Rise From The Ashes

Chapter 4: Year Four

~I’ve been here before
If you want, go ahead, start a war
It’s not that I’m brave
It’s that I would rather die
Than for things to stay this way
Losing means nothing
If there’s nothing to lose~

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Bellatrix awoke with a start. She was shaking; sweat streaming down her forehead. She’d had the dream again—or nightmare, really, if she were being honest. She’d lost track of the number of times she’d had the dream since the end of last term, but it was always the same one and it always left her feeling…like she was running from something. Or about to be. Or had been for a very long time. In the dream, she was moving silently through the lower floors of the house she shared with -Him.-

Only it wasn’t -quite- the same. Some of the windows were boarded, tiles were missing from the roof, and ivy grew unchecked and feral, and everything smelled faintly of decay. Like it was all a symbol of what was once their love…or her conception of it anyway, and if that were the case than maybe it had always smelled faintly of decay and she’d just been nose blind to it then.

In the dream, she followed the sound of voices up the darkened spiral staircase, feeling along the wall and banister even though she still knew the way. On the landing, Bellatrix turned right and at the very end of the passage, one of the doors stood ajar and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold against the black floor. It was the door to the ballroom where he’d once danced with her and told her she belonged to him. Where he’d laughed coldly at her when she’d found him drinking with some of the others in there after a meeting and asked him to come to bed with her. Where the Death Eaters convened after he vanished. And she heard him talking with someone and her feet carried her in the direction of that partially open door of their own accord and she both wanted to run far away from him and towards him with equal tenacity, and then she was running, nearly stumbling over herself, towards that room…but when she entered, by the time she reached it, it was empty, dark and quiet. Save for the sound of his cruel, mocking laughter…coming from inside the walls, coming from everywhere but right where she was. Coming from nowhere she could fuck it or fight it or otherwise meaningfully engage with it…And that was always when she awoke, shaking, her Mark enflamed and burning. And then she’d run to the bathroom and empty her stomach of all the alcohol she’d consumed the night before, until she was left with nothing but the dry heaving of a past she thought—more like hoped—she’d left far, far behind her.

That was roughly how Bellatrix Black’s summer was going.

This particular morning, she awoke in one of her sister’s guest rooms. It was the day of the Quidditch World Cup. After her unpleasant morning routine, she pulled a black satin bathrobe over the matching shorts and lacy black camisole she’d worn to bed. She made her way down her sisters’ large marble spiral staircase, using the banister as a support (not unlike she had in her dream). She could hear voices echoing through the main foyer—her sister’s family, already in the tea room having breakfast.

“Nice of you to join us, Bella,” Narcissa greeted her when she entered the somehow minimalistic, yet still opulent room. While the main dining room had the dark victorian gothic look that Black family homes were known for, the tearoom—all white with ornate silver accents—embodied her younger sister’s energy entirely.

Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco were already seated around the table and there was an empty high-backed white upholstered chair sat in front of a place made up for Bellatrix with china many would consider far too fine for a casual family breakfast.

As soon as she sat down, a full spread of food materialized before her…biscuits, jams, bacon, eggs, scones…As soon as the smells hit her, she felt her stomach turn—still not ready for her to try and eat anything. Coffee first. Always coffee first.

“Rough night, -Professor- Black?” Lucius prompted with a seedy smile. “You’ll want to try and eat something if you can—after all, we’ve got quite the day ahead of us.”

Bellatrix gritted her teeth to keep from rising to his goading. He wasn’t talking about the World Cup.

“Unless of course you’re too -concerned- for your precious position to join us?”

She slammed her cup down on the table so hard that a bit of coffee sloshed over the side, staining the pristine white tablecloth like a scorch mark. How dare he.

“Are you calling me a coward?” she hissed.

“I don’t recall using that word,” Lucius replied, still smirking. “But as they say, if the shoe fits…”

“Says the man who only has the balls to stand for what he believes in when he’s wearing a mask!”

Lucius shifted like he was reaching for his wand, but Narcissa stretched her hands out, one across her husband’s chest, the other across her sister’s, keeping them apart.

“Bellatrix! I’ll not have such language at my table!”

Right. Her language. Always the problem…her language.

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Hermione followed Ron, Harry, Ginny, and the rest of the Weasleys into the woods, following a lantern- lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Hermione could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, she could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck looks on all their faces. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again . . . bless them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.” The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Hermione, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which she could never have imagined.

Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. “Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again . . . and again . . . and again . . .” Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasseled program.

“A display from the team mascots will precede the match,” she read aloud.

“Oh that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.” The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend.

“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to understand a word of English. “Harry Potter . . . oh come on now, you know who he is . . . the boy who survived You-Know-Who . . . you do know who he is —” The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. “Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat. . . . Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places . . . ah, and here’s Lucius!” Hermione, Ron, and Harry turned quickly. Edging along the second row to four still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley’s party were none other than Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; a blonde woman Hermione supposed must be Draco’s mother; and (her stomach did a backflip) Professor Black.

“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you?You remember my wife, Narcissa? Our son, Draco? And my sister-in-law, Bellatrix?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. — well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?” It was a tense moment, but Hermione was distracted by her professor, who was wearing what looked like an old black and green Slytherin Quidditch jersey tucked into almost Muggle-style, skin tight black trousers and belted by one of her usual black corsets. She had an emerald green Team Ireland rosette pinned over her abundant cleavage and Hermione smiled and blushed, happy Ginny’d talked her into wearing a green Irish rosette, too. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy were still feigning politeness to one another—not very well—and she blushed more deeply when Professor Black noticed her and offered her a small smirk—which was about the closest the woman ever got to a smile.

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes turned on her next, following his sister-in-law’s gaze, but she stared determindedly back at him. She knew the Malfoys prided themselves on being purebloods and considered anyone of Muggle descent as she was, second-class. However, it seemed that in the presence of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued up to their seats, next to the Minister and Ludo Bagman with Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Black ending up…directly behind Hermione and Ginny.

“Slimy gits, the lot of them,” Ron muttered as he, Harry, and Hermione turned to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman got to his feet. “Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming.

“Minister — ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably.

Mr. Bagman whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said “Sonorus!” and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!” Everyone started screaming and clapping and singing hundreds of discordant national anthems.

The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last advertisement and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce . . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval. “I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Ron, leaning forward in his seat to the left of her.

“Bloody hell! Veela!”

“What are veel — ?” But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Hermione’s question was answered for her. Veela were women . . . the most beautiful women Hermione had ever seen . . . except that they weren’t — they couldn’t be — human. This puzzled her for a moment while she tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their whitegold hair fan out behind them without wind . . . but then the music started, and Hermione stopped worrying about them not being human — in fact, she stopped worrying about anything at all. The veela had started to dance, and for the first time in her life, her mind had gone almost completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that she kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen. But as long as she kept her eyes on the sway of their hips, everything would be perfect. . . And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Hermione’s dazed mind. She wanted to do something very impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the stadium seemed a good idea . . . but would it be good enough?

“Hermione, what are you doing?” said Ginny’s voice from a long way off. The music stopped. Hermione blinked. She was standing up, and one of her legs was resting on the wall of the box. Next to her, Ron was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard. And Professor Black was standing…one heeled boot on her seat and one on the ground, a hand on her corset like she’d been about to start removing it. Narcissa Malfoy smacked her lightly with her tasseled program.

“Bellatrix, really!” she scoffed and the other woman sat down, but she didn’t look like she wanted to. Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the veela to go.

Hermione was with them; she didn’t know the first thing about Quidditch (what was Quidditch?) but she would, of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and she wondered vaguely why she had a large green shamrock pinned to her chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat out of his hands.

“You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have had their say.”

“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field. Narcissa Malfoy made a loud tutting noise behind them. Then Ginny reached up and pulled Hermione back into her seat.

“What’s gotten into you?” she whispered, but she was drowned out by more noise before Hermione (who now felt like she’d been woken abruptly from a very strange dream) could answer her.

“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air . . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!” Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it — “Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Hermione realized that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.

“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hand, “for the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!” The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.

“And now,” shouted Mr. Bagman. “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!” A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters. “Ivanova!” A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out. “Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — Krum!”

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Hermione focused her own. Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen.

“I want to see!” Ginny exclaimed and Hermione passed the Omnioculars off to her. The Quidditch players did a lap around the field, but Hermione didn’t care. She was already thinking about how she needed to get her hands on any book she could about the veela. Why had they affected her so greatly? They’d seemed to have had quite the effect on Ron and Professor Black as well…but Ginny and Narcissa weren’t impacted at all…

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yelled Bagman. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!” Seven green blurs swept onto the field; to her right, Ginny was spinning the dial on the Omnioculars, tracking the players as they too did a lap around the field. “And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!” A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a thick, regal mustache, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. He seemed to be releasing something from the crate—and right after he did so, he gave a sharp blast on his whistle and then mounted his broomstick and sped into the air himself.

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Mr. Bagman. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

Hermione had seen her share of school Quidditch matches and those were hard enough to follow, but this was something else entirely. The players were so fast she could hardly keep track—they just looked like a series of red and green specks, not unlike Christmas lights, while the noise of the crowd pounded against her eardrums.

“Shit! That’s a Hawkshead Attacking Formation!” screamed Professor Black from behind her as three of the Irish players zoomed closely together, one slightly ahead of the other two, bearing down on the Bulgarian players.

“What?!” Hermione called out, leaning forward and squinting as she did so, trying to see what had everyone so excited. Ginny handed the Omnioculars back to her and after fiddling with the dials again, she brought the device to her eyes just in time to see one of the Irish players score.

