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"Ron, something isn't right."
As the first whistle blew to signal the champions entering the maze, Ginny Weasley leaned on the railing of the stands, watching the two figures hurrying toward the entrance, and whispered to her brother, "Can you smell it? Hermione isn't the kind of person who just wanders onto the arena floor."
"The prefects by the side door aren't very happy about it, I'll say that." Ron leaned on the railing beside her, chewing on a Pepper Imp, and grinned. "Look at Percy's girlfriend — Penelope Clearwater — she's gone green."
"Ex-girlfriend," Ginny said.
"Wait — when did that happen?" Ron asked in surprise.
"Ages ago. Ever since Percy joined the Ministry and became a complete workaholic, it's been going badly." Ginny shrugged.
"No wonder he's been in such a foul mood lately. I thought it was just work stress!"
"That's not my point!" Ginny said impatiently. "The point is, Hermione is ignoring the prefects completely. She would never normally do that — she always respected them. Even Percy. Look at her now — she's been entirely corrupted by that Malfoy."
"Draco isn't the sort to get caught red-handed by prefects," Ron said thoughtfully. "He's always been more of an underhand operator. As for Hermione — I actually think the less rule-abiding version is more interesting than the old one."
Ginny glanced toward the pair — being herded by Professor McGonagall toward the makeshift medical tent — until they were out of sight from the stands.
"You mean they're both acting strange today?" she said thoughtfully.
"They've been strange for a while now. Lately it's worse — appearing and disappearing without a word. I'm used to it." Ron said, nonchalantly opening a Chocolate Frog. "Today was a perfect example — the end-of-year exams finished this morning, and they were nowhere to be seen all afternoon. Where do they even go?"
He pulled out the card from the wrapper and said, "Oh — Xavier Rastrick! I've got several of these already. Do you want one, Ginny?"
Ginny took the card and stared absently at the elegantly dressed wizard performer — who was tap dancing on the card with remarkable enthusiasm — lost in thought.
She turned the card over and read the biography in a listless tone. "...In 1836, Xavier Rastrick disappeared unexpectedly while performing a tap-dancing routine before three hundred people in Painswick, and his whereabouts have been unknown ever since."
That was not a cheerful card.
Annoyed, Ginny stuffed it into her pocket and went back to watching the far side of the maze over the railing.
The first red spark had appeared above the maze.
Not long afterward, Sirius Black's unmistakable figure appeared near the medical tent and ran straight into the labyrinth.
"Look — Harry's godfather! He's going in to rescue whoever fired that spark, isn't he?" Ginny asked.
"I suppose so." Ron opened a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and held it out to her. "Bill brought loads of sweets — are you sure you don't want any? Oh — grass. Terrible luck."
"I've got no appetite," Ginny said impatiently. "Eat it yourself."
Amid the curious murmurs of the crowd around them, she watched Professor McGonagall's thin figure flash past the medical tent and jog across the field toward the referee's table.
"Hermione and the others might be in real trouble," she said to Ron. "I can't see what they're doing, but one thing is clear: they broke into the arena at the start of the match and they were up to something. And they haven't come back to the stands."
"They haven't?" Ron blinked, snapping out of his Every Flavour Beans deliberation. "Well — Professor McGonagall must have kept them there. Something must have happened."
"Obviously something's happened," Ginny said, her worry sharpening. "I'd bet anything it has to do with Harry. They were in that much of a hurry to get to the maze entrance at the start, remember?"
"If it's about Harry—" Ron said slowly, mouth still slightly full, "shall we pretend we've got stomachaches, go to the medical tent, and ask them what's going on?"
"It won't be that easy. The prefects are already on high alert." Ginny whispered, eyeing the side door to the playing area, which was very thoroughly blocked. "I have a better idea. See Professor McGonagall up there at the referee's table?"
Ron craned his neck and spotted her.
"She's flustered," Ginny said. "She just ran over from the tents by the maze entrance. She must know what's happening. Let's go and listen."
"Wait—" Ron started, but his quick-footed sister had already slipped away toward the referee's table.
He glanced back. His mother was busy rearranging Bill's collar and hadn't noticed anything; Fred and George had slipped several rows back and were gesturing animatedly to Lee Jordan.
Ron shook his head, stuffed his candy into his pocket, and wove through the chattering students to find Ginny's orange-red hair. She was crouching under the decorative cloth hanging from the outside of the fence behind the referee's stand.
Ron checked that no one was looking, then ducked under the cloth beside her. He whispered to Ginny, "Can you hear anything from here?"
"Shh! Keep your voice down!" Ginny produced a pair of Extendable Ears from her pocket, carefully fed one end through the gap at the base of the fence, and handed the other to Ron. "Listen!"
Ron stared at it.
"You'll do anything, won't you! If Mum finds out—" he whispered, inspecting the device. "And why didn't Fred and George give me one?"
"Stop babbling and listen!" Ginny hissed.
Ron put the ear to his head and, together with his unusually agitated sister, tuned in to the referee's table.
The referees were deep in argument.
"...This is a preposterous proposal. The final is at a critical stage, and a suspension is entirely frivolous," said a slick voice that reminded Ron unpleasantly of Karkaroff's oiled moustache.
