Hermione Granger was well aware that everyone was staring at her.
She had just come out of Honeydukes eating a large chunk of cream-filled chocolate and apparently talking to herself.
This made her look considerably less like the well-read Gryffindor genius of rumour and considerably more like someone having a difficult afternoon.
What no one could see was that Harry Potter was walking beside her under his Invisibility Cloak, also eating cream-filled chocolate.
"Look," she said, quietly, from the side of her mouth. "Even the ones wearing the Cedric badges aren't actually saying anything to you. Nobody's discussing that article. You could take the Cloak off for a bit."
"Could I," Harry said. "Look behind you."
Hermione glanced back, saw Rita Skeeter and her photographer emerging from the Three Broomsticks, and immediately pressed herself against the nearest wall. She slipped through the still-swinging door with Harry invisible behind her.
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The pub was unusually lively. Beyond the Hogwarts students, there were wizards from across Britain and a few from abroad; in the corner near the bar, a group of Banshees were conducting a conversation that required everyone nearby to hold their ears. Two Dwarves played cards at a table by the window. A Troll sat by the fire looking morose.
Hermione kept her eyes appropriately forward. Staring was rude, regardless of the species.
She did, however, notice the familiar faces: Lee Jordan near the back, showing off what appeared to be a very large spider to several upper-year Gryffindors who seemed unhappy about it. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott at a middle table, trading Chocolate Frog cards with great seriousness. Cho Chang and a group of Ravenclaw girls near the window. And, at the far end, unmistakably, Hagrid's enormous head bent low over a table, in what appeared to be a tense conversation with Professor Moody.
Madam Rosmerta was glaring at the hip flask in Moody's hand with the expression of a woman who takes it personally when someone brings their own drink into her establishment.
Ron was already at a corner table with three Butterbeers waiting, grinning as he watched them pick their way through the crowd.
"You're here," he said cheerfully. Under the table, he passed a Butterbeer to the empty space beside Hermione.
"Why didn't you come to Honeydukes first?" she said, sitting down. "I had to walk the entire length of the High Street talking to myself."
"Because finding a table on a Hogsmeade day is practically a competitive sport." He pushed a Butterbeer toward the empty chair. "The Butterbeers are on me today, by the way. An apology."
"Thank you." She handed him a packet of the cream-filled chocolates. "Oh — I should probably try recruiting some Hogsmeade villagers to S.P.E.W. while I'm here."
From under the table: "Hermione. When are you going to let that go?"
"The day house-elves receive fair wages and a respectable working environment," she said, pulling out her notebook. "Which won't be as long as people assume, if I have anything to say about it."
"You just want to win the bet with Draco," Ron said, with a grin that suggested he found this funnier than he was letting on. "Ten members."
"It stopped being about the bet some time ago," Hermione said, with dignity. "I'm going to have a hundred members. I'll keep going whether I reach ten or not."
Ron shrugged and let the subject drop.
"Harry," he said, to the table. "You could just take the Cloak off. Nobody in here is going to bother you."
"Pass," said Harry, from somewhere near the floor. "Have you seen Ernie's table? Every single one of them is wearing a badge."
Ron turned his head. The SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY badges were flashing their alternating messages across an entire table of Hufflepuffs.
"I thought you were doing better with all that," Hermione said, setting her quill down.
"Every morning I wake up and spend a few minutes being optimistic," Harry said, "and then I remember."
He was, by most objective measures, the least popular of the four champions. Cedric moved through the corridors surrounded by admiring Hufflepuffs; Fleur was attended by a constant stream of flustered boys who lost the ability to speak in her presence; Krum had a fan club of very determined girls who followed him everywhere, which he dealt with by retreating to the library. Harry walked through the same corridors and people muttered.
For a fourteen-year-old boy who had never quite learned not to care what people thought of him, this was wearing.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Ron said, quieter. "I wasn't — I wasn't fair to you. I won't do it again."
Harry said something inaudible in response.
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Hagrid and Professor Moody were making their way toward the door when they paused at the table.