— “TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”

Hermione danced up and down with the rest of the Irish supporters, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. The leprechauns on the sidelines rose into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily.

Even without knowing much about Quidditch, Hermione could tell that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on her chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters. The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and, as Ron explained to her, were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, a Bulgarian Chaser managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Irish Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. In the interest of keeping her head from going foggy again, and also in the interest of indulging her curiosity, Hermione hastened a glance over her shoulder at the two women seated behind her.

They were both regal looking and she could see the sisterly resemblance between them even though they styled themselves so differently. Narcissa Malfoy’s blonde hair was semi-straightened into almost beachy waves, and she wore silver robes with a number of exquisite pieces of mother of pearl jewelry…and Professor Black was…Professor Black.

After a few seconds, she chanced looking back at the field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!” roared Bagman. One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Hermione followed their descent through her Omnioculars— “They’re going to crash!” she screamed, but at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.

“Are you FUCKING kidding me!” shouted Professor Black, which earned her a sharp rebuke from her sister for her language–“Bella! You -are- a professor!”--that she didn’t seem to notice or care about.“Bloody fool! Krum was feinting!”

“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”

“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course. . . .”

“What just happened?” Hermione asked no one in particular. Harry opened his mouth as if to answer her, but Professor Black beat him to it.

“Wronski Defensive Feint—Krum pretended to see the Snitch to get Lynch to follow him—dangerous seeker diversion, haven’t seen it in years—would have been brilliant if our side had done it!”

Hermione turned her Omnioculars back onto the field in time to see Lynch being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his broomstick, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Hermione didn’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told her something had gone awry.

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!” The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words “HA, HA, HA!”

And as the match progressed, play reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. And there were many more penalties awarded in response to the aggression—most of them in favor of Ireland.

At one point, the Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face. There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Hermione couldn’t blame him; one of the veela, angry at all the penalties for Ireland, had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.

“Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him —” Ron was saying, but Harry cut him off.

“Look at Lynch!” he yelled. For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, was it another feint? Or the real thing?

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it! Look at him go!” Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on . . . but Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Hermione had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again —

“They’re going to crash!” she shrieked.

“They’re not!” roared Ron.

“Lynch is!” yelled Harry. And he was right — for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.

“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” shouted Professor Black. “Fuck! He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!”

And she was right. Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand. The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

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Bellatrix disapparated the moment the Dark Mark shot into the sky and the Ministry dispatched more and more personnel to look for the culprit. It was just as well. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold her cover—something she’d not experienced before—and as Lucius held that Muggle family aloft above them, twisting and writhing, their heads spinning in unnatural directions, she felt—she felt—she couldn’t go back to her sister’s house or Black Manor—didn’t want to—couldn’t very well turn up at Hogwarts like this—so she thought of the one place she could always go no matter what state she was in and as the chaotic scene before her melted away, a new one took its place: one that was quiet and peaceful and smelled ever faintly of butterbeer and vanilla.

It was late. Rosmerta’s bar was nearly empty save for a few drunk wizards playing cards down the end of the bar. Rosmerta was waving cleaning spells over pint glasses, but gasped when she saw Bellatrix–who knew she looked a sight, her makeup tear streaked, her hair full of brambles and bracken from tearing through the woods—and darted out from behind the bar to meet her.

Then, soft arms were around her and it was all that mattered in the whole world.

“Bella, sweetheart, what’s happened?” Rosmerta asked, but Bellatrix found she couldn’t find words. It was taking all her energy just to try and steady herself and even out her breathing. She knew the arms around her shouldn’t feel this good, knew she shouldn’t indulge them if they did, knew she had nothing to offer Rosmerta in return and never would, but didn’t care.

She was spared answering by the sudden woosh of an owl flying through the still open door and past them, as it dropped a Daily Prophet evening edition on the bar, gleaming with the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, and a twinkling black-and white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.

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There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air at Hogwarts on the 30th of October. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. When the bell rang early, Hermione, Ron, and Harry hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall. The Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines.

“Weasley, straighten your hat,” Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron. “Miss Patil, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair.” Parvati scowled and removed a large ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait. “Follow me, please,” said Professor McGonagall. “First years in front . . . no pushing. . . .” They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Hermione, standing between Ron and Harry in the fourth row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years.

“Nearly six,” said Ron, checking his watch and then staring down the drive that led to the front gates. “How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?”

“I doubt it,” said Hermione.

“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, looking up at the starry sky.

“I don’t think so . . . not from that far away. . . .”

“A Portkey?” Ron suggested. “Or they could Apparate — maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?” said Hermione impatiently. They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and quite as usual. Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance. . . .She remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the same — we can’t resist showing off when we get together. . . .”

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers — “Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.

“There!” yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest. Something large, much larger than a broomstick — or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first years, losing her head completely.

“Don’t be stupid . . . it’s a flying house!” said Dennis Creevey. Dennis’s guess was closer. . . . As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powderblue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palomino Abraxans, and each the size of an elephant. The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year’s foot, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Hermione just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. A girl in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. She sprang back respectfully. Then Hermione saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a child’s sled — followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman she had ever seen in her life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped. Hermione had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in her life, and that was Hagrid; she doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow — maybe simply because she was used to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a chiseled, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers. Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman. Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he said. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. “I ’ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you,” said Dumbledore.

“My lead instructor, Madame Lilith,” said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her. Hermione, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, turned sharply back towards the carriage, out of which another woman (this one about the height of Professor McGonagall) was striding. To call her beautiful would have been an understatement. She had long mahogany brown hair that fell in voluminous waves around her shoulders and down her back and her thin, angular face was done up in makeup the likes of which rivaled only Professor Black’s—well sculpted eyebrows, eyeliner in a perfect cat’s eye, and deep red lips. She too, was dressed head to foot in satin, but hers was as red as her lips and her jewelry all composed of vibrant almandine garnets.

“And my pupils,” Madame Maxime said and gestured again, this time to about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, who had emerged from the carriage and were now walking to stand behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what Hermione could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime’s enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces. “ ’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked.

“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think,” said Madame Maxime. “But ze ’orses —”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” said Dumbledore, “the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other — er — charges.”

“Skrewts,” Ron muttered to Harry and Hermione, grinning.

“My steeds require — er — forceful ’andling,” said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. “Zey are very strong. . . .”

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“Very well,” said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ’Agrid zat ze ’orses drink only single-malt whiskey?”

“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing.

“Come,” said Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her, the equally imposing Madame Lilith, and their students to pass up the stone steps.

“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Seamus Finnigan said, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address the other Gryffindors.

“Well, if they’re any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won’t be able to handle them,” said Harry. “That’s if he hasn’t been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what’s up with them?”

“Maybe they’ve escaped,” said Ron hopefully.

“Oh don’t say that,” said Hermione with a shudder. “Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. . . .” They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge horses snorting and stamping. But then —

“Can you hear something?” said Ron suddenly. Hermione listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed. . . .

“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. “Look at the lake!” From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water — except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s floor. . . . What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then Hermione saw the rigging. . . . “It’s a mast!” she said to Ron and Harry. Slowly, magnificently, the pirate-esque ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank. People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. All of them, Hermione noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Muggle Rugby players. . . but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, she saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily as he walked up the slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied. Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own. “Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Hermione noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd, not unlike Lucius Malfoy’s. “How good it is to be here, how good…Professor Dumbledore, you’ve met Professor Blackwood, yes?”

“Of course, Faustus, how wonderful to see you again.” Dumbledore held out his hand to shake that of a dark-haired man in a long black furred cloak who’d been sheperding students off the boat to stand behind Karkaroff.

“The pleasure is mine, truly—Viktor, come along, into the warmth . . . you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold. . . .” Blackwood and Karkaroff beckoned forward one of their students. As the boy passed, Hermione caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. She didn’t need the shake of her arm Ron gave her, or the whisper, to recognize that profile.

“Harry, Hermione — it’s Krum!”

*************************************************************************************

Bellatrix followed the other teachers back inside, heading for the Great Hall after the arrival of the foreign schools and their delegations, trying desperately to school her features. How had she missed the memo that -she- would be here? Had there been a memo…no, she realized. Even during the staff meeting about the tournament, Minerva had only mentioned Maxime and Karkaroff would be bringing a small selection of their tournament–eligible students and one each of their professors to guest lecture. Bellatrix would have remembered seeing -her- name anywhere…

She followed Alastor, Severus, and Minerva up to the teachers table and sat down, watching the hundreds of students filing in. The delegation from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw table. They were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces. Three of them were still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads. Bellatrix rolled her eyes—it wasn’t -that- cold. Did they not own cloaks?

She smirked when she saw the Durmstrang students, including that famous Bulgarian Seeker, sit with the Slytherins. At least -some- of the visitors had taste. The Durmstrang students started pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed.

A clattering sound behind her caused Bellatrix to turn in her chair. Behind the staff table, Filch, wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion, was clumsily adding chairs. Two on either side of Dumbledore’s…and then…one between she and Severus to her left…and another between she and Minerva to her right…

“Why?” she hissed as she was jostled on both sides to accommodate the additional seats being added. Filch just grimaced at her before stalking away. But she didn’t have long to wait for her answer.

When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, and the rest of the staff had entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats, Dumbledore strode into the Hall closely followed by the foreign headmasters and instructors.

When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Karkaroff took the seat to his right. And then, naturally…she hardly noticed Faustus Blackwood sit down between herself and Severus, for her nostrils were suddenly flooded with the overpowering scent of roses, gardenias, and a hint of pomegranates.

