The corridors of Hogwarts had become a gauntlet laced with poison. Wherever Hermione looked she ran into those horrible, flashing badges.
‘SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY — THE TRUE HOGWARTS CHAMPION!’ proclaimed the inscription on the chests of most Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. But step closer and the letters flared venomous green, rearranging into the insult: ‘POTTER STINKS’.
Hermione trembled with indignation every time she saw someone ostentatiously press their badge at the sight of Harry. It was so low, so childishly stupid and cruel.
Harry endured. He had put on the mask of indifference — the same one he had probably worn for years at the Dursleys.
‘I don’t care, Hermione,’ he told her today in the library, without lifting his eyes from a Herbology scroll. ‘Let them wear what they like.’
But Hermione saw how his knuckles whitened around the quill. Saw how he hunched, trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. He had closed himself off, answering in monosyllables and deflecting any attempt at a heart-to-heart.
‘It’s unbearable!’ she exclaimed, kicking a stray pebble.
She and Kieran were walking the path around the lake. The day was windy but clear, the sky a cold, brilliant blue, yet the beauty of the landscape left Hermione unmoved.
‘They’re behaving like a flock of sheep!’ she raged on, wrapping her scarf more tightly. ‘Malfoy invented this filth, and the rest happily jumped on it. Even Hufflepuffs!’
Kieran walked beside her. The wind whipped strands of hair loose from his ponytail, but his face remained calm. Too calm.
‘Crowds always look for someone to peck,’ he shrugged. ‘Harry stood out. Became the upstart. Society’s natural reaction to a breach of hierarchy.’
Hermione stopped abruptly, staring at him in outrage.
‘“Natural reaction”?’ Kieran, you speak as though it’s a law of physics! This is injustice! Bullying! And you just shrug as though it’s normal. It infuriates me even more than Malfoy’s badges!’
Kieran halted too. There was no mockery in his dark eyes — only weary understanding.
‘I’m not saying it’s right, Hermione. I’m saying it’s predictable. I don’t know how to stop it. Magic won’t help here; curses would only egg them on.’
Hermione sighed heavily, her breath clouding in the air. Her anger at Kieran faded as quickly as it had flared. She knew he was on her side; he simply had different experience. More bitter.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, resuming her walk. ‘I just don’t know what to do. Harry’s shut down. Ron… Ron’s being an idiot. They haven’t spoken in three days. Three days! I’m trying to tear myself in half between them, but Ron won’t listen and Harry pretends Ron doesn’t exist. How do I reconcile them?’
She looked at Kieran hopefully, as though he carried a manual for repairing broken friendships in his pocket.
Morgan gave a crooked smile and shook his head.
‘You’re asking the wrong person, Hermione. I understand very little about friendship. My experience of interaction is either polite bows or solitary survival. I’m a poor adviser in matters of the heart and friendship.’
Hermione smiled softly, remembering his stories of ‘ronin’. She felt sad for him, yet warmed by his honesty with her.
‘You underestimate yourself,’ she said quietly. ‘You forget our childhood. When I was seven and all the neighbourhood children called me “swot” and laughed at my front teeth, you were the only one who didn’t. You brought me interesting books and listened to my encyclopaedia recitals for hours. You were my best friend, Kieran. And I think you managed perfectly well.’
Kieran looked at her with surprise, as though hearing this perspective for the first time. His face softened.
‘Well… back then it was simpler. Just sitting on the carpet and reading.’
‘Perhaps it’s not so complicated now either,’ she sighed.
Suddenly gravel crunched behind them — quick footsteps. Someone was hurrying to catch up.
Hermione turned and froze.
Ron was jogging towards them, out of breath. His red hair was wild, his robes unbuttoned, and his face showed a complicated mix of determination and profound awkwardness.
He slowed as he neared, stopping a couple of metres away as though unsure whether to come closer. He avoided looking at Hermione; his gaze darted somewhere between Kieran’s boots and a tree behind them.
‘Er… hi,’ he managed, shifting from foot to foot.
Hermione exchanged a glance with Kieran. He lifted an eyebrow almost imperceptibly but stayed silent.
‘Hi, Ron,’ she answered cautiously, trying to keep her voice neither too joyful nor accusing.
Ron drew a noisy breath of cold air, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and finally met their eyes. There was no familiar anger or resentment in them — only exhaustion and a guilty uncertainty.
‘Listen…’ he began, then faltered, searching for words. ‘Guys, I need to talk to you.’
He flicked a quick, wary glance at Kieran, then at Hermione, and added in a very low voice:
‘It’s about Harry.’
