Let The Dark In

4

Hermione’s knees give out, and she collapses gasping on the ground. The egg is still pressed against her chest. She has never been so close to dying in her entire life and as she kneels there, forehead pressed against the ground, she’s so relieved, she wants to cry. She tries to catch her breath but her lungs keep spasming, still burning from the smoke and dust of the enclosure. There are voices; cheering and applause and several people are talking to her, saying things but she’s too dazed to track the words. 

“Well done, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall’s voice is the first one that manages to break through the haze of relief. “Exceptional transfiguration work. Let’s get you over to Madam Pomfrey and make sure you’re not hurt.”

Hermione’s pulled to her feet and walked unsteadily over towards a small medical tent where Bisset is already sitting, his arm is bandaged to the shoulder, and there’s an orange paste visible under it. Half of his uniform is blackened from smoke, and bits of it look charred. He’s even paler now than he’d been when he left the tent, and he’s gripping a little vial of Calming Draught which he keeps sipping.

“Dragons,” Madam Pomfrey says in a disgusted voice as Hermione reaches her. She casts a few spells, glances at the reading on her wand, and then bustles Hermione over into a cubicle, pulling her shirt up, muttering spells and rubbing a bit of salve on the places that are throbbing with pain. “Of all the suicidal things. Are they trying to kill the champions?”

Hermione’s still clutching her wand and egg and doesn’t say a word even though she agrees. Her hands won’t stop shaking, and she doesn’t know if it's from shock or adrenaline high. The pain along her spine slowly fades away but the trembling doesn’t and she keeps her lips pressed tightly together because she thinks she might start sobbing if she tries to speak.

“Take a Calming Draught, dear,” Pomfrey says in a gentler voice, pressing a vial into her hands. Hermione sips it clumsily, and her heart rate gradually slows so that every beat isn’t painful, and her hands stop trembling. She finally draws a slow, steady breath. The smell of smoke is still heavy in the air.

“Alright. You can go back out to get your score now.”

Hermione stands and walks out of the medical tent. Everything feels dreamlike. The Calming Draught hasn’t actually relieved the sense of terror seething her blood, only masked it; placing an artificial space between herself and the surrounding world. The sea of faces overhead rolls like a crashing wave as she looks up. The crowd roars at the sight of her. Harry and Ron are both screaming themselves hoarse, but even from a distance, they look pale. She raises her wand hand and manages to wave and cheers rise in a crescendo like fireworks as everyone in the stands see her.

“The judges table is over there,” McGonagall says, pointing towards one of the stands high overhead where the five judges sit.

Madam Maxim goes first, waving her wand and a silver ribbon shoots into the sky. A seven. Then Barty Crouch. A nine. Dumbledore lifts his wand. An eight. Ludo Bagman waves his wand wildly and another eight shoots into the sky like a firework. Then Karkaroff lifts his wand up slowly. A four.

There are boos at the final score from the Hogwarts section. Harry and Ron’s voices carry loudest of all.

McGonagall makes her own noise of displeasure. “Nevermind him, he gave the same score to Mr Bisset. He only cares about one champion. Would you like to join me with the rest of the professors in the stands, or go back to the medical tent to recover?”

Hermione inhales. She never wants to see another dragon for as long as she lives, but at the same time, she wants to know what the other champions do. She missed Bisset, she should at least watch Malfoy. “I’ll go to the stands. How did Bisset get his egg?”