“Is this seat taken, Bellatrix?”

She refused to turn around, refused to engage, willed herself to keep her eyes on the rest of the Hall as, of course, Mary Lilith took the seat between Bellatrix and Minerva.

Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — most particularly — guests,” said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable. The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” said Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!” He sat down, and Bellatrix saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation. The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled out all the stops; there was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than usual, including several that were definitely foreign, like the large dish of Bouillabaisse that just materialized before her.

Looking out over the Great Hall, she thought it seemed somehow much more crowded than usual, even though there were barely twenty additional students there; perhaps it was because their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly against the black of the Hogwarts’ robes. Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep blood-red. Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast, his hand heavily bandaged, and he slid into his seat at the end next to Filius.

At that moment, a familiar deep, though lilted voice said, “Excuse me, are you wanting the bouillabaisse?” Mary Lilith was an Irish witch, but she’d obviously spent enough years living and teaching in France to have picked up a hint of a French accent that sounded almost natural.

Bellatrix swallowed and passed the dish, still refusing to make eye contact with the woman. It wasn’t that she had any issue with her, but there were few people who could claim to have ever made her feel embarrassed and it frustrated her that one of them was now sitting beside her. Was Lilith goading her on purpose? Or worse…did she not even remember?

Just then, the Great Hall doors opened once more and two new figures strode in and directly up to the staff table. One of them was Ludo Bagman, the washed-up Quidditch player from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, who took the open seat to Karkaroff’s other side. The other was (Bellatrix involuntarily tightened her grip on her utensils) Barty Crouch, who sat next to Madame Maxime.

Now in close proximity to several people she disliked—Crouch, Karkaroff, and Blackwood—she finally decided to distract herself by chancing a glance to try and subtly check out Mary Lilith. Aside from a few more lines around her eyes, she hardly looked a day older than she had when Bellatrix had met her as a dancer in a club, going by her surname only, in Knockturn Alley nearly two decades ago. Bellatrix had been fresh out of Hogwarts, the Dark Mark newly inked on her arm, and she’d wanted to show it off to the whole world.

[-“I know you’re scared, Bella. Because all women are taught to fear power. Own your power. Don’t accept it from the Dark Lord. Take it. Wield it. Women should be in charge of everything,”] the woman now seated beside her, and evidently a lead professor, had told her back then. How young and (though they didn’t know it) naive they’d all been.

When the second course arrived, it came with a number of out of the ordinary desserts, too. Once the golden plates had been wiped clean, Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Blackwood pushed his chair back from the table slightly, and this small motion caused his arm to brush against Bellatrix’s. She shuddered, and not out of any kind of pleasure. She’d never known Faustus well, but she did know he was very much cut from the same cloth as her sister’s pathetic husband. A political type and a pureblood supremacist from an old Transylvanian wizarding family. He’d never publicly aligned himself with the Dark Lord, but was a vocal advocate for Dark Arts instruction as part of a well-rounded education (as were a lot of the Durmstrang faculty) and he’d given a lot of money to the cause years ago. The Dark Lord hadn’t had any patience for him when he wouldn’t proclaim his loyalty any time it actually mattered, but yet name-dropped his connections when it suited him. How he and Lilith ended up as well regarded professors baffled her, but she imagined they were probably thinking the same of her.

“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket —”

“The what?” Lilith muttered. Bellatrix stifled a laugh.

“— just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation” — there was a smattering of polite applause and Bellatrix rolled her eyes so intensely that they hurt her afterwards— “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he had a more likable face. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch, ever one of the grumpiest, most unpleasant men Bellatrix had ever had the misfortune to cross paths with, did not smile or wave when his name was announced. His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and beard. “Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”

At the mention of the word “champions,” the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, “The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”

*************************************************************************************

By half past five on Saturday, it was growing dark, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry, who’d been visiting Hagrid, decided it was time to get back up to the castle for the Halloween feast — and, more importantly, the announcement of the school champions.

“I’ll come with yeh,” said Hagrid, putting away his darning. “Jus’ give us a sec.” Hagrid got up, went across to the chest of drawers beside his bed, and began searching for something inside it. They didn’t pay too much attention until a truly horrible smell reached their nostrils.

Coughing, Ron said, “Hagrid, what’s that?”

“Eh?” said Hagrid, turning around with a large bottle in his hand. “Don’ yeh like it?”

“Is that aftershave?” said Hermione in a slightly choked voice.

“Er — eau de cologne,” Hagrid muttered. He was blushing. “Maybe it’s a bit much,” he said gruffly. “I’ll go take it off, hang on . . . He stumped out of the cabin, and they saw him washing himself vigorously in the water barrel outside the window.

“Eau de cologne?” said Hermione in amazement. “Hagrid?”

“And what’s with the hair and the suit?” said Harry in an undertone.

“Look!” said Ron suddenly, pointing out of the window. Hagrid had just straightened up and turned ’round. If he had been blushing before, it was nothing to what he was doing now. Getting to their feet very cautiously, so that Hagrid wouldn’t spot them, the three Gryffindors peered through the window and saw that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons students had just emerged from their carriage, clearly about to set off for the feast too. They couldn’t hear what Hagrid was saying, but he was talking to Madame Maxime with a rapt, misty-eyed expression they’d only ever seen him wear once before — when he had been looking at the baby dragon, Norbert.

“He’s going up to the castle with her!” said Hermione indignantly. “I thought he was waiting for us!” Without so much as a backward glance at his cabin, Hagrid was trudging off up the grounds with Madame Maxime, the Beauxbatons students following in their wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides.

“He fancies her!” said Ron incredulously. “Well, if they end up having children, they’ll be setting a world record — bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a ton.” They let themselves out of the cabin and shut the door behind them. It was surprisingly dark outside. Drawing their cloaks more closely around themselves, they set off up the sloping lawns.

“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispered. The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang students were straggling along behind them, with Professor Blackwood bringing up the rear, though he appeared deep in conversation with one of his students, a tall dark-skinned girl with blonde curls peeking out from underneath a black fur-lined cap.

When they entered the candlelit Great Hall, it was almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teachers’ table. Fred and George — clean-shaven again — seemed to have taken their disappointment fairly well.

“Hope it’s Angelina,” said Fred as Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat down.

“So do I!” said Hermione breathlessly.

“Well, we’ll soon know!” The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in two days, or because she knew it was prepared by slave labor, but Hermione didn’t seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as she would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, Hermione simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored. Professor Blackwood bore an intently serious expression, and Madame Lilith was whispering something to Professor Black, who nearly broke the tension in the Hall with a churlish cackle.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” — he indicated the door behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving their first instructions.” He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting. . . . A few people kept checking their watches. . . .

“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, a few seats away from them, on the other side of George. The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped. Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. They saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!” He appeared overjoyed, but Professor Blackwood, curiously, looked almost disappointed.

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl they thought (and Hermione, though she didn’t say it, did not disagree) resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione observed, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party. Though “disappointed” was a bit of an understatement. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next . . . And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric Diggory!”

“No!” said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except Hermione and Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —” But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment. Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out — “Harry Potter.”

Every head in the Great Hall seemed to turn at once to the Gryffindor table, where Harry was seated awkwardly between Ron and Hermione, looking stunned. It was like being in a dream—everything seemed to slow down and at first Hermione thought they must not have heard correctly—but if that were the case, then everyone in the hall had misheard the same incorrect thing. There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were standing up to get a better look at Harry as he sat, still frozen, in his seat. Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly. Harry turned to Ron and Hermione as the rest of the Gryffindor table continued to stare in their direction, openmouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You know I didn’t.” Both of them stared just as blankly back. At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

“Harry Potter!” he called again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”

“Go on,” Hermione whispered, giving Harry a slight push. He finally got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. He set off up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables as the buzzing in the hall grew louder and louder.

After what seemed like an hour, Harry’s silent processional finally reached Dumbledore. Hermione swallowed. All of the teachers were staring at her best friend, too.

“Well . . . through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t smiling. Harry moved off along the teachers’ table and even Hagrid didn’t greet or acknowledge him. Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall and was shortly followed by Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody, Snape, and Black along with the heads and teachers of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, all of in varying degrees of anxious and furious.

*************************************************************************************

“It’s really not that difficult, Harry,” Hermione tried to reassure her friend as they left Flitwick’s class — she had been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes. Meanwhile, Harry had been given extra homework to practice–the only student aside from Neville who needed to do so. She knew he was feeling frustrated about it. “You just weren’t concentrating properly —”

“Wonder why that was,” said Harry darkly as Cedric Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Still — never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon. . . .”

“Well, it’s our first lesson with that Lilith woman from Beauxbatons as co-teacher. Wonder how Snape’s going to handle that…”

“Well, at least we know she can’t be worse than Snape…”

When Hermione and Harry arrived at Snape’s dungeon after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment Hermione thought they were S.P.E.W. badges — then she saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage: Support Cedric Diggory: The Real Hogwarts Champion.

“Like them, Potter?” said Malfoy loudly as Harry approached. “And this isn’t all they do — look!” He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green: The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges too, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around them. Hermione felt a rush of sympathy for her friend.

“Oh very funny,” she said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, “really witty.” She noticed Ron standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking up for Harry either. She frowned, wishing they would just hurry and make up already.

“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry, who she knew had been seething with anger without an outlet for days, seemed to reach his breaking point and before she could stop him, he reached for his wand and charged at Malfoy. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

“Harry!” Hermione said warningly.

