Chapter Text
“Merlin’s bollocks,” Ron rasps.
Screams and shrieks of horror bounce off the walls of the Great Hall, echoing one after the other until they are indistinguishable. Students dive toward the floor, throwing themselves off the House benches, even though Hermione carefully aimed the curse above their heads.
It’s perhaps cruel of her to think it, even for a second, but as long as she, Ron, and Harry make it out of the room alive, their soul and magic intact, Hermione doesn’t care if someone else gets caught in the crossfire.
“Miss Granger!” Professor Minerva McGonagall yells, face pale as she and several of the professors cast shield spells over the House tables, a grimace on her face.
It won’t make a difference, of course. There isn’t a shield spell in the world that can block Fiendfyre. However, it certainly fools the majority of the students into believing they’re safe. Oh, the intelligent ones will know otherwise, will likely declare that she and Ron and Harry now owe them a great debt for putting them in imminent danger if they manage to survive, but Hermione has no intention of allowing that to happen.
She, Harry, and Ron have protected the students multiple times from Lord Voldemort and his schemes. She has a diary filled with every single debt that is owed to either herself or her soul-mates. And Hermione has no compunctions whatsoever about calling them due.
Headmaster Igor Karkaroff, who should be best able to cast the countercurse, flees the room like a coward. For someone who’s been gloating about how Heir Viktor Krum will win the Triwzard Tournament for the Durmstrang Institute, he’s sure quick to abandon the Goblet of Fire that binds the whole event together.
Headmaster Dumbledore’s eyes are unamused yet understanding at the same time. He, who defeated the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald, who has lived over a century and is renowned for his spellwork, certainly knows the countercurse. Yet, his wand stays at his side, in his hand, until the Fiendfyre jaws of a chimera close around the Goblet of Fire, melting it to slag.
The chains strangling their magic, binding it to the tournament, dissolve.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron mutters, his hand shaking where it grips Hermione’s arm.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Harry whispers, his face buried in Hermione’s back. If he were the type of person to cry in public, her robes would be soaked. Since he isn’t, she can expect him to shudder, fall apart, and sob against her shoulder in the Gryffindor common room after everyone else has gone to sleep.
Headmaster Dumbledore’s lips move, though his words cannot be heard over the crackling of the flames and the piercing cries of the magical beasts that shriek as Hermione, anchored as deeply in her soul-bond with Ron and Harry as she can be, corrals it. She trembles from the effort. It’s like trying to hold back the tide, to stop the sun from rising, to— The Fiendfyre disappears with a twirling snap of Dumbledore’s wand.
Hermione’s chest heaves as she gasps for air.
She feels like she’s coming off a bout of magical flu, wrung out and worn to the bone. Only, this exhaustion is mental and emotional—not physical.
“For casting an extremely dangerous curse in the presence of innocents, seventy-five points from Gryffindor,” Dumbledore says, his soft voice cutting once again through the cries of the students.
Hermione straightens her shoulders and raises her chin. Ron and Harry bracket her on either side. It doesn’t matter how many of their housemates ambush them with pranks in the coming weeks in revenge. It doesn’t matter how many of the other Gryffindors scream at them for “losing the House Cup in October”, or any of the other insults and accusations that will, inevitably, be viciously hurled at her and her soul-mates.
She doesn’t regret her actions.
A stupid yearly trophy isn’t worth her magic, or Harry’s, or Ron’s.
“What were you thinking?”
“How dare you use such a dangerous curse in a room full of children? I thought better of you, Miss Granger!”
“Wait until my father hears about this!”
“Ees zis what ees to be expected of English ‘ospitality? Attempted murder?”
Dumbledore bows his head to Hermione, Ron, and Harry. There’s a grave smile on his face as he says, “For an excellent display of magical control, and an exemplary exhibition of Gryffindor courage in the face of grievous wrongs, one hundred points to Gryffindor.”
Screams of rage and disbelief fill the room but Hermione doesn’t care. Their soul-bond thrums with validation.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ron whispers.
“Before they mob us,” Harry adds, eying the nearby students with a wariness with which no one their age should be familiar.
“No more,” Hermione declares as she grabs Ron’s hand and Harry’s hand and marches out of the Great Hall with her soul-mates on either side of her. “We will never be Voldemort’s pawns again.”
She knows this isn’t the end of it. And she hates that.
They still don’t know who put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire. They don’t know which person—out of hundreds—is actively trying to kill all three of them right now. In the supposed safest location in Magical Britain, danger lurks behind every corner.
“Never again,” Ron and Harry swear, gripping her hands more tightly.
If Hermione has to break every chain that seeks to bind them link by link, she will. If Hermione has to uncover who put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire without an adult’s help, she will. If she has to bloody well figure out why Lord Voldemort is still alive but incorporeal by herself, she will. If she has to invent a way to kill him for good with the assistance of two fourteen-year-old boys to end this farce once and for all, she will. If Hermione has to defy Fate Itself, she will.
“Our future is what we make of it,” Hermione states, dragging the protectiveness and possessiveness spinning through their soul-bond around her like a cloak. “We will forge the path we walk.”
“And we will do it together,” Ron says, adamant determination in his voice and magic.
“Together,” Harry agrees, the single word a threat against anyone who would dare to stand against their combined willpower and magical might.
Hermione clings to her soul-mates—her brothers in all but blood, the brothers of her heart—until her hands ache from the force of her grip, and completes the three-fold vow. “Together.”