Chapter 12
Hermione barely heard the clapping.
Her heart was still hammering in her chest long after Dumbledore called out Harry’s name. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think around the noise echoing in her skull. The Great Hall buzzed in confusion and disbelief—Harry was just fifteen. Fifteen.
She was on her feet before she realized it, ignoring Lavender’s wide-eyed stare and Parvati’s shocked “He didn’t put his name in, right? Tell me he didn’t.” She barely even realized she’d gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.
No, no, no—this wasn’t just some mix-up. This wasn’t just a prank or a twist of magic.
Something had twisted the Goblet’s will. And if Harry’s name had been forced through... it meant something far darker had crawled beneath the protections of Hogwarts.
And that chilled her far more than the spectacle of the moment.
Harry looked just as stunned as the rest of them. She watched as he slowly walked toward the antechamber, back ramrod straight like he could will himself taller. Brave, stupid boy. She wanted to stop him, grab his sleeve, tell him to sit down and let the adults sort it out—
But she didn’t.
Because she knew what it meant to be called. What it meant when fate made demands of you, whether you were ready or not.
Lavender touched her arm gently. “Hermione?”
She turned to look at the girls around her. Lavender. Parvati. Dean and Seamus, whispering furiously across the table. Even Ron, who looked too stunned to speak, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“I need to check on Harry,” Hermione said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll be back.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She pushed away from the bench and moved quickly out of the hall.
She found herself just outside the antechamber, pressed against the stone wall. Dumbledore’s voice rumbled inside, then Karkaroff’s sharper one, followed by Madame Maxime’s disbelieving scoff.
Hermione didn’t go in. She wouldn’t.
But she stayed.
She stood still, listening, grounding herself with every breath, gripping the sleeve of her robe tightly in her hand until her fingers stopped shaking. It wasn’t about the Tournament anymore. It wasn’t even about the fact that Harry could get hurt—
It was that the world was moving again. And she had no say in its direction.
The worst part? Her instincts were screaming. That awful tingle down her spine that meant something was coming. That same humming pressure in her temples that had always preceded a vision.
She blinked it back.
Not here. Not now.
Back in Gryffindor Tower, her dormmates gave her space. Lavender handed her a mug of cocoa, Parvati tucked a blanket around her legs, and nobody asked anything until Hermione finally sighed and said softly, “I just… have a bad feeling about all of this.”
“You think something’s going to happen to Harry?” Lavender asked.
Hermione hesitated. “I think something already has.”
-
Draco hadn’t said a word since they’d returned to their temporary quarters.
The Durmstrang dorms were tucked away in the lower east wing, all dark stone and cold floors, lit by iron sconces that flickered with reddish flame. Karkaroff had wanted it that way—he called it discipline, though Draco figured it just meant he liked brooding in the shadows.
He sat on the edge of his bed now, still in his uniform, arms resting on his knees, staring blankly at the fire. The common room was quiet. Theo sat opposite him, legs slung over the arm of a velvet chair. Blaise was pacing in slow loops. Pansy hadn’t come back yet.
Good.
He wasn’t ready to talk.
His jaw still ached from clenching it through the entire antechamber drama. Karkaroff had kept him near the wall, silent, even as he barked questions at Dumbledore and seethed at the idea of a fourth champion. A fifth, now. Because apparently Potter couldn’t go five minutes without hijacking attention.
Draco didn’t understand it. He should be angry. Furious, even. The entire school would be obsessed with Harry again. Headlines, whispers, pity. Draco had half a mind to believe Potter had somehow gotten around the enchantments.
But when he’d seen Harry's face—the pure disbelief, the fear… something didn’t sit right.
He didn’t know what sat right anymore.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Theo murmured, dragging him back.
Draco exhaled through his nose. “Processing.”
Theo gave a thoughtful nod, then tossed a pillow at Blaise to stop his pacing. “You think Karkaroff knew about this?”
“I think,” Draco said slowly, “that if he did, he’d be gloating. Not shouting like his hair’s on fire.”