“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, drawing out his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you now — do it, if you’ve got the guts —” For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both acted.

“Furnunculus!” Harry yelled.

“Densaugeo!” screamed Malfoy. Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles — Harry’s hit Goyle in the face—he put his hands to his nose, where several large boils were springing up—and Malfoy’s curse hit Hermione. It took her a second to realize it—she felt a pinching sensation in her face, right around her mouth like she’d been stung by a bee, and then she felt…her hand flew to her mouth.

Her front teeth were…growing. At an alarming rate and she quickly needed both hands to hide them from view.

“Hermione!” Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with her; dragging her hands away from her face in the process. Her teeth elongated past her bottom lip, then past her chin and she felt her face flush in mixed embarrassment and panic. She felt them and let out a terrified cry as all the Slytherins—and a fair few of the Gryffindors—started laughing.

“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly voice.

Snape had arrived, with the teacher from Beauxbatons, Madam Lilith, at his heel. Both of them looked furious. Hermione scrambled to cover her mouth again but she felt her teeth continuing to grow almost to her chest. The Slytherins clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Malfoy and said,

“Explain.”

“Potter attacked me, sir —”

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry shouted.

“— and he hit Goyle — look —” Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi.

“Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape said calmly and Goyle shuffled off.

“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron said. “Look!”

Hermione whimpered as Ron forced her to show Snape her teeth, which she was still trying and failing to hide with her hands. She couldn’t remember any moment she’d been more embarrassed. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape’s back. Snape looked coldly at her, then said,

“I see no difference.” She felt her eyes fill with tears and then without another glance towards either teacher or any of her classmates, she turned on her heel and ran up the corridor, Harry and Ron’s shouts and insults hurled at Snape fading away as she ran up to the hospital wing.

Fortunately, as classes were in session, and by some miracle, she didn’t see anyone else on her way up to the fourth floor. Madam Pomfrey was, fortunately, able to shrink her teeth back. But Hermione, who’d always been made fun of due to the size of her teeth, even since Muggle primary school, gleaned a massive amount of satisfaction when the school healer had simply said to “look in the mirror and signal when [her] teeth were back to their regular size.” Then when Pomfrey’s wand swept aside her, tracking her two front molars as they shrunk back, even back to how they’d been, she let them go a bit more, didn’t signal until they were shorter and straighter even than Pansy Parkinson’s, then left the hospital wing smiling (genuinely) to herself for maybe the first time in years.

She was so caught up in her feeling of personal triumph that she rounded the corner into the stairwell a bit too quickly and without looking until she nearly collided with Professor Black and Madam Lilith.

"Sorry, Professor," she murmured quickly.

"Granger? Are you alright? Madam Lilith was just telling me about a disturbance in your last lesson. I'll have a few words with my nephew," said Professor Black with surprising seriousness and...compassion? Hermione felt her cheeks flush. Did the whole school know by now?

"Thank you, Professor Black, but I'm fine--really."

*************************************************************************************

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but Bellatrix sidled up to her favorite seat at the bar and wolf-whistled playfully at Rosie, who winked at her.

“Hello Professor.” Hermione Granger stood behind her, set her sickles on the bar and ordered two butterbeers. Rosmerta poured these and a firewhiskey with cinnamon for Bellatrix, then set all three drinks on the bar before bustling off to her next customers. Bellatrix’s eyes tracked the Granger girl curiously as she pushed through the crowds to a table in the corner she’d piled with a small stack of books. She’d have made a convincing show of drinking by herself, if not for the fact that Bellatrix saw one of the butterbeers disappear completely when her student set it on the table. Potter under his Invisibility Cloak. But he was allowed to visit Hogsmeade now, so it wasn’t Bellatrix’s concern. Maybe he’d just wanted to avoid the onslaught of attention that seemed to follow him more than ever lately—and she definitely couldn’t fault him for that.

The door creaked open and a gust of cold air whipped the back of her neck. She looked over her shoulder to see Hagrid’s enormous shaggy head over the crowd. He sat down not too far from her, Rosmerta brought him a tankard, and he was soon joined by…fuck. Alastor Moody, who did not order, but drank only from his stupid hip flask. He loved to go on and on at dinner to anyone unfortunate enough to be in listening range, that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, due to how easy it was for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup.

“Fancy that, well this is just like old times, isn’t it, Bella?”

That voice…she looked up to see Lilith standing behind the empty stool next to Bellatrix and folding her black cloak over it like she was about to order a drink and sit down.

“Lilith,” she muttered with a nod, deliberately turning away from the woman as she did so…but she found herself smirking all the same. Fuck. She was still so hot. The other witch sat down beside her and slowly clicked her nails against the bar.

“So…is this your watering hole these days, Bella? A far cry from before, hmm?” she teased. Bellatrix sighed and finally addressed the other witch.

“Not up to your standards?” she snapped a little more curtly than she’d intended to. Lilith immediately drew back slightly, then recovered herself and waved Rosie over. Bellatrix let her eyes wander over the other woman’s dress–which was long and purple and hugged her body in all the right places.

“Get you something to drink?”

“I’ll have what Bella’s having,” Lilith replied. Rosmerta frowned, but nodded and rounded on Bellatrix.

“Friend of yours?”

“In a manner of speaking–Rosie, this is Madam Mary Lilith of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic–she prefers to be addressed by her surname only.”

“Of course she does,” the pub owner smiled stiffly and Bellatrix felt herself in equal parts, wanting to reassure her old friend and enjoying her obvious jealousy.

“You know, I heard something very interesting on my way in here,” said Lilith, as soon as Rosmerta walked away to wait on her next customer. “I was walking down to the village from the school with Olympe who said that she’d received a curious invitation from your gamekeeper to see something very special and related to the tournament, down in the forbidden forest at midnight.” She raised an eyebrow, as though she’d expected Bellatrix to have more interest in this information.

“And you thought…”

“That a couple of old troublemakers like us might like to go and check it out.”

*************************************************************************************

At half past eleven that evening, Bellatrix set out from the castle in her winter cloak to meet Lilith. The grounds were very dark, lit only by the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin and in the enormous Beauxbatons carriage and it was so cold she could see her breath. She couldn’t help but curse the other woman under her breath for being so infuriating, so alluring, so god damn—

“Good evening, Bellatrix.” Speak of the devil. Lilith emerged from the carriage door bearing her school’s symbol of two crossed golden wands and descended the steps–she’d traded her lighter cloak from earlier in for one that was thicker and appeared to be made entirely of black fur.

Bellatrix crossed the clearing to join her.

“You look like Faustus Blackwood,” she couldn’t resist teasing, with a gesture at the fur cloak.

“Charming as always, I see,” said Lilith. She smirked and offered her a fur-sheathed arm. Bellatrix took it, instantly marveling at the softness—must have been mink or even rabbit fur—and together, they set off around the edge of the paddock containing Madame Maxime’s giant winged horses.

“Where are we going, Lilith?”

“Olympe set out to meet Hagrid about a half an hour ago—said he was taking her to see something ‘che magnifique aroun ze edge of ze forest,” the other witch replied, mimicking the headmistress’s thick French accent.

“Maybe he just wanted to bang her with a bit of privacy? I swear, if you’re dragging me down here in this cold to walk in on—”

“Why would they need to go all the way down to the forest for that?!”

“I don’t know; everyone’s got their…thing.”

“They certainly do.” Lilith smirked absolutely devilishly again and fluttered her long black eyelashes.

Just when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight and Bellatrix was convinced Lilith was playing her — or that Olympe was playing them—she heard something. Men were shouting up ahead . . . then came a deafening, earsplitting roar. The two women pushed through a throng of trees and nearly crashed into Hagrid and Olympe standing, awestruck, against a backdrop of fires and men darting around them— and then Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. Dragons. Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting — torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one she thought might be a Welsh Green, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red Chinese Fireball with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, which was nearest to them. At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs.

Beside her, Lilith looked up, mesmerized. Bellatrix followed her gaze and above them, made eye contact with the black dragon, whose eyes, with vertical pupils like a cat’s, were bulging with either fear or rage, she couldn’t tell which. . .and she wished she could do something to comfort the creature. Sometimes it was easy to laugh at Hagrid’s coddling of clearly dangerous beasts, but she did think he was right on dragons—seriously misunderstood creatures.

She couldn’t remember what this kind was called…a Ukranian Ironbelly, maybe? Like the ones they kept in the bank? What was it doing here? And why was it making such a horrible noise? Like a yowling, screeching scream. . . .

“Keep back there, you lot!” yelled a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he was holding. “They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve seen this Horntail do forty!”

“A Hungarian Horntail. Fuck. She’s beautiful,” said Bellatrix softly.

“It’s no good!” yelled another wizard. “Stunning Spells, on the count of three!” They watched each of the dragon keepers pull out their wand. “Stupefy!” they shouted in unison, and the Stunning Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly hides —they watched the dragon nearest to them teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the ground with a thud that even made the trees slightly quake. The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill. They hurried to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they forced deep into the ground with their wands…they seemed to have subdued all the dragons for the time being.

“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asked Olympe excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the fence, and Bellatrix and Lilith followed after them.

The wizard who had warned them not to come any closer turned, and Bellatrix recognized one of the older Weasley brothers who had already graduated and left school.

“All right, Hagrid?” he panted, coming over to talk. “They should be okay now — we put them out with a Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet — but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at all —”

“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” said Hagrid, gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with something close to reverence. Its eyes were still just open. Bellatrix could see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its wrinkled black eyelid.

