The library had become Theodore Hale's second dormitory.
Four days after the Goblet's selection, he'd migrated from the common room to the stacks, and the migration had calcified into something permanent. Madam Pince no longer blinked when he arrived right after breakfast or left at closing; she simply adjusted the candles in his usual corner and pursed her lips when he stayed until she shooed him out at eight o'clock sharp. The few times he'd nodded off against Defensive Magical Theory in the late afternoon, she pretended not to see.
The shift hadn't been conscious, exactly. It was survival instinct wearing a student uniform.
On Halloween night, his name emerging from the Goblet had felt like a cosmic joke. By November first, the joke had teeth. The Triwizard Tournament was real—three tasks, three public displays, three chances for something to go catastrophically wrong. And he'd volunteered, however accidentally, to stand in front of the entire wizarding world and prove he wasn't a complete fraud.
Mediocrity, he'd discovered, was only an option when nobody cared if you lived.
Now they did.
The morning after the announcement, whispers had become accusations. By the third day, speculation had hardened into certainty: Hale had rigged it somehow. He'd used dark magic, bribed someone, slipped enchantments into the Goblet. The accusations were stupid—he didn't have the resources, the knowledge, or the nerve—but they persisted anyway, especially among seventh-year Slytherins who resented being overshadowed by someone who'd never competed for anything in his life.
Adrian Pucey had stopped talking to him entirely. Laurel still nodded in the corridors, but the easy camaraderie had curdled into something polite and distant. Only Montague maintained the pretense of friendship, though his constant "jokes" about Theo's imminent death had worn thin by Thursday.
The isolation didn't bother him as much as he'd expected. What bothered him was the yawning gap between his actual capabilities and what winning would require.
He'd spent six years cultivating invisibility. Six years learning to make himself small, unremarkable, unthreatening. Slytherin survival was a delicate art: never rise high enough to become a target, never fall low enough to become prey. He'd mastered it. And now every instinct he'd developed was worthless.
So he'd retreated to the library.
Pince had allocated him a corner table in the Restricted Section—with Snape's signed permission, obtained through a brief, brutal conversation in the Potions dungeon where Theo had asked for help and Snape had regarded him with cold assessment before sliding a piece of parchment across his desk. The Potions Master hadn't offered encouragement or advice, merely access. But access was something.
Theo had started with the obvious: defensive spells, magical theory, creature behaviors. The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts, A Compendium of Hexes for the Unremarkable Wizard, Identifying Dangerous Creatures by Behavioral Pattern. The last one had made him laugh bitterly—he was unremarkable by design. Being identified was precisely the problem.
He'd moved on to potions. Not because he lacked talent—if anything, he'd always taken to structured magic faster than most—but because potions rewarded patience and precision more than bravado. Snape was the best duellist in the castle and possibly beyond, and Theo doubted he'd ever match that, but potions were a different kind of weapon: pre-planned, controlled, quietly lethal when needed.
He'd started with basic antidotes and healing draughts. Then moved into the more obscure ones: Essence of Murtlap for burns, gillyweed and its odd properties, poisons and how they killed slowly or all at once. Most of the information was probably useless—he had no idea what tasks he'd face—but useless information was still better than ignorance. Potions, he decided, would be one of his anchors; Snape, whether he liked it or not, would be part of that plan.
The hunger had started creeping in by day five.
It was small at first: a moment when he'd beaten back a theoretical hex sequence and felt something sharp and bright bloom in his chest. A second where he'd correctly outlined a Dementor's weaknesses in an essay and realized he was thinking in ways he'd never dared before. The moments were brief, easily suppressed, but they were there. Growing.
For six years, he'd convinced himself he didn't want to be remarkable. That staying invisible was enough. That survival was the only victory that mattered.
Now, with actual death a statistical possibility, he was discovering that mediocrity had been a choice—and it had been built on cowardice.
He didn't examine that too closely.
The library was quietest in the late afternoon, that gap between lunch and dinner when most students were finishing lessons or loitering in common rooms. Theo had claimed a table near the creature-behavioral section, surrounded by precarious stacks of books: Predatory Instincts in Magical Beings, Dragon Physiology and Combat, Dealing with Hippogriffs: Safety and Strategy.
He was cross-referencing something in The Defence of Others Against Dangerous Beasts when a hand reached over his shoulder for the same volume.
Theo looked up.
Hermione Granger stood there—actually stood there, in his corner of the library, reaching for the exact book he'd been holding. She was smaller than he'd expected, though he'd seen her around Hogwarts for years. Fourth-year Gryffindor, insufferably clever, hand perpetually in the air. He'd never spoken to her directly, steering clear of the main Gryffindor cluster on principle.
Now she was looking at his collection of books with something between curiosity and concern.
"That one's useful," Theo said, handing her Defence of Others. "The behavioural section's more thorough than Lockhart's nonsense."
