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Chapter Text

The portrait hole slammed shut behind Harry. The Gryffindor common room went dead silent, like someone had yanked the plug out of the world. Every face turned to him in unison, expressions frozen in shock, disbelief, and sudden, electrifying curiosity. Even the crackling fireplace seemed to quieten, its flames casting long, flickering shadows across the walls

 

Then Fred Weasley let out a loud whoop that shattered the silence like a dropped goblet.

 

“Oi, Hogwarts Champion! Didn’t know you were such a glory hog!” His voice loud with amusement.

 

“Bit rude not to tell your adoring fans you were entering,” George added, stepping out from a huddle of students, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Really, we feel betrayed. Deeply.”

 

The two twins sauntered their way towards him shoving innocent Gryffindors out of the way as they marched.

 

Before Harry could say a word, the twins seized him—Fred on the left, George on the right and hoisted him clean off the ground. He stumbled as they dragged him toward the nearest table, his bag slipping from his shoulder and thudding to the floor. Someone yelped as they were bumped aside in the process.

 

“Up you go, Champion!” Fred declared, and with a practiced heave, they lifted Harry onto the scarred wooden tabletop.

“Speech! Speech! Speech!” the twins chanted in unison, raising their fists into the air.

The room erupted. Laughter, cheers, and whistles filled every inch of the tower. Students pressed forward to get a better look. Someone clapped Harry on the back. Another tried to hand him a goblet of pumpkin juice like it was champagne. Seamus Finnigan had climbed onto a nearby chair and was leading a new chant,

“Potter for President!”

While Dean Thomas played along with a trumpet sound made entirely with his hands.

Harry raised his hands helplessly, his face burning. “I didn’t” he started, but his voice barely carried over the noise.

“Oh, modest, are you?” George called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “He’s modest, everyone!”

“Next thing you know he’ll say he didn’t mean to win,” Fred added, elbowing Harry with exaggerated glee. “Honestly, mate, you could’ve just told us you fancied eternal glory.”

“Yeah,” said Lee Jordan from the fireplace area, “would’ve helped with the betting pool. I’d have backed you for sure.”

Harry tried again, louder this time. “I didn’t put my name in the Goblet!”

The cheers faltered for just a moment, a flicker of confusion passing over a few faces. But then Angelina Johnson shouted from the back, “Doesn’t matter how you got in, Potter! You’re our Champion now, so you’d better win it for Gryffindor!”

The common room roared its approval. Harry could feel the floorboards beneath the table vibrate with every stomp and cheer. Someone started waving a Gryffindor banner that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Scarlet and gold scarves were tossed over his shoulders. A butterbeer was pushed into his hand, its neck sticky with condensation. It felt ridiculous and surreal all at once.

He gave a stiff smile, trying to play along, but inside, his thoughts churned. His ears rang with the noise. Everyone assumed it was a prank, or worse, that he was enjoying the spotlight. But the truth, he hadn’t entered, didn’t want any of this.

Ron stood near the stairs to the boys’ dormitories, apart from the crowd. His expression was unreadable. He didn’t cheer, didn’t join the laughter, didn’t crack a joke. Just watched.

Harry lowered the butterbeer to the table and raised his hands again. “Really. I didn’t enter. I don’t even know how it happened.”

But no one was listening. Not really. The room had already decided what kind of story it wanted to heard Harry’s version wasn’t it.

Harry didn’t say anything. He was still trying to work out if this was a dream, a joke, or a full-on mental breakdown. Fellow Gryffindors grooving around. Someone even managed to get the wireless to work as the Weird Sisters blared in the background their latest hit playing.

Someone shoved a party hat on his head. Confetti exploded from a Filibuster firework. The Gryffindors were already celebrating, whether out of shock, excitement, or just any excuse for a party.

Harry lifted his hand, motioning for his best mate to come over, but to his surprise, Ron didn’t budge. Instead, Ron turned his back and marched silently up the stairs toward their dormitory, his shoulders squared, his pace stiff and final.

Harry stared after him, confused. Ron never walked away, not from him.

He moved to follow but barely made it three steps before he was swarmed. Gryffindors surrounded him like bees to honey, their congratulations loud and relentless.

“Way to go, Potter!”

“You’ve got this in the bag!”

Hands clapped his shoulders, ruffled his hair, shoved butterbeer into his arms. It was like being caught in a whirlpool of noise and movement.

Snap. Snap.

He jumped and spun around toward the sound.

Colin Creevey stood beaming, his ever-present camera clutched in both hands, the flash popping again and again. “Harry! This is brilliant! Just one more, oh, no, two more—smile!”

Snap. Snap.

Harry groaned and rubbed his temple. This day was just getting better and better.

He exhaled deeply and stood still for a moment, trying to gather himself, his eyes scanning the room, searching. He wasn’t even sure who he was looking for at first—until he realized.

Her.

