A/N:Hello everyone! How are you all doing.
First of all, thank you so much for all the support—it really means a lot to me, and I truly appreciate it.
I'm doing my best to upload consistently. Each chapter is around 4,500 words on average, and I won't be posting short chapters because I believe that leads to a poor reading experience.
So please be patient with me, and I promise I'll keep delivering quality content for you all.
Don't forget to leave a comment, review, and drop a power stone if you enjoy the story—it really helps a lot!
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It was a bright Tuesday afternoon, and Mrs. Norris was making her silent way up the stairs, her lamp-like eyes fixed on her master.
This lean, dark grey cat was Argus Filch's most prized companion and most capable assistant in the enforcement of school rules.
Today, however, Argus was not focused on rule-breaking students. He was grumbling under the weight of an enormous, old-fashioned printer, which he was hauling from his first-floor office — a room that smelled powerfully of grilled fish — up to a long-disused classroom on the fifth floor.
"Reports without end! Nothing ever goes right!" he complained to Mrs. Norris as he went. "Endless confiscations... Peeves' destruction... the Weasley twins' havoc... those blasted swamps multiplying in the corridors... Dumbledore's rejected my application for disciplinary chains again, and while he was at it, he told me to move this thing to the fifth floor on top of everything else..."
The cat cast a sympathetic look at her grey-haired, stooped owner, then slipped away along the skirting. She had made up her mind to patrol the corridor on his behalf, in hopes of catching a student or two and bringing a rare smile to that deeply lined face.
The printer was not so fortunate. Unlike Mrs. Norris, it lacked legs and a means of escape. It endured the full litany of Argus's mutterings all the way up, and arrived on the fifth floor a quarter of an hour later.
The once-abandoned classroom had been entirely transformed.
Tables that had stood stacked against the walls were now arranged side by side in the centre of the room, forming a large joined worktop. Chairs had been set around it, and several wastepaper baskets stood at intervals beside it, their contents still pristine.
Argus paid no attention to any of this. He slammed the printer down on the central table and fixed Colin Creevey with a baleful stare. "There. Happy now?"
"Brilliant!" Colin looked at the machine with shining eyes. "The ship of dreams sets sail from here."
His brother Dennis stood behind him, clicking his tongue in admiration.
"If you damage it," Argus said, leaning in and deploying his most threatening expression — sunken eyes, sagging jowls, the full ensemble — "I'd be very happy to lock you both in the dungeon. I oiled those chains and shackles only this morning."
He was gratified to see both brothers flinch. That particular expression was one of his favourites to produce.
At that moment, Professor McGonagall walked through the doorway and interrupted him.
"Thank you, Mr. Filch. I should remind you, locking students in the dungeon remains entirely out of the question." The Head of Gryffindor was wearing a turquoise robe today, her hair pinned in its customary severe bun, and she surveyed the three of them from beneath a composed but watchful brow.
Argus Filch went very red and shuffled out under her gaze.
"Professor Dumbledore has allocated this classroom as the school newspaper's office," Professor McGonagall said, turning to Colin and the others. "I must say — you've made more progress than I expected."
Her tone carried the particular quality it reserved for work that might fairly earn an E or even an O. "Well done. I've read the first draft of your second issue."
Colin could barely contain himself.
He remembered that Professor Dumbledore had spoken to him in much the same tone the previous afternoon. In the Headmaster's office — surrounded by softly whirring magical instruments and glass cases of curiosities — he had said, "The content is very promising. Some of the details are still a little rough and want polishing — but I see real potential here, and real enthusiasm. I believe this is something worth doing. Yes, Hogwarts will support you."
The old man's eyes had gleamed with their usual unfathomable warmth as he pressed an official stamp onto a piece of parchment bearing the Hogwarts crest. It was the school's letter of authorisation, granting Colin and his friends permission to publish the newspaper.
"Hogwarts can provide you with an office and printing equipment. Professor McGonagall will serve as your faculty supervisor and will be directly responsible for the content. I'd suggest you recruit some additional staff as well — there will be quite a lot of work to manage," Professor Dumbledore had said kindly.
Colin had nodded eagerly.