Hermione took it, then actually paused—really paused, examining him. "You're... preparing?"
"Extensively."
She didn't smile, but something in her expression shifted. Less hostile, maybe. More thoughtful. "Most people would be panicking."
"Panic won't help me survive," Theo replied. "Might as well do something useful."
She sat. Just sat, without asking, pulling the book toward her and scanning the spines of his stacks. "You're reading the creature sections in detail," she observed after a moment, "but you haven't taken Defensive Theory past the early chapters, have you? Most of this is about surviving specific situations, not about what you'll actually be able to do under pressure."
"Victory assumed I'd survive long enough to consider it."
"That's—" Hermione stopped, exhaled sharply. "Harry goes into everything half-prepared, Ron pretends not to care until it's too late, the professors keep half the information to themselves in the name of 'tests'—and then you lot wonder why everything degenerates into life-or-death chaos." She shook her head. "And now there's you. Quietly trying not to die while everyone else shouts about glory."
Theo watched her rant with a kind of bemused distance. "You sound exhausted."
"I am exhausted," she said, a little too quickly. "Everyone thinks the Tournament is some grand adventure. It's not. It's dangerous. And I'm apparently the only one who believes preparation is more than a suggestion."
"On that," Theo said, "we agree."
He hesitated, then added, "And for the record, Slytherin isn't blind arrogant ambition. It's resourceful ambition."
That earned him the faintest flicker of a smile. For a moment, she just looked at him—really looked, with the kind of scrutiny that usually preceded a teacher calling on him. Theo was used to being overlooked; being seen felt almost invasive.
"Everyone says you rigged the Goblet," Hermione said finally.
"I put my name in," Theo said. "As a joke. With my friends. I knew it wouldn't be chosen. That's... not quite the same as rigging it."
Her brows drew together. "So you were reckless, not malicious."
"More like coerced," Theo agreed. "If that helps."
"No," Hermione said. "But it makes more sense." She glanced at his books again. "People won't want you to win. They already think Slytherin gets away with too much. They'll want you to fail for the narrative."
Theo laughed quietly. "People didn't want me to do anything before this. At least now they're paying attention."
"Is that what you want?" she asked.
The question landed awkwardly. Theo hadn't let himself examine that closely—wanting things meant having weaknesses. Vulnerability. He should deflect, make a joke, vanish into pages.
"Maybe," he heard himself say. "Maybe I want to be seen. Just once. Not as a joke, not as collateral. A little glory wouldn't hurt." He shrugged, eyes dropping to the table. "But mostly, I want to live through this. Everything else is secondary."
Hermione's expression softened—not into pity, which would have been unbearable, but into recognition. "Then you should focus on spellwork, not just theory. You can memorise every creature behaviour in existence, but if you can't execute defensive magic under pressure, memorisation won't save you."
"My spellwork is adequate."
"Your spellwork is adequate for passing O.W.L.s," Hermione corrected. "It won't be adequate for the Triwizard Tournament. Harry's been forced into defensive situations since he was eleven. Cedric's been duelling seriously for years. Fleur has Veela advantages and intensive training. You have..." She paused, not unkindly. "Several days of very good reading."
The words should have stung. Instead, they clarified something. Theo had known his deficit intellectually; hearing it stated plainly made it actionable.
"Then what should I be doing?" he asked.
"Practising," Hermione said. "Every day. Not just casting spells until they look pretty—actual scenarios. Casting when you're tired, when you're distracted, when something goes wrong. You need instinct, not just knowledge. Work on a few spells you can rely on every time."
"Like Potter's favourite disarming charm?"
"Expelliarmus is simple and versatile," Hermione said briskly. "Disarming is often safer than trying to overpower someone. Combine that with shields, basic stunners, and movement charms, and you'll be less of a sitting target."
"I don't have access to a combat trainer," Theo said. "Snape won't help with—"
"Snape will help if you ask him correctly," Hermione interrupted. "He respects effort. Real effort. He can be horrible, but he hates wasted potential even more than he hates Gryffindors."
Theo smiled faintly. "You speak from experience, Miss Granger."
"You can call me Hermione," she said, almost reflexively.
"Then you should call me Theo," he replied. "If I'm going to let you criticise my entire academic history, we might as well be on first-name terms."
That startled a small huff of a laugh out of her. "Fine. Theo."
They sat in silence for a moment. Theo's instinct was to shut this down, to thank her and retreat into the familiar safety of solitary preparation. Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor, Harry Potter's friend, someone who had every narrative reason to wish him failure.
But Cedric's face flashed across his mind—that moment of bafflement on Halloween night when someone else's name had emerged instead of his. Cedric would have been prepared. And Cedric hadn't even mattered, in the end.
"What would you suggest, specifically?" Theo asked.