Hermione smiled at Hagrid. She gave Moody a polite nod. She had noticed, in recent weeks, that he had stopped making Draco the subject of pointed in-class demonstrations, which had improved the atmosphere in Defence considerably.
Moody bent down beside her with his patchwork face arranged into something approximating friendliness, and murmured something she couldn't quite hear. The words were too soft to catch over the noise of the pub. What she did catch was a strange smell on his breath — sharp and strangely familiar, something she couldn't immediately place.
Hagrid bent low, apparently addressing Ron, but his eyes drifted sideways to the empty space under the table. After a few murmured words, both men straightened and made their way to the door.
"What did they say?" Ron asked, under his breath.
Harry relayed something briefly, equally quietly.
Hermione sat with her quill hovering over her parchment, trying to locate that scent in her memory. She had definitely encountered it before.
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Directly above them, on the private upper floor of the Three Broomsticks, Draco Malfoy was having a rather different kind of conversation.
The room was small and well-warded — anti-eavesdropping charms, a Silencing Spell, a Locking Charm on the door. A bottle of Firewhisky sat on the low table between the armchairs. Outside the window, the afternoon was fading.
"How was the trip?" Draco asked, standing at the window, watching the street below.
"A complete waste of time." Sirius Black sat in the armchair by the fire, turning his glass in his hands without drinking from it. "Nothing to show for it."
"Tell me."
"During the World Cup, I went back to that seaside cave with Kreacher. The one Regulus described." Sirius's grey eyes were clouded. "I saw what he told me I'd see — the basin, the dark enchantments, all of it. No Voldemort. No sign of him. Just Inferi."
"And Regulus?"
"Nothing." He set the glass down. "Three days. Kreacher and I went through every inch of it. Nothing."
Draco came away from the window and sat down.
"And the Gaunt house?" he asked.
"Ruins. I don't think Voldemort or Quirrell were ever there, honestly." Sirius stared at nothing. "A wandering soul and a half-dead body, and they've just — vanished."
"We've eliminated two locations," Draco said. "That's something."
"It doesn't feel like something."
"I'm not trying to console you. I'm cataloguing what we know."
They sat for a moment in silence.
"I found the house-elf Hokey in London," Sirius said. "The one who used to serve Hepzibah Smith. I passed that on to Dumbledore — I don't know if it'll be useful to his research, but it seemed worth mentioning."
"Tracking down Horcruxes won't be straightforward," Draco said. "One of the remaining ones is a ring, somewhere in the ruins of the Gaunt property. I've made quiet enquiries through Slytherin — nothing. Either no one knows, or those who do are keeping it very well."
"Dumbledore wants to go back to the Gaunt ruins," Sirius said. "And to visit Riddle's grave while he's there. But the Tournament's just started, and he can't leave Hogwarts now — not with Harry in it. He'll be here until at least after the first task."
"Which is exactly why," Draco said, "you should stop planning expeditions for a moment and go and actually spend time with your godson."
Sirius glanced up.
"He is sitting downstairs," Draco said, "under an Invisibility Cloak, because he doesn't want to walk through Hogsmeade and have people look at him. That is not a boy who is fine."
Sirius was quiet.
"I've watched him in lessons," Draco said. "He has no confidence right now. His spellwork is suffering for it. And the letters you're sending him — the sweets, the grooming kits — they help, for a day or two. But you need to actually speak to him. Tell him directly that you believe he didn't put his own name in the Goblet."
"Well," Sirius said, and his voice had something careful in it, "I do think it's — possible that he might have found a way—"
"He didn't."
"You can't know that with certainty—"
"He didn't," Draco said, flatly. "I know it. And you should tell him you know it too."
Sirius looked at him with an expression that was harder to read than usual.
"He is not you," Draco said. "He is not James, either. He didn't grow up in this world — he doesn't have your appetite for it. He's fourteen years old and he's frightened and he doesn't want to show it. He needs you to be his godfather, not his Marauder-era accomplice."
A long silence. Outside the window, a gust of wind sent dead leaves spinning past.