Golden-brown eyes. Wild, frizzy hair. That thoughtful, beautiful smile that always saw straight through him. Hermione.

She wasn’t here. He scanned every corner of the common room, but there was no sign of her. If anyone would believe him, it would be her.

The memory came unbidden: the two of them clinging to Buckbeak last year, wind whipping around them, her petite frame pressed to his back, arms tightly around his waist. Her hair had blown into his face, the scent of it lingering even through the cold air, and her voice—calm but terrified—whispering about how dangerous flight was.

It felt like another lifetime.

A flash of scarlet and gold passed in front of him. Angelina Johnson strolled by, laughing, one arm linked with Alicia Spinnet. They bumped past two wide-eyed second years, barely noticing them.

“HEY, HAR—oohhhh,” they said together, drawing out the last note as they spotted him still standing on the table like a stunned statue.

The laughter around the room swelled again, and Harry suddenly felt like he was being carried along by something he couldn’t stop, couldn’t explain.

And for the first time, truly, it hit him, he was alone in this.

Completely, terrifyingly alone.

Harry managed a weak smile for Angelina and Alicia. He tried to edge toward the staircase, desperate to escape the heat of the firelight, the noise, the cheers, but it was like wading through molasses. Everyone wanted a piece of him.

“Bet you’ll be the youngest winner in history!”

“Do you reckon they'll let us watch the first task?”

He muttered vague responses, brushing past eager faces and outstretched hands, not really hearing them. His head was pounding.

Snap. Snap.

Colin was still trailing him like a loyal puppy, camera in hand, snapping photos at every turn.

“Colin, can you not?” Harry said through gritted teeth, the forced patience in his voice cracking.

Colin froze, eyes wide behind the lens. “Sorry, Harry! It’s just, you’re famous again! This is big!”

Harry didn’t respond. He turned and pushed forward, finally reaching the foot of the boys’ staircase.

But he stopped. He hesitated.

The stairs led to the dormitory. To Ron. And right now, Harry didn’t know what he'd find up there, anger, jealousy, silence. Maybe all three.

He glanced back at the common room. The crowd had begun to thin a little, but the laughter and noise still lingered like a storm that hadn’t fully passed. The faces were bright, expectant. So many of them were looking at him like he was some kind of hero. But not the one person who mattered.

Not Ron.

And not Hermione.

His shoulders sagged.

He took one last look around the room, half-hoping maybe foolishly that she’d walk in. That she’d push through the crowd, march straight to him with that no-nonsense determination in her eyes and say, “I believe you.”

But she didn’t.

She wasn’t coming.

With a low sigh, Harry turned and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

He wasn’t ready for what waited at the top.

And then, by the sofa, half-tucked under a cushion like a gift from fate, he spotted a bottle of fire whiskey.

The dormitory door creaked softly as Harry pushed it open. The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight slipping through the windows and the soft orange flicker of the dying fire in the hearth. His bed sat at the far end, curtains drawn halfway like a mouth left ajar.

Ron was already there, sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away, hunched over, hands clasped between his knees.

Harry stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. The familiar warmth of the room did nothing to settle the cold weight in his chest.

“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet,” he said quietly, voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Ron didn’t turn. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all. Then he gave a dry, almost disbelieving laugh, quiet, bitter.

“Right,” he muttered.

Harry frowned. “You think I’m lying?”

Ron finally turned his head; his face caught in the half-light. There was no anger in his expression, but there was something worse: hurt. And underneath it, a flicker of resentment.

“You didn’t tell me, "He said flatly. “Not a word. Not even a hint.”

“Because I didn’t do it!” Harry snapped, frustration breaking through his voice. “I thought you’d believe me!”

Ron stood abruptly, the bed creaking behind him. “You think it’s easy being your best mate, Harry?” he said, his voice tight. “You’ve already survived You-Know-Who, you’re the youngest Seeker in a century, and now, now you’re Hogwarts’ bloody Champion.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Harry shot back. “You think I wanted this? I don’t even know how my name got in!”

Ron stared at him, jaw clenched. “You’re telling me someone else entered you, behind your back and you have no clue how?”

“Yes!” Harry said, his voice rising. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Ron scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t look too upset down there. Everyone cheering, hoisting you up like you’d just won the World Cup.”

“You saw me trying to get away. You saw me call for you.”

Ron looked away. “Yeah. I did.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving.

Harry sighed and sat down on his bed, the mattress sinking beneath him. “I didn’t ask for this, Ron. I’d give it back if I could.”

Ron didn’t respond. He crossed the room slowly and climbed into bed, yanking the hangings shut around him without another word.

Harry stared at the closed curtains for a long time. He couldn’t take this, his best friend, all but abandoned him. The silence was pressing against him like the fog; he could just barely make out the cheers and commotion from the common room.

His eyes drifted off to the window, the full moon hung up in the sky, cold, distant but yet bright.