"Didn't you hear Professor McGonagall?" Madame Maxime exclaimed with great force. "There is a Death Eater in that maze, and Beauxbatons' champion has been attacked without warning! Suspension is absolutely necessary!"
Ron and Ginny exchanged a horrified look. A Death Eater in the maze. And Fleur had been attacked.
"I quite understand your feelings," Karkaroff said slowly and deliberately. "Your champion has already forfeited, and naturally you would prefer the entire match voided — whatever reason is offered—"
"How dare you suggest—" Madame Maxime's voice rose.
"Madame Maxime, please don't get upset. Calm down." Cornelius Fudge's easy, pleasant tone broke in. "Professor Karkaroff is simply very passionate about this competition. That's not a bad thing."
Madame Maxime snorted and said nothing more to either of them.
"As for Bagman — to be entirely honest, I travelled with him from the Ministry today, and he was perfectly normal the whole way," Fudge said.
"Perfectly normal? He's attacking champions!" Professor McGonagall said sharply, pointing toward a streak of red in the sky above the maze. "There is already a victim!"
"How can you be certain Miss Delacour was attacked?" Karkaroff said with impatience. "She may simply have chosen to withdraw. What actually happened before she was brought out of the maze? Where is the evidence?"
Fudge echoed, "Quite. Making such baseless accusations against a member of the Ministry of Magic is simply not acceptable. We can't assume Ludo Bagman is an impersonating Death Eater just because he has a touch of stomach trouble today—"
"Bagman should be at this referee's table right now. Has anyone actually seen him since he stepped away?" Professor McGonagall said, her voice rising. "As a patrol officer and rescuer for this competition, I will stake my integrity and my career on this: the man with Bagman's face who has entered that maze is an impostor named McNeil!"
This is serious, Ginny thought. Professor McGonagall did not make guarantees like that lightly. Hermione must have sensed something was genuinely wrong — that was why she'd run to the maze entrance at the start.
"Oh, Bagman always goes off on his own — he probably took a wrong turn looking for the facilities and wandered in by accident," Fudge said. He seemed to imagine this was amusing. Nobody laughed.
An awkward pause. Fudge shifted the subject. "I know Walton McNeil. Yes, he was a Death Eater — I won't deny it. But he has since reformed and received a full pardon. I believe that every reformed wizard deserves a second chance."
Karkaroff made a sound of agreement.
"Furthermore, McNeil is currently serving the Ministry of Magic," Fudge continued, his tone becoming slightly troubled. "I can hardly go about doubting my own dedicated Ministry staff." He paused. "Unless concrete evidence is produced — catching him in the act, proving he was here, that he impersonated Bagman, that he attacked champions — without disrupting the match — I cannot proceed."
"Forgive my bluntness, but that is a paradox!" Professor McGonagall said. "We cannot find him without stopping the match and sending more people into the maze!"
"Simply because I am the British Minister for Magic doesn't mean I can rashly back Hogwarts — who represent England in this competition — and halt the proceedings," Fudge said pleasantly. "I have a duty to the principles of fairness and impartiality."
"That idiot," Minerva thought behind clenched teeth. He never missed an opportunity to perform his affable impartiality, regardless of the cost.
---
"I don't think Professor McGonagall was lying to me," Hermione said, peering out from the tent entrance, watching the straight-backed witch who had now been standing at the referee's table for a good ten minutes. "And the referees still haven't shown any inclination to stop the match."
"Hermione." Draco glanced at her focused profile. "This isn't a simple thing. It's actually quite complicated."
Before those particular referees, every question had to travel a vast distance before it became a decision. Without debate, without challenge and counter-challenge, they would not move.
"I'm not naive," Hermione said. "I knew the suspension proposal would face resistance. I'm just trying to work out who, precisely, is objecting."
"Fair question. Since we have nothing to do right now but wait, why don't you put that brilliant mind to work?" Draco watched her think with undisguised interest. Hermione Granger was at her most captivating when she was working something through. "You can probably guess who the holdouts are."
"Hmm—" She paused. "The principals of the other two schools probably won't agree immediately."
"Why?" he asked deliberately.
"They each have their own champion to consider, and their own school's honour, and the Ministry of Magic behind them. Any agreement to suspend will need to be weighed carefully from all of those angles."
"Very impressive," Draco said, with genuine admiration. "You see further than almost anyone your age."
The suspension would implicate not only Hogwarts and the British Ministry, but Beauxbatons and the French Ministry, Durmstrang and the Bulgarian Ministry, and the complicated webs of international relationships between them all.
Hermione gave a faint, somewhat distracted smile.
"But even so — are all those considerations more important than the fact that there is a Death Eater in the maze? Shouldn't they act decisively and deal with that first?" she asked.
"We can't put ourselves in their position if we're still thinking like ourselves," Draco said. "They don't know the full story. They can't immediately judge whether Professor McGonagall is telling the truth."
"You mean they might think she's lying?" She caught the implication instantly.
"She's Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. In their eyes, she isn't a neutral party. They might even suspect Hogwarts of engineering some scheme to secure the final victory."
"That's absurd," Hermione said dismissively.
"The fact that the Goblet of Fire produced two Hogwarts champions is still a sore point," Draco said calmly. "Is it hard to understand why they remain wary of Hogwarts staff and students?"
