Rita Skeeter
A thud and loud laughter echoed from the other room. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Draco sat up in his bed. He was still partially dressed in his Durmstrang uniform, the rest presumably discarded in his rush to sleep. His head pounded, the familiar reminder of a hangover making its presence known. It was the end of his first full year at Durmstrang, and it felt... strange. Durmstrang was nothing like Hogwarts. Hogwarts was warm and welcoming, even the air in the dark, damp dungeons felt lighter. But Durmstrang—Durmstrang was the complete opposite. It was a place built on power struggles. Every student, every action, every word—it all felt like a part of an endless chess game, where heirs to ancient pureblood families were trained to outsmart each other at every turn.
Draco had to push himself beyond mere excellence. He had to be an awe-inspiring force in everything he did. Since the small group of Hogwarts students had joined the school, they had to fight for their place as equals. It wasn’t an easy adjustment.
Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold stone floor with a dull thud. The pale sunlight filtering through the half-covered window barely illuminated the room. Still, he had to admit, one thing Durmstrang had going for it was the personal space. No roommates. Just his own solitude. While the isolation felt like a rare luxury, he was glad to know his mates were just down the hall, making it less like a prison.
He sighed and got up, dragging his tired body toward the noise coming from the other room. As he opened the door, he found a familiar group: Theodore Nott sprawled on the floor, laughing hysterically about something, Pansy Parkinson—still clearly tipsy—performing spells on a broken window but failing miserably, and Blaise Zabini, who looked sober enough to be concerned but was enjoying the chaos nonetheless.
"What’s going on?" Draco asked, stepping over Theo, who was clutching his stomach in laughter. Pansy shot him a bleary-eyed look, her cheeks flushed from alcohol.
"Draco! They won’t help me!" she wailed, gesturing at Theo and Blaise. "I don’t want to get scolded again!" With that, she cast another spell. This time, the window, which had a small hole before, shattered completely with a loud crash.
Theo’s laughter grew louder, as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever seen, while Blaise just shook his head, covering his face with his hand to hide his growing amusement.
Draco couldn’t help but smile at the sight.
Before he could say anything, a loud knock suddenly echoed through the room, sending a jolt of panic through all of them. The smiles vanished, and a palpable tension filled the air. Pansy, now stone-cold sober, hurriedly darted toward the bathroom, probably hoping the professor wouldn't catch her.
The knock came again, this time more forceful. Draco scrambled, patting around for his wand, which he, of course, had left in the other room.
"Where’s your wand, Blaise?" he whispered urgently, but Blaise merely shrugged, still laughing quietly.
“Professor Varga,” Theo groaned, his hand gripping the doorframe. It was clear from the way his face fell that this wasn't a surprise, but it was still unwelcome.
Draco tensed. The professor was notoriously strict—no sense of humor. If there was a rule to follow, he was the first to make sure it was obeyed.
With a sigh, Theo reluctantly opened the door, revealing Professor Varga, a solidly built man with short, yellow-blond hair and a permanent scowl. His sharp eyes shot glares in all directions, freezing them in place.
“Room inspection,” Varga grunted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
The group stiffened, trying not to panic. Varga began his inspection, walking methodically across the room. Every inch, every dust mote, was scrutinized. The students exchanged nervous glances, trying to clean up the aftermath of last night's party as quickly as possible.
Just when they thought they were in the clear, Varga paused in front of the bathroom door. Without missing a beat, he reached for the handle.
Draco acted on impulse, grabbing the professor’s hand and pulling the door shut.
"Sir!" Draco’s voice was firm, though his heart was racing. “You cannot go in there!”
Professor Varga’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He turned his piercing gaze on Draco, who felt his resolve falter.
"Why not?" Varga’s voice was low but dangerous.
Theo cleared his throat, stepping forward. "Well, sir, you see… Theo’s digestive system doesn’t exactly handle meat well. After last night’s dinner, with all those blood sausages—" Theo’s face turned red as Blaise stepped in.
“We’ve been asking the next room to use their bathroom all day, professor. You don’t want to go in there. Trust me," Blaise added quickly, his expression a mix of apology and guilt.
Draco nodded in agreement. "You wouldn’t want to enter that room for the next two days, sir."
The professor stared at them, a mix of disgust and disbelief on his face. The silence that followed stretched out for a moment before he sighed heavily and turned back toward the door. The students thought they were safe.
But then Varga froze. Draco and the others didn’t notice right away, too busy breathing a sigh of relief.