“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” said Charlie. “There’s a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — a Swedish ShortSnout, that blue-gray — and a Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.” Charlie looked around, seeming to register the others clearly for the first time. “I didn’t know you were bringing them, Hagrid,” Charlie said, frowning. “The champions aren’t supposed to know what’s coming — and she’s bound to tell her student, isn’t she?” He gestured to Olympe.

“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ’em, didn’t know she’d tell anyone, but no harm done” shrugged Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons.

“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” said Charlie, shaking his head.

“Four . . .” said Hagrid, unbothered. “so it’s one fer each o’ the champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do — fight ’em?”

“Just get past them, I think,” said Charlie. “We’ll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know why . . . but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as dangerous as its front, look.” Charlie pointed toward the Horntail’s tail, and they saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it every few inches. Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers staggered up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They placed them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid let out a moan of longing. “I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” said Charlie sternly. Then he said, “How’s Harry?”

“Fine,” said Hagrid. He was still gazing at the eggs. As they trailed off talking about Harry, Bellatrix offered Charlie a curt nod and took Lilith’s hand, leading her around the side of the large paddock.

“That was about as much of all that as I could take–besides, I thought you might fancy a better view,” she offered, gesturing to the sleeping red dragon, whose glittering scales were now almost close enough to reach out and touch.

Lilith smiled at her–more of a smirk, really–and gently trailed her long nails up and down Bellatrix’s arm, causing her to shiver under her cloak, her eyes fixing on the wine red lips in front of her, the way Lilith looked at her—like she wanted to devour her—it was the way she looked at anyone she wanted and damn hadn’t it always felt good to be wanted by her?

She studied the lips, unsure of herself, knowing she never did particularly well when she was unsure of herself.

“My eyes are up here, Bella,” the other woman teased and Bellatrix let herself be swept into Lilith, into pomegranate lips—and the memories of the women they both were before all of this.

*************************************************************************************

“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?” Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a whip through the Transfiguration class and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up. Hermione rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to Professor McGonagall curiously, wondering what she still had to say. It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had feathers); they had copied down their homework from the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-Species Switches”). The bell was due to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class.

“Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough to act their age,” said Professor McGonagall, with an angry look at the pair of them, “I have something to say to you all. The Yule Ball is approaching — a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above — although you may invite a younger student if you wish —” Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working furiously as she too fought not to giggle. They both looked around at Harry. “Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall continued, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then —” she stared deliberately around the class. “The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to — er — let our hair down,” she said, in a disapproving voice (ironically, because she wore her hair in a very tight bun and rarely if ever let it down.) Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound.

“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall went on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way.” The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders. Hermione left class with the others, her head in a strange fog. She’d never even been on a date before let alone ever thought about going to a ball with someone. She knew that Muggle schools had events like homecoming dances and spring flings and proms and that Muggle cinema characters were always caught up wondering if they’d be asked to these things or if they ought to do the asking…she resolved to try her best not to think about it, but as they week drug on, reminders of the dance were everywhere.

Hermione had never known so many people to put their names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; this year, it seemed everyone in the fourth year and above were staying, and they all seemed to be obsessed with the coming ball — or at least all the girls were, and she took to staying in the library even later at night if only to avoid her dormmates giggles and late night whispered conversations about who was going with whom and who was wearing what on Christmas night.

As the last week of term grew closer, there were less and less students in the library in the evenings, which made it easy to spot who else was curiously staying up late reading, writing, or studying—it turned out, quite a few of the foreign students, and she wondered with a certain fondness if they were trying to absorb as much of the knowledge as they could from the Hogwarts library while they had regular access to it. One of these students was Viktor Krum, and while he was quiet, he always seemed to be accompanied by varying yet equally annoying groups of giggling and flirtatious girls…had he really not asked anyone to the ball yet?

The other student who appeared most frequently and stayed nearly as late as Hermione each evening, was the tall, dark-skinned girl from Durmstrang with the curly blonde hair—Prudence. She often started out studying and talking quietly with a couple of her Durmstrang friends, but stayed immersed in her work long after the others went back down to their ship for the night.

She intrigued Hermione. She was clearly very attractive and seemed popular enough amongst her own classmates–at least the ones who’d come to attend the tournament anyway, and yet she also had a deeply-focused, studious nature—more often than not, she was the last in the library before Hermione and on many occasions, they left at around the same time—when Madam Pince closed the space for the night and officially dismissed them.

On this particular evening, Hermione was trying to focus on the essay she was writing for Professor Snape (it wasn’t due until term resumed, but she wanted to get her first draft turned in before the holiday in case Snape or even Madam Lilith had any preliminary revision comments they wanted to make), but her mind kept wandering to what Prudence was reading that had her so absorbed. For the past three nights, she’d already been in the library by the time Hermione arrived and was seemingly reading page by page through the same large stack of thick tomes for hours each evening like her life depended on it. She’d never met anyone else at Hogwarts who devoured books like that, let alone with a voracity and reading speed to rival Hermione’s own.

“Do you like her?”

The question, so abrupt, broke Hermione out of her mental fog. She’d gotten simultaneously as used to Viktor Krum setting up to read at her table as she had to tuning out the fact that he was there so as to avoid being distracted by the giggling noises that so often followed him around.

“W…What?”

“Prudence. You like her? She likes you, too. She is very focused as vell. She only stops reading to look over at you almost as much as you look at her…not at the same time of course.” His tone was passive. Observant. But casual…like the two of them were friends who talked about this kind of thing often, rather than two very different people from completely different worlds who just happened to study across from each other. Hermione felt her face flushing in deeper and deeper shades of red and while she didn’t know where to begin deflecting her embarrassment, there was a small part of her that was also…excited? That Viktor Krum was talking to -her- when he could talk to anyone? That someone had noticed she might like…or possibly like…or be curious about another witch and wasn’t judging her for it? Or that, if Krum was to be believed, Prudence looked over at her, too?

“Please, I am sorry, I do not mean to pry. Seekers are trained to be very observant–I tend to notice everything, even vhen I do not mean to.”

“I mean, I was just wondering what kinds of books she might like to read–I don’t know if she–If she, you know.” Hermione shrugged. She was so…not used to not knowing what to say or how to explain a thought that she didn’t realize until after she had spoken that she hadn’t yet deflected Krum’s assumption that -she- might like witches. Of course she found them beautiful…didn’t everyone? Especially -really beautiful- and equally brilliant witches like Professor Black and Madam Lilith…but they were teachers–and she more -admired- them than -liked- them. She thought back to the veela at the World Cup (who were not teachers and who she had no reason to -admire-) and how they had -mostly- affected wizards…

“If she likes vitches? She does, but you haff to understand…vhere ve are from, at Durmstrang, it is not as -open-...her father, he is Professor Blackwood, you know, vould not approve. He vos already so disappointed she vos not selected as Champion...she vould not vant to disappoint him further, vith that, by coming out. I only know because it is something ve haff in common.”

“Liking witch–oh. Oh.” Hermione paused, finally setting down the quill she wasn’t even half writing with anymore, as she processed the fact that Viktor Krum had seemingly just come out to her.

“My father, and the International Quidditch League, vould not approve, either. Maybe some day it vill change.”

“Is that why you haven’t asked anyone to the ball?” She felt silly for asking as soon as the words left her lips, but it wasn’t like she could take them back. To her surprise, he merely nodded.

“About that…I vos vondering…seeing as neither of us can ask the people ve’d like to the ball, vould you like to go together? As friends?”

*************************************************************************************

The last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Hermione didn’t believe half of them — for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had booked the Weird Sisters, a very famous wizard musical group.

She had chosen to keep the information that she was attending the ball with -the- Viktor Krum to herself for now, knowing it would likely interest a great number of people and not wanting to be the subject of more gossip or on the receiving end of the rage of a hundred or so jealous girls (and probably a fair few of the boys as well). She was, however, finding herself getting more excited about the ball since she was actually going with someone—someone attractive and kind—and that she wasn’t going to have to go alone or risk getting made fun of—and while she normally wouldn’t be one to care too much about putting together the perfect outfit, she couldn’t help but also feel a spark of excitement at the thought of someone like Prudence—or Professor Black—seeing her all dressed up and thinking she looked pretty.

Some of the teachers, like Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking about the perfect Summoning Charm Harry had used during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.

Other teachers were not so generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions — as Binns hadn’t let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to put him off.

Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape and Black, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than wear Support Harry Potter buttons.

Yet the Hogwarts staff overall, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at its best this Christmas. When the decorations went up, Hermione noticed that they were the most stunning she had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles had been attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armor had all been bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by an empty helmet that only knew half the words. Several times, Filch had to extract Peeves from inside the armor, where he had taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which were very rude.

“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she asked Harry and Ron, coming over to join them by the fire after she emerged from the Portrait Hole.

“Because — oh shut up laughing, you two — because they’ve both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball!” said Ginny.

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly. He and Harry had stopped laughing at once.

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” offered Hermione. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.”

But Ron was staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light. “Hermione, Neville’s right — you are a girl. . . .”

“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly. She could see exactly where this was going and was having none of it. It wasn’t that she wanted to go to the ball with Ron or Harry, but that she resented them not even considering going with her until anyone they considered “worthy” of their company was already taken.

“Well — you can come with one of us!”

“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Oh come on,” Ron said impatiently, “we need partners, we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, everyone else has . . .”

“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, “because I’m already going with someone.”

“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!”

“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!” Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That do? Will you come now?”