"No, I suppose not." She sighed with irritation. "But it was a misunderstanding. We can't explain that Harry's entry was engineered by the Dark Lord's scheme — Professor Dumbledore wants that kept secret."
"There's nothing for it — secrecy is necessary." Draco decided to guide the conversation along. "So: the heads of the other two schools are likely to oppose suspension. Is that your conclusion?"
"Wait—" Hermione stopped herself, a thought crossing her face. She looked toward the sparks above the maze. "Madame Maxime will support Professor Dumbledore. Fleur has already forfeited — suspension only benefits Beauxbatons, not harms it."
"Interesting. Continue," Draco said with a slight smile.
"Then — it's only Karkaroff who is truly against it!" Hermione said, with rising certainty. "So if we can convince Karkaroff—"
"No." Draco looked up at the sky above the maze. "Karkaroff doesn't need convincing. Don't be misled by his posturing — he's a paper tiger. He won't hold out long once his own interests are threatened."
Hermione understood at once. "Of course. As soon as a second distress spark appears, confirming that Krum is in danger, Karkaroff will switch sides immediately."
As they spoke, a second red spark rose into the night.
"I can't decide whether to feel relieved or worried," Hermione said quietly. "I don't want anyone to be hurt."
"The spark has already gone up," Draco said gently. "It's done. Try to find the positive in it."
"The positive being that Karkaroff is about to defect. I hope to Merlin that spark is Krum's and not—" She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. "Please don't let it be Harry's."
"I can't be certain," Draco said, his brow furrowing. "We saw McNeil approaching Krum on the Marauder's Map, but we didn't see the encounter itself. There's also Cedric Diggory to consider. The situation in the maze is unpredictable." His voice became heavier. "We won't know the true situation until the champions are brought out."
"Sirius will find Harry — he has the map," Hermione said, with a confidence she was clearly willing herself into.
"I hope so," Draco said briefly.
Sirius Black — the biggest variable in the maze at that moment. What would he do with the hand he'd been dealt? Draco felt both uneasy and quietly expectant.
"Wait!" Hermione said suddenly, a frown forming. "Draco — there are four referees. If only Karkaroff is still objecting, a 3-1 vote should be enough to pass the suspension. So why is nothing happening?"
"It's 2-2," Draco said, watching the distant referee's table. "A tie."
---
Ginny Weasley, crouched under the decorative cloth, barely breathing, pressed the Extendable Ear to her head and kept listening.
She finally heard Professor Dumbledore's voice.
His tone was measured and calm. "We are currently tied at two-two. Madame Maxime and I favour suspension; Minister Fudge and Professor Karkaroff are opposed. One referee remains absent — considered an abstention."
"Well, if our absent colleague with the unfortunate stomach trouble came back from the facilities, the vote might become three-two," Fudge said in a tone of mild optimism, as though the entire matter were a minor administrative inconvenience. "I suppose he might feel rather put-upon at being accused of such things. He probably has no interest in seeing this match suspended."
"For Merlin's sake — he is not coming back, because that is not Bagman!" Professor McGonagall said, barely containing herself. "We must stop this match immediately. Mr. Potter, Mr. Diggory, Mr. Krum — they are all in serious danger!"
Ginny and Ron stared at each other. Both of them had gone rather pale.
"Well then — we can only wish them the best of luck," Karkaroff said, with a glance of barely concealed satisfaction at the second red spark rising over the maze. "As Headmaster of Durmstrang, I have complete faith in Viktor."
He added, with a faint edge of provocation, "If Hogwarts lacked confidence in their two champions, perhaps they shouldn't have entered two names in the Goblet in the first place."
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Professor McGonagall said, very coldly.
"Now, now, everyone! Let's stay calm." Fudge jumped in smoothly. "Minerva, you must understand Igor's feelings. We also have a rather difficult time explaining a sudden suspension to the spectators in the stands — and to the families of the champions who have travelled so far."
He said, with what might have been genuine feeling, "I spoke personally with Mr. Krum's parents before the match. They came all the way from Bulgaria — not to watch their son's competition abruptly cancelled."
His voice took on a slightly aggrieved quality. "And I can't easily explain it to the Bulgarian Minister for Magic — he has quite a temper..."
The referees were still arguing.
Two small figures slipped out from under the decorative cloth of the fence.
"I am furious with all of them!" Ginny said, glancing back at Fudge — who was murmuring casually to an Auror standing at his shoulder — her cheeks red. "He just keeps smoothing things over!"
"Ginny, stop — Harry's in danger, we need to do something!" Ron said, hurrying after his sister, who was already striding away through the crowd.
"Obviously!" Ginny said.
"What are you planning to do — sneak into the maze?" Ron asked.
"Of course not!" Ginny said sharply, weaving through the unease and muttering of the surrounding students. "Even clever Hermione couldn't get past — what makes you think you could manage it? You can't even get past the prefects."
She stopped, clenched her fists, and faced her brother squarely. "Ron. We need to think of something else. Come with me."
---
At that moment, Hermione Granger was entirely unaware that Ginny Weasley was, in some corner of the stands, calling her "smart." She was instead finding her own thinking somewhat stretched.