Hermione set down the book she'd been holding. "Physical training, first. You're going to be exhausted during any task; endurance matters more than people think. Get up earlier. Run the grounds. Then spellwork: shields, disarming, stunners, and at least one movement charm you can cast even half-conscious. Practise until your body responds before your brain catches up."
"And theory?"
"I can help you refine that," she said. "Sort through the noise, prioritise what's most likely useful. I don't know the tasks, but I know patterns."
Theo blinked. "Why would you help me?"
Her chin lifted slightly. "Because the Tournament is dangerous enough without sending an unprepared sixth-year into it and pretending that's fair. And because..." She hesitated. "Because you're clearly serious about surviving this, not bragging about winning it. And I respect that."
There was something in her voice he recognised—a quality of being listened to he realised he'd been starved for. People talked at Slytherins, or about them from a safe distance. Hermione was actually assessing him as a person.
"Okay," he said.
She blinked. "Really?"
"You know more than I do. Refusing help would be stupid." Theo gathered some of his notes. "I'll start with mornings. Running first, then spellwork while exhausted. Less library, more application."
"Good," Hermione said, a little sharply, which sounded suspiciously like approval. "I'll bring you a list tomorrow. Spells, and a reading order."
"Theodore Hale."
Both of them turned. Ronald Weasley stood at the end of the aisle, his face flushed red with something between anger and accusation. Theo had seen him around Hogwarts plenty of times—always attached to Potter, always with that perpetually indignant expression—but never directed at him specifically.
"Hale," Weasley repeated, his voice sharp enough to draw stares from nearby tables. "What are you doing talking to Hermione?"
The hostility was immediate and absolute. Not the casual disdain Theo was used to from Gryffindors, but something personal—proprietary, almost.
"Discussing books," Hermione said coolly. "Specifically, defensive spellwork and creature behaviour."
"Right," Weasley said, his tone suggesting he believed none of it. "With a Slytherin. Who shoved his name in the Goblet and got Harry dragged into this mess."
"I didn't drag anyone anywhere," Theo said flatly.
"Prove it."
"I can't prove a negative." Theo closed his book carefully. "And I don't have to explain myself to you."
Weasley's face darkened further. "You've always been hanging around the edges—Slytherins sniping in the corridors, laughing when Malfoy has a go at Harry—and now you're here, suddenly being all polite with Hermione—"
"I've barely spoken to Malfoy in my life," Theo said. "And I'm not 'creeping around' anyone. Hermione offered advice. I accepted. That's all."
"Exactly!" Weasley glared at Hermione. "Why would you help a Slytherin champion? He entered himself, he benefitted from it, and now he's—he's—"
"He's what?" Hermione's voice had taken on that particular coldness that came from being doubted. "Using me? Manipulating me? Ronald, I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions."
"Yeah, well, he's clearly—"
"No," Theo said quietly. "He's right to be concerned."
That made both of them look at him.
"If your best friend's friend helps the Slytherin champion," Theo continued, "it looks like a betrayal. I get it."
The quiet acceptance seemed to throw Weasley. He'd clearly been gearing up for a proper row. Theo's reasonableness knocked the momentum out of his anger.
"Look," Theo said, already gathering his books. "I asked Hermione—Hermione—for help. She agreed. But if it's going to cause problems with your group, it isn't worth the cost. I'll adjust."
"Theo," Hermione said sharply, "you don't have to—"
"No," he said. He meant it. He'd spent six years avoiding complicated social situations. No reason to start now. "He's protecting his friends. That's decent. I'll manage."
He stood, balanced the books against his chest, and offered Weasley a nod that was neither apologetic nor provocative. Neutral.
Weasley looked like he'd expected more of a reaction—anger, defensiveness, something he could push back against. The calm acceptance left him off-balance.
Theo was almost out of the library when Hermione caught up with him in the corridor.
"You didn't have to leave," she said, slightly breathless.
"Yes, I did. Your friendship with Weasley matters to you. My survival, for all its urgency, doesn't. Not to him, anyway."
"That's not—" Hermione stopped, regrouped. "He doesn't speak for me."
"He doesn't have to," Theo said. "But he was right about one thing. Me working openly with Gryffindors looks suspicious, and it will make your life harder. I'm not adding that to your list."
"So you're just going to... what? Go back to the library alone and bury yourself in more books?"
"No," Theo said. "I'm going to take your advice. Start running in the mornings. Practice shields and Expelliarmus until I can cast them half-asleep. Use Snape's help for potions and whatever spellwork he'll tolerate. If you still want to help, bring the list you mentioned tomorrow. I'll use it."
She stared at him for a long moment. "That's it?"
"That's it," he said. "I'm not asking you to sneak around after curfew or blow up your friendships. Not yet, anyway."
That dragged another involuntary huff of laughter out of her. "You're infuriatingly reasonable."
