Although the young wizards were disappointed that the Quidditch season had been canceled due to the revival of the Triwizard Tournament, their excitement showed no sign of fading.
Even though Dumbledore hadn’t tried to rouse their enthusiasm with grand speeches—in fact, he had gone out of his way to warn everyone about the tournament’s dangers—the lure of glory and that enticing champion’s prize easily drowned out any sense of caution.
After the Sorting Ceremony, as they made their way back to their common rooms, most students were already daydreaming about being the one to take home the Cup. The more practical-minded were already calculating how to spend the thousand Galleons reward.
Still, a few took Dumbledore’s warning to heart and went digging through records of past tournaments. Once they learned what kind of challenges the Triwizard Tournament entailed, their fantasies of becoming champions quickly cooled.
After all, people had died in it before...
...
The next morning, instead of marveling at the size of the prize, the main topic buzzing through the castle was who would be eligible to enter.
Beyond the anticipation for the event itself, most conversations revolved around guessing who would represent Hogwarts as its one and only Champion.
Some even whispered that whoever was chosen would surely find themselves a date for the Yule Ball...
“If you ask me, the one who deserves to be Champion is definitely Cedric from our house. Everyone trusts him, and he’s one of the best.”
“Cedric’s good, sure—but I don’t know, he’s missing... something.”
“What about the Weasleys? They’re decent enough wizards—and at least they’re funny.”
“I’m voting for Harry Potter.”
“You’re forgetting something. Neither the Weasleys nor Harry Potter meet the age requirement.”
“Seventeen, right? So, at least a sixth-year student.”
“No, no, no! I heard the Weasley twins are trying to find a way to get past the age restriction. Maybe they’ll actually manage it.”
“Shh! Quiet—Slytherins are coming.”
The lively chatter stopped immediately as Draco and his group entered. The younger students—too inexperienced to hide their feelings—watched them with open wariness and suspicion.
Draco, however, was utterly unfazed.
He was used to this kind of reaction by now. It didn’t stir him in the slightest.
He had been treated like this every step of the way...
“Hmph! Draco, aren’t you going to do something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You really want Draco to enter such a dangerous tournament, Pansy Parkinson?”
“...Hermione Granger, has that foolish Savior of yours finally abandoned you? Why do you keep showing up in front of us?”
“First of all,” Hermione said evenly, “I’m not Harry’s sidekick, so there’s no such thing as being ‘abandoned.’ Second, what’s wrong with me being here?”
There wasn’t, technically, anything wrong. After all, they were headed to the same class next, so walking together wasn’t unusual.
Though, admittedly, a Gryffindor walking among Slytherins did make for a rather conspicuous sight...
“Forget it,” Pansy muttered. “I’m not in the mood to argue with you today. Draco, are you seriously not going to do anything? We already know who’s been spreading those rumors.”
“Hmm... If only Harry would listen to me...”
“Don’t you see it yet? Potter’s already starting to suspect you. Of course, if you stopped being so close to us, maybe the great Savior would take you back.”
“...”
Goyle and Crabe exchanged looks. They still couldn’t tell whether their boss lady and the know-it-all had a good or bad relationship.
It sounded like Pansy was mocking Hermione or trying to push her away—but those who knew Pansy understood.
That was her way of giving a warning.
Just... not a very gentle one.
…
In the end, the ever-proud Hermione didn’t follow Pansy’s advice to keep her distance from Draco, nor did she return to their previous, more discreet way of interacting.
Under Harry Potter’s conflicted gaze, Hermione entered the classroom, lifted her chin, and sat down beside Draco without hesitation or shame.
Most students had half-expected this to happen, yet the moment they saw it with their own eyes, the atmosphere froze. The once lively classroom instantly fell silent.
Every pair of eyes flicked between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy...
“They really made up?”
“I thought they were just giving each other the cold shoulder?”
“With things like this, how could it just be a simple argument?”
“What!? So we can’t borrow Granger’s homework anymore?”
Realizing the meaning behind those looks, Harry’s face flushed red, while Ron Weasley beside him glared darkly at Draco—clearly convinced that Malfoy must have used some slick, manipulative trick to fool Hermione.
Draco, the supposed dragon who had stolen the princess, remained perfectly calm. Under Harry’s furious glare, he acted as though he hadn’t noticed a thing, quietly allowing Hermione to take the seat next to him.
The other Slytherins, with unspoken understanding, looked away and said nothing.
Even so, they weren’t pleased about it. Their Slytherin “king” sitting beside someone who wasn’t noble-born—someone who wasn’t even pure-blood—was not a sight they liked.
Pansy, on the other hand, shot Hermione an irritated glare before wordlessly kicking Draco under the table.
She didn’t pick this moment to start trouble with Hermione...
Just then, as the tense silence deepened, a hollow thudding sound echoed from the hallway, making the students jump.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The familiar noise, followed by the door slamming open and a figure stepping into view, reminded everyone of the man they had seen at the Sorting Ceremony the night before.
The old wizard with the unsettling, whirling magical eye.
Their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—
Alastor Moody.