Because her Slytherin boyfriend was telling her, with quiet, level certainty: "Fudge will not agree to a suspension unless he is given absolutely no choice."
"I don't follow," Hermione said, puzzled and slightly startled. "You mean the biggest obstacle to the suspension isn't Karkaroff — it's Cornelius Fudge?"
"Yes."
Hermione blinked. "But that makes no sense. How could he possibly—"
"Do you remember what Professor McGonagall said to you earlier?" Draco said slowly. "About how the Ministry of Magic views the term 'Death Eaters'?"
"Extremely sensitive," Hermione replied, still not seeing it.
"Whether you've noticed it or not, I think Professor McGonagall has a particular fondness for you," Draco said, in a somewhat unsurprised tone. "I struggle to imagine her explaining as much to any other student, or being as candid with anyone else."
"What does that have to do with—"
"Every word she said to you was sincere," he said. "She was practically pointing at Fudge directly. When she said she needed concrete evidence to convince him — that was not a throwaway comment."
"Oh," Hermione said slowly, recalling McGonagall's careful, resigned tone. "She did say she needed to present solid evidence specifically to convince him."
"Hosting the Quidditch World Cup or the Triwizard Tournament is the kind of achievement a Minister for Magic can put in his record," Draco said, deciding to lay it out plainly. "Something he can point to."
Hermione's expression shifted — she clearly hadn't expected Draco to start from a Minister's career ambitions.
"I remember Mr. Weasley saying the Ministry spent an entire year preparing for this. Five hundred employees working overtime..." she said slowly.
"And then, at the World Cup final — which the British Ministry had prepared so carefully — Death Eaters caused chaos, the Dark Mark appeared, and what should have been Fudge's crowning achievement became an international scandal."
"He must have been under enormous pressure," Hermione said.
"His political opponents will have seized on it immediately," Draco said. "They always do."
"But that's not his fault!" Hermione said, an edge of indignation in her voice. "The Death Eaters were the ones who—"
"For politicians, what matters isn't who is actually at fault. It's who is held accountable, and who bears the anger of the public," Draco said. "When the actual culprits can't be found, someone must stand up and answer for the damage."
"Answer for what, specifically?"
"Do you know how many wizards had property destroyed that night? How many were injured, scraped, or trampled in the chaos? Including children." Draco's tone was flat and matter-of-fact in the way it always was when he described things he had heard discussed at his family's breakfast table. "It was a large group of victims, and the British Ministry was expected to compensate and reassure them."
"Yes — that makes sense," Hermione said, a note of recognition in her voice. "I hadn't thought about the aftermath in those terms."
"It's not something Fudge could simply suppress. It involved the rights of wizards from multiple countries, and countless eyes were on Britain's Ministry. He had to demonstrate some accountability."
"And that only dealt with the most visible harm," Hermione said. "There was also the psychological impact — the terror of Muggles being levitated in the dark, the trauma of wizards watching their tents burn. Those things don't go away quickly."
Draco considered this. "You're right. The damage to wizards' confidence in Fudge's leadership runs deep. And some are not shy about saying so — there are those who call him an incompetent Minister who does nothing but award himself Orders of Merlin. Under his watch, Death Eaters who had been gone for more than a decade came marching back at a heavily guarded event, causing mayhem. Wizards can, and do, question his competence."
"He seems quite amiable," Hermione said, a hint of reluctant sympathy on her face. "He's a bit unlucky, isn't he? He stumbled into this."
"Many feel that way. His approachable public image has bought him goodwill — people are willing to give him another chance. And this Tournament is that chance." Draco looked at her steadily. "Once it concludes successfully, he proves he can handle complexity, manage international relationships, and deliver results. It would offset much of the World Cup damage."
"No wonder he personally came to referee the final," Hermione said, studying the distant table. "He takes this very seriously."
"Yes. And then Professor McGonagall storms over and tells him there may be Death Eaters in the maze — and demands that this match, on which he has staked so much, be stopped." Draco smiled slightly. "Do you understand now?"
"His political opponents will tear into him again," Hermione said carefully.
"Could he simply agree without a fight?" Draco said.
"But this is about a Death Eater attack. The Dark Lord's conspiracy. The safety of champions!" Hermione said, struggling with it. "If something goes wrong, he'll be held responsible for that too."
"He doesn't know the full picture," Draco said. "From his perspective — almost a year has passed since the World Cup incident. The Dark Mark appeared briefly, Death Eaters made trouble, and then nothing. The Aurors caught no one. No further activity anywhere in the world. No credible warning has reached him that the Dark Lord is building toward something."
He paused. "In that context, does he believe what he's being told tonight?"
"What does he believe instead?" Hermione asked.
"That this is a staged attack against him personally," Draco said calmly. "Orchestrated by political enemies."
Hermione went very still.
She looked at him for a long moment. "Would anyone actually do that?" she said. "How could he genuinely think that? Who would manufacture a Death Eater demonstration at a public event just to damage one man politically? If he truly believed that, it's completely mad."
Draco laughed.
"What's maddest," he said, "is that his suspicion isn't entirely without logic. You never know who really benefits from something until it's all over. The methods politicians use have always been remarkably varied and imaginative — a conspiracy, a curse, a poisoned object, a well-placed piece of Dark artefact—"
"Stop," Hermione said.