"Also, I noticed your second issue includes Harry's account of the maze. That was very good," Dumbledore had added, with his gentle, measured tone. "It occurred to me — why not also include an interview with the other Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory? The experiences of all four champions in the maze would, I think, be of equal interest to readers. If you're going to cover the story, why not do so thoroughly?"
What could Colin say? He agreed at once, with considerable trepidation.
The moment he stepped out of the Headmaster's office, however, he let out a long sigh.
Easier said than done. The champions were all busy. It had been a privilege simply to interview each of them once. The idea of going back and asking for more seemed quite daunting.
He walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, already wondering whether the second issue might be delayed considerably.
As it turned out, he needn't have worried.
Cedric Diggory — Hufflepuff champion, and a thoroughly decent person — had proved both understanding and efficient. Colin had only sent him the supplementary questions the previous evening; the answers had arrived by express owl before curfew.
And as for Durmstrang's champion Viktor Krum and Beauxbatons' champion Fleur Delacour — perhaps emboldened by some shared sense of righteous indignation following Rita Skeeter's scene in the Great Hall — both had been surprisingly forthcoming.
At lunchtime today, they had each come to the Gryffindor table and handed him their written answers unprompted.
Colin was still marvelling over the memory of the international Quidditch star pausing, fixing his gaze on a particular corner of the Gryffindor table — where Harry and his friends were sitting — and saying in a low voice, "I am looking forward to seeing your newspaper."
The formidable Beauxbatons champion had waved in Harry's direction, then turned to Colin with a slight smile, ignoring the dazzled looks around her. In her low, fluent English she had said, "You will write it better than Rita Skeeter, yes?"
Colin had nearly knocked his pumpkin juice over in his haste to stand up and bow to them both. "Thank you for your trust! I will do my very best!"
"Mr. Creevey — how many copies are you planning to print?" Professor McGonagall's question drew him back to the present.
"I was thinking perhaps three hundred to start. I'm not sure how many people will be interested," Colin said, with the uncertain air of someone trying not to be irresponsible about school resources.
"I think you should print at least twice that number," Professor McGonagall said. "Not just students — parents will be interested too. On the train home at the end of term, you'll likely find a very eager readership on the platform."
She gave them a last appraising look before she left, and the ghost of a smile passed over her face. "Well, then. Get it out as quickly as you can."
The door closed softly behind her.
"What do we do now?" Dennis asked his brother, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Typeset! Print! Let's go — six hundred copies to start!" Colin clapped his hands, his face alight. "Professor McGonagall's right, we need to get this out as soon as possible. Students deserve to know the truth about what Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory actually went through — not just what Rita Skeeter decides to tell them."
"Yeah! That Daily Prophet this morning made me absolutely livid!" Dennis said, scowling at the printer as though it were personally responsible.
Rita Skeeter had not wasted any time.
The front page of that morning's Prophet had carried her version of events: a dark and damning account dressed up as investigative truth.
"Hogwarts' victory," she had written, "was perhaps less a matter of merit than of clever planning. The imbalance was built in from the start: Durmstrang and Beauxbatons each fielded one champion; Hogwarts fielded two, a structural advantage that significantly increased their chances from the outset..."
The article went on to suggest that Durmstrang's headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, and Beauxbatons' headmistress, Madame Maxime, had protested this imbalance repeatedly throughout the Tournament, to no avail. And as for the question of whether a two-against-one situation had occurred in the maze — only Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory could say for certain.
"She might as well have come out and said Hogwarts cheated," Ginny said furiously, slapping the newspaper down on the table in the Gryffindor common room. "She's practically accusing Harry and Cedric of ganging up on the other champions."
"Yes, I saw it." Hermione's tone was flat — she had long since inoculated herself against Rita Skeeter's style of journalism. "We've known for ages she was going to make trouble, and after what happened in the Great Hall yesterday, she's got all the more reason to."
"I arrived too late and missed all the excitement!" Ginny said, visibly regretting it. "I heard it was Delacour who finally drove her out — is that right?"
"It is. She has my complete respect. She truly earned the title the Goblet of Fire gave her," Hermione said warmly.
"That's rather a change of tune," Ginny said, studying her sidelong. "You're not actually smitten with Delacour's face, are you?"