“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!” And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories again.

*************************************************************************************

When Bellatrix entered the Great Hall a little after seven o clock on Christmas night, it looked almost unrecognizable.

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people and all peppering the outskirts of a large dance floor bewitched to look like a sheet of ice that reflected the light of the many candles like glitter.

The usual staff table at the top of the hall was, today, replaced by three separate large round tables adorned with light blue velvet tablecloths bedecked with crystal decorative icicles. The normally gold table settings were silver tonight and in between each place setting were jars of soft fairy lights.

Bellatrix had chosen dress robes of deep jade green for the occasion, with long hanging sleeves and belted in the center with a black underbust corset. She’d styled her normally unruly black curls into long waves that finished into ringlets and around her neck, she wore a leather choker dripping with silver bezeled emeralds and pearls.

“Bella! Over here!” She looked up to see Lilith waving her down from the middle table. She was wearing dark red dress robes so form-fitting they bordered on indecent and had actual roses woven through her hair.

She sat down beside Lilith at what turned out to also be the judges and champions table. As everyone else filed in, her table was joined by Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Blackwood, and Ludo Bagman in ridiculous bright purple robes with large yellow stars that had the look of a Muggle child’s low-cost wizard’s costume. Olympe arrived next, having traded her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender silk. Crouch, Bellatrix realized, was the one tournament officiant not in attendance. His seat was occupied by Percy Weasley in navy-blue dress robes and a Ministry badge looking so pompous he could have exploded with it and no one would have been surprised.

After the students and faculty had all taken their seats, Minerva, in dress robes of red Scottish tartan, opened the doors of the Great Hall to officially welcome in the Triwizard Champions and their partners. It was all a lot of pomp and circumstance and silly fanfare, but Bellatrix played along, clapping as she rolled her eyes. All of the pairings struck her as rather random–the Beauxbatons champion, Fleur Delacour, and Roger Davies; Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang; Harry Potter and Parvati Patil; Viktor Krum…and Hermione Granger? Strange.

*************************************************************************************

Dancing with Viktor was easier and more fun than Hermione thought it would be. It helped that she’d never felt more confident in her appearance in her life. It’d taken quite a bit of hair potion, but she’d managed to straighten and soften her normally bushy hair and style it into a braided bun and her periwinkle blue dress robes seemed to move with the rhythm of her dancing like water. She’d been especially excited about the sweetheart cut and slight underbust corseting, which reminded her of Professor Black. She’d spent a good bit of dinner teaching her “date” how to pronounce her name properly and listening as he told her about Durmstrang’s castle.

She danced song after song with Viktor, all the while letting her eyes wander about the other dancers, still in awe at how enchanting everything and everyone looked. Fleur wore something like a shimmering white muggle Cinderella dress and though Hermione wasn’t particularly a fan of the Beauxbatons champion, she had to admit she did look like a princess, dancing close pressed to her date, a seventh year Ravenclaw Hermione didn’t know. Cedric and Cho looked like they were having a good time as well, but Harry and Parvati were already off the dance floor. She’d watched, slightly bemused, as her best friend struggled through one of the opening dances before shuffling off with his clearly put-out and frustrated date.

Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby — she could see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet — and Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg.

And then–Hermione couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath. She’d just caught sight of Professor Black and Madam Lilith waltzing—and to her surprise, Lilith appeared to be leading. She had a hand against Professor Black’s waist so tightly she could see her long sculpted red nails digging into the dark green fabric of her companion’s dress. They were both excellent dancers–and Hermione didn’t know if it was this or the way the two women looked at each–eyes locked, but both smiling mischievously like they were having the time of their lives—a way she’d never seen her sullen Professor ever look before—a way she wanted some beautiful witch to look at her someday—but she could barely take her eyes off of them.

She had yet to see Prudence and was beginning to wonder sadly if she’d decided not to attend the ball. Viktor had even promised to formally introduce them to each other. Seemingly noticing the shift in her demeanour, her partner paused their dance.

“Vould you like to get a drink? Ve could look for Prudence as vell…I am sure she is around somevhere, she vouldn’t miss something like this.”

While Viktor went to go and get drinks, Hermione scanned the tables and chairs up against the walls, and spotting Harry, Ron, and Padma—she went over to join them, feeling her cheeks still flushing from dancing. She sat down in the empty chair to Harry’s right.

“Hi,” said Harry.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with her hand. “Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.” Ron gave her a withering look.

“Viktor?” he said. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?” Hermione looked at him in surprise.

“What’s up with you?” she said.

“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.” Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who shrugged.

“Ron, what — ?”

“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You — you’re —” Ron was obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione’s “crime”, “fraternizing with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!” Hermione’s mouth fell open.

“Don’t be so stupid!” she said after a moment. “The enemy! Honestly — who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up in their dormitory?” Ron chose to ignore this.

“I s’pose he asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?”

“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, feeling the pink patches on her cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?”

“What happened — trying to get him to join spew, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he — he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!” Hermione lied quickly, and blushed so deeply that she was the same color as Padma’s robes.

“Yeah, well — that’s his story,” said Ron nastily.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? He knows who you hang around with. . . . He’s just trying to get closer to Harry — get inside information on him — or get near enough to jinx him —” Hermione felt as though Ron had slapped her. When she spoke, her voice quivered.

“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single thing about Harry, not one —” Ron changed tack at the speed of light.

“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cozy little library sessions —”

“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione, looking outraged. “Never. How could you say something like that — I want Harry to win the tournament, Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron.

“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” said Hermione hotly.

“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!” People were starting to stare at them.

“Ron,” interrupted Harry finally, “I haven’t got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum —” But Ron ignored Harry too.

“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering where you are,” said Ron.

“Don’t call him Vicky!” Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd to look for her new Durmstrang friend.

*************************************************************************************

The top tables were now empty; Dumbledore was dancing with Pomona, Ludo Bagman with Minerva; Olympe and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and Karkaroff and Blackwood were nowhere to be seen. When the next song–a particularly fast number– ended, everybody applauded once more, and Bellatrix broke away from Lilith, catching her breath and heading over to the drink table to see if there was anything harder than Butterbeer available for the staff at least.

Once she had a very full glass of wine in hand, she slipped out into the Entrance Hall, fancying a bit of fresh air and a mental reset. Lilith was alluring entirely and it could sometimes get a bit…stifling.

The front doors stood open, and she saw that the area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights — meaning hundreds of fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer. The lights winked and twinkled as she went down the front steps, where she found herself surrounded by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large stone statues.

Bellatrix could hear splashing water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, students were sitting on carved benches talking animatedly to or kissing their dates. Rolling her eyes, she set off along one of the winding paths through the rosebushes, still ruminating on the night’s events. She hadn’t even meant to bring the other witch as her “date” to the ball—that was ridiculous and they were here to chaperone, after all, which was the reason Bellatrix gave herself for not inviting Rosmerta (even after Minerva suggested it)–but she hadn’t -not- meant to bring her, either–and it was certainly more fun chaperoning a student function with a…friend. Because that was exactly how Bellatrix considered her: a friend.

Suddenly, she heard an unpleasantly familiar voice.

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff. His voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard, but clearly doing a poor job in that regard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —”

“Then flee,” said Severus’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.” He and Karkaroff came around the corner. Severus had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his expression irate. She knew how much he hated talking about any of it. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from them. “Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Severus shouted as a girl ran past him.

“And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!” she called after the boy who went rushing after Fawcett, nearly colliding with her in the process.

“Bellatrix!” snarled Karkaroff. He looked entirely discomposed to see her standing there–which instantly infused her with a rush of joy. His hand went nervously to his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger. “You’re—”

“I’m walking,” Bellatrix said with a wry grin. “Not against the law, is it?”

“You feel it too, I know it!” Karkaroff exclaimed, mania in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. She pursed her lips, but otherwise kept her demeanor cool. She couldn’t resist goading him, however. “What’s to be afraid of, Karkaroff? Sounds like a you problem.” She fixed her eyes directly on him and he paled, looking torn between rising to her bait or pissing himself.

“Keep walking, both of you!” Severus growled, and he brushed past her, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurried away after her colleague and Bellatrix continued in the other direction. Much though she’d loved messing with a pathetic creature like Igor Karkaroff, she knew he wasn’t wrong to be afraid. She’d felt her mark burning, too. And it had gotten undeniably darker since the summer–to the point where she was needing to cast more powerful and frequent glamour magic on her arm than she’d needed to do in years.

She had reached a large stone reindeer now, over which she could see the sparkling jets of a tall fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous people were visible on a stone bench, watching the water in the moonlight. And then she heard Hagrid speak. “Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying. She froze and then walked as quickly and discreetly as she could back up the path, not wanting to see or hear ANY of that.

*************************************************************************************

“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger. She and Ron were having a blazing row in the Entrance Hall. Standing ten feet apart, they were bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face.

“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?”

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water and Hermione turned on her heel and stormed out the front doors and down to the castle lawn. She took several breaths and steadied herself, trying as hard as she could not to completely break down crying. Ron had spoiled everything. And she still hadn’t seen Prudence.

She took to the path twining through the tall, hedge-like rosebushes, feeling a little like she was in a maze, but like her frustration with Ron was starting to dissipate as she walked. All in all, it hadn’t been a horrible evening and she knew she’d had a better time with Viktor than she likely would have even if she had come with Ron or Harry. Besides, she was with them all the time…it was nice to hang out with some different company for a change. She’d made a new friend and together, they’d both been able to keep each other’s secret. Not that Hermione was even completely sure yet that she -had- a secret. Did she think she was gay? She thought it was…possible…but couldn’t be sure. She at least knew she -admired- witches, but she’d admired wizards, too. Was she bi? The idea of picking a word or a label or needing even to give herself a definitive answer was making her brain hurt in a way nothing else ever had.

