The Hogwats Gaijin

Hermione pushed her untouched bowl of porridge away with an angry shove. The usual cosy hum of the Great Hall today felt like a discordant cacophony, interfering with her ability to focus on what mattered.

‘Harry, I’m serious,’ she said, fixing her friend with a direct stare. He was making a great show of being fascinated by the composition of the pumpkin juice in his goblet. ‘The Second Task is in February. It’s nearly the end of December. Have you opened that egg even once in the past week?’

‘There’s still heaps of time, Hermione,’ Harry muttered, though his eyes betrayed him by darting towards the Hufflepuff table and then to the doors. ‘I’ll sort it all out over the holidays for certain.’

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She knew that look. Harry wasn’t merely procrastinating — he was stumped.

‘You’re lying,’ she stated, lowering her voice. ‘You haven’t got the faintest idea, have you? Harry, while we still have time we can go through dozens of books, prepare protective charms, find counter-curses. But we need to know what we’re preparing for!’

Harry gave a heavy sigh and finally set his goblet aside.

‘All right,’ he surrendered. ‘I did open it. It just screams, Hermione. Loudly, piercingly, and completely unbearably. As though someone’s being tortured or… I don’t know, a herd of banshees holding a choir practice. I haven’t the foggiest what to do with it.’

Hermione had already opened her mouth to deliver a lecture on the linguistic peculiarities of magical artefacts when her gaze fell on Ron. He was demolishing his third helping of bacon and eggs with astonishing appetite, wielding his fork as though it were a competitive sport.

‘Ron, how can you eat at a time like this?’ she snapped irritably. ‘We’re discussing your best friend’s life!’

Ron swallowed a mouthful and regarded her with unruffled calm.

‘Granger, if I go about permanently hungry and furious like you, it won’t make things any easier for Harry. The brain needs fuel, all right?’

Hermione was about to deliver a scathing remark about exactly how Ron was spending that ‘fuel’, when Harry and Ron suddenly froze, staring past her shoulder. Their faces tensed at once.

She turned.

Right behind her stood Draco Malfoy. But contrary to habit, he did not start a row. Draco did not even glance at Potter. He held out a rolled copy of the Daily Prophet to Kieran.

Malfoy gave a crooked smirk; cold curiosity glinted in his eyes.

‘Here, Morgan,’ he drawled. ‘Read it in your spare time.’

He gave a brief nod, flicked a quick, unreadable glance at Hermione, and added:

‘Well, good luck. You’ll need it.’

Kieran frowned and took the paper. Malfoy turned and walked back to his table. Kieran unrolled the Prophet, skimmed the front page, and his face instantly hardened. He immediately tried to roll it up again and slip it under the edge of the table.

‘Kieran?’ Hermione reached out. ‘What’s there? Let me see.’

‘It’s nothing special, Hermione,’ he answered too quickly, pushing the paper further away. ‘Nothing interesting at all!’

Harry and Ron were now staring at them wide-eyed.

‘Give me the paper,’ Hermione repeated in the tone she reserved for very special occasions.

‘No…’ He edged back further.

She did not argue. With a swift movement she lunged forward and snatched the edge of the paper. Kieran clearly hadn’t expected the attack and hesitated. For the next few seconds the astonished Harry and Ron watched a merciless struggle for the fresh newspaper. Breathless and dishevelled — both her hair and Morgan’s — Hermione emerged victorious from the hard-fought battle.

She unfurled the Prophet with a loud rustle directly over the plates.

‘Let’s see what…’ Her voice broke off.

She froze, staring at the enormous headline screaming from the front page. Kieran muttered something under his breath and looked away.

Right beneath the headline were three wizard photographs. The first showed Harry and Hermione in the champions’ tent: she looked tearful and was pressing close to him, while Harry appeared utterly lost. The second captured Hermione in her blue gown on Viktor Krum’s arm, radiant and unrecognisable. The third, slightly blurrier, showed her dancing with Kieran, his hand resting confidently on her waist.

Hermione began to read, and with each line her fingers gripped the paper more tightly.

HERMIONE GRANGER’S SECRET PASSIONS: ONE HERO NOT ENOUGH?

Special report by Rita Skeeter

‘Hermione Granger — at first glance a perfectly ordinary swot with an unruly mop of hair and dubious success in polite society. Yet our investigation reveals a far more calculating nature behind the modest façade. The young Miss Granger, it seems, has decided that the fame of Harry Potter alone — with whom she is inseparable — is insufficient.

At the Yule Ball she appeared on the arm of Bulgarian heart-throb Viktor Krum, causing fans worldwide to shudder with indignation. But even this “trophy” was not enough for the ambitious young lady. Towards midnight witnesses observed Miss Granger in the embrace of Kieran Kai Morgan — heir to one of magical Britain’s most secretive families. What is this? A thirst for knowledge of which she boasts so proudly, or a calculated bid to turn the heads of Europe’s most promising young men? While Harry Potter fights for his life in the Tournament, his best friend appears occupied with rather different… exercises.’

‘What… filth!’ Hermione gasped. She realised her voice was trembling with rage and heat had flooded her face. ‘She’s twisted everything! She’s turned me into some sort of… some sort of…’

‘Oi, let me see!’ Ron snatched the paper without waiting for permission. He skimmed the text, frowning and moving his lips. Halfway through he suddenly froze, turned the page, checked the back, and burst out indignantly:

‘Hang on! Not a single word about me?! I was there in dress robes! Did she not even notice me?’

Hermione whipped round and scanned the Great Hall. It seemed every whisper was now directed at her, every snigger from the Slytherin table a reaction to the article. She felt as though her clothes had been stripped off in the middle of lunch. Inside her boiled a desire to hunt down Skeeter and turn her into some particularly revolting caterpillar, but she had no idea how to reach the woman.

‘Hermione…’ Harry cautiously touched her arm. Real fear showed in his eyes. ‘Are you all right? You look… well, you’re frightening me.’

Hermione drew a deep, shuddering breath. She slowly exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. The fury had not gone; it had simply crystallised into cold determination.

‘I’m perfectly all right, Harry,’ she said crisply, her voice steady. ‘This article is absolute rubbish. A collection of lies written by a woman whose conscience is an inkpot. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We have far more important matters to attend to.’

She crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it into the waste basket at the table’s edge.

‘Let’s get back to the riddle of the golden egg,’ she said, fixing Harry with a stare. ‘Unless you want Skeeter writing your tragic obituary.’

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Arguing with Hermione in this mood was more than their lives were worth; they had learned that long ago.