He thought of his late father's friend, Professor Lupin the one teacher who’d ever made him feel truly understood. Lupin had carried so much pain with quiet dignity, always gentle, always kind, never asking for pity. Harry remembered how Lupin had looked at him last year, not as “The Boy Who Lived,” but as James Potter’s son. As a person.
He missed him more than he realized.

He wondered, if Lupin were here now, what would he say? Would he believe him? Would he understand that Harry hadn’t wanted this—that he wasn’t chasing glory, wasn’t trying to be special?

Probably.

Lupin would have seen straight through the noise, the spectacle, the suspicion. Just like Sirius would’ve. Harry ached with the thought of them both—two people who actually knew who he was underneath it all.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the window, letting the shadows swallow him. He let out a massive groan.

I can’t take this anymore, it’s just too much. First Voldemort, then a basilisk then Sirius, even though he technically wasn’t after me and now this.

Deciding to be childish for one night he glared at the curtains that made up Ronald’s abode, he stepped away from his bed, his footsteps soft and steady as he crossed towards the door, As he reached the heavy wooden doors that made up the entrance, he spun around, his gaze locking onto his antagonist’s curtained abode. Without hesitation he raised his fingers with a defiant flick of his middle finger while backpedaling through the doors slipping back towards the growing commotion of the ongoing celebration.

The common room was still alight with activity, the laughter and chatter swirling like a lively storm around the flickering fireplace. Harry weaved through clusters of celebrating students, their faces flushed with excitement and curiosity, but he barely registered any of it. His mind was elsewhere, caught between the weight of what had just happened and the ache of absence.

He made his way toward the worn, familiar couch near the hearth, the one he and Hermione always shared during late nights of studying or quiet talks. The cushions still held the faint imprint of her presence, and sitting there felt like the closest thing to comfort he could find in the chaos.

Dropping onto the couch, Harry pulled a threadbare blanket over his shoulders and stared into the flames, letting the warmth settle around him like a fragile shield against the uncertainty closing in from all sides.

His fingers brushed against something cool and solid beneath the blanket. Curious he picked up the object and bought it around his covers. His eyes landed on the object in his hands. It’s label reading fire whiskey, the amber coloured liquid shimmering in the light of the fire, small bubbles floating towards the top, he stared at it for a second, his mind racing back towards the stories that he had heard from his godfather Sirius Black. It’s potent warmth, the courage that it inspired. Harry turned it around, observing it’s label.

He looked around. No McGonagall. No Dumbledore. No rules tonight.

 

Screw it.

 

He popped the bottle open, and took a long, burning swig.

The burn hit his throat like a live wire, sharp and fiery, making him cough and sputter. His eyes watered, and for a moment, the heat seemed to ignite every nerve ending, searing away the fog of confusion and pain swirling in his mind.

He took another swig, slower this time, letting the warmth spread through his chest like a reluctant comfort. The harsh taste of the whiskey lingered, smoky and raw, but beneath it was a strange kind of solace, a brief escape from the weight pressing down on him.

Leaning back into the worn cushions, Harry let out a ragged breath and muttered, “Here’s to being accidentally famous.”

 

Hermione sat in her usual spot in the library, tucked behind a crooked shelf of dense legal tomes, where no one would bother her, and she could think, really think. The second Harry’s name had shot out of the goblet, she gathered her belongings calmly before rushing towards the library, table in front of her was buried beneath stacks of books so high they blocked out most of the candlelight. Some leaned dangerously, like they might collapse with a sigh.

Her bun was slipping loose, curls falling into her face, and her sleeves were stained with ink from hours of frantic notetaking. Her eyes darted across the pages like they were on fire, scanning for anything, anything that could help.

Harry’s name had come out of the Goblet.

And now he was going to die.

“Magical Contracts Through the Ages…” she muttered, flipping through it so fast the pages snapped.
“Flip… flip… flip… Ugh. Nothing.”

She shoved it away and yanked another closer.
“Unbreakable Binding Magic.”
Her nose scrunched. “Ugh, that’s just about marriages, gross.”

Still, she skimmed it anyway. Just in case.

The quill beside her trembled slightly, reflecting her nerves. She kept picturing Harry’s face when his name had been called, wide-eyed, confused, a little scared even though he tried to hide it. The whole school thought he’d cheated, but she knew he hadn’t. He wouldn’t lie like that. He couldn’t lie to her like that.

She chewed her lip, flipping pages faster, scribbling notes, muttering fragments of spells under her breath as if saying them might make a solution appear.

Madam Pince shot her a sharp glare from across the room when Hermione slammed a book shut, but she barely noticed. Her mind was spinning, full of curses, contracts, and the image of Harry standing in the middle of the Great Hall, alone.

“They can’t make him do this,” she whispered, voice trembling. “They can’t force a fourteen year-old into a tournament where people die, It’s criminal.”