"I know," Sirius said softly. "I know he takes after Lily more, in his way. He's kinder than James was, more careful." There was something raw underneath the words. "I just — miss it. The other kind. I miss going into things recklessly with someone you trusted completely."
"That's not fair to him," Draco said, without particular gentleness. "What he needs right now isn't someone to adventure with. He needs someone to stand squarely behind him in front of all this."
"I know." Sirius rubbed a hand over his face. He looked, for a moment, considerably older than he should. "You're right."
He was quiet for a beat. Then: "Why are you so concerned about my godson?"
"Because someone has to be looking at the whole picture," Draco said, getting to his feet. "He's not going to tell you he's struggling. He'll write you a cheerful letter and you'll think he's managing and he isn't. He's going into that first task with a dragon and a wavering focus, and that is genuinely dangerous."
"I'll speak to him." Sirius looked up at him with something that was half exasperated and half, quietly, grateful. "Draco — you do know you're terrible at pretending not to care about things."
Draco said nothing to this, opened the door, and walked out.
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The stairwell had gone warm in the early evening, candles lit in the wall sconces. On the main floor below, the pub had settled into its later-afternoon mood — quieter voices, the smell of warm Butterbeer and something frying in the kitchen.
Through the crowd, Draco spotted Hermione's brown hair at a corner table. She had her notebook open and was writing something, quill moving quickly. Ron was beside her, talking with the easy familiarity of someone who has known someone for years. He was laughing at something.
They looked comfortable together.
Draco had been in a perfectly reasonable frame of mind thirty seconds ago.
He made his way over. He could feel himself becoming, for no rational cause, irritated.
Hermione looked up. "Draco? When did you get here?"
"I—" He stopped. She had rolled up the parchment very quickly, in a way that suggested she didn't want him to see it. "What is that?"
"Nothing important." She tucked it under her elbow.
"What little secret are you hiding?"
"It's my S.P.E.W. membership list and you're not allowed to look smug about how short it is," she said.
"Fine." He glanced at the table. Three mugs. Ron on one side, Hermione on the other, an empty spot. "Is someone joining you?"
"Yes," Ron said cheerfully. "Listen, Draco, can I get you a Butterbeer as well? I'm buying today, so—"
"He offered you a drink." Draco looked at Hermione. "And you accepted?"
She blinked at him. "Yes? Ron's buying a round—"
"Right." He felt the conversation going somewhere he could not logically justify, and carried on anyway. "Fine. I won't keep you." He turned to leave.
From under the table, a hand grabbed the hem of his robes.
"I'm down here," said Harry. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?"
Draco stopped.
He looked at the hand gripping his robe. He looked at the empty space beside Hermione, which was, of course, not empty at all.
"Oh," he said.
"The three of us are having Butterbeers," Harry said, from somewhere around floor level. "You've come all the way over here looking very purposeful. You might as well sit down." A pause. "Could you put my mug on the table for me? My arm's gone a bit stiff."
"Yes," Draco said, with what composure he could locate. He set the mug on the table. "Of course."
He sat down, very carefully, and did not meet anyone's eyes.
"What was that about?" Hermione asked. She was looking at him with the particular expression she used when she thought she'd noticed something and was deciding whether to say it. "You looked furious for a moment."
"I was—" He stopped. "I was confused about something. It's resolved." He straightened up. "Can I get everyone another round? I'll go and order." He got to his feet before anyone could answer and went to find Madam Rosmerta.
Ron watched him go, then looked at the space under the table. "Do you understand what just happened?"
"Completely not," Harry said. "But yes, I would love another hot Butterbeer, the lemon smell in here is overwhelming."
Hermione was still watching the bar, where Draco was speaking to Madam Rosmerta with an expression of total composure that he had very clearly just assembled from scratch.
"He's been strange for weeks," she said, half to herself. "I cannot work out the pattern. He's more unpredictable than the weather."
Harry's voice floated up from under the table, sounding deeply amused. "Yes. Very mysterious. Completely inexplicable. No idea at all, Hermione."