Gryffindor had always been like this.
Win glory for us, and you're our hero.
Make a mistake, and that's your own problem.
If your mistake harms everyone's interests, then everyone will criticize you without mercy.
In some ways, the little lions were actually less united than Hufflepuff. And in certain aspects, Gryffindor wasn't all that different from their sworn rivals, Slytherin.
Take stubbornness, for example.
Once a Gryffindor had made up their mind about something, trying to argue with them or change their opinion was almost impossible—unless you pointed a wand at their head and forced them to listen.
Gryffindors also had a streak of arrogance, one mixed with recklessness. More often than not, this caused them to plunge headfirst into deadlocks and conflicts.
If they were just a bit calmer, many problems could have been resolved far more smoothly—or avoided altogether.
There were many reasons behind this temperament. On one hand, it stemmed from their strong desire to prove themselves. On the other, it was tied to their excessive enthusiasm for adventure.
Ron was a textbook Gryffindor.
Before truly witnessing the danger of the Triwizard Tournament, he simply refused to believe that Harry hadn't secretly entered his name.
He stubbornly clung to his own assumptions and completely rejected Harry's explanations.
At this moment, Harry was basking in the cheers of the Gryffindor common room.
Grinning, he raised the golden egg and said,
"Anyone want to see what's inside?"
The room instantly scattered.
The twins even dropped Harry straight back onto the floor.
Harry was completely baffled by their reaction.
"I'd advise you not to open it right now."
Ron's voice came from behind him.
Harry turned around to look at Ron, and for a moment, the atmosphere grew awkward.
In the end, Harry was the one who broke the silence.
"So… you're finally talking to me again?"
Ron nodded.
"I figured you couldn't possibly be crazy enough to enter yourself. That Hungarian Horntail—honestly, just watching it from the stands scared the hell out of me."
Harry said,
"Glad you finally figured it out. Didn't expect it to take you this long."
Ron shot back,
"It wasn't just me. Everyone was gossiping about you behind your back."
"Fair enough," Harry said, not wanting to dwell on it. "I'm in a really good mood right now."
And he truly was.
Second place in the first task—and reconciliation with Ron on top of that.
Harry felt fantastic.
"At least I was the one who tipped you off about the dragons," Ron added, slipping back into his old habit of claiming credit.
"Ha—no," Harry frowned. "That was Hagrid."
"No, no, it was me. I asked Hagrid to take you to see them in advance," Ron insisted.
"Don't forget—my brother Charlie works at the dragon reserve in Romania. All four dragons came from there."
Harry hadn't known that.
Thinking about it, it made sense. With Hagrid so hopelessly in love at the time, he probably wouldn't have thought of Harry at all.
After all, when Hagrid later took Madame Maxime to see the dragons, he completely forgot Harry was even there.
"Thanks," Harry said sincerely, giving Ron's shoulder a light punch.
"Between friends, no need to say thanks," Ron replied, punching him back.
"Oh, right," Harry asked, "why did you say I shouldn't open the egg just now?"
"Hermione opened hers earlier," Ron replied. "All that came out was this horrible, ear-piercing shriek. That's why I warned you."
Harry nodded in understanding.
"By the way—where are Hermione and Arthur?" Harry suddenly realized.
"The top scorer of the whole task isn't even here celebrating with us."
"No idea. They were here earlier, then suddenly disappeared," Ron shrugged.
"You know… they're kind of… not very social?"
Ron didn't quite know how to put it. He just felt that Arthur and the others were separated from everyone else by some invisible barrier—almost like a generational gap.
And honestly, Ron wasn't wrong.
Arthur and Ranni weren't truly underage students at all. With their adult—no, far beyond adult—life experience, it was only natural that they couldn't really blend in with ordinary teenagers.
Hermione, on the other hand, was a special case.
She had always been exceptional among her peers, and outstanding people often attracted jealousy. Among immature children especially, the common response was exclusion.
In short: They didn't want to play with her.
That hadn't changed after she came to Hogwarts.
Hermione had never made any female friends in Gryffindor. The girls disliked her overly serious, academically obsessive personality.
Fortunately, Arthur had been by her side.