The wind off the lake grew piercing, slipping icy fingers under robes, but none of the three moved to leave. Ron stood before them, shoulders hunched, red hands buried in his pockets.
‘I know I’ve been acting like a prat,’ he muttered, kicking gravel and staring at his boots. ‘But he… he won’t even listen to me now. I tried to approach him this morning, but you saw his face.’
‘Ron,’ Hermione folded her arms, trying to stop shivering. ‘If you realise you were wrong, just tell him. Straight out. No go-betweens.’
‘I can’t,’ Ron shook his head, ears burning brighter. ‘Not yet. But it’s not about that. The thing is… my brother Charlie’s here.’
Hermione frowned.
‘Charlie? From Romania?’
‘Yeah. He came secretly, with a team. I saw him last night when I went… well, to clear my head. He spotted me, pulled me aside. Said I ought to know what my friend’s got himself into.’
Ron lifted his eyes, and genuine fear swam in them.
‘The first task, Hermione. Charlie.’
Hermione gasped, hand flying to her mouth. The pieces clicked into place.
‘Dragons?’ she whispered. ‘But that’s madness! Harry’s only fourteen!’
‘Exactly,’ Ron nodded grimly. ‘Charlie said they brought four. One for each champion. And they’re… not in a good mood.’
He drew a steadying breath.
‘Harry needs to know. Charlie said Hagrid can show them tonight. He wants to help Harry but can’t tell him openly in the castle. Harry has to go to him tonight. Under the Invisibility Cloak.’
‘Then tell him!’ Hermione exclaimed.
‘I’m telling you — he’ll send me packing!’ Ron flung his arms wide in despair. ‘He’ll think I’m mocking him again or trying to wind him up. Hermione, please. You have to pass it on. Right now. There isn’t much time.’
Hermione looked at Ron, at the silent Kieran — who had listened to this exchange with faint bewilderment — and let out a groan of pure frustration.
‘This is so stupid, Ron! It’s kindergarten! “Tell Harry I said…”’
‘Please,’ Ron repeated quietly. ‘I don’t want him getting eaten by a dragon just because we’re fighting.’
Hermione rolled her eyes skyward, praying for patience.
‘Fine. Let’s go.’
Finding Harry proved difficult. The castle was vast, and lately Potter had become a master of disappearance. They asked a couple of third-years in the corridor, who pointed fearfully towards the inner courtyard; then they ran into Neville, who had seen Harry near the greenhouses.
They finally caught up with him at the stone archway leading to the bridge. Harry stood leaning on the balustrade, gazing into the distance, clearly savouring solitude.
Hearing footsteps, he turned sharply. Seeing the three of them — determined Hermione, calm Kieran and awkward Ron trailing behind — he immediately tensed, his face becoming calm and impenetrable.
Hermione stopped a couple of paces away. She suddenly felt unbearably awkward. The absurdity of the situation weighed on her like lead.
‘Harry,’ she began, feeling like a complete fool.
‘Yes?’ Harry shifted his gaze to Ron — who was now studying the sky as though searching for the Snitch — then to Kieran, and back to her.
‘Ron…’ Hermione faltered. ‘Ron asked me to tell you… that he was told…’
She drew a deep breath.
‘Basically, Ron said that Seamus said to him… no, wait — Dean heard from Parvati… that Hagrid’s looking for you.’
Harry blinked.
‘What?’
‘Hagrid,’ Hermione repeated, cheeks burning. ‘He wants you to come to him tonight. Midnight. And wear the Invisibility Cloak.’
A ringing silence fell.
Harry looked at Ron — who was now examining his boot toes with intense fascination — then at Morgan, who maintained Swiss neutrality, and finally stared at Hermione with an expression that said: *Are you serious? Are you really wasting my time on this nonsense?*
‘You’re joking,’ he said coldly. ‘Is this some new prank? “Go into the forest at night, Harry, it’ll be fun”?’
Ron flinched as though to speak, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and stared at the ground again.
Hermione felt her patience snap. This was beyond endurance. She — top of the year, a rational person — was reduced to passing notes between two stubborn rams when one of them faced mortal danger!
‘Oh for Merlin’s sake!’ she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. ‘Harry, just go to Hagrid! Please! It’s important!’
Unable to bear another second of this theatre of the absurd or Harry’s heavy stare, she spun on her heel and almost ran down the corridor, leaving the boys to sort out this silent scene themselves. She needed the library. Books. Books at least didn’t behave so stupidly.