The cool stone air outside the hospital wing seemed fresher somehow, lighter.
"You don't have to care about that old bat," Eira said, her tone suddenly dismissive.
Hermione snorted mid-laugh. "Old bat? Since when do you call your head of house that?"
"Well," Eira said with a small shrug, "being in Slytherin doesn't mean I'll stand by while he bullies other students—or support him the way so many of my housemates do."
Hermione's mirth softened into something gentler, though her smile lingered. "It doesn't matter, really. I've grown used to Snape's sarcasm and mocking. But… I couldn't stay in the dungeons. Not today." She paused, gaze flicking downward. "This morning, all those newspapers, all the rumors… it was unbearable. Everywhere I walked, girls glaring at me, whispering. Branding me as if I were some manipulative girl… as if I'd bewitched three boys at once. An attention seeker. I couldn't stand it."
Her voice wavered, low but steady, the kind of tone that carried years of restraint and sorrow.
The corridors of Hogwarts had a way of swallowing sound, yet Hermione's voice lingered in the silence between them. She spoke quickly, words tumbling over one another, frustration straining her tone as she laid out everything that had been gnawing at her since morning.
When at last she paused for breath, Eira slowed her steps so that Hermione had to meet her gaze. Her voice, low but certain, filled the hush.
"I know. The truth is, Hermione, being close to Potter means you'll always be pulled into storms. People will spread lies, they'll talk endlessly, and they'll never give him or you peace. But what stands out in you is loyalty. You won't abandon him, not to protect yourself and not to escape the cruelty of others. That is who you are."
Hermione's shoulders, which had been drawn tight, softened slightly. Her lips curved into a small, reluctant smile. "So these things… these kinds of things will never stop, will they?"
Eira shook her head gently. "No. They won't."
Hermione sighed, tucking a strand of bushy hair behind her ear. "Mine are just whispers, and I can ignore them. But Harry… he's under so much more pressure. Someone, and no one can say who, slipped his name into the Goblet of Fire. Now he's bound by the rules of an ancient magical contract, forced to compete in a tournament that's already dangerous for fully grown wizards, let alone a fourth-year. He never wanted any of this. And instead of support, he's surrounded by suspicion. Half the school thinks he cheated, the other half is waiting for him to fail. Even his best friend has turned against him, and that—" her voice caught as she shook her head, "that's what hurts him most. It's not just the tasks ahead of him. It's the loneliness."
Eira's brow lifted. "The Weasley boy? Ron?"
Hermione nodded, her expression troubled. "Yes. They've both become stubborn. Harry won't explain himself, and Ron won't believe him. I've tried so hard to mend things, but neither of them will give way. Especially Ron. He refuses even to look at Harry. And now, with today's newspaper fueling the fire, they're more divided than ever."
For a moment Eira considered this, her face unreadable. "I don't claim to know their quarrel in detail," she said at last, "but from all I've heard, that Weasley boy has been Harry's shadow since the start. You don't need to burden yourself too much with their falling-out. Friendships like that bend, but they don't break."
Hermione looked doubtful, but a faint spark of hope stirred in her eyes. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Eira said with quiet conviction. "They're boys. Boys argue over the pettiest things, and the next day they're laughing together again, as if nothing happened. Give it time. They'll come round."
Hermione exhaled slowly, as if releasing a weight she had carried all morning. "I hope you're right."
"Of course I'm right," Eira said with a small grin. "I'm rarely wrong."
That made Hermione chuckle under her breath, a sound that seemed to brighten the very air around them. They continued on, their footsteps echoing in rhythm along the flagstones.
"You didn't go back to class, did you?" Hermione asked after a pause, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"No," Eira admitted with a careless shrug. "I came after you. I wasn't going to leave you sitting alone."
"You shouldn't have," Hermione murmured, though her voice carried warmth rather than reproach. "There wasn't a need."
"If I hadn't, you'd still be out in the courtyard, hiding behind your hands," Eira said gently. "Now look—you're walking beside me, and your smile is back."
Hermione looked away, but the smile lingered despite herself. "Perhaps you're right."
They had scarcely turned the next corner when the low murmur of voices drifted toward them, swelling louder with each step. Both girls slowed, eyes narrowing as a group emerged from the far corridor.
Barty Crouch strode at the front, his expression stern and unreadable. Beside him moved Ludo Bagman, broad and genial, his booming laugh echoing even in the hush of the hall. Argus Filch strutted just ahead, his chest puffed out with self-importance, as though he were escorting royalty rather than Ministry officials. Behind them, Professor McGonagall kept pace with her usual clipped stride, lips pursed so tightly they might have been carved from stone.
And trailing after them, almost languid in her poise, came a blonde woman in gleaming green robes. She walked as though the corridor belonged to her alone, her chin tilted high, her eyes glittering behind jeweled spectacles. A photographer hovered at her shoulder, camera bobbing in the air to catch every angle.
Eira stopped short. Her eyes narrowed to icy slits. "Rita Skeeter."
Hermione spun, her face hardening the instant she heard the name. Her hands curled into fists. "So that's her. The woman spreading lies about me." Her cheeks flushed red, her whole body taut with fury. "I should go down there right now and tell her what I think of her."
Before she could take a step, Eira's hand closed firmly around hers. "Don't," she said in a low, commanding tone. "Not now. The Ministry is here. Professors are here. If you cause a scene, she'll twist it into something worse. That's her gift—turning truth into venom."
Hermione froze, breathing hard. For a moment her indignation flared against Eira's calm gaze, then faltered. She dropped her shoulders, her breath hissing through her teeth. "You're right. She'd find a way to make me look foolish. But what is she doing here?"
"I don't know," Eira admitted, watching Skeeter glide past like a serpent in silk. "But if the Ministry is involved, it's likely tied to the Tournament."
Hermione scowled, her eyes locked on Skeeter's receding figure. "Whatever the reason, she'll write more nonsense. She always does."
Eira's grip on her hand eased, but she didn't let go. "Then leave her to me. She won't trouble you again."
Hermione blinked, startled. "Really? You can do that? She even dares to write against Dumbledore."
Eira's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Do not worry. A few years ago she tried the same with me. My assistant paid her a visit. Let's just say… she learned her lesson. Since then, not a word about me has appeared in her quill."
Hermione's mouth fell open. "You threatened her?"
"A little scolding," Eira said smoothly. "Nothing too harsh. Enough to remind her that words have consequences."
Hermione's eyes lit with sudden hope. "Then could you—please—make sure she leaves Harry alone too?"
Eira chuckled. "Very well. It seems she is due another reminder. My assistant will see to it that she is properly… corrected."
Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth before a laugh escaped, bright and unguarded, echoing off the stone walls. "You really do act wicked sometimes."
"Perhaps," Eira admitted with a faint smile, "but with certain people, it's the most effective way to be."
Hermione shook her head, still smiling. "Where are we going now?"
"Wherever you wish," Eira answered.
"Then let's go outside. Somewhere quiet."
"Lead on."
And so they turned from the Ministry procession and the lurking quill of Rita Skeeter. Their footsteps carried them out of the heavy halls and into the fresh air beyond, the sunlight spilling golden across the grass. Hermione's laughter lingered, brighter than before, and though her worries had not vanished, she carried them more lightly now.