Blaise dropped into the seat next to him. “You think Potter really didn’t do it?”
“I think he looked just as scared as Pansy did when Karkaroff picked us to submit our names.” Draco rubbed his fingers together. “And that was real.”
Silence again. The crackling fire seemed louder in its absence.
“I didn’t want this,” he said at last. Quiet. More to the shadows than to them. “I didn’t want to be part of some game where I’m forced to prove I deserve to live.”
No one replied. There wasn’t anything to say.
After a few moments, Theo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a chocolate frog, flicking it toward him. “If it makes you feel any better, Karkaroff looks like he aged ten years after the fifth name came out.”
Draco snorted, cracked the wrapper.
The chocolate frog stared up at him.
“Do you think Potter’s going to die?” Blaise asked, not cruelly. Just… honest.
Draco looked into the fire again.
“I don’t know.”
But what he did know? That girl. The one he’d seen on the street—the one he was sure was Hermione Granger and yet wasn’t—her eyes had that same haunted look tonight.
She’d stared at Potter like the world was tilting again, like she knew what was coming.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
-
Hermione needed air.
She’d barely touched her dinner, spent the entire meal glancing between Harry—who was pretending to be fine—and the staff table, where even Dumbledore had seemed... worn. Like the world had tipped in a direction no one could make sense of.
Now, the corridors were quiet, the castle dim under the warm torchlight that flickered like secrets on the walls. Lavender and Parvati had gone back to the dorm, whispering behind cupped hands about fate and prophecies and Harry bloody Potter.
But Hermione walked alone.
Her cardigan sleeves were bunched in her fists. She felt raw. Like she could crack open if anyone asked her how she was. The tarot cards still burned behind her eyes. The Fool. The Tower. The hanged man.
And Harry.
Always Harry.
She turned the corner near the astronomy wing, hoping to breathe, to just breathe—when she ran straight into someone.
Hard chest. Cold voice.
"Granger."
She jolted back.
Draco Malfoy looked like a ghost. Still in his Durmstrang coat, hair damp from the mist outside, eyes too sharp for how tired they looked.
They stared at each other in silence.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him since the street in Diagon Alley. But it was the first time they were alone. No professors. No friends. No pretenses.
Just... truth.
"I was wondering if you’d still be lurking in dark hallways," she said, trying for snide but failing.
"Old habits," he muttered.
A beat passed. Two heartbeats, maybe three.
Then—
“You knew,” he said.
Her spine stiffened. “About what?”
He took a step closer. “Don’t insult me. You knew something like this would happen. Potter. The Tournament. I saw your face.”
Her mouth opened—then shut.
Because what could she say?
That the visions never stopped? That she had seen Harry’s name appear days ago and told no one because it was too dangerous? Because her entire life was now a secret held together with silence and tarot cards and fear?
“Maybe I did,” she said finally, chin lifting. “But it’s not like I can stop a magical artefact from spitting out names.”
Draco’s jaw ticked.
“I didn’t ask for this either,” he said, quieter now. “Being in the middle of something I didn’t choose. You think I wanted to throw my name in?”
Hermione looked at him then—really looked.
And there it was again. Not just the fear, but something deeper. Like he was crumbling inside, and no one had noticed because he held the pieces just so.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered.
“I don’t either,” he said. “Maybe I just wanted someone else to say it feels wrong. That we’re not just chess pieces.”
The silence returned, softer this time.
More honest.
Hermione’s hands dropped to her sides. “You should go. If anyone sees us—”
“I know.”
But he didn’t move.
Neither did she.
Until Crookshanks padded softly down the hall and wound around her ankles, blinking up at them both like he knew far more than he let on.
Draco’s eyes fell to the cat. “New pet?”
“Old friend.”
Another breath. Another pause.
Then she turned to leave, heart pounding.
“Granger,” he called.
She stopped.
“You’re not as good at hiding as you think.”
She didn’t answer.
Just kept walking.