Then the professor bent down, picked up something from the floor, and held it up. A pair of female Durmstrang boots, their heels clearly visible. The professor’s glare intensified as he slowly straightened up. The boots dangled from his hand, their identity unmistakable.
The professor's gaze flicked between the three of them, his mouth set in a tight, displeased line.
"Boys," he said, his voice barely containing his anger. "Would you kindly show me to your restroom?"
Karkaroff’s office was anything but welcoming—dark, dusty, and stiflingly tense. The four students stood before his desk in shameful silence as the headmaster folded his arms, shaking his head in exasperation.
"You are all respectable students from good families. Good students. So why, why do you insist on causing this much trouble?" he groaned, rubbing his temples.
Beside him, Professor Varga stood like a watchful hawk, his sharp gaze drilling into the group. The unfortunate truth was that they were far too familiar with this office—they visited Karkaroff more often than they did the dueling grounds. And considering how much this group loved a good duel, that was saying something.
Draco moved first, sinking into one of the two chairs by the desk with an ease that spoke of experience. He leaned back slightly, utterly unbothered, which only made Karkaroff’s scowl deepen.
"Draco!" Karkaroff snapped, slamming a fist onto the desk. "What would your father say if he heard even half of these stories?!"
Draco didn’t flinch. He simply met Karkaroff’s glare, unruffled. What would Lucius say? Probably something about disgrace and expectations. But Draco found that, strangely, he didn’t care. Being away from his father’s reach, his judgment, his control—it was freeing. So what if he caused a little trouble here and there? At least here, he could breathe.
Karkaroff’s tirade continued, his voice rising with every accusation. His frustration grew, bubbling over into outright fury, but after nearly ten long minutes of ranting, he exhaled sharply, composing himself. Then, with an air of finality, he declared:
"As an apology, you will all enter the Triwizard Tournament."
Silence.
Theo stiffened, then stepped forward, his temper flaring. "What? You can’t make us risk our lives!" He threw his arms out, outrage crackling in his voice.
Karkaroff’s fists slammed onto the desk again. "Do not argue with me!" he roared, swearing under his breath. "You will do as you're told!"
Draco’s stomach sank. This wasn’t just punishment. This was a maneuver. Karkaroff wanted them to sign up—to represent Durmstrang, to bring glory to the school. The thought of being forced into that death trap sent a chill down his spine.
But there was no arguing. The decision had been made. And one by one, they were forced to sign their names.
Once Draco was back in his bedroom, he collapsed onto his bed, the weight of Karkaroff’s words finally settling in. He could die. Even if there was only a small chance that he or his friends would be chosen, the possibility still loomed over him. The realization gnawed at him, creeping in like a slow, suffocating fog. He was in this mess now—trapped in a game he had no desire to play.
A sharp tap against the window pulled him from his thoughts. His family’s owl perched on the ledge, waiting patiently to be let in. A letter, sealed with the Malfoy crest, was tied to its leg. His mother.
Draco hastily tore the envelope open, scanning the elegant script inside. He could almost hear her voice in the carefully chosen words, the way she always tried to sound composed even when she was worried. But as much as he wanted to believe that she could fix this—could somehow get him out of this nightmare—he knew better. Not even Narcissa Malfoy’s pleas would change Karkaroff’s mind. He was on his own, and so were his friends.
Shoving the letter into his desk drawer, he stepped out into the small common room, retracing the steps he had taken that morning. But the mood now was far grimmer. Theo sat on the floor, muttering curses under his breath while practicing spells with sharp, precise wand movements. Blaise lounged on the couch, flipping through a copy of The Daily Prophet he had somehow managed to get ahold of at Durmstrang.
Pansy, who had been terrified of getting caught in the boys’ dormitories after their last close call, was nowhere to be found—likely hiding out on the other side of the school, avoiding more trouble.
Draco sank into the seat beside Blaise. Without a word, Blaise tossed the newspaper onto his lap before getting up to make coffee. "Want one?" he asked over his shoulder.
Draco hummed a quiet yes in response, barely registering the offer. He wasn’t sure why, but reading the articles helped clear his mind, grounding him in something other than his own spiraling thoughts.
Then, just as he flipped to the third page, he froze.
There it was. The all-too-familiar name staring back at him.
THE DAILY PROPHET
MISSING FOR A YEAR: WHERE IS HERMIONE GRANGER?
By Rita Skeeter
It has been a full year since Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born prodigy and close companion of the Boy Who Lived, mysteriously disappeared from the public eye. Once known as one of Hogwarts’ brightest students, Granger vanished without a trace in the wake of the ongoing Seer Crisis, leaving behind nothing but speculation, whispers, and unanswered questions.