She tore through another text, fingertips smudged with ink, parchment scattered all over the floor.

Then she stopped.

Her finger had landed on a paragraph in a dusty, old volume titled Oaths, Pacts, and Magical Enforcement. The words on the page seemed to sharpen, clearing into cruel focus:

“Any magically binding agreement created by an object of power (e.g. Goblet of Fire) may be considered unbreakable once sealed by intent, magic, and witness. Attempts to withdraw may trigger automatic magical penalties.”

Hermione stared at the sentence. Her heart thumped hard once, then twice, then wouldn’t stop.

She read it again. No loophole. No conditions.

Her throat tightened.

“Oh, Harry…” she breathed, voice cracking. “It’s real. It’s really unbreakable.”

The book sat heavy in her lap, but not half as heavy as the dread settling in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her temples and shut her eyes.

She had to find something else. She had to. Because if this was true… then Harry really was trapped.

 

Back in the common room, the party had fizzled into weird pockets of awkwardness. Fred and George were trying to restart a game of Exploding Snap with some confused second years. Most people had gone to bed. The music had died.

Harry was slouched in the armchair like a deflated balloon, the fire whiskey bottle sitting completely empty on the floor a second bottle had somehow appeared, as if Hogwarts herself had felt his need.

He stared into the fire. It blurred a bit. Or maybe that was just his eyes.

“Didn’t want this,” he muttered. “Didn’t ask for this.”

He took another swig. It burned less now. Or he was just too numb to care.

“Stupid goblet,” he slurred, “stupid Ron… stupid everything.”

His robes were crooked, his glasses kept sliding down his nose, and he was about one sip away from passing out.

From the corner of the room, Crookshanks jumped up onto the armrest, curled next to him, and purred like someone still liked him.

Harry gave him a pat. “You get it. You’re a cat. You wouldn’t betray me.”

He leaned back, eyes half-shut, the firelight flickering across his face.

He didn’t hear Hermione come in.

 

The entrance swung open, Hermione stepped into the common room, clutching her notes from the library tightly towards her chest, her eyes darted around, expecting a cacophony of noise, chaos, or anything.

Instead, it was quiet. The fire flickered within the hearth casting a long shadow over the furniture and half-finished chess games.

Then she saw him, Harry, passed out on their couch. Their red Gryffindor blanket wrapped around his body, her familiar curled up on top of him like a little orange bodyguard.

Hermione frowned, walking over, she sniffed, wrinkling up her nose.

“Oh Harry,” she sighed brushing his hair out of his face with a soft frown.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you out of this Harry, I promise.” she declared softly, leaning down so her head rested against his.

She moved diagonally, picking Crookshanks up and lowering him onto her lap before pulling out her notes again, rereading them by the fire while Harry snored softly.

Chapter Text

Harry blinked awake, everything was spinning, he let out a deep breathe before inhaling the atmosphere, the faint smell of cat, alcohol and smoke filled his lungs.

His head throbbed, his tongue felt rough. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it, toppling over himself and falling face first onto the floor in front of the couch. He heard a giggle.

The sound was like music to his ears, each decibel reverberating through his ears, The sound in question came from the shape beside him. Warm, Curled up. Everything was blurry.

But without a question, what was sitting beside him could only be described as an angel. Its bushy hair curled around its head like a halo; it’s smile piercing through his chest yielding a feeling of awe and reverence. Yet the shape... no the person was so familiar yet so foreign.

Harry’s arms raised towards his face, rubbing his eyes before squinting towards Hermione, his eyes barely staying open, his heart thumping like a herd of rampaging rhinos.

“Are... are you an angel?” he slurred, his voice full of wonder.

Hermione blinked. “What??”

“An angel.” he continued, his piercing eyes still squinting into hers. “I heard the older kids talk about them,” he mumbled, swaying slightly as he tried to sit up. “They’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe… and they live on… um… I dunno, somewhere floaty. You look like one.” He pointed at her accusingly.

Hermione stared at him, mouth slightly open, completely thrown by the way he was looking at her, like she was something rare, something magical. And not because of a spell.

She swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “Harry…are you drunk?”

Harry gasped “You know my name? Thats so cool!”

Hermione laughed quietly, unable to help herself. Merlin, he was a mess. Hair like a bird’s nest, shirt half-untucked, smelling like firewhisky and poor choices. But still, him. Still Harry. And somehow… still stupidly charming.

“You’re really out of it,” she said, brushing his fringe from his forehead.

His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a dopey smile spreading across his face. “Your hand’s soft. That’s probably an angel thing too, yeah?”

Hermione bit her lip, heart thudding way too fast now. She should’ve told him off. Should’ve teased him. Should’ve said something normal. But all she could do was look at him and ache just a little.

She’d liked him for ages. Quietly, carefully. It wasn’t the way he looked, or the whole “Boy-Who-Lived” rubbish. It wasn’t because he was famous. She couldn’t care less about the scar or the whispers that followed him through the halls.