"Are you angry with me?" Draco looked her over.
Hermione turned her face away and stood stiffly, refusing to look at him.
She was, in fact, angry. She wasn't entirely sure at whom — at the foolish and unscrupulous politicians, or at the cool-eyed boy who laid it all out for her as though it were simply weather.
"Fleur Delacour is coming out," Draco said, watching the maze entrance.
She forgot, as predicted, to stay annoyed. No matter how cross she was with him, the maze entrance was a point of light she couldn't help following.
Draco found her startled, sideways look endearing. Curiosity always won.
The Beauxbatons champion was being escorted out by Hagrid. She was pale and looked shaken, as if the maze had knocked something loose in her.
Madam Pomfrey bustled out of the tent and steered a floating stretcher toward the entrance. A tall figure stood up sharply at the referee's table — Madame Maxime — and hurried forward.
"Thank goodness she's safe," Hermione said softly, relieved.
"Hermione—" Draco tilted his head and leaned slightly toward her. "Can you not be angry with me just because I described a few of the less charming realities of politics? If you think I said something wrong, tell me."
Hermione's brow tightened.
"All right. The thing is — for a moment, you were describing those methods as if you were completely comfortable with them. As if they were entirely ordinary."
She had recognised something in him she hadn't quite seen before — watchful, calculating, and untroubled by what she found troubling.
Draco knew he had gotten slightly carried away.
He adopted an appropriately innocent expression and said, "Politicians' tactics are simply an observable fact — I was only noting them in passing. They existed long before I was born."
"I know you didn't invent them," Hermione said. "But I don't like how at ease you sounded. It was as though using them would never make you hesitate at all. As if you keep them ready."
Draco coughed, feeling the accuracy of her observation like a small, precise pressure.
The Malfoy family was not unfamiliar with such tactics. Any wizarding family that had ever competed at the upper levels of power knew how the game was played.
But the girl in front of him was not that kind of wizard. She clearly was not suited to those methods, and she never would be.
"Hermione, what could I possibly be scheming?" He composed himself and said, with genuine lightness, "I'm a fourth-year student at Hogwarts. What on earth would be worth the effort?"
Hermione studied the boy in front of her.
His grey eyes, in the arena light, looked open. His mouth, which had just said those sharp things, looked perfectly mild. He smiled at her softly, as though those terrible calculations had been her imagination entirely.
She pressed her lips together and held onto her doubt.
Perhaps there was still something in his mind she hadn't reached yet. Some room she hadn't been let into.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask," she said. "Why do you always think in this particular way? Everything so worldly and cold — you analysed Professor Dumbledore earlier in terms of self-interest, and now you've done the same with the Minister for Magic. Every respected authority gets the same treatment from you."
Looking across the entire arena, you would not find another student who could so easily, so instinctively, and so without reverence examine any figure of authority through a lens of calculation and political motive. To Draco, it seemed to come as naturally as breathing.
"These are reasonable hypotheses," Draco said calmly. "When you're trying to understand how a Minister for Magic thinks, you naturally have to assume his thinking is layered. He didn't get to that position by being simple."
"But they are just hypotheses," Hermione said. "Fudge might not be as you describe, just as Professor Dumbledore might not be either."
"You're quite right — only Fudge knows what he's truly thinking," Draco said, deciding it was wisest not to flatten her enthusiasm too much.
She continued to look at him steadily. "When you say these things, you never sound like a fourth-year. You sound like someone who has been sitting at a political table for years."
"Nothing very unusual in that," Draco said, his voice becoming a shade quieter. "If you sat at the Malfoys' table long enough, listening to my parents' conversations morning after morning — weighing interests, manipulating positions, using every available means to achieve one's ends — you'd probably start to think the same way."
"If those methods include the ones you were describing earlier, I cannot agree with them," Hermione said firmly. "The suffering of the people caught in them is real. The Roberts family at the World Cup, the Muggles who were levitated, the wizards who were terrorised — are their tears simply irrelevant? Are they just collateral in someone's political plan?"
Draco looked at her, and something shifted in him.
"The people doing the scheming rarely concern themselves with those questions," he said. "They tend to believe that a few small sacrifices are the acceptable price of a larger goal."
"I disagree," she said firmly. "The expected result matters, yes. But how you pursue it matters too. I can't accept that one day I might use methods that harm others to achieve what I want."
"I don't enjoy seeing casualties either," Draco said quietly, something moving briefly behind his eyes.
"So in a way, you agree with me?" A light came into Hermione's expression.
She pressed forward with her argument, quick and eager. "Then admit it — purely results-oriented thinking has a fundamental flaw. It ignores the process, the means, and the individuals caught in the middle. And those are precisely the things that gave rise to the goal in the first place."
"You mean that under results-oriented thinking, the pursuit of justice gradually becomes a struggle for power, and the original intention gets lost?" Draco said thoughtfully, as though something were genuinely becoming clearer. "That's what you mean by 'original intention.'"
Barty Crouch Sr. had been like that. He might once have had a genuine, iron-hard conviction against the Dark Lord, a real belief in what he was fighting for. But in the years of political struggle, his methods had grown harder and dirtier until he had become the very kind of person he had started out opposing.
