Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

0527 Vigilance

On that crisp Sunday morning, Hermione gradually stirred from her restless sleep, her bleary eyes slowly focusing on the sparkling autumn sky visible through the windows of Gryffindor Tower.

The morning light filtered through in gentle golden streams, but it did little to lift the crushing weight of exhaustion and melancholy that seemed to press down upon her chest. The events of the previous night had haunted her relentlessly, playing through her mind like a twisted magical projection, causing her to toss and turn beneath her bedsheets until the early hours of dawn.

Even in her brief moments of sleep, her dreams had been plagued by vivid, unsettling scenes that she desperately wished to forget but couldn't seem to shake from her consciousness.

The girls' dormitory was wrapped in an almost ghostly silence with the usual morning chatter and rustling of her roommates notably absent. The beds belonging to Lavender and Parvati were empty, their covers already neatly made.

With tremendous effort, as if fighting against an Impediment Jinx, Hermione forced herself to sit upright. Her trembling fingers found the thick velvet curtains of her four-poster bed, drawing them back with a soft swish to reveal what she had fondly come to think of as her 'book wall'.

Unlike the blunt regularity of the boys' dormitory, which Harry had once described to her as practically monastic in its grim simplicity, the girls' living space reflected the unique personalities of its inhabitants.

While Hermione maintained the traditional Hogwarts-issued bedding in its original deep crimson and gold, Lavender and Parvati had transformed their spaces into vibrant colors. Lavender's bed curtains sparkled with delicate lights and hanging crystals that caught the morning sun, while Parvati's space was decorated with intricate Indian fabrics and moving photographs of her family.

Hermione's corner, in contrast, spoke about her academic nature – towering stacks of books created a fortress around her bed, some wobbling so unsteadily that only magic could be keeping them upright.

If she had her way, Hermione would have gladly remained hidden in this peaceful bubble until the first task of the Triwizard Tournament began. The quiet privacy of her dormitory offered a natural preserve from the chaos that surely awaited her below, but she knew with crushing certainty that such an escape was impossible. The rational part of her mind, always dominant despite her emotional turmoil, reminded her that hiding would only make things worse in the long run.

With resigned determination, she slipped her feet into her worn slippers and padded across the cool stone floor to the dormitory bathroom. The mirror, its frame decorated with carved vines that seemed to shift and grow in the early morning light, reflected back an image that made her wince.

Dark circles shadowed her eyes like bruises, due to her sleepless night. Her usually untamable hair had outdone itself, resembling something closer to a bird's nest than actual human hair. Her cotton nightgown, typically pristine despite her restless sleeping habits, had come undone at the top, the first button having worked itself free during the night. The collar hung awry, leaving one shoulder exposed, giving her the appearance of someone who had just emerged from a particularly vigorous duel.

Drawing upon years of experience managing her unruly hair, Hermione knew that a thorough washing would be the quickest route to achieving some semblance of presentability. The thought of facing her housemates looking anything like this was unthinkable – she refused to give them any additional ammunition for their inevitable whispers and stares.

Leaning against the stone wall for support to prevent herself from falling due to lack of sleep, Hermione began the arduous task of unbuttoning her nightgown. Her movements were very slow and clumsy, as if this could reasonably buy her more time to stay in the room.

Hiss—

When she undid the third button, the nightgown slid down her skin on its own, and the November air rushed to meet her exposed flesh with an almost predatory eagerness. The cold was shocking, drawing a sharp intake of breath through her teeth and causing a ripple of goosebumps to race across her arms and torso. The mirror captured the involuntary shiver that passed through her body.

In an instinctive response to the chill, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, her hands moving rapidly up and down her arms in an attempt to generate warmth. The practical part of her mind urged her to hurry into the shower's waiting warmth, but something made her pause at the edge of the mirror's view. Almost against her will, she stepped back into full view of her reflection, straightening her posture despite the chill.

For a moment, Hermione observed her reflection with an analytical eye that was usually reserved for complex arithmancy problems. The thought that crossed her mind – an assessment of her body that was surprisingly positive – caught her completely off guard.

The sudden self-awareness sent a flush of color racing across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the room's temperature, and she practically dived into the waiting shower stand, eager to escape from her own unexpected vanity.

Under the chute of hot water, surrounded by billowing steam that transformed the bathroom into something similar to a potions classroom, Hermione tried to rationalize her moment of self-observation.

'After all,' she thought defensively, 'Parvati and Lavender have been comparing since second year. There's nothing inappropriate about being aware of one's own physical development!'

The steam seemed to absorb her silent justifications, offering neither judgment nor forgiveness.

Today being Sunday, students could wear their own clothes instead of wizard robes.

She chose a pair of jeans and a light blue sweatshirt that seemed to soften her appearance, making her look more like the teenage girl she was rather than the unwilling champion she had become.

Standing before the mirror once more, she conducted a thorough inspection of her appearance, noting with relief that aside from the stubborn dark circles beneath her eyes – which no amount of cold water had managed to diminish – she looked remarkably normal which made her breathe a sigh of relief.

Her book bag hung loosely at her side, unusually light without its normal burden of textbooks and scrolls. The emptiness should have bothered her – Hermione Granger was never without reading material – but today, she barely noticed.

She stood frozen behind the dormitory door, her hand resting on the handle, gathering her courage like a shield around her. The minutes ticked by as she rehearsed possible responses to the worst scenarios she might face, until finally, with a deep breath that seemed to fill her entire being, she pushed the door open and stepped out to face whatever awaited her.

The descent down the spiral staircase to the Gryffindor common room felt like walking to her own execution. Each step brought her closer to the murmur of voices below, each turn revealing more of the familiar circular room that suddenly seemed as intimidating as the Forbidden Forest.