It was how he made space for her, even when others didn’t. How he listened, really listened, when she rambled about things no one else had patience for. How his face lit up when she got excited about something, like her joy was something worth watching.

It was the way he jumped to defend her, even when it was reckless. The fury in his voice when someone called her names, like Mudblood, he didn’t just stand by. He felt it, carried it like it was his own.

He wasn’t perfect, not even close. He was messy, impulsive, and sometimes completely oblivious. But he tried. Always. He walked into danger without thinking, not because he wanted glory, but because he couldn’t stand to see someone else hurt.

There was something raw and real about him. Brave in ways people didn’t notice. Kind in the small, quiet moments. That kind of heart… that kind of goodness… it was rare. And she had fallen for it, completely ever since the end of their first year.

And now he was here, absolutely wrecked, calling her beautiful without even knowing who she was.

“I’m not an angel, Harry,” she whispered, voice gentler than she meant it to be. “I’m just me.”

He squinted again, blinking slowly. “You’ve got beautiful eyes… angel or not. I feel safe when I look at you.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “Harry…”

But he’d already flopped back onto the floor with a thud, eyes closing, a tiny smile on his lips. “Stay close, yeah? Don’t fly away.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, brushing his hair back again, heart full and aching. “Not ever.”

 

She stayed like that for a while, knees tucked beside him, fingers trailing gently through his messy hair, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The common room had gone quiet, the fire crackling low, shadows dancing across the floor.

It felt like time had slowed.

Hermione leaned her head back against the couch, letting out a slow breath. Her heart was still racing, but not from nerves anymore. It was something deeper. Warmer.

She glanced down at him again. He was peaceful like this, no pressure, no expectations, no tourney hanging over him. Just Harry. Her Harry. Even if he didn’t know it.

He mumbled something in his sleep, too slurred to catch. Then his hand reached out blindly, fingers brushing against hers like he was searching for her even in dreams.

Hermione let him take it.

Their fingers tangled, clumsy but warm, and her chest squeezed so tight she thought she might break.

“I wish you meant all of it,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

He didn’t respond. Just kept sleeping, soft and safe, holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And maybe, for tonight, it was.

 

The pale grey and orange of dawn seeped through the high windows of Gryffindor Tower, casting long, silver shafts of light across the common room. It was quiet, eerily so. The only sound came from the rhythmic scratching of a quill.

Hermione hadn’t moved.

She sat curled in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hair a frizzy halo in the morning light. The pile of books around her had grown. Her ink bottle sat nearly empty, her notes sprawling over three pieces of parchment, covered in tight, meticulous writing and underlines.

She’d been up all night.

Harry stirred beneath the blanket, brow furrowed before he groaned softly, the hangover creeping into his skull like a full-body curse. His mouth tasted like ash and regret. Something furry shifted on his chest.

“Cookshhenks?” he croaked, eyes half-opening to meet glowing orange eyes and a flat, unimpressed feline face.

Crookshanks blinked slowly, then let out a low, irritated meow, as if to say, “Really, Harry? Now?”

Then a voice from nearby, soft but awake, “You're up.”

He turned slightly. Hermione looked like a statue of herself, tired, focused, determined. But when her eyes met his, they softened.

“You reek of firewhiskey,” she said plainly.

Harry winced, sitting up slowly, blanket falling off his shoulders. Crookshanks stretched and then deliberately batted at Harry’s arm with a clawed paw, clearly annoyed by the disturbance.

“Yeah… I think the bottle attacked me.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Twice?”

“…Maybe.”

He sat there, head in his hands, until her hand appeared with a small vial. “Hangover draught,” she explained.

“You had one ready?”

“I popped over to the hospital wing.” Her voice was dry, but not unkind.

 

Harry downed it. The relief was instant, his pounding headache lifted, the nausea disappeared, and his vision cleared. But the pit in his chest remained.

“Ron’s still mad, isn’t he?”

Hermione hesitated. “He didn’t say anything this morning. Just got dressed and left early.”

Silence.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said, again, quieter this time.

“I know,” she answered without missing a beat. “I never thought you did.”

He looked at her, almost disbelieving.

She met his gaze with the same certainty she always carried when quoting a textbook or correcting Snape under her breath. “I did the reading. Magical contract law. The Goblet is binding. Whoever put your name in did it with malicious intent and if you try to back out, it’ll retaliate.”

Harry swallowed. “So, I’m stuck?”

“For now,” she said, not blinking. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop looking.”

There was a pause, heavy with things unsaid.

Then, she reached into her stack and pulled out a parchment. “I made a list of everything we know about past champions. Patterns, timelines, first tasks. I think if we study how previous tournaments worked, we can at least prepare.”

“You mean… like study sessions?” Harry asked, already tired.

“Like survival sessions,” Hermione corrected.