"Absolutely not — am I the sort of shallow person who judges purely by appearances?"
"Oh? Not shallow about appearances? You dare say that? After your little — situation with Malfoy, which quite clearly started with his face?" Ginny said pointedly.
Hermione's cheeks went pink immediately.
"Shallow" was not the word she'd use, though she would admit she had been somewhat — overcome, shall we say — on a recent occasion.
"I like him," she said firmly, "and not just for his face. He has any number of admirable qualities."
Ginny gave her a long-suffering look.
"Go ahead and say that in the middle of the common room and see how many people believe you," she said. "Given your rather illuminating history, it's a bit rich to claim your enthusiasm for Delacour is purely about strength of character."
"Ginny." Hermione squared her shoulders. "I genuinely sensed something beyond her face. She's a formidable witch. Brave and principled."
"Hmph. You're all very taken with her," Ginny said, a note of sulkiness in her voice. "I'm reserving my verdict for now. Though I will say her handling of Rita Skeeter was thoroughly admirable."
"You're not still put out about that kiss at the Black Lake, are you?" Hermione asked, noting her expression. "And if there's any truth at all in that article connecting her to Sirius Black, you really don't need to worry."
"Oh, I know about that article," Ginny said. "Though how much of anything Rita Skeeter writes is actually true?"
"Fair point," Hermione conceded. "Look at what she's done to Harry and Cedric — honourable, courageous people, and she's painted them as scheming villains. Every loyal reader of the Prophet who doesn't know them personally is going to believe it."
"That's the problem," Hermione continued quietly, glancing across the common room to the window.
The curtains stirred in a warm draught, and a few small summer insects drifted past the glass. At the table by the window, Harry and Ron were deep in constructing a castle from a deck of Exploding Snap cards, apparently absorbed in every precarious detail.
"We can't keep relying on Delacour to turn up next to Harry and scare Rita Skeeter off," Ginny said, puffing out her cheeks and stroking Crookshanks's fur with perhaps more vigour than the cat appreciated. The orange tom stirred sleepily, looking disgruntled. "What can we actually do to protect Harry the next time she goes after him?"
"I suppose we should be very alert to any 'bugs' in the vicinity," Hermione said, with a peculiar little smile.
Ginny, absorbed in her worrying, didn't catch the oddness of the phrasing.
She lifted her gaze furtively towards Harry.
"Look at them — completely unbothered, having a wonderful time. Makes you wonder if only we're anxious," she said, with a note of irritation.
"I don't think Harry's as unbothered as he looks. Watch your brother." Hermione's voice was measured. "Ron appears to be playing cards, but most of his attention is on Harry. He's trying to distract him. Keep him occupied."
Ginny looked more carefully, with surprise.
"And Harry—" Hermione continued, "he looks focused, yes, but he hasn't smiled once. Is that what genuine enjoyment looks like?"
Crookshanks appeared to listen to Hermione's analysis for a moment or two, then looked on with mild interest as the red-haired girl craned her neck to study Harry's face, suddenly forgetting to maintain the pretence of not staring.
"I think you're right," Ginny said soberly, after a moment. "He wasn't smiling."
"I can't actually remember the last time Harry genuinely laughed," Hermione said.
"He smiled when Delacour said hello to him at lunch today. That one seemed real," Ginny said, still visibly bothered by it.
"Ginny. If Fleur Delacour and Sirius Black are as close as that article implied, then Harry is essentially a junior she has reason to look after. Her kindness towards him makes perfect sense in that context." Hermione's expression was meaningful. "I'd actually be more concerned about her younger sister, if I were you — Harry did rescue Gabrielle Delacour from the bottom of the Black Lake."
"Wonderful," Ginny said, nose wrinkling. "Another girl with feelings for Harry. One who also happens to have Veela blood. And who also happens to owe him her life. Marvellous news all round."
Hermione looked at her and privately noted the glint in those sharp, bright eyes that suggested at least one moderately uncharitable plan forming.
"Harry talks to that girl far less than he talks to you," she said simply. "Instead of sitting here getting into a sulk, you should talk to him more."