She was so stuck in her rumination on this topic that she hadn’t exactly been paying attention to where she was walking…she’d just been taking paths at random through the hedges as she cleared her head, until she rounded a corner into a little clearing with a stone bench and a fountain…and sitting on that stone bench were two witches kissing passionately. Professor Black and Madam Lilith, kissing…passionately…, their chests pressed together, fingers and nails pushing through one another’s hair, scrambling for purchase. Hermione could swear they’d be able to hear her heart, it was beating so loudly, but she instinctively turned away and hurried as quietly as she could back up the path in the direction she’d come from. The embarrassment she knew they’d feel if they saw her could only be second to the embarrassment she would feel if they knew she had seen them. She still couldn’t believe she had seen them…that that was happening. That the two of them…the. Two. of. Them…were -involved-...or at least they were kissing. Any two professors would be…something…Hagrid and Maxime would have been…something…but…Black and Lilith?! She’d seen Professor Black kissing someone…kissing another witch. Fuck. It had only been a second or so, if that, but for that second or so, it was…though she was ashamed and a little guilty to admit it, the hottest thing Hermione had ever seen. She couldn’t get it out of her head. Didn’t want to.

She had made it back almost to the front steps, where she saw someone standing near the door of the Entrance Hall.

It was…Prudence Blackwood, in black dress robes adorned with ornate golden vines trailing up the sides. She had long silvery braids tonight, woven in a plait over one shoulder and fastened with a black and gold ornamental snake pin.

“Her–my–oh–nee, right?” She offered with a smile. Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling very warm even given it was midwinter.

“I am a friend of Viktor’s. It is lovely to formally meet you. I have heard so much about you.”

“Really?”

“Vell, they say you are the brightest vitch of your age around Hogwarts. At Durmstrang, the same is said of me.”

*************************************************************************************

“Filch? Snape? What the hell is going on? What possible reason could you have for all this fucking noise?” Bellatrix rounded the corridor, hand pressed to her temple, livid. She had just -just- fallen asleep and then she’d heard a noise like waking dead. Wailing. Crashing. And then the loud shouting of her colleagues.

“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently. “He threw this egg down the stairs.” Bellatrix climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped beside Severus and Filch.

“Peeves?” said Bellatrix softly, staring at the egg in Filch’s hands, her rage intensifying. That was a Triwizard Champions egg.

“But Peeves couldn’t get into my office. . . .” Severus growled.

“This egg was in your office?” said Bellatrix. She still didn’t understand how they’d all gotten here.

“Of course not,” he snapped. “I heard banging and wailing —”

“As did I,” said Bellatrix.

“Yes, Professors, that was the egg —” Filch started to explain, but Severus cut in again.

“— I was coming to investigate —”

“— Peeves threw it, Professor —”

“— and when I passed my office, I saw that the torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar! Somebody has been searching it...I seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could break!”

“But Peeves couldn’t —”

“Shut up! Both of you! You’re acting like children, what is going on here?” Bellatrix had finally had enough. She looked up the stairs, and then down into the corridor below.

“I want you to come and help me search for the intruder, Filch,” demanded Severus.

“I — yes, Professor — but —” Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, clearly longing to continue his hunt for Peeves. Mrs. Norris peered around his legs, her lamplike eyes glittering ominously. Bellatrix tapped her foot.

“The thing is, Professors,” said Filch plaintively, “the headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves has been stealing from a student, it might be my chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and for all —”

“Filch, I don’t give a damn about that wretched poltergeist; that egg did not come from Peeves—” Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. They all stopped talking very abruptly, looking down at the foot of the stairs to see Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody limp into sight, wearing his old traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his staff as usual.

“Pajama party, is it?” he growled up the stairs.

“We heard noises, Professor,” said Filch at once. “Peeves the Poltergeist, throwing things around as usual — and then Professor Snape discovered that someone had broken into his off —”

“Shut up!” Severus hissed to Filch. Moody took a step closer to the foot of the stairs, his horrible magical eye traveled over Severus, and then, unmistakably, onto a spot in the corridor behind them, confirming Bellatrix’s suspicions instantly. Everything was coming together in her mind…That eye could see through Invisibility Cloaks. Potter. The egg was Potter’s. She took a moment to process the full strangeness of the scene:

She in her black nightgown and robe, Severus in his nightshirt, Filch clutching the egg, and an invisible, out-past-curfew Harry Potter trapped in the stairs behind them. Moody's lopsided gash of a mouth opened in surprise. She had no need for Legilimency. She didn’t want to hear any of their thoughts.

He closed his mouth and turned his blue eye upon Severus again. “Did I hear that correctly, Snape?” he asked slowly. “Someone broke into your office?”

“It is unimportant,” said Severus. Bellatrix eyed him suspiciously. What didn’t he want Moody to know? Severus Snape was one of very few people who could completely shield his mind and intentions from her.

“On the contrary,” growled the Auror, “it is very important. Who’d want to break into your office?”

“A student, I daresay,” said Severus, a vein flickering on his greasy temple. “It has happened before. Potion ingredients have gone missing from my private store cupboard . . . students attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt. . . .”

“Reckon they were after potion ingredients, eh?” said Moody. “Not hiding anything else in your office, are you?” Bellatrix saw the edge of Severus’s sallow face turn a nasty brick color, the vein in his temple pulsing more rapidly.

“You know I’m hiding nothing, Alastor,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice, “as you’ve searched my office pretty thoroughly yourself.” The Auror's face twisted into a smile and then his magical eye turned grotesquely towards her.

“Auror’s privilege, Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye…searched yours too, didn’t I, Professor Black—” She felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the air in the corridor. Alastor Moody had always turned her stomach into knots–he, like Crouch, had been part of the team that sent her to Azkaban after all—, but this version of him disturbed her more than any other. She highly doubted he’d been through any of her things—he was just trying to intimidate her, and she resented it entirely.

“Dumbledore happens to trust us both,” said Severus through clenched teeth. “I refuse to believe that he gave you orders to search either of our offices!”

“ ’Course Dumbledore trusts you,” growled Moody. “He’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second chances. But me — I say there are spots that don’t come off. Spots that never come off, d’you know what I mean?” He swiveled his magical eye between the two of them while Filch leered on, giddy over the drama. Her left forearm seared just then. She felt it prickling beneath the sleeve of her robe, then blazing with heat. She resisted the urge to grab onto it, but she saw Severus’s hand go to his.

Moody laughed. “Get back to bed, you paranoid fools! Or I can give you both something to be afraid of!”

“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!” Bellatrix hissed. “I have as much right to prowl this school after dark as you do!”

“Prowl away,” said Moody, but his voice was full of menace. “I look forward to meeting you in a dark corridor some time. . . . You’ve dropped something, by the way. . .”

Moody pointed to a piece of parchment lying on the staircase a few steps below them. Bellatrix reached for it—she recognized that parchment. She’d recognize that parchment anywhere

— “Accio Parchment!” The map flew up into the air, slipped through Bellatrix’s outstretched fingers, and soared down the stairs into Moody’s hand.

“My mistake,” Moody said calmly. Infuriatingly. “It’s mine — must’ve dropped it earlier —”

Enough was enough.

“Potter,” she hissed.

“What’s that?” said Moody calmly, folding up the map and pocketing it.

“Potter!” She snarled, and she snapped her head in the direction where she knew the boy was hiding under his Invisibility Cloak. “That egg is Potter’s egg. That piece of parchment belongs to Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!” she exclaimed.

Severus stretched out his hands like a blind man and began to move up the stairs; his over-large nostrils were dilating, as if trying to sniff Potter out. "And Potter has been breaking into my office!"

“There’s nothing there!” barked Moody, “but I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly both of your minds jumped to Harry Potter!”

“Meaning what?” Severus turned to look at Moody, his hands still outstretched.

“Meaning that Dumbledore’s very interested to know who’s got it in for that boy!” said Moody, limping nearer still to the foot of the stairs.

“Maybe he expressed that to you because you’re the one he doesn’t trust,” Bellatrix said icily. But Moody trailed off like he hadn’t heard her.

“...And so am I, . . . very interested. . . .” The torchlight flickered across his mangled face, so that the scars, and the chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and darker than ever. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything.

Then Severus slowly lowered his hands. “I merely thought,” she said, in a voice of forced calm, “that if Potter was wandering around after hours again . . . it’s an unfortunate habit of his . . . he should be stopped. For — for his own safety. And I’m sure that was Professor Black’s intention as well.”

“Ah, I see,” said Moody softly. “Got Potter’s best interests at heart, have you, Bellatrix?” She paused and bit her lip. Not entertaining any of it with a response.

There was a pause. Severus and Moody were still staring at each other. Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow, still peering around Filch’s legs.

“I’ll leave the three of you to settle this. If you’re all through with screaming and throwing eggs, I think I will go back to bed,” she said curtly.

“Best idea you’ve had all night,” said Moody. “Now, Filch, if you’ll just give me that egg —”

“No!” said Filch, clutching the egg as though it were his firstborn son. “Professor Moody, this is evidence of Peeves’ treachery!”

