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The Great Hall.
Ignoring Dumbledore's comment about her age and the hundreds of staring eyes, Hermione walked straight to the front of the Great Hall.
Her footsteps were light, but in the sudden vacuum of sound, they echoed like hammer strikes. The noisy crowd fell silent instantly. The only sound remaining was the crackling of the blue-white flames dancing on the rim of the Goblet of Fire.
Barty Crouch Sr., sitting next to the staff table, reacted viscerally. He stood up quickly—too quickly—forcing a stiff, plastic smile onto his pale face. His hands trembled slightly as he smoothed his robes.
"Miss Granger," Crouch said, his voice tinged with barely perceptible tension. "It's... a pleasure to meet you."
He was terrified. The girl standing in front of him wasn't a student; she was the anomaly who had single-handedly turned the Ministry of Magic upside down, beaten his Aurors, and threatened the Minister. As the Director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he had no desire to provoke the Scourge of London.
Beside him, the visiting Headmasters rose.
Igor Karkaroff of Durmstrang, a man with a goatee and a past he tried to hide, looked Hermione up and down with a mixture of wariness and hunger.
"I've heard so much about you," Karkaroff purred, his eyes gleaming. "The Witch of Hogwarts. Meeting you today... I can confirm that the rumors do not do you justice. Such... presence."
Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons, towering over everyone else, nodded slightly. Her dark eyes were filled with curiosity, assessing the petite girl who reportedly held the power of a Titan.
The students around them—especially the foreign delegations—were transfixed. They had heard the stories. The dragon rider. The alien killer. The girl who defied the Ministry.
At the Durmstrang table, Viktor Krum stared unabashedly, his surly expression replaced by intense focus. At the Ravenclaw table, Fleur Delacour tossed her silvery-blonde hair, her blue eyes narrowing as she sensed a rival not for beauty, but for power.
"Hermione, you're back just in time."
Dumbledore's gentle voice broke the heavy atmosphere. The old wizard seemed unfazed, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
He gestured to a scarred wizard sitting at the end of the table. The man looked like he had been carved out of weathered wood. A chunk of his nose was missing, and one of his eyes was a vivid, electric blue orb that whizzed maniacally in its socket.
"Allow me to introduce Professor Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said. "Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
Hermione nodded slowly.
So, Lupin couldn't escape the curse, she thought. The werewolf identity must have been exposed while I was in space.
"Miss Granger."
Moody's gruff voice rang out, sounding like gravel in a blender. His magical eye stopped spinning and fixed solely on Hermione, penetrating her clothes, her skin, trying to see right through to her core.
Hermione returned the gaze calmly, her occlumency shields raising a fortress around her mind.
Is it the real Mad-Eye Moody? she wondered. Or...
Her mind raced. Peter Pettigrew was dead. She had killed him. Without Wormtail to find Voldemort's shade, how could the plot advance? Without Wormtail, Barty Crouch Jr. should still be under his father's Imperius Curse at home.
But the plot is resilient, Hermione mused. Fate has a way of correcting itself.
"A pleasure, Professor," Hermione said smoothly. "Try not to die before the end of the year. The position is jinxed, you know."
Moody let out a bark of dry laughter. "Constant Vigilance, girl. Constant Vigilance."
The Selection.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall tightened again. The feast was over. The Goblet was ready.
Dumbledore waved his hand, extinguishing the floating candles. The room plunged into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the spectral blue light of the Goblet.
"The time has come," Dumbledore announced. "When the Goblet returns a name, that champion is bound. There is no turning back."
FLARE.
The blue flames turned sudden red. A tongue of fire shot into the air, carrying a piece of charred parchment.
Dumbledore caught it.
"The Champion for Durmstrang," he read, his voice strong. "Viktor Krum!"
A roar of applause erupted from the Durmstrang table. Krum stood up, slouching slightly, and disappeared into the side chamber.
FLARE.
Another parchment.
"The Champion for Beauxbatons... Fleur Delacour!"
The French students cheered (while some sobbed in disappointment). Fleur glided across the hall, throwing a charming smile to the room.
FLARE.