She added, pointedly, "We can't control what other girls think, and we shouldn't try to dim anyone else's light."
"You're right," Ginny said, slowly, a few of the darker thoughts dispersing.
"But we can brighten our own," Hermione said, with a small smile. "When you shine so clearly that you can't be overlooked — when your own light is undeniable — the lights you were once worried about may start to seem rather dim by comparison. If someone is drawn to brightness, the first person they'll see will be the brightest person in the room."
Ginny blinked. Then sat up a little straighter.
"Hermione," she said, with genuine admiration, "you always manage to say the exact right thing. It's uncanny."
"I understand the anxiety," Hermione said, with the authority of someone speaking from experience. "But try to let go of the unnecessary kind. It doesn't help, and it tends to lead to decisions you'll regret."
"I bet you apply this very calmly to your own relationship, don't you?" Ginny said, recovering her wry good humour. "You've never once spent three seconds worrying about other girls and Draco Malfoy, have you? That flustered girl before the Christmas ball was a completely different person, obviously."
"Ginny—" Hermione's cheeks coloured.
After a beat, she admitted, "All right. I know. These things are much easier in theory. The truth is, no matter how calm I try to be, I still have moments of uncertainty — with anyone I care about."
"So how do you actually get through them?" Ginny asked, leaning forward. "How do you stay rational most of the time?"
She couldn't resist adding, "Those Slytherin girls who can see him in the common room every evening. Parkinson, who's known him half his life. They exist."
"Part of the reason I've managed to stay rational is that he gives me a sense of security," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Not that he doesn't speak to girls — he does. But he maintains a particular kind of businesslike distance that makes it quite clear he's not interested. He doesn't invite anyone closer than he means to."
"Now that you mention it," Ginny said slowly, "that 'not available' sign he radiated before the Christmas ball was quite unmistakable. He's rather good at making his intentions clear without saying anything."
Hermione looked quietly pleased.
"As for Pansy Parkinson — I did worry about that quite a lot, at first, and I can't say I'm entirely indifferent now. But Parkinson has her own boyfriend. And the two of them don't seem to have any particular... tension."
"I asked for advice on my anxiety and you've handed me a catalogue of your boyfriend's qualities instead," Ginny said, with exaggerated suffering. "He's not a blueprint anyone else can follow! I can't imagine Harry going around radiating cold indifference at everyone — it's not who he is at all."
"Don't you like who Harry is?" Hermione asked, curious.
"I love who Harry is," Ginny said softly, going a little pink. "But sometimes the very thing you love about someone becomes the source of the headache."
"Yes," Hermione said, after a moment. "That's usually how it works."
Ginny frowned at the newspaper in her lap, then, without warning, poked two small holes in it, held it up, and peered intently at Harry through the gaps.
Crookshanks, having made several rotations around his own tail, raised his head, regarded the red-haired girl's absurd performance with a slow, weighted stare, and arrived at a quiet conclusion.
She is not Lily.
If Lily had decided to pay attention to a dark-haired boy, she would have walked straight over, sat down beside him, and looked at him directly.
The cat decided he had more worthwhile things to attend to, abandoned the armrest, and moved with purpose toward the card tower.
His owner was too preoccupied to notice.
Hermione stared out the common room window.
The sky was a vivid, uncomplicated blue, and the afternoon sun was burning off the last traces of yesterday's rain from the Hogwarts grounds.
She was restless.
The ring on her finger had been going warm intermittently, which was doing very little for her concentration.
"Waiting for you under the oak tree."
That was Draco.
Could he not leave her in peace for five minutes?
"I'm busy," she said quietly into the ring.
It was a feeble excuse, and she knew it.
"Still waiting for you, just to mention."
A brief pause, then there it was again — slightly aggrieved, as though he'd been sitting there for hours and could not understand why this was not more compelling.
He had been waiting for her, apparently, the whole time.
Should she go? Hermione's conscience began its cross-examination.
No. Absolutely not.
Hermione Granger, do not fall for that.
Have you already forgotten what happened the last time you felt sorry for him? Yesterday afternoon in the study corner, it started precisely because you felt sorry for him — and progressively lost every shred of judgement until you couldn't account for yourself.