Despite official silence from the Ministry, sources within the Auror Office confirm that investigations yielded no leads on her whereabouts. Hogwarts staff and students alike remain tight-lipped, fueling theories that her disappearance is far more than a simple case of a runaway student.
Granger, best known for her academic brilliance and involvement in the events surrounding Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament, was last seen at Hogwarts shortly before the surge of anti-Seer legislation. Some believe she was taken for her own protection, while others suspect she was targeted because of knowledge she shouldn’t have had.
“She was never the type to simply vanish,” an unnamed Hogwarts student commented. “If she left, it wasn’t her choice.”
Her absence has left a noticeable void, especially in the Gryffindor common room. Students who once relied on her guidance now whisper about her fate, wondering if she will ever return. Meanwhile, her closest friends, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, have refused to speak publicly about her disappearance, fueling speculation that they know more than they are letting on.
Theories range from the mundane to the extraordinary. Some claim she is in hiding, living under a new identity. Others suggest she was taken by forces who wish to control those with Seer abilities. A more outlandish theory suggests she fled abroad to avoid a grim fate. But no matter the theory, one fact remains: Hermione Granger is gone, and no one seems to know why.
For now, all we can do is wait, watch, and wonder—where is Hermione Granger? And will she ever come back?
The mention of her name weighed heavy on his chest. Even now, a year later, he still remembered the chaos of those last few months at Hogwarts—the moment Hermione Granger disappeared. It had been so sudden, so unnatural. The school had been grim before, but after that? The atmosphere turned suffocating.
Potter and Weasley had gone mad with their theories, obsessively investigating every possible lead. They had refused to accept that she had simply left—because people like Hermione didn’t just leave. But no matter how hard they searched, she was gone. No trace, no explanations.
A mug appeared beside Draco’s head, jarring him from his thoughts. He turned sharply, blinking up at Blaise, who only raised a brow before setting the coffee down.
“You reading about Granger?” Blaise asked, stretching out and leaning his forearms on the couch.
Draco didn’t respond right away, just let out a vague hum as he took a sip of his drink.
Theo, curious, scooted closer to glance at the article. “Oh, I remember that! It really was sudden, wasn’t it?” he said, sounding far too cheerful about it.
Blaise hummed in agreement, but his tone was more thoughtful. “Yeah… I remember it too. What do you think happened to her?”
He nudged Draco, motioning for him to move over so he could sit.
Draco hesitated for a moment before shifting slightly, giving Blaise just enough space. He shrugged, flipping the newspaper shut with a snap.
“I think it was just a family emergency,” he said coolly. “They’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
-
Hermione sat in the breakfast room, absently turning the pages of the same blue book she had been unable to part with for months. Her ruffled blouse was neatly tucked into a plaid skirt, her hair gathered in a bun with a few loose strands escaping to frame her face. Across from her, Lady Beatrice was animatedly discussing the latest pureblood gossip, but neither Hermione nor the lord seemed particularly invested. Both were engrossed in their reading, offering occasional hums to reassure the lady they were, in fact, still listening.
"I mean, truly! What is that Lady Rosier thinking?!" Lady Beatrice huffed, shaking her head in apparent disappointment. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she turned her attention to Hermione. "Dearie, what are you doing today?"
Hermione perked up at the mention of her name, blinking as she processed the question. "Ah, I was planning to read a bit and practice some scrying. I still haven't tested the new crystal ball you got me last time," she replied with a small smile, unsure why the lady was asking.
Lady Beatrice glanced at the lord before leaning forward ever so slightly, her expression shifting. "I was thinking," she began carefully, "now that everyone knows the hunt for Seers is dying down, and since I know how bored you must be cooped up in this house..."
Hermione tilted her head, waiting for her to continue. Even the lord peeked over his newspaper, his curiosity piqued.
"I was hoping to take you out for some shopping."
Silence fell over the room, thick and heavy. The ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece seemed deafening. Hermione’s pulse quickened—excitement thrumming beneath her skin like an electric current. "Really?" she breathed, barely daring to believe it.
Lady Beatrice nodded, clearly amused by Hermione’s reaction but attempting to keep a composed smile.
The lord, however, was less convinced. He folded his newspaper with deliberate care, setting it aside before fixing his wife with a skeptical look. "Are you sure it would be safe?" he asked, his tone measured but firm.
Lady Beatrice rolled her eyes as if she had anticipated his concern. "Of course! I’ve planned everything perfectly. Would you like me to walk you both through it?"