It was well known that when people entered an unfamiliar environment, they instinctively sought something familiar for support—whether a person, an object, or an experience.
Arthur had been that anchor for Hermione when she first stepped into the wizarding world.
And as her feelings for him deepened, that reliance gradually evolved into something closer—into the dependence of a lover.
Unconsciously, Hermione had been influenced by Arthur.
Even she hadn't noticed it, but her speech patterns, habits, and even her mindset had begun to resemble his.
Under the influence of Arthur's mature outlook, Hermione herself had grown far more composed in how she dealt with the world.
Combined with her lack of common ground with people her own age, Hermione naturally didn't have many friends in Gryffindor.
Instead, thanks to Arthur and Ranni, she got along far better with Ravenclaw's Penelope and Luna.
All in all, Arthur, Hermione, and Ranni formed a unique little circle of their own within Gryffindor.
So what was this little group doing right now?
They were in the Hogwarts kitchens, hosting a celebration banquet for Hermione.
An Eastern-style celebration banquet—good food laid out on a table, lively conversation, and no restrictions on topics.
Nothing like those Western receptions, where you wandered around holding a glass of wine, making small talk, and somehow still went home hungry.
This banquet had two purposes.
First, to celebrate Hermione taking first place in the Triwizard Tournament's opening task.
Second, to celebrate Hermione officially turning eighteen.
Ever since she began spending time inside the Zen Garden, Hermione's actual age had become hard to calculate.
Fortunately, Arthur possessed mastery over time itself. Checking someone's true age was trivial for him.
A few days earlier, Arthur had confirmed that Hermione's real age had already reached eighteen.
So they decided to celebrate both events together.
When the little witch learned that she was officially an adult, she was overjoyed—and even opened a bottle of red wine.
Apparently, it was one of Mr. Granger's treasured reserves. No one knew how she'd gotten her hands on it.
After several rounds of drinks, Hermione suddenly remembered something.
She turned to Arthur and asked,
"Didn't you say the Triwizard Tournament would test my strength? I don't think I'd lose to a mere fire dragon."
Ever since seeing the dragons in advance that night, she'd felt zero urge to fight them.
They didn't even give her a hint of pressure.
That was why she'd simply asked Ifrit for a scale and dealt with the dragon that way.
Arthur chuckled.
"Then what kind of opponent do you want?"
Hermione had drunk a bit of wine; her cheeks were flushed.
Puffing her lips slightly, she said in a soft, almost spoiled tone,
"At least… someone on a professor's level, right?"
Arthur couldn't resist pinching her cheek.
"Then how about Voldemort?"
"Mm—huh?!"
The moment Voldemort's name was spoken, Hermione's hazy mind snapped into clarity.
She wasn't foolish—far from it.
With a quick turn of thought, she immediately understood what Arthur was implying.
"You mean… Voldemort will appear during the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Yes," Arthur nodded.
"When we returned from the East, Professor Snape said as much at our place. Voldemort has most likely already returned."
Hermione nodded slowly.
She'd been there that night. She remembered Snape's words clearly.
Dumbledore had searched for Voldemort in Albania for an entire year.
Once Voldemort realized Dumbledore was hunting him, there was no way he'd keep hiding there.
After all, the most dangerous place was often the safest.
Returning to Britain—perhaps even Hogwarts—wasn't impossible.
He'd done exactly that in their first year.
Still, Hermione frowned slightly.
"But Voldemort is just a fragment of a soul, isn't he? What could he even do in that state? He probably couldn't hurt even a strand of Harry's hair."
She'd personally witnessed it in first year—Voldemort controlling Quirrell, trying to kill Harry.
And in the end, Quirrell was burned to ash, while Voldemort fled in disgrace.
Arthur tapped her forehead lightly.
"Don't forget—Voldemort doesn't know about the power of love protecting Harry. He'll keep targeting Harry again and again, trying every possible way to kill him."
Only then did Hermione realize—he was right.
The power of love was too mysterious. Those who didn't understand love couldn't even perceive its existence.
And Voldemort—utterly incapable of love, unable to comprehend it—was destined to suffer every time he crossed paths with Harry.
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