Despite everything, he let out a small, hoarse laugh.

“Thanks, Hermione.”

She smiled faintly, then reached out and fixed his collar gently. “You look like you lost a duel with a troll.”

He smirked. “Feel like it too.”

“Come on,” she said, standing, motioning towards the portrait hole.

And as they stepped out of the portrait hole together, the castle felt a little less cold.

For now.

 

The great wooden double doors of the great hall swung open with a loud creak that echoed off the giant chamber. Heads turned towards the noise.

Harry staggered in cussing, his tie slanted, hair messier than usual and his eyes glossy, slightly dilated.

“Why is the door always so damn loud?” he wondered in faint exasperation, wincing at the echo.

Whispers instantly flooded the hall; students leaned into each other trying to be inconspicuous, muttering and mummering behind hands, eyes flicking back and forth between the champion.

“Ignore them, Harry we’ll just grab some food and go, okay?” Hermione leaned in whispering into his ear, rubbing his arm affectionately.

Harry gave a halfhearted nod, his eyes drifting around the room. He took a step forward and nearly tripped over his own foot; Hermione caught him by the elbow steadying him before he faceplanted onto the cold stone floor in front of the entire school.

She marched forward with surgical precision towards the Gryffindor table, half dragging a distraught and stumbling Harry Potter behind her.

Gasps and stares followed them with whispers getting louder as they got closer and closer, Harry didn’t seem to notice or care, His normally alert expression gone in favor of a creased thoughtful look.

He bumped into the end of the bench and blinked at it like it offended him. Hermione sighed in mild exasperation.

“There is honestly no way he is drunk, He had a hangover potion for Merlin’s sake.” she thought watching him with a mixture of concern and irritation.

Harry’s eyes roamed around the hall looking... no searching for something, or someone.

Hermione curved over the bench her arm still around Harrys, she glanced around looking for a servette snatching one quickly from out of Lavender’s hands nearby. She looked around quickly filling her stolen wipe with crumpets and some sausages, grabbing a vase of pumpkin juice from nearby.

She turned to Harry who was still searching.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” she asked, her eyebrows raised, her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

Harry blinked, like he was just now realizing she’d spoken. He glanced at the food, then back toward the Hufflepuff table, unfocused.

“Toast,” he mumbled. “The thick kind. With jam. Maybe strawberry.”

 

Hermione sighed. “Of course,” she muttered, already reaching for the toast rack. She slapped two thick slices onto the serviette and handed them to him. “Here. Hold this please.”

Harry took the serviette with the food clumsily, nearly dropping it twice. He stared down at it like it didn’t quite register what he was holding.

Hermione leaned in, voice low. “We’re getting out of here.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded faintly, still clutching the toast and crumpets like a confused house-elf.

Hermione stood, looped her arm through his again, and tugged him gently to his feet.

“Come on.”

They moved toward the doors, the hall still buzzing softly behind them. A few students glanced up, but no one said anything. Even the teachers seemed to let them go without question, maybe out of respect, or maybe just unsure how to handle the scene.

The moment they stepped out into the corridor, the cold hit them. The castle was always drafty in the mornings, and it cut right through Harry’s robes.

“Outside,” Hermione said, already guiding him toward the front entrance. “You need air.”

They didn’t speak much as they walked. Just the sound of Harry’s shoes scuffing against the stone floor and the slosh of pumpkin juice in the vase Hermione still carried in one hand.

The great oak doors opened with a groan, and they stepped out into the crisp morning air. The grounds were quiet, mist curling over the grass, the lake still, the sky pale and washed out.

They continued to walk in silence, slowly making their way towards the tree by the bottom of the black lake.

 

Harry moved like he was half-awake, the serviette of food still dangling from one hand. The toast hung limply, untouched. His eyes stayed on the lake, unfocused but locked, as if something might rise from it at any moment.

Hermione kept glancing sideways at him, chewing her lip. Her grip on his arm never loosened.

When they reached the tree, she gently pushed him down to sit on the dry roots. He didn’t resist. Just slumped there, elbows on his knees, toast in one hand, staring blankly at the water.

Hermione sat beside him wriggling close, so their bodies were touching, placing the pumpkin juice between them. The silence stretched.

The after a minute or two, finally, she broke the silence, turning slight to face him, her hand resting slightly on his arm she glazed into his eyes, staring deep into the green abyss.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Harry,” she said softly, “can we talk about last night?”

He eyes glazed over, his dilated penetrating stare piercing and intense.

Hermione’s stomach exploded with butterflies, she felt faint, her mind spiraling as she internally scolded herself: Control yourself, Granger! she yelled inwardly as she let out a quiet whimper.

She jumped, her face aghast in embarrassment.

Harry blinked slowly, pulled from whatever daze he’d been drifting in. His brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly as he studied her, really studied her.

“You, okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low and rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours.

