Chapter 13
The dream didn’t start as a vision.
It began in quiet. Stillness.
Then—a sudden shift.
A forest. The air thick with fog and the scent of burnt cedar. Screams in the distance. Fire licked at the trees like hungry fingers, curling around shadows that danced between reality and nightmare.
Hermione turned in the dream, searching.
She saw the Goblet. It floated above the ground, glowing unnaturally. And beside it—Draco.
His face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes wide with something between defiance and dread. His Durmstrang cloak hung off one shoulder, ripped and blackened at the edges. He raised his wand, and—
She couldn’t see what he was casting at. Just the flash of green. The scream that followed.
Not his.
Someone else.
Then he turned—slowly, deliberately—and looked at her through the smoke, through the dream.
“You should’ve warned me.”
Hermione shot upright in her bed, breath catching in her throat.
The dorm was dark, but the panic clung to her like a second skin. Her hands were damp with sweat, the sheets twisted around her legs. Crookshanks stirred, his golden eyes blinking sleepily as he raised his head.
Hermione whispered a shaky charm to muffle any sound and reached for her wand. Her heart still pounded. The dream—it had felt like a vision. The same pressure in her chest. The same echo in her ears.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the noise rising in her throat.
Draco. It had been Draco.
She didn't know what disturbed her more—the fact that she’d seen him hurt… or the fact that he’d looked at her as if she could have prevented it.
“You should’ve warned me.”
Quietly, she slipped from the bed, pulling on a robe over her nightgown and tucking her wand into her pocket. Crookshanks let out a soft meow and tried to follow, but she gestured for him to stay. She needed air. Space.
A walk.
The corridors were eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of the ancient stone beneath her slippers. Candles burned low in their sconces. The castle always felt different at night—timeless, haunting. Like it knew things it would never tell.
She made her way to the Astronomy Tower, wrapping her arms around herself as she reached the top. The breeze was sharp, curling around her like a warning. The lake shimmered in the distance. Everything seemed so normal from up here. So painfully untouched by fire and fear.
Hermione leaned on the railing and stared at the horizon.
Her breath misted in the cold.
What if the Tournament really does kill someone? What if it’s him?
She’d seen him. Not Harry. Not Ron. Not herself.
Draco.
And no matter how many times she whispered to herself that it didn’t mean anything—it did.
It meant something was coming.
And she wasn’t ready for it.
-
Draco wasn’t looking for her.
He wasn’t even sure why he was awake—just that sleep had abandoned him the moment he closed his eyes. So he walked. Restless. Aimless. Wand unlit in his hand.
When he saw the flicker of movement on the Astronomy Tower, he nearly turned back. But something—curiosity or something more irritating—kept his feet moving.
He recognized her from the back.
The messy curls, caught in the wind like wild vines.
“Granger.”
Hermione stiffened.
She didn’t turn right away. Just let out a breath that clouded the air in front of her. “Malfoy.”
He stepped up beside her, a cautious few feet away, and leaned against the opposite end of the railing.
They stood in silence, the night stretching between them.
“You always sneak out to stargaze?” he asked eventually, voice low.
“No,” she murmured. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He glanced at her. She looked pale, and not just from the cold. Shadows clung under her eyes. There was something brittle about her—like she was made of glass stretched too thin.
“Well,” he said dryly, “given recent events, I’m not surprised.”
She didn’t smile.
Instead, she turned to him suddenly, eyes wide and too serious for the hour. “You need to be careful.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Just—” Hermione’s fingers curled around the stone edge. “There’s danger in the Tournament. More than anyone expected. More than they’re telling you.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he scoffed. “It’s the Triwizard Tournament, not a summer picnic.”
“I’m not talking about dragons or grindylows,” she said, voice sharp. “I’m talking about things… worse. Things you can’t fight with a wand.”
He stared at her. “Like what?”
She hesitated.
If she told him—truly told him—it would unravel everything. Her time at the Selwyns. The Lord. The visions. Her magic. And she wasn’t allowed to. She couldn’t.
So she looked at him and said, “You’ve already stepped onto the board, Malfoy. Just watch the pieces around you.”
Draco frowned. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
Hermione smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
They stood in silence again.
Eventually, he asked, “Are you scared?”
She didn’t answer.
But her eyes drifted upward, to the stars, and she whispered, “A little.”
He nodded.
“I won’t die, you know,” he said after a pause, trying to inject some arrogance into it—but it sounded thinner than usual. “You should worry more about Potter.”
Hermione’s lips twitched. “I always do.”
She didn’t explain. Didn’t say more.
And Draco didn’t ask.
When she finally turned to leave, her fingers brushed his sleeve as she passed. Just for a second.
-
The Gryffindor common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching dust motes in midair, while Harry flipped through Quidditch Through the Ages and Ron snored softly with a drool-stained pillow half-smothering his face.
Hermione sat in the far corner with a spread of materials that looked suspiciously like Trelawney’s class had exploded across the table.
She had tea leaves.
A worn tarot deck.
Her star chart.
A book on omens and prophecy laid open beside a steaming mug of chamomile.
Harry looked up. Frowned. “Er—Hermione?”
She didn’t look up from where she was scribbling in the margins of a chart. “Hmm?”
“Are you… doing Divination?”
Ron snorted awake. “What?” he mumbled, blinking. “Hermione? No way—what’d I miss? Did she hit her head?”
“I didn’t hit my head,” she said primly, though a small flush crept up her neck. “I just think we shouldn’t dismiss something just because it seems silly. There are patterns in magic. Symbols. We ignore them because we’re too afraid to look closer.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “That sounds exactly like Trelawney.”
Hermione stiffened.
Harry pushed the book aside and leaned forward. “Are you… worried about the Tournament?”
She hesitated, then said carefully, “I’m not the only one who should be. Someone entered your name without your permission, Harry. That’s not just cheating—that’s dark magic. Powerful, subtle magic. The kind that doesn’t care who gets hurt.”
Harry’s face hardened. “I know.”
Hermione tapped the tarot deck. “I thought… maybe this could help. Just to see if there’s anything useful.”
Ron groaned. “You don’t actually believe that stuff, do you? It’s all Death cards and mysterious cloaked figures.”
“It’s not about belief,” she said firmly, drawing a card. “It’s about listening.”
She flipped it over. A dragon. Claws curled mid-roar.
Hermione’s face drained of color.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, leaning closer. “What’s that one?”
Hermione stared at the image. “The Five of Wands.”
“And?” Harry asked quietly.
“It means… conflict. Struggle. A test of strength. Fire.” She looked up, eyes locking with Harry’s. “A very dangerous one.”
Harry swallowed. “Do you think that’s the first task?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “you should start practicing your Shield Charms. And maybe brush up on Summoning Spells.”
“But we don’t even know—”
“I know enough,” she snapped—then immediately pulled back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—just—just trust me, Harry.”
Harry and Ron exchanged a look, but said nothing more.
Hermione returned to her tea leaves with shaking fingers.
She didn’t need the leaves to tell her what she already saw in the smoke of her mind.
The heat. The fire. The scream of a dragon’s roar.
And somewhere in the flame, Draco’s eyes—frightened, furious, and utterly alone.