Beyond the library windows twilight thickened, and by evening the rain had begun again, now drumming a monotonous rhythm against the tall pointed panes. In the far corner, hidden behind shelves of ‘Late Medieval Magical History’, it was quiet and dusty.
Hermione sat with her nose buried in the thick volume *A Compendium of Goblin Rebellions of the Eighteenth Century*, but the lines danced before her eyes, refusing to form coherent meaning. She turned pages mechanically, glancing repeatedly at Kieran.
Morgan sat opposite, surrounded by Charms textbooks. He frowned, lips moving silently, repeating the same intricate wrist movement over and over. The wand in his hand traced a complicated loop, but judging by his tense expression the result still dissatisfied him.
Hermione sighed. Loudly. Expressively.
Kieran did not even blink. He was so absorbed in trying to rewire his muscle memory to British standards that the outside world seemed to have ceased to exist for him.
She sighed again, this time with a note of tragedy, leaning back in her chair. Still no reaction.
Hermione bit her lip. She felt ashamed. That scene at breakfast still gnawed at her. She had lost her temper again. She had slipped into that same lecturing tone that so infuriated Ron. Why did her words always fly out faster than she could think about her friends’ feelings? She had only wanted to speak the truth, yet in her mouth truth often sounded like a verdict.
Realising that hints directed at Morgan were having no effect, she decided to be direct.
‘Kieran,’ she called, closing her book with a dull thud.
He immediately stilled his hand, raised his head and looked at her with polite attention.
‘Yes? Am I disturbing you? Too much page-rustling?’
‘No,’ Hermione said, nervously adjusting her cuff. ‘Tell me honestly… is it hard to talk to me? Do I come across as… well, an insufferable know-it-all?’
Kieran blinked, genuine surprise crossing his face. He set his wand aside.
‘What makes you think that? You’re helping me adjust, recommending books. You’re clever. Why should it be hard to talk to you?’
Hermione gave a sad little laugh, fiddling with the corner of a page.
‘I sometimes say too much. I lecture too often. Ron… he was clearly hurt this morning. I saw it. And you must have noticed. I just can’t stay silent when someone does something foolish, and then I regret it.’
Kieran rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Weasley…’ he drawled. ‘Honestly, it seemed to me that being offended is his default state. He flares up over anything. I wouldn’t take it personally.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Hermione rushed to defend her friend, feeling the familiar stab of guilt. ‘Ron’s wonderful. He can be very funny, he’s loyal, he’ll always stand by you in a crisis. He’s easy to be around when he isn’t… well, being Ron. A bit rough, a bit envious. But it’s never malicious.’
Morgan listened attentively, without interrupting. His dark eyes studied Hermione’s face with a strange expression — a mixture of curiosity and incomprehension.
‘At Mahoutokoro,’ he said quietly at last, ‘I could never have allowed myself to behave like Ron. No one could. There would have been consequences.’
Hermione tensed. Snape’s barbed remark about ‘tsujigiri’ and cruelty flashed through her mind.
‘What kind?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is it really so… harsh there? Were you punished?’
Kieran shook his head, noticing the fear in her eyes.
‘No, Hermione. Not the way you’re thinking. No one would have thrown curses or challenged anyone to a duel over careless words or rudeness. That would be too direct, too crude — not the Japanese way.’
He turned to look at the window, where raindrops raced down the glass.
‘If you don’t watch your tongue, if you don’t respect those around you and behave loudly and without restraint… people simply stop noticing you. A void forms around you. They smile, they bow, they greet you, but you no longer exist for them. You become a stone in the middle of the sea — the waves simply flow past without touching you.’
He looked down at his hands, at the raw knuckles that were already beginning to heal.
‘You aren’t invited to group activities. No one shares news with you. You can stand in the centre of a crowded room and feel absolute, icy solitude. And believe me, that’s far worse than shouting, lost points or cruel jokes. It’s a silence that crushes. And once it begins, it never stops — not even if you apologise, reform, or turn into a completely different person. There is no way back.’
Hermione sat silent, stunned by the picture he painted. A sudden chill ran through her despite the library’s warmth. She imagined a small, lonely Kieran in a foreign country, terrified of saying one word too many lest he become that ‘stone in the sea’.
‘That’s why Hogwarts still surprises me,’ he went on, meeting her eyes again. ‘Here people allow themselves so much. They shout, they argue, they get offended, yet an hour later they’re laughing together again. It’s… chaotic. But there’s life in it.’
Hermione leant forward across the table impulsively.
‘Kieran,’ she said firmly, her voice trembling with sincerity. ‘You do understand that here you won’t be alone? We’re not at Mahoutokoro. Even if you say something stupid, or we quarrel… we won’t ignore you. I won’t.’
Morgan looked at her for several seconds, and the mask of calm on his face cracked. The corners of his mouth lifted in a sad but warm smile.
‘Thank you, Hermione,’ he said quietly.
He glanced at the wall clock and immediately began gathering his books, hiding his emotions behind the familiar bustle of packing.
‘We’ve stayed too long. The ceremony to announce the Champions begins in ten minutes. It would be a shame to miss a historic moment while sitting in a dusty corner. Shall we go?’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Hermione nodded, rising.
The Great Hall buzzed like an overfull hive. The candles burned especially brightly, yet even their light seemed dim beside the bluish-white glow of the Goblet of Fire standing in the centre.
Hermione forged confidently through the crowd, weaving deftly between students’ backs. Kieran, who would have preferred to remain by the doors in the shadow of a column where there was more air and fewer elbows, was obliged to follow — she had gripped his robe sleeve firmly and was towing him forward with the determination of an icebreaker.