She strode off back to her quarters, frowning. She knew Potter was there–she knew that with certainty even though she couldn’t see him. How much had he heard and understood? Did he know about her past? Or Severus’s? Fucking Moody had implied that Dumbledore hired him to keep an eye on them. Like he’d only let them stay here because of second chances. Like he thought one of them put Potter’s name in that fucking cup.

Back in her rooms, she poured herself a firewhiskey. The information about she and Snape’s arrests had been public record…anyone had access to that information if they knew where to look. Besides, she’d even told Granger all about it last year and she’d likely told Potter and Weasley and who knew who else who didn’t already know—about her own past, at least…she hadn’t actually mentioned Severus by name, had she? No…no she definitely hadn’t. Even if she had, it wasn’t like he needed her protection.

*************************************************************************************

“I don’t reckon it can be done,” said Ron’s voice flatly from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing. Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake.”

“There must be something,” Hermione muttered, moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes were so tired she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a task that was undoable.”

“They have,” said Ron. “Harry, just go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.”

“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione said crossly. “There just has to be!” She was starting to take the library’s lack of useful information on the subject as a personal insult; it had never failed her before.

“I know what I should have done,” said Harry, resting, facedown, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.”

“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time you wanted!” said Ron.

“Or a frog,” yawned Harry.

“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you have to register yourself and everything,” said Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions. “Professor McGonagall told us, remember . . . you’ve got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic Office . . . what animal you become, and your markings, so you can’t abuse it. . . .”

“Hermione, I was joking,” said Harry wearily. “I know I haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by tomorrow morning. . . .”

“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. “Who on earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasley’s voice. “Be a talking point, wouldn’t it?” Hermione, Ron, and Harry looked up. Fred and George had just emerged from behind some bookshelves.

“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked.

“Looking for you,” said George. “McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione.”

“Why?” said Hermione, surprised.

“Dunno . . . she was looking a bit grim, though,” said Fred.

“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione told Harry as she got up to go with Ron — suddenly very anxious.

*************************************************************************************

When Hermione awoke, it was to the shouts and screams of a whole crowd of people, and she was soaking wet and suddenly terribly cold. She blinked in the bright light as Viktor Krum gently pulled her through the water, back to the bank where the judges stood watching, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honor, singing their songs. And then Prudence was there, offering Hermione and Krum thick blankets and kissing them tenderly on the tops of their heads and for a moment, nothing had ever felt more right in her world.

*************************************************************************************

Hermione, Ron, and Harry were falling through something icy-cold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool — And suddenly, they found themselves sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. Hermione looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which she had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) were looking at them. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that three teenagers had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Hermione turned to the wizard next to them on the bench and uttered a cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room. They were sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore. She gave Harry a sharp nudge in the ribs and gestured to the Headmaster.

“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. “I’m sorry — we didn’t mean to — we were just looking at that basin in your cabinet — I — where are we?” But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored Harry, Ron, and Hermione completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door. She realized that no one could see or hear them…fascinating…she’d come across Pensieves in her reading before, but had never actually encountered one.

“I know what this is,” she said to her friends. They looked at her expectantly. “It’s a Pensieve. We’re in one of Dumbledore’s memories.”

“Blimey,” said Ron. He raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore’s face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around, or indeed move at all. This seemed to settle the matter for him. “But where are we…and…when are we?”

It couldn’t be that long ago, Hermione reasoned . The Dumbledore sitting next to them didn’t look that different from the present-day Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all these wizards waiting for? There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms. Then, they heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered — or at least one man, flanked by two dementors. Hermione felt a chill run down her spine and immediately looked over at Harry to make sure he was okay. The dementors — tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed — were gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.

She immediately recognized the man in the chair as Igor Karkaroff, the Durmstrang Headmaster. But unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as they watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff’s arms, binding him there.

“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to the trio’s left. Hermione looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside them. Crouch’s hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us.” Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.

“I have, sir,” he said.“I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I — I know that the Ministry is trying to — to round up the last of the Dark Lord’s supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can. . . .” There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Hermione heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore’s other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.” She leaned forward so that she could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there — except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. “He’s done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names. Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors.” Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose. “Ah, I was forgetting . . . you don’t like the dementors, do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile.

“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.”

“But for filth like this . . .” Moody said softly.

“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr. Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.”

“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly, “that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy. . . . He preferred that we — I mean to say, his supporters — and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them —”

“Get on with it,” sneered Moody.

“— we never knew the names of every one of our fellows — He alone knew exactly who we all were —”

“Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in,” muttered Moody.

“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr. Crouch.

“I — I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely —”

“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply. Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I — I saw him torture countless Muggles and — and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.”

“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody.

“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.”

“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I — I am delighted to hear it!” But he didn’t look it. They could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

“Any others?” said Crouch coldly.

“Why, yes . . . there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.”

“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle.”

“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered Moody, indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.

“No — no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now, clearly starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.

“Any more?” said Crouch.

“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers — he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber — he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!” Hermione could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?”

“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information —”

“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch. “Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide —”

“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. “Wait, I have more!” He was sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard. “You no doubt know of Bellatrix Black! And...And...Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!”

“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.”

“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!” Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.

“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.” Hermione turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore’s back.

“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime. . . .” Mr. Crouch’s voice faded. Hermione looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; she could see only her own body and her friends beside her — all else was swirling darkness. . . . And then, the dungeon returned. Hermione, Ron, and Harry were sitting in different seats, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere was somber and still. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands. Mr. Crouch looked gaunter and grayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple.

“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon. The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered, flanking a group of four people. The people in the crowd turned to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to one another. The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a boy in his late teens with straw colored hair, who looked nothing short of petrified; and a woman Hermione would recognize anywhere—a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne, though her eyes looked vacant and empty, like she was just an empty shell—Professor Black. Barely noticeably, she was shivering. The teenage boy was shaking beside her, his skin milk white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat, whimpering into her handkerchief. Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.

“You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous —”

“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. “Father . . . please . . .”

“— that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son’s voice. “We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

“Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I didn’t, I swear it, Father, don’t send me back to the dementors —”

“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury —”

“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. “Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me!”

“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!” In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream.

“No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!” The dementors were gliding back into the room. The boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats; Professor Black remained stoic and vacant. One of the men looked up at Crouch and called,

“The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!” But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Hermione could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.

“I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your son!”

“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!”

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The summer sun blazed high over the hedge maze constructed for the third task of the Triwizard Tournament.

All four champions were still in the maze.

The pain seared through her forearm like a dagger. She met Severus’s eye and he nodded. Lilith squeezed her hand. And Bellatrix vowed, once more, to never let anyone see her flinch.

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“Bellatrix, loyal -Bellatrix-.” -He- surveyed her with a sneer. “You are delayed. I thought, surely, -you- of all of them would return to me directly.” Her eyes were still adjusting to his new appearance. Where once he'd been...beautiful...conventionally, anyway, he was now something else entirely. Tall, muscular, paler than moonlight, and completely bald...and where his nose once was, he had two slits like a snake. And his eyes, now red as embers, bore into her now even more than they used to. She used to beg for him look at her. Now, she felt herself silently pleading for him to stop.

“My Lord, I—” she began to make her excuses, even knowing it was futile, but stopped as she felt him begin to invade her mind. He brought image after image to the surface, questioning her loyalty. He pulled forward the memories of her release from Azkaban, her pledge to Dumbledore, years of promises that she’d renounced the old ways, years of teaching at Hogwarts, and a few memories she’d created for exactly this moment–memories that appeared to show her distraught with grief after his disappearance, staring at his image alone in her quarters at night, pleasuring herself thinking about him, discussing his return with Severus and their plan to answer his eventual summons delayed so as to maintain their spy positions at Hogwarts and better serve his cause in the long run. She interspersed these fake memories amidst scenes from some of her more passionate romps with Lilith and Rosmerta. Drunken nights she’d passed out in the pub. Even her humiliating response to the dementors last year. Always hide the lie within the rawest emotional truth, a lesson she'd learned from the best when she was very young.

His invasion was painful, abrupt, and callous. But the worst part was his cold, mocking laughter echoing both in and outside of her mind like she'd never be able to get away from it.

“You’ve had your fun, haven’t you, Bella? Dirty whore. But you are mine, yes? You have always been mine, yes?” he snarled, gripping her wrist so suddenly then, his touch colder than ice.

“Always, My Lord.”

She swallowed hard and fixed her gaze on him in the stoic, impassive way he mistook for admiration and obedience from his followers. This was only the beginning.

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End year 4. Its been a really long time since I've written or worked on anything remotely creative, but I felt like coming back to this story. I hope it wasn't too jarring to have the few Chilling Adventures of Sabrina characters mixed in here. When I first started this story, I wanted to flesh out the visiting schools a bit more and thought it might be more fun to include characters most of us might already be familiar with than create new ones and risk any kind of Mary Sue effect. I also wanted Hermione to explore her sexuality for the first time by having a crush on someone age-appropriate for her as a 15 year old, and frankly, no one at Hogwarts seemed good enough to be worthy of Hermione and Fleur just didn't seem like someone she would be into. I may bring Prudence into the next chapter a little bit as a penpal for Hermione as Viktor was in the original books, just as Lilith and Rosmerta may feature as interests for Bellatrix...that is, until Voldemort decides he wants her all to himself/doesn't want her to be happy. If I'm still feeling creative and people don't completely hate this, it'll be time for book 5 next and see how Professor Black fares as a member of the Order of the Phoenix and eventually caught between her two identities at the battle of the department of mysteries.