"Still busy," she said hastily.
She had to handle this firmly. She couldn't be taken in again.
"Is it too late to be shy?"
Good heavens — he'd worked it out. That infuriating, intuitive Slytherin.
"Shut up," she replied before she could stop herself.
Oh, that was a mistake. That was essentially an admission.
"Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione..."
Seven times. He had called her name seven times.
What was he doing?
He'd called her name quite enough yesterday. More than enough, in fact. In very specific contexts that she was trying very hard not to think about.
Was he implying something?
"You are so annoying!" Hermione burst out, somewhat louder than intended.
"Who's bothering you?" Ginny put down the newspaper at once, looking startled.
"Not you, obviously." Hermione's blush was only moderate. "I mean — a very clingy boy."
"Malfoy?" Ginny looked incredulous. "Hermione, the word 'clingy' has never once applied to Draco Malfoy in the entirety of human history. He makes granite look warm and approachable."
"In private..." Hermione said, very quietly, until Ginny couldn't quite hear the rest.
Ginny shook her head and moved on.
"I've been thinking about what you said earlier — the 'two sides of every personality' idea," she said. "Does that apply to your boyfriend as well? His aloofness keeps girls at a distance — I can see how that would give you security. But doesn't it ever make things cold? Does it ever come back round and make you feel shut out?"
"Why would you think that?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"Because you've never struck me as someone who's drawn to coldness," Ginny said plainly. "I know his face is an advantage, and I know he treats you differently from everyone else. I know he can be warm in private — you've said as much. But most of the time he walks around looking as though the entire world bores him slightly. Doesn't that ever get bleak?"
"On the contrary — in private, he's someone who finds something interesting in almost everything," Hermione retorted, with more heat than she intended. "And he has never been cold towards me. Sometimes he's... extremely warm."
"An arrogant Slytherin — passionate?" Ginny looked sceptical. "Hermione. Your conscience."
Hermione looked her directly in the eye. "I am being perfectly sincere."
Ginny studied her face with suspicion.
"If he's so passionate, why hasn't he come to see you today? No classes, no exams, nothing to do but wait for final marks — shouldn't you be glued together?" she asked, with the precision of someone who had been paying attention.
"I believe — even in a relationship — one shouldn't be excessively clingy." Hermione coughed, eyes drifting to the books in her lap. "We both have things to do."
She hadn't told anyone about the ring. Officially, he hadn't come to find her. But had he actually been quiet? The ring had been practically incandescent ten minutes ago.
"While we're on the subject," Ginny said, her gaze sharper than usual, moving methodically over Hermione's restless fidgeting. "Why didn't you go to the library today? You're sitting here reading anyway, looking quite sorry for yourself. The last time you hid in the common room with your books, you were avoiding your future boyfriend. Did you two have a row?"
"Of course not — everything is absolutely fine," Hermione said, cheeks blazing. "I'm simply tired today and didn't feel like going downstairs."
"Then why do you go red every time anyone mentions him?" Ginny demanded.
Because, Hermione thought, what we did yesterday was thoroughly outrageous.
She had returned to the common room in a state of pleasant dishevelment, still somewhat dazed, and gradually — as the seductive fog cleared — arrived at a full accounting of everything that had taken place in that most academic of settings. Upon the mahogany table, no less. A table reserved for serious scholarly endeavour.
He had kissed her until her knees stopped working, and she had — she shut down that line of thought firmly.
Draco, that absolutely incorrigible boy.
What had possessed him to make those extravagant declarations? And in what sense was it acceptable to be doing increasingly outrageous things to her while simultaneously swearing, with complete earnestness, that he would never do anything inappropriate?
And what had possessed her?
Why had she, after he finally, mercifully, chosen to exercise restraint — why had she immediately and inexplicably started the whole thing again?
Because he said she was beautiful and meant it, and something in her went completely sideways.
Very, very unlike Hermione Granger. Irrational. Impulsive. Entirely lacking in academic discipline.
And his face. His face had quite a lot to answer for.