Sirius imprisoned without trial. Karkaroff freed in exchange for names. Barty Crouch Jr. condemned by his own father. Could anyone call that justice? Had Crouch, in those years of reaching for power, ever looked back at what he'd started out to protect?
And Cornelius Fudge — was he the same? Did the pleasant, smiling Minister sitting at that table still remember what he had originally hoped to do when he took office?
"Exactly!" Hermione said with satisfaction. "You understand it even better than I put it."
Draco turned it over for a moment, then said in a troubled voice, "I'm afraid most people who want power have long since lost that. The picture before them is so grand that the sounds from the margins become too quiet to hear."
"If the grand picture is built on the tears of those in the margins, it has no right to exist," she said, with a conviction that was entirely her own. "Then let's build a different picture."
This was Hermione Granger.
Naive, sincere, fearless, and impossibly principled.
Draco blinked at her, and then he laughed — genuinely, quietly.
He had been troubled for some time now by a question he hadn't been able to put neatly into words. Since the night of the World Cup, since Barty Crouch had targeted him in the darkness, he had been trying to work out what his attitude should be toward the Ministry of Magic and the people who ran it. What to make of Fudge in particular — this man who in another life had buried his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the Dark Lord's return until it was nearly too late, this vain and frightened man who cared more for his image than for the truth.
He had observed, he had weighed, he had turned the problem over in every direction. He had felt confused and cornered by it, unable to find a way through that didn't involve compromise, manipulation, or despair.
And this girl, with her bright eyes, had just said quite simply: Why not try a different perspective?
"You're right," Draco said, his laughter settling into a warm smile. "A different perspective. Why didn't I think of that?"
"I'm being completely serious, and you're laughing at me," Hermione said, baffled.
"I'm not laughing at you. Not in the slightest." He looked at her, something genuinely bright in his expression. "Every time we talk about things like this, you give me something new to think about."
Hermione shook her head helplessly.
Looking at his face in that moment — open, amused, young — she could not see a trace of the cold political pragmatism she had been worried about.
Had she imagined it? She looked at the starlight caught in his eyes and wondered.
He sighed contentedly, as if he had breathed out something that had been lodged in his chest for a long time, and looked up at the night sky with a peculiar quiet satisfaction.
Hermione watched him and couldn't help smiling too.
"Right," she said, in a better temper. "I don't know what's come over you, but I'll accept whatever that was as a compliment."
"You're not angry anymore?" Draco heard the warmth returning to her voice and raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not angry." She lifted her chin at him with a small, smug air. "But I'm reserving my own judgement on Fudge. Don't try to convince me to adopt your assumptions wholesale."
"Of course not," he said, still smiling, watching her with a look that was quietly fond.
She was still full of illusions, he thought — still viewing the world through an idealistic lens that the world had not yet managed to crack. She had the intelligence and the perception to feel the weight of its absurdities and its failures; she had felt that weight tonight, sharply. But she still refused to interpret anyone through the darkest possible lens first. She still defaulted to good faith.
That was what made Hermione Granger so utterly herself.
Hermione had no idea what he was thinking. But the quality of his gaze made her glance back at him.
One look was enough. She could not hold a straight face.
She tilted her head back, pretending to study the sparks above the maze, a quiet smile appearing despite her. "Go on, then. Keep analysing the Minister for Magic. I may not agree with all of it, but it's a perspective worth considering."
"As you wish," Draco said, pleased.
"But don't make me angry again. Now — in this situation, where someone has just claimed there's a Death Eater in a maze Fudge considers secure — what do you think he's actually thinking?"
"He can't be that obtuse," Hermione said. "He must know Professor McGonagall wouldn't lie to bring his match down."
"She's a professor at Hogwarts," Draco said, meaningfully.
Hermione glared. "Say what you mean properly."
"Let's approach it differently. In most witches' and wizards' eyes, the Dark Lord is history. Very few believe someone would still dare move openly as a Death Eater — the moment you were identified as one, Azkaban would follow," Draco said. "So Fudge might simply not believe any Death Eater would dare appear here, on Hogwarts grounds, under Dumbledore's nose."
"And his relationship with Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione said sharply.
"Ah." Draco smiled. "There you have it. As Minister for Magic, Fudge's political standing should by rights be higher than that of a school headmaster. But for years, he has been completely overshadowed by Dumbledore — consulting him on major decisions, relying on his judgment, needing his support. Some might say 'consulting.' I think 'depending on' is more accurate."
"Professor Dumbledore isn't the kind of person who craves power over others—" Hermione started.
"What Dumbledore thinks of it is beside the point," Draco said. "What matters is that Fudge has spent years at the top of political power feeling that he can't act without first checking with the headmaster of Hogwarts. Nobody enjoys being a king in chains."
"I've found a contradiction in your argument," Hermione said, her eyes lighting up. "If Fudge has always deferred to Dumbledore, why is he being so stubborn now?"
"Because he has international witnesses," Draco said flatly. "The Ministry of Magic in other countries knows very little about the private relationship between Fudge and Dumbledore. Would he want Beauxbatons and Durmstrang — and the Ministries behind them — to see the British Minister for Magic simply fold to the headmaster of his own school? His wings have grown longer these past two years. He has his own people now, his own think tank." He nodded toward Fudge's cluster of advisors. "He wants to have his own opinion."