"Occupational hazard," Theo said. "Staying alive in Slytherin requires some."
She rolled her eyes, but the edge had softened. "I'll bring the list. After lunch. Don't overdo it tomorrow morning or you'll collapse halfway through Transfiguration."
"I'll try not to die on McGonagall's floor," Theo said. "Bad form for a champion."
She shook her head and turned back toward the main staircase. Theo waited until she'd vanished from sight, then headed down to the dungeons.
If he was going to do this—actually try—he needed to understand exactly how far his current capabilities fell short.
The dungeons were cool and dim, torches casting wavering shadows across stone. Snape's office door was marked with a brass plaque that had lost its shine decades ago. Theo knocked twice.
"Enter," came the muffled reply.
Severus Snape was grading essays, his black robes folded elegantly across a chair that looked fundamentally uncomfortable. He glanced up when Theo closed the door, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them—recognition, maybe, of two people who'd learned to survive in Slytherin through means other than natural charisma or family power.
"Mr Hale," Snape said, setting down his quill. "You've finished with Defensive Theory?"
"No, sir. I wanted to ask..." Theo hesitated. "Am I wasting my time?"
Snape's expression didn't change. "Explain."
"I'm preparing for the Tournament. But I'm thinking like a student preparing for O.W.L.s, not like someone trying to survive something actually dangerous. I need to know whether my approach is functional or whether I should pivot."
Snape leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "You're asking whether you have enough time to acquire the skills necessary to survive three tasks of unknown difficulty with an unknown skill set."
"Yes, professor."
"You don't," Snape said flatly. "You'll die."
The words were delivered without malice or drama. Simply fact. Theo appreciated that. It meant Snape wasn't softening his evaluation for comfort.
"Then what should I be doing differently?"
"Identify your advantages," Snape said. "You are not Diggory—you lack his physical grace and Quidditch training. You are not Potter—you lack his recent combat experience, however accidental. You are not Delacour—you lack her Veela advantages and foreign instruction. What you possess is intelligence and the absence of expectation. The Tournament will anticipate champions who are already proud, already confident. A sixth-year Slytherin who has spent years cultivating invisibility may think in ways the Tournament's designer did not anticipate."
Snape stood, moving to the shelf behind his desk. He extracted a slim volume bound in dark leather. "The Triwizard Tournament has occurred three times in recorded history. Each has had different tasks. But three patterns emerge: the first task tests nerve under pressure. The second tests problem-solving under environmental constraint. The third tests—well. The third tests whatever the magical world believes a champion should be."
He handed the book to Theo. "Read this. Not as revision, but as pattern recognition. Learn how previous champions failed. Learn which failures were inevitable and which were choices."
Theo accepted the book carefully. "Will you help me with spellwork?"
"You will practice defensive spells in the chamber off my office on Wednesday and Friday evenings at six," Snape said. "Alone. I will observe and correct errors. You will not waste my time with sloppy technique. You will not apologise for your natural limitations—you will simply improve them. Is this acceptable?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
Snape had already returned to his essays. "You may leave now, Mr. Hale. And take the book with you. Return it when you've finished."
Theo left the office cradling the leather volume, something warm and unfamiliar settling in his chest. It wasn't encouragement—Snape didn't do encouragement. It was something closer to respect, given reluctantly by someone who recognised what it meant to be alone in a house built for predators.
The corridors were thinning as he passed the now-closed library doors on his way back to the dormitory. But Theo found himself smiling faintly. In four days, he'd gone from background extra to someone with two people—a cold, brilliant professor and a Gryffindor with a reputation for being the cleverest witch in her year—invested, however slightly, in whether he lived.
Mediocrity, he thought, had been a very comfortable prison.
He was done living in it.
In the Gryffindor common room, Hermione sat with her hands folded in her lap while Ronald paced in front of the fire, muttering darkly to himself.
"He's a Slytherin," Ronald said for approximately the fifteenth time. "And he's in the Tournament. Why would you help him?"
"Because," Hermione said carefully, "he asked. And because watching him fail unnecessarily isn't fair competition; it's negligence."
"He probably cheated to get in," Ron muttered.
Hermione didn't answer. She was thinking about the moment when Theo had decided to leave the library, when he'd chosen her social stability over his own preparation out of respect for her friendships. That was the action of someone who could think beyond himself, beyond the immediate competition. It was, she realised, rare at Hogwarts, where most people were trapped in their own narratives.
Ron kept pacing, throwing in the occasional "slimy Slytherin" and "bet he enjoyed getting Harry in trouble," but Hermione had stopped listening.
She would help Theo. And she would be careful about it. But she would help him.
Because he was right—survival mattered more than any Tournament.
And because something in his quiet determination had reminded her that the wizarding world was larger than the conflicts that dominated her own life.