The worst of it was that when she finally disentangled herself from his arms, flushed and overwhelmed, and muttered that this had been rather too much, he had pinched her chin, looked at her with that half-smile, and said —
"It's not too much. Hermione, you know—" and kissed her lips again, slow and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world, then moved to her ear and whispered, "You're quite a bit more restrained now than you were when you were drunk."
A pause.
"I can, in fact, handle considerably more from you. However outrageous." He had gently drawn her earlobe between his lips. "Find us a better place, set a time, and I will absolutely see it through to the end."
Hermione rubbed her forehead.
She was quite certain there were several layers of meaning in that statement, and she had made a firm executive decision not to investigate any of them.
Everything needed to calm down. Both of them.
Since she'd said what she'd said, the ring had gone quiet.
Would he look disappointed?
Those clear, luminous grey eyes — the ones that sometimes held her as though she were the most remarkable thing he'd ever seen.
Hermione shook her head, cutting that line of thought off at the source.
She needed to finish reading these books. That was what she needed to do.
But it was such a lovely afternoon outside. She wondered if he'd gone back inside.
He was the type who only got paler in the sun, to the point of practically glowing. Yet his lips were always that striking deep red — youthful, vivid, rather distracting.
If he turned around right now and smiled at her, it would definitely be—
Hermione lifted her glass, drank deeply, propped her chin on her hand — the one with the ring — and found her thoughts sliding back to him.
Thinking of you at this moment.
The ring had gone warm again. She felt the heat in her face immediately.
He was still there. Under the oak tree. Absolutely refusing to leave.
She missed him terribly and had no intention of telling him so.
She was trying to calm down. She had to calm down.
She opened "An Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes" and fixed her eyes on the page with grim determination.
"Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione..."
Another seven.
He really had no fear of consequences.
It was as if he thought sheer repetition would summon her to the oak tree bodily.
One was not enough — seven was apparently required.
She inwardly lodged a formal complaint about the boy filling the ring's maximum capacity with a single name, then stared fixedly at the page in front of her:
Klein blue, with the particular greyness that came with age.
She had been trying to place that colour since morning. It had taken until now to find it.
Two years ago, under that same oak tree — the one where Draco was currently waiting for her — she had touched the edge of that awful man's thoughts for the first time, without knowing what it meant.
She brought her lips to the ring, finally meaning to say something to him. This discovery might be important.
"You wretched cat—!"
At that precise moment, Ron's furious shout, the explosive crack of Snap cards, and a spectacularly indignant yowl tore through the common room.
Hermione looked up.
The table where Harry and Ron had been building their card castle looked as though it had been hit by a small, orange, self-satisfied hurricane. Cards were scattered everywhere, still smoking faintly. The fuse of this particular disaster was sitting, utterly unrepentant, in the middle of the wreckage.
Her cat.
"We were two rows from the top!" Ron said, incensed, swatting at the air in Crookshanks's direction. "That cat ruined — go on, get off — shoo—"
Hermione set aside "An Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes" — which might, she now realised, contain something rather significant — and hurried over.
The card castle was a ruin. It lay in scattered, singed pieces, still gently smouldering.
"Crookshanks, what are you doing on the table?" she said, casting a genuinely apologetic glance at Harry and Ron before turning to her cat. "Come down — Harry and the others are playing. You're a very intelligent cat. A very good cat. You're never naughty. Now down, please."
Crookshanks gave her a long, deliberate look.
He was in no particular hurry.
He lay flat on the table, paws beneath him, resolutely immovable.
Something about his focused, watchful, stubborn posture made Hermione hesitate. She reached down to lift him, and he bared his teeth — not viciously, but enough — and pressed his paw more firmly against the table.
She studied him. He did not look guilty. He looked pleased.
On an instinct, she reached out and gently lifted the edge of his paw.
He did not resist.
Tucked beneath the soft pads, making a faint, exhausted buzzing sound, was a fat beetle with distinctively spectacle-shaped markings around its antennae.
"Crookshanks," Hermione said, in a voice of enormous calm, stroking the cat's broad, self-satisfied head. "You absolute marvel."
She didn't feel the heat between her fingers as she pinched the beetle.
She turned to the bewildered Harry, Ron, and Ginny with an expression of barely suppressed triumph.
"I need a glass jar with a lid," she said. "Right now."