Cornelius Fudge murmured to his staff for several minutes. Two of them nodded to him and slipped away.
Dumbledore spoke, in the calm tone of someone who had all the time in the world. "Cornelius — have you come to a decision? Time is pressing."
Fudge smiled pleasantly at Dumbledore and said, "I've sent people to check McNeil's recent attendance records and to his home, to see if he's there. I've also arranged for a Ministry official to temporarily fill in as referee in Bagman's absence — I hope she arrives in time. And I've assembled a group of Aurors who will be here shortly. After the competition concludes, they will conduct a thorough search of the maze and investigate anything irregular."
He turned his bowler hat in his hands and said kindly, "This is a serious matter, Dumbledore. Until everything is clear, I'm afraid I must decline the suspension request. You understand."
Dumbledore did not agree. He frowned slightly and glanced toward the maze, as if waiting for something.
"I believe Minister Fudge will have his answer very shortly," Madame Maxime said, her tall figure appearing at the referee's table. Beside her walked the pale and slightly unsteady Beauxbatons champion: Fleur Delacour.
"Tell them, Fleur," Madame Maxime said, the determination in her expression clear. "Tell them exactly what you encountered in that maze."
"Ludo Bagman attacked me in the labyrinth — he is a Death Eater in disguise!" Fleur cried, her face white. "You must stop this match. The champions still inside are in grave danger!"
A wave of exclamation rippled through the referee's box.
"This match has lost all integrity and has no reason to continue," Fleur said, her eyes moving across the table. "Please suspend it and send more people into the maze to capture the Death Eater and bring out any champion who may be at risk."
"Miss Delacour," Karkaroff said, with a thin smile, "a champion should know how to accept defeat gracefully. There's no shame in being outmatched. The important thing is not to be a sore loser."
"Headmaster Karkaroff — just because you've never learned to lose with any dignity doesn't mean the same is true of everyone else." Fleur looked at him with transparent disdain.
"You—" Karkaroff bristled.
"On behalf of Miss Delacour, I apologise for the bluntness — she has always been direct," Madame Maxime said, without a trace of apology in her voice. "I give you my word, as Headmistress of Beauxbatons, that she has told you the truth."
Karkaroff's face went through several unflattering expressions. He glared at Madame Maxime.
Fleur took two steps forward, met the various expressions around the table without flinching, and said clearly, "I welcome any scrutiny or questioning you require. Please make a decision and suspend this match. Every moment counts."
Fudge exchanged a few quiet words with his staff, then gave Fleur an uncomfortable smile. "Miss Delacour, assuming — just assuming — that you were indeed attacked in the maze, whose face did you see?"
"Ludo Bagman's face," Fleur said.
Fudge's expression flickered.
"And how did you know there was a Death Eater impersonating him?" he asked. "Did you speak with him?"
"No. He attacked me before I could say a word."
"Then how did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"Sirius Black told me. He's the one who found me and revived me."
"Ah." Fudge's eyes moved around. "And where is Sirius Black now?"
"Still in the labyrinth. He went to find the Death Eater, and the remaining champions," Fleur said.
"This is most irregular!" Karkaroff said loudly. "His authority extends only to rescuing champions who have already forfeited — not to hunting through the maze for those who haven't! For all we know, he's using the cover of a rescue to guide Hogwarts' champions through the obstacles. This entire competition has been tainted — Hogwarts has been cheating from the start!"
"If there are any irregularities on Hogwarts' part, Igor, I will handle them impartially," Fudge said.
He turned back to Fleur. "Miss Delacour — as I understand it, you've only seen a man with Bagman's face, and you've only heard Sirius Black tell you this man is a disguised Death Eater. You have not personally seen the Death Eater's true face."
He spread his hands pleasantly. "Now — Professor Karkaroff has raised an interesting possibility. Could it be that there was no impersonating Death Eater in the labyrinth at all, but simply someone else — say, a rescuer willing to bend the rules in favour of a particular champion — wearing Bagman's face?"
Amid the startled and uncertain reactions of the group, he offered his conclusion with some satisfaction: "Polyjuice Potion, perhaps. Used by someone eager to help a certain champion to victory?"
Fleur stared at him for a moment, then her expression hardened.
"The person who attacked me was not Sirius Black. I would stake my life on that." The warmth had left her voice entirely.
"As would I," Dumbledore said, with a quietness that somehow carried further than the argument around him.
"We have nothing personal at stake any longer — Beauxbatons has already forfeited," Madame Maxime said, her voice filling the space. "My champion chose to come here and tell you the truth anyway. Because she believes there is something more important than being questioned or mocked: the safety of the champions who are still in that maze."
"Hear, hear!" came a voice from the stands below — short, sharp, and carrying.
The group turned. A small, stout woman with hair the colour of banked embers was pushing through the crowd near the referee's table, several red-haired children trailing behind her.
"Molly?" Professor McGonagall said in surprise. "What brings you here?"
"We all heard!" Molly Weasley arrived at the referee's table like a determined gust of wind. "Professor Dumbledore — as family of one of the champions, we are formally asking the referees to consider suspending the match."