The third name.
"The Champion for Hogwarts..." Dumbledore paused. "Cedric Diggory!"
The Hufflepuff table exploded. It was a riot of yellow and black. Cedric, grinning broadly, shook hands with everyone as he walked to the front.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore clapped his hands. "We have our three champions. But in the end, only one will go down in history. Only one will hoist this chalice of champions, this vessel of victory, the Triwizard Cup!"
Hermione stood in the shadows near the staff table, watching silently.
Three champions. The script is complete.
She stared at the Goblet. The blue flames flickered and died down.
Just a second before she was about to secretly cast a Confundus Charm to force a chaotic outcome...
HISSS.
The Goblet didn't go out.
Without warning, the blue flames turned a violent, angry red. Sparks flew. A long tongue of flame shot up, spitting out a fourth piece of parchment.
It fluttered down through the silence like a dead leaf.
Dumbledore reached out and caught it. He stared at the name. The twinkle in his eyes vanished.
He cleared his throat.
"Harry Potter."
"..."
Dead silence.
It was heavier than before. It was the silence of shock, of disbelief, of suspicion.
Then, the murmurs started. A low buzz that grew into a roar.
"What?" "Harry Potter? He's a fourth year!" "He's not seventeen!" "That's not fair! Hogwarts has two champions?" "Cheating! He's cheating again!"
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, frozen. He looked like he had been slapped. He shrank into his seat as hundreds of accusatory glares turned toward him.
Amidst the chaos, Hermione nodded slightly.
Understood.
That is Barty Crouch Jr.
Her deduction clicked into place. Even without Peter Pettigrew, the plot had found a way. Someone had infiltrated Hogwarts, bypassed Dumbledore's Age Line, and Confunded a powerful magical artifact.
But who broke him out?
The professors huddled together. Barty Crouch Sr. looked like he was about to vomit. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff were shouting at Dumbledore, accusing him of rigging the game.
Hermione ignored the noise. She leaned toward the only person at the table who looked more annoyed than surprised.
"Professor Snape," she whispered.
Snape turned, his black eyes flashing with irritation. He glared at Harry, then at Hermione.
"During my absence," Hermione asked softly, "have any... noteworthy events occurred in the Wizarding World? Besides the Tournament?"
Snape hesitated. He looked at her, weighing whether to divulge sensitive information to the student who had spent the last month in space.
Finally, he curled his lip.
"Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban," Snape murmured, his voice barely audible over the shouting. "Does that count?"
Hermione's eyes widened slightly.
"Bellatrix?"
"Along with the Lestranges and Dolohov," Snape sneered. "Thanks to you, Miss Granger. Your previous 'cleansing' of the Dementors... you slaughtered the guards. It created an unprecedented vulnerability in Azkaban's defenses."
"The prison is understaffed. The wards were weakened. Bellatrix took the opportunity to break out."
Snape looked at her pointedly. "The Ministry suppressed the news to cover up the scandal. Two major prison breaks in two years? Fudge would be sacked. I only know because Dumbledore told me."
Hermione smiled slightly.
I see.
Butterfly Effect.
She had killed the Dementors to save Sirius (and show off). In doing so, she removed the guards of Azkaban.
Bellatrix Lestrange—Voldemort's most fanatical servant—had escaped.
Without Wormtail, Bellatrix took the role, Hermione realized. She must have found the shade of her master. She must have broken Barty Crouch Jr. free from his father's Imperius Curse.
The casting has changed, but the play remains the same.
Voldemort was still planning his return. The Triwizard Tournament was still the trap. And Harry Potter was still the bait.
Hermione had been debating whether she needed to intervene to ensure the prophecy of "Voldemort's Return" came true, just to keep her "Dark Witch" narrative consistent.
Now it seems there was absolutely no need for that, she thought, amused. Voldemort is very proactive.
On the other side of the room, Harry slowly stood up. He walked toward the front, his face pale, his shoulders hunched against the wave of hostility coming from Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw.
He looked lost. He looked terrified.
He instinctively looked up, searching the room for a lifeline.
His green eyes locked onto Hermione.