Hermione's cheeks flushed deep pink. “Yes, I mean, I just..never mind,” she stammered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and cursing herself silently. Her heart was pounding, too loud in her ears.

But Harry didn’t look away. His gaze softened, still intense, but warmer now. “Last night,” he repeated, voice almost a murmur. “Yeah… I remember.”

There was a small segment of silence.

The waves crashing onto the shore, the soft wind blowing leaves back and forth.

Harry continued, his face etched with a look of determination. He spoke quietly.

“Someone was with me. By the fire. I wasn’t supposed to remember… but I do. Bits of it. Pieces really.”

Hermione froze.

“There was someone next to me,” he continued, eyes searching hers. “She was holding my hand. I think I said something, I think I said too much. But it felt… right. Safe.”

Hermione’s mouth parted, but no words came out. Her hand was still on his arm, and now he gently covered it with his own.

“Who was it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “She was beautiful, all I remember is that she looked like an angel.”

Hermione couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of disappointment.

Of course, she thought bitterly. He didn’t know it was me. It took two bottles of firewhisky and blurred vision for him to call someone beautiful, and even then, it wasn’t really me he saw... was it?

She looked away quickly, blinking hard.

Beside her, Harry’s brow creased. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked, voice quiet.

“No,” she lied softly. “You’re just… confused. You probably imagined someone.”

Harry frowned, gaze drifting to the lake. “I don’t think I did. I remember how it felt. Like... safe. Familiar.” He hesitated, brow furrowing deeper. “She laughed at me. But it didn’t hurt. It felt warm.”

Hermione bit her lip. Her fingers twitched in her lap.

“I think I held her hand,” Harry said, glancing down at his own like it might still carry the memory. “She had soft hands.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

“I remember saying something stupid. I called her an angel.” He let out a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Merlin, she probably thought I was mental.”

“She didn’t,” Hermione murmured, before she could stop herself.

Harry turned to her, startled. “You know who it was?”

Hermione froze for half a second too long, then forced a small, tight smile. “Not really,” she said gently. “But whoever it was... she clearly meant something to you.”

Harry stared at her like he was trying to read between the lines, but Hermione was already looking away, her eyes on the lake.

Silence settled again, comfortable and aching all at once.

“She made me feel... okay,” Harry said quietly. “Like even if everything’s falling apart, I wasn’t alone.”

Hermione’s heart ached.

“You’re not,” she said simply, and took his hand.

He looked down, surprised by the touch, but didn’t pull away. His fingers closed around hers slowly.

“I just wish I knew who she was,” he admitted.

Hermione squeezed his hand once, steady.

“Maybe someday you will,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

They sat in silence for a moment longer, fingers still entwined, the soft rustle of the trees the only sound between them.

Harry finally broke it, voice low. “I wish things could just stay like this. Quiet. Simple.”

Hermione turned to him, brows softening. “But they won’t.”

He nodded, staring out at the lake again. “The Tournament.”

“Yeah.”

Harry let out a long breath. “I don’t want to do it, Hermione. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” she said. “You’ve told me. And I believe you.”

He glanced at her, a little surprised by the certainty in her voice.

“You’re not the only one who’s done reading,” she added with a wry smile. “I’ve investigated magical contracts. The Goblet of Fire doesn’t make mistakes, unless someone wants it to.”

Harry’s mouth tightened. “So, someone set me up.”

Hermione nodded. “We just don’t know who. Not yet.”

His jaw clenched, the weight of it all pressing visibly onto his shoulders. “Why me?”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then: “Because you’re powerful. And good. And that scares people.”

Harry huffed, bitter. “I’m not good at anything. I can barely stay upright half the time.”

Hermione leaned in slightly, voice firm but kind. “Do you remember, Harry?”

“Books and cleverness! There are mor-”

“Important things, friendship and bravery.” He continued with a solemn voice.

He looked at her again, truly looked, like he was seeing her differently.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said.

She smiled sadly. “Well, you’d definitely be hungover and toastless.”

He snorted, just barely, and shook his head. “Reckon I’d die in the first task.”

“You won’t,” Hermione said firmly. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

There was a beat.

“You'll help me right?” he asked quietly. “Train, I mean. Study. Prepare. Whatever I need.”

“Of course I will, that's what those survival session will be for.” she said and squeezed his hand again while grinning at him. “You’re not doing this alone.”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at their joined hands, the morning mist curling around their legs, the lake still and calm in front of them.

And for the first time since his name came out of the Goblet, Harry believed he might actually have a chance.

Because Hermione was still here.

And that meant everything.

 

The classroom was already half-full when Harry and Hermione slipped through the door. McGonagall hadn’t arrived yet, but students were seated and murmuring in low voices, most of them shooting Harry furtive looks as he walked past.

He pretended not to notice.