Dumbledore gave Molly a sober nod.
"Mrs Weasley — isn't it?" Fudge said pleasantly. "Your husband is Arthur Weasley, who wrote the Muggle Protection Act. A very worthy piece of work." He paused, with the air of someone about to point out an inconvenience. "You aren't Mr. Potter's immediate family, though — are you?"
"Harry is like my own son," Molly said. She looked slightly nervous, but she stood her ground.
She straightened herself and said to her husband's superior, with plain sincerity, "Minister — Death Eaters have appeared in the maze. We are asking you to consider the safety of the champions and suspend the competition."
Fudge glanced back at his Auror, who stepped forward and said, with formal chill, "Those who are not immediate family of a champion should step away from the referee's table and return to the stands."
Molly looked as though she was about to say something very pointed, and her hand had drifted toward her pocket.
"I am immediate family!" Amos Diggory pushed through from behind the cluster of Weasley children and called out. "I am Cedric Diggory's father. You have no right to remove me."
"Amos!" Fudge turned with disbelief. "What are you doing here? You of all people should know better."
"Minister, I request a suspension," Amos said, loudly and clearly. "Something has gone wrong in that maze. Please — support us."
Fudge moved toward him and said in a low voice, "Cedric may be on the verge of winning the Goblet of Fire. Everyone in the department knows it — everyone is looking forward to it. You've been so proud of him. Do you truly want to hold him back from that, right now, over an unverified rumour?"
"Minister, that is my son," Amos said. His voice was entirely steady. "Whether he wins or not, he is the finest person I know. And what I want right now — all I want — is for him to come out of that maze safely. I request a suspension."
"Amos—" Fudge's expression faltered.
"We also request a suspension!" came from the other side of the stands, in English with a thick Bulgarian accent.
Fleur turned to see a woman making her way urgently through the crowd, accompanied by a girl with bright orange-red hair who was clearing a path. Viktor Krum's mother. His father a few steps behind.
Karkaroff leapt to his feet with a broad smile and extended his hand. "Mrs. Krum — what a surprise—"
"Principal Karkaroff," she said, without taking the hand, "we request a suspension. The safety of the champions comes first. We will not have our son attacked by Dark wizards in that labyrinth."
Karkaroff's outstretched hand hung in the air.
"Well, Cornelius?" Dumbledore said. He had not stood up. He was the only referee still seated. He set down his teacup and looked, with quiet patience, at the people gathered around the table. "Shall we have a new vote on the matter of suspension — with full consideration of the wishes of the champions' families?"
Fudge looked at the families. He looked at Albus Dumbledore, motionless and unhurried, and felt, as he always did, a familiar and thoroughly unwelcome sensation.
Every time. Every single time.
He had never once won a silent battle with Dumbledore.
"Very well," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Madame Maxime?"
"I agree to the suspension," Madame Maxime said, with her head high.
"Professor Karkaroff?"
Karkaroff glanced at the Krum family, whose expressions left no room for ambiguity. He said, with rather poor grace, "I also agree."
"Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked, gently.
Cornelius Fudge opened his mouth twice and found that his prepared remarks had deserted him entirely.
A streak of white light blazed across the sky above the maze, falling like a swift comet onto the referee's table. It settled before Albus Dumbledore, and to the astonishment of everyone watching, it transformed into a large spectral dog.
It spoke in Sirius Black's voice: "Harry and Cedric have disappeared from the maze. McNeil told me — they've been taken to the graveyard."
"Dumbledore — what graveyard?" Fudge asked, baffled.
Dumbledore did not answer him. He did not look at him again.
He sighed, and said, "Whether the match is stopped or not no longer matters. Minerva — guard Hogwarts."
Before he had finished the sentence, he was gone. Vanished from his seat as if the air had simply absorbed him.
A gasp swept through the referee's box and rippled outward into the nearest rows of the stands. The exclamation spread fast.
The noise reached Draco and Hermione across the arena.
Draco narrowed his eyes and studied the referee's table — now conspicuously missing its most distinctive occupant.
"Where did he go?" Hermione asked.
"I suspect he Disapparated directly to the graveyard," Draco said.
He observed the crowd in the stands beginning to stir, the numb excitement of competition giving way to something more unsettled, more questioning.
"That's impossible," Hermione said immediately. "According to Hogwarts: A History—"
"Ordinary people cannot Disapparate within the castle and grounds," Draco said. "But Dumbledore is not ordinary. He is Headmaster of Hogwarts, and has the authority to lift the Anti-Disapparition Jinx himself. It is the Headmaster's prerogative."
Very few people knew this.
Draco only knew it himself because of what he remembered from another life.
"That makes sense," Hermione said, her mind already turning. "Was that dog his Patronus? What could it have said to make him leave so suddenly — at a moment like this?"
"Very bad news," Draco said, his gaze distant. "For instance — Harry has disappeared."
---
*Author's note: Xavier Rastrick was a flamboyantly dressed wizard and performing artist. In 1836, he vanished without explanation during a tap-dancing performance before an audience of three hundred witches and wizards in Painswick, and has not been seen since. He was a member of the Chocolate Frog card collection.*
*The Calming Draught is a magical potion used to calm and steady emotions.