‘Here,’ she commanded, squeezing onto the bench opposite Harry and Ron. Potter and Weasley were talking in low voices, but catching Hermione’s eye Harry gave a friendly wave.
‘We made it,’ Hermione breathed, settling and smoothing her robes.
Soon Dumbledore rose from his throne and the hall fell instantly silent. The Headmaster approached the Goblet. The flames flared crimson, and a shower of sparks erupted, spitting out the first charred parchment.
‘The champion for Durmstrang — Viktor Krum!’
The hall erupted in applause. Ron bellowed so loudly Hermione’s ears rang. Harry clapped too, smiling genuinely. Krum, stooping, walked to the side chamber.
Next came Fleur Delacour. And finally, to deafening cheers from the Hufflepuff table, Hogwarts’ champion was declared Cedric Diggory.
‘Brilliant!’ Harry shouted, clapping above his head. ‘Cedric’s perfect! We’ve got a chance!’
Dumbledore spread his arms, preparing to deliver his concluding remarks. The Tournament had begun; the suspense was resolved. Hermione was already reaching for her bag, thinking she might manage another chapter before bed…
But the Goblet of Fire suddenly flared again.
The flames shot towards the ceiling, fierce, red, roaring. They spat out a fourth parchment.
Dumbledore caught it mid-air. He stared at the name for a long, long moment. Silence fell over the hall — not the respectful hush of before, but a heavy, sticky, ominous one. The crackle of candle wax could be heard.
‘Harry Potter.’
The name sounded softly, yet to Hermione it struck like thunder.
She whipped round to Harry. He sat frozen. The smile had slid from his face, replaced by utter, total incomprehension. He looked like a man on whom the ceiling had suddenly collapsed.
‘Harry Potter!’ Dumbledore called, louder.
Hundreds of heads turned towards them. A whispering like snakes’ hissing spread through the rows.
‘Harry,’ Hermione leant across the table and shoved his shoulder hard. ‘Go.’
‘What?’ He blinked at her with empty eyes.
‘Go! They’re calling you!’
Harry rose slowly, like a marionette. Stumbling, he made his way along the table under the weight of heavy stares and disappeared through the door where the other champions had gone.
The moment the door closed behind him the noise returned in a flood. Everyone shouted, protested, pointed.
Hermione felt panic rising inside her, mingled with a fierce need to protect her friend. This was a mistake. A monstrous mistake! She turned to Ron, seeking support, but what she saw on his face made her freeze.
Ron did not look surprised. He sat with arms folded across his chest, staring at his empty plate with cold, bitter fury.
‘He could have told us,’ he muttered, venom thick in his voice. ‘Played the modest little hero, did he…’
‘What are you talking about?’ Hermione cried, feeling heat flood her cheeks. ‘Ron, you saw his face! He was in shock! He didn’t know!’
Ron lifted his eyes to hers. There was no trace of friendly warmth in them — only a crooked, toxic smirk.
‘Oh come off it, Hermione. Are you really that naïve or just pretending?’ He snorted. ‘“I don’t want glory, Ron”, “I’ve got enough trouble already, Ron”. Right. While secretly slipping on the Invisibility Cloak at night and hunting for a way round the line. Dishonest, that is. Friends should tell each other the truth.’
‘That’s vile!’ Hermione’s voice cracked into a shriek. ‘How can you think that of him?! He would never deceive us! This… this was someone else’s doing! He’s in danger, and you sit here jealous!’
Ron rolled his eyes and turned to Seamus, throwing over his shoulder:
‘Of course, Hermione. You’re always right, aren’t you? Miss Perfect knows best. And I’m just the fool who can’t see what’s obvious. Believe what you like.’
That was the last straw. Tears of hurt and helpless rage burnt her eyes. Hermione snatched up her bag, knowing that if she stayed another second she would either burst into tears or curse Ron with something truly unpleasant.
She shot up from the bench and pushed through the students towards the exit. She needed air. Away from this din, these angry faces, Ron’s betrayal.
‘Hermione!’
Someone caught her elbow just as she reached the doors and nearly escaped into the entrance hall. She jerked, ready to snap, but met calm dark eyes.
It was Kieran. He had not run, yet somehow appeared beside her with surprising speed.
‘Let go!’ she gasped, brushing away an angry tear. ‘I don’t want to be in there! You heard what he said! It’s unbearable!’
‘I heard,’ Kieran nodded calmly, not releasing her sleeve. His grip was gentle but firm. ‘Weasley’s behaving like an idiot. But if you go up to the tower now, think what that will do to Harry.’
Hermione froze, sniffing.
‘What?’
‘Harry will come back,’ Kieran continued in his even voice, nodding towards the side door of the hall. ‘He’ll walk out of there, and the whole hall will be waiting. All those stares. Then he’ll reach the table and find only his best friend’s back turned. And if you’re gone too…’
Hermione looked at the door behind which Harry had disappeared. Panic gave way to cold realisation. Harry was in there now, frightened and bewildered, and she had been about to run away over her own hurt feelings towards Ron.
‘You’re right,’ she whispered, straightening and drawing a deep breath. ‘Merlin, you’re right. I can’t abandon him.’
‘But you don’t have to go back to the table,’ Kieran pointed out, releasing her arm.
‘Let’s wait here,’ Hermione said decisively, pushing hair from her face. The fighting spirit had returned. ‘Right by the exit. We’ll catch him the moment he comes out!’
‘Sensible,’ Kieran agreed.
He leant against the cold stone wall beside her and they waited, watching.