Hermione tugged him toward two seats in the middle row, not too close to the front but well within McGonagall’s “I’m watching you” range. She pulled out her quill, ink, parchment, and textbook with her usual efficiency. Harry dropped his bag with a soft thud and slouched into his chair.

Across the room, Ron sat stiffly beside Dean and Seamus, not even glancing their way. Harry clocked it, but didn’t comment.

“Just… focus,” Hermione whispered.

He nodded faintly. The door snapped open a moment later and McGonagall swept in, robes swishing, lips pressed into the same sharp line she always wore when she was in no mood for teenage nonsense, which was always.

“Books away,” she said briskly. “Today we’re practicing theoretical applications of human-to-object transfiguration. No live casting, not yet. We will be working through formulas and magical law first.”

A collective groan spread across the room. McGonagall ignored it.

Hermione, meanwhile, looked thrilled. “This is foundational magic,” she whispered excitedly to Harry. “It’s rare and advanced, but if you get it right, it can save your life.”

Harry blinked at her. “You think I’m going to turn myself into a chair during the first task?”

“Not unless you want to be sat on,” she muttered. “But turning something else into something useful? Absolutely. Think bigger.”

“Like turning a troll into a mug?” Harry asked under his breath.

Hermione gave him a flat look.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said sharply, having somehow heard him from across the room.

Harry sat up straight instantly. “Yes, Professor?”

“Do enlighten the class on why you believe mugs and trolls belong in the same sentence.”

A few students snickered.

“I, uh…” Harry hesitated, flailing. “Was just saying it’d be… efficient?”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Five points from Gryffindor for reckless logic.”

Hermione sighed beside him.

Class went on in a blur of magical theory, page numbers, wand motion diagrams, and a terrifying chalkboard drawing of a partially transfigured footstool with eyes. Harry copied notes, though most of his parchment became a mixture of formulae and tiny sketches of exploding toast.

His mind kept drifting, to the lake, to Hermione’s hand in his, to the girl he couldn’t quite remember and yet couldn’t stop thinking about. The ache of it pulled at him even as he jotted down “symmetry of transformation must follow biological structure.”

Hermione nudged him once when he dozed off mid-sentence.

At the end of the lesson, McGonagall clapped her hands sharply.

“For homework, I expect two feet of parchment outlining the legal and ethical risks of transfiguring another human being into an object. Due Friday. Class dismissed.”

Chairs scraped, parchment rustled, and students groaned as they packed their things. Hermione, unsurprisingly, had already written half her essay in the margins of her notes.

Harry sighed and shouldered his bag. “Do you think if I just transfigure myself into a textbook, no one will notice?”

Hermione gave him a look. “You don’t have enough spine.”

“Wow.”

“You walked into that one.”

He grinned despite himself. And as they walked out of class together, shoulder to shoulder.

 

They made their way down the third-floor corridor, sunlight streaking through tall windows. The castle was quieter now between periods, their footsteps echoing softly.

As they passed the bathrooms, Harry paused. “Hey, Hermione, mind waiting a sec? Just need to use the loo.”

She raised a brow, arms crossed, mock serious. “Make it quick. If you're not out in five minutes, I’m transfiguring the door shut.”

Harry chuckled, backing toward the door. “Terrifying as always.”

“Efficient,” she corrected, turning to lean against the opposite wall, arms folded, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

Harry quickly hopped into one of the stalls closing it before locking it with the locking charm, he sat on the toilet seat before rummaging through his bag with a gleeful smile.

 

His hand closed over the object of his desire, a squat bottle with a dark label, slightly warm from being in his bag all morning.

 

Firewhisky.

 

Just a bit. Just enough to quiet the knot in his chest.

He unscrewed the cap slowly, wincing as the scent hit him, sharp, familiar, comforting in the worst way. He stared at it for a moment, hesitating. The way Hermione had looked at him earlier… the way she’d stayed by his side, walked him out of the Hall, carried his mess like it was nothing…

His grip tightened on the bottle.

But the Tournament. The stares. The weight of everyone expecting him to die gloriously. He was exhausted just thinking about it.

“Just a sip,” he muttered to himself.

The cap twisted off with a soft crack. He raised it to his lips and tipped it back.

One gulp.

 

Two.

 

A third, longer than the rest.

The burn hit his throat and coiled into his chest, hot and comforting. His shoulders sagged. The knot in his stomach loosened. The ache behind his eyes dulled.

By the time he stopped, nearly half the bottle was gone.

Harry exhaled slowly, screwing the cap back on. He stared at the label for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, then stuffed it deep into the bottom of his bag, under books and parchment.

He splashed a bit of cold water on his face at the sink and blinked at his reflection, flushed cheeks, slightly glassy eyes. But manageable.

He stepped out of the bathroom casually, trying not to sway.

Hermione was still waiting across the corridor, arms folded, her foot tapping with exaggerated impatience. “About time,” she said, though there was a smile hiding in the corner of her mouth.