The moment she emerged into view, the atmosphere shifted palpably. Classmates who had already returned from breakfast greeted her with an enthusiasm that somehow felt forced and uncomfortable, their eyes seemed to hold a mixture of curiosity, concern, and in some cases, barely concealed skepticism.

Colin Creevey, the enthusiastic third-year who was usually Harry's personal paparazzi, practically bounced across the room toward her, his ever-present camera was swinging wildly around his neck. This unprecedented attention made Hermione understand, with startling clarity, why Harry always seemed so uncomfortable with Colin's persistent photography. This boy's eager face and ready camera made her want to retreat back up the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Colin," she managed, trying to inject warmth into her voice despite her discomfort, "but I'm running rather late for breakfast, and then I need to get to the library--"

The words tumbled out in a rush as she deftly maneuvered between Colin and his equally enthusiastic brother Dennis, making a beeline for the portrait hole with the precision of someone who had spent years dodging unwanted attention in the library.

The Fat Lady's portrait had barely swung open when Hermione collided with Harry, who appeared to be returning from some early morning errand. His presence was both a surprise and an immediate comfort, though she tried not to let the latter show too obviously on her face.

"You're up?" Harry's voice carried genuine surprise, and he shifted awkwardly before presenting her with a stack of bread carefully wrapped in napkins. "I went up to the Owlery to send a letter to Sirius, then waited for you in the Great Hall. When you didn't show up, I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you some--"

"Oh, thank you--" Hermione's gratitude was genuine, touched by his thoughtfulness.

"Are you heading to the library?" Harry asked again, and after getting Hermione's affirmative response, Harry mumbled 'wait' and rushed into the common room.

Harry's question about her destination seemed casual enough, but when he disappeared into the common room only to return moments later, slightly out of breath and clutching his book bag, his true intentions became transparent.

"I'm going too--"

The last time they had gone to the library together was probably last year when they were trying to help Hagrid find some favorable legal materials for Buckbeak's hearing. So, Harry could understand why Hermione looked surprised.

"To find some information related to Professor Sinistra's essay," Harry said awkwardly, turning his gaze away. "You should be focusing on preparing for your own tournament task, there's no need for you to worry about homework right now, especially not mine or Ron's."

Hermione pressed her lips together and smiled, "No one's going to attack me in broad daylight inside the castle," she continued, trying to inject lightness into her voice. "Though I suppose I should brace myself for plenty of unpleasant comments—"

"Oh, you worked it out then." Harry's surprise was quickly replaced by sheepish recognition that trying to hide his motivations from Hermione had been futile from the start. She hadn't earned her reputation as the brightest witch of their age by being dull-witted. Given how well she knew him, it would have been odd if she hadn't seen through his intentions.

As they began their descent from Gryffindor Tower, Hermione forced herself to ask the question that had been burning in her mind. "What about Ron?" She tried to make her voice sound casual, indifferent even, but the slight tremor in her words gave her up.

Harry's response came with an undercurrent of frustration. "Still in the Great Hall eating breakfast—" he explained, his tone carrying a note of complaint. "I tried to get him to come along, told him that whoever put your name in the Goblet might try something else, but he just said there were plenty of people fighting over the chance to protect you, so there wasn't any point in worrying about it."

Harry grumbled.

The words hit Hermione, and she felt her face freeze into an expression of careful neutrality. She didn't know whether to be touched by Harry's obvious but determined action or hurt by Ron's pettiness.

"That's not the same thing at all!" she managed to say as her voice tightened with conflicting emotions.

The journey to the library wasn't pleasant.

Before leaving the dormitory, Hermione knew that even though Professor McGonagall had told everyone that the school had determined based on certain deductions that she hadn't put her name in the Goblet herself, she couldn't expect understanding from everyone. So, she thought she had mentally prepared herself for others' strange looks.

But the actual situation was worse than she had imagined. Along the way, the Hufflepuff students they encountered made no effort to hide their looks of disgust at her. They didn't care how her name had ended up in the Goblet of Fire; the indisputable fact was that she had 'stolen' the glory that should have belonged solely to Cedric, should have belonged solely to Hufflepuff.

The Slytherins, predictably, treated the whole situation as some sort of cosmic joke. Their sneers and knowing looks suggested they were already taking bets on how quickly she would fail, or worse, meet some gruesome end in the tournament.

Perhaps most disappointing was the reaction from Ravenclaw house. Hermione had hoped that those who prided themselves on their intelligence and rationality would show more understanding, but she was sadly mistaken. As she and Harry passed through a particularly crowded corridor, the whispered conversations of a group of Ravenclaw girls reached their ears with crystal clarity – "Who knows what's really going on, maybe this is just a cover story they made up to hide the scandal."

Harry angrily rushed forward to argue with them, but Hermione held him back, walking on without a word.

The library, usually her sanctuary, offered little relief from the morning's trials. Madam Pince stood at her desk, her hawkish facial features arranged in a familiar scowl as she watched a group of young witches who were failing miserably at being subtle about their attention to Viktor Krum.

Whether it was the book in front of him or the harassing glances, Krum looked gloomy and slightly unhappy. He shook his head absently, then noticed two of the Hogwarts students he was more familiar with appearing in the library.

Krum's demeanor shifted notably when he spotted Hermione and Harry entering the library. He rose from his chair with surprising grace for someone of his build, clearly intending to approach them. "It's you, Her-my-own-ninny" he began, his accent mangling her name in what would have been an endearing way under different circumstances.

However, to his surprise just before he could take more than a step in their direction, Harry suddenly stepped forward positioning himself between him and Hermione, and stared at him with vigilant eyes.

"Don't come closer—" 

Harry's hand rested on his pocket, making a motion as if ready to draw his wand at any moment, speaking in a threatening tone.

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