"Hermione Granger."

The collective hall holds its breath for one beat, then two, and then chaos breaks the silence. Whispers, and some not-whispers, ripple across the tables. A hundred sets of eyes turn to face Hermione's white face.

Everything after that happens in a blur. Harry and Ron's faces stand out—well, their shocked eyes, at least—but everyone else's just disappear into the background. She doesn't even realize she'd moved until she finds herself in the waiting room with the other champions. Three tall, older, champions.

"Do you 'ave a message for us?" Fleur Delacour asks. Her long blonde locks are tossed, gracefully, behind her shoulder.

"No, I—I, uh, the headmaster will explain," Hermione stumbles out. Inwardly, she feels like slapping herself. She never stumbles over her words!

Ten minutes later and the matter is explained, three dark, angry looks are thrown her way, and a litany of curses from all adults in the room has ensued. Hermione tries to shrink into the corner, to block out everyone around her. When that doesn't work, she decides on a new strategy.

"Excuse me," Hermione says. She's ignored. No one seems to hear her.

"Excuse me," she repeats. A dozen pairs of angry eyes are now on her. She gulps, but straightens her spine.

"I know this is unorthodox, but I would be happy to swear an oath promising I did not, and did not ever plan to, put my name in the Goblet. Furthermore, there must be some legal clause in the rulebook that prevents a minor from competing. I'm barely fourteen, for Merlin's sake! So you see, I can't be in this tournament."

By the end of her speech, she recognized, dimly, that her voice had taken on a vaguely hysterical edge. That must convince them, she thought.

When Professor Dumbledore turned those accusatory eyes on her, and Ludo Bagman blustered his way through an explanation why they could not possibly take an oath from a fourteen-year-old (never mind, Hermione thought pettily, they want me to compete in a tournament that's far more dangerous than a little oath!), she knew there was no way, at least this moment, to escape.

She looked around the room. Her eyes caught three other pairs on her.

The lightest, a sweet, baby blue—that now looked icy and cold—met Hermione's own plain brown eyes boldly, fearlessly. Fleur Delacour, resident veela and possibly the prettiest girl she had ever seen. Hermione quickly glanced away, but her gaze skittered right to another pair of eyes—this time dark, almost black, and deep-set underneath a pair of imposing brows. Viktor Krum, the quidditch star. His face gave nothing away as he stared at her. Here, too, she was forced to look away first, only to find her eyes on the nicest hazel eyes that made all the witches at Hogwarts swoon. Cedric Diggory, who she'd never had much contact with, but was watching her confusedly.

Hermione had had enough. All these people staring at her, and talking about her, and nothing being resolved. She was not going to sit here and wait for a solution when she could go and find one herself. It was clear nobody here was on her side.

She stood, and cleared her throat. Unlike last time, all those eyes swivelled to her immediately. "If we're all done here," she looked pointedly to the huddled adults in the corner, "I'm leaving." She couldn't even come up with a good excuse.

And then, quite ungracefully, she turned and stomped out the room.