"
"Last night, around two in the morning. I was going to bring you and Neville along, but you two were out cold. So I went with Seamus and Dean and threw in my parchment with a simple Levitation Charm and a Banishing Charm. But that's not the point," Ron said, waving a hand dismissively. "I thought she was my friend, but she lied to my face, saying it wasn't her… Hah! If it wasn't her, then who else put her name in? I'm done with Granger, Harry. You should steer clear of her too, or you'll end up fooled without even knowing it."
After confirming the Goblet wouldn't spit out any more names, Dumbledore declared the feast over. As the three headmasters, along with Ludo Bagman and Crouch, hurriedly left the staff table, the Great Hall erupted into a cacophony of heated discussions.
"Ron, Hermione's not like that. She—" Harry reached out to reason with him, but Ron sidestepped, leaving Harry grasping at air.
"I'm heading back, Harry. You should come with us," Ron said, giving him a pointed look before joining the crowd streaming out of the hall.
The chatter faded as the students dispersed. Minutes later, the Great Hall was shrouded in darkness, leaving Harry alone at the Gryffindor table.
Then, he heard it: the creak of a wooden door from the direction of the staff table, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. Five sets of footsteps headed toward the castle's exit, while a single pair approached the Gryffindor table, moving slowly toward the staircase by the hall.
"Hermione, what did Professor Dumbledore say?" Harry's voice cut through the quiet darkness as he addressed the shadowy figure nearby.
"Eek!" The figure let out a startled yelp, leaping sideways like a frightened cat, clearly unprepared for a voice in what seemed an empty hall.
…
"So, you have to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry asked softly as they climbed the dimly lit staircase, glancing at Hermione, whose eyes were red and puffy.
Hermione sniffled and gave a faint "mm" in response.
"What's wrong? Still upset about how everyone in the hall reacted? That's not like the proud Hermione I know. Come on, where'd you hide the real Hermione?" Harry teased gently.
"It's not that…" Hermione rubbed her eyes. "I just feel… sad. Four years as classmates, and now, because of some inexplicable name, all four houses hate me. Hardly anyone's willing to hear me out… But at least I still have you."
She looked up at Harry. "Harry, you and Ron will support me, right?"
"Er… well…" Harry scratched his head, grappling for words that wouldn't hurt either Ron or Hermione's feelings. Before he could answer, he realized they'd reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. Stranger still, the Fat Lady wasn't alone—a wizened witch stood beside her, eyeing them with glee.
"Well, well!" the Fat Lady said, smirking at Hermione. "Violet's just told me everything. So, who's been chosen as the school's champion?"
"Rubbish," Harry said flatly.
"Absolutely not!" the pale witch, Violet, huffed indignantly.
"No, no, Violet, that's the password," the Fat Lady soothed, swinging forward to let Harry and Hermione into the common room.
The moment they stepped inside, two redheaded figures bounded over, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Tell us, Hermione, how'd you get your name into the Goblet?!" Fred and George shoved Harry aside, their expressions a mix of frustration and admiration as they grilled her. "You don't have a beard, so you must've cracked the trick to getting past the age line, right?"
"Fred, George, Hermione didn't put her name in!" Harry protested, clambering out from where the twins had pushed him into an armchair. "And even if she had, the Goblet chose her—so it should've only spat out three names, not four! Besides, if you want to know how to get past the age line, ask Ron. He threw his name in last night!"
"That's a fair point, Fred. What do you think?" George said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
"I think our top priority is prying the method out of little Ronnikins' mouth," Fred replied with mock solemnity. "I refuse to let anyone at Hogwarts outsmart us!"
The Weasley twins bantered back and forth before abandoning Hermione to storm Ron's dormitory, intent on interrogating their dear younger brother.
With Fred and George gone, the common room fell quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The other students had already retired for the night.
"Goodnight, Hermione."
"Goodnight, Harry."
The next morning, Hermione, true to her early-rising habits, sat alone in the deserted common room, waiting for Harry and the others. Suddenly, she caught the faint sound of an argument drifting from the boys' dormitory staircase, followed by a loud slam. Moments later, Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, fuming.
"Hermione hurried toward him, concerned. "Harry, what just—"
"Forget Ron and his thick skull!" Harry snapped, slamming a fist onto the table. After a few heavy breaths, he calmed down and motioned for Hermione to follow him out of the common room. "Since you've been chosen as a Triwizard champion, we need to get your Animagus training started ASAP. Mastering it will give you a huge boost in charms and transfiguration, and the Tournament sounds like it'll involve plenty of combat… By the way, Hermione, have you prepared the Mandrake leaf?"
"I buried it in the forest across from the Black Lake last month," she replied.
"And the sunrise and sunset incantations?"
"I recited them this morning."
"The second heartbeat?"
"Felt it yesterday."
"Hmm… Let me think, what else do we need to watch out for…" Harry racked his brain, recalling his own Animagus transformation. After several minutes, it hit him: Bloody hell, my Animagus is a dragon! Sure, it's technically an Animagus form, but it's so far removed from a standard witch or wizard's transformation that it's practically a different spell altogether. What kind of reference was that supposed to be?
Since Harry and Hermione had classes at the research institute during the day, Professor McGonagall was forced to rise early to accommodate them.
Meanwhile, Neville, summoning all his courage, stood alone in the Room of Requirement, staring blankly at the empty dueling chamber.
After leaving McGonagall's office, Harry and Hermione arrived early at the Great Hall. They settled into their usual seats, ready to wolf down breakfast before heading to their Probability and Statistics class. That's when Angelina—the striking dark-skinned upperclassman—entered the hall and spotted Hermione at the Gryffindor table.
Harry heard a distinct "tch." Instead of taking her usual spot near them, Angelina sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table.
As more students trickled in for breakfast, it became painfully clear that, aside from Neville, no one wanted to sit near Hermione. They avoided her like the plague, some even spitting on the floor as they passed—though those few were promptly thumped by Harry for "littering."
Hermione kept her head down throughout the meal.
That Sunday, Hermione spent nearly the entire day at the research institute, even eating lunch at the faculty cafeteria—a place decked out in a distinctly Russian style, from decor to dishes. Harry, worried about her, joined her for lunch.
He swore never to eat there again. As a Brit accustomed to milder flavors, Harry found the heavy, overpowering cold dishes utterly unbearable.
Hermione, equally put off by the intense flavors, had planned to stay for dinner as well—until she remembered what awaited her in the castle's Great Hall. Suddenly, the cafeteria's food didn't seem so bad.
But no matter how much Miss Granger delayed, the inevitable couldn't be avoided.
After a full day of classes at the research institute, Hermione, who'd been waiting for Harry to finish dinner so they could return together, finally couldn't stand the atmosphere in the Great Hall. She left early for the Gryffindor common room—and came face-to-face with Ron.
"Hey, Ron," Hermione said, forcing a smile as she pushed aside the day's frustrations.
Ron, seated in a chair, barely glanced at her. "What do you want, Granger?" he muttered, returning to his Divination homework.
"I think… maybe there's been a misunderstanding between us…"
"Misunderstanding? No, no, no. It's just that I finally saw your true colors yesterday," Ron said, not looking up from his scribbling. "Your acting skills are wasted outside the theater, Granger. Even Lockhart couldn't outdo you, could he? Playing the sweet little girl, stringing me and Harry along for three whole years."
"I didn't!" Hermione took several deep breaths to quell the anger rising within her. "You and Harry have always been my best friends!"
"Oh, spare me. 'Best friends' are supposed to be kept in the dark? Supposed to blindly back you up when you sneak off to enter the Triwizard Tournament and then lie about it? That's not friendship—that's being a lackey!" Ron's voice grew louder. He slammed his quill onto the table and stood, shouting at her. "You always act like you're above everyone else, barking orders, preaching about house unity and rules. But when it's you? All that talk about the collective, about Gryffindor—it's all rubbish! The Sorting Hat made a mistake putting you in Gryffindor. You belong in Slytherin, you selfish, despicable—"
Ron's tirade grew more venomous, while tears welled up in Hermione's eyes.
Just as the onlookers in the common room were eating up the drama, a dark-haired figure materialized behind Ron in a swirl of silvery mist.
"Ron, sorry, but you need to cool off."
A swift chop to the neck, and Ron's rant cut off mid-sentence. He slumped backward, unconscious.
Harry caught him, easing him into a nearby armchair. Then he turned to Hermione, gently ruffling her hair.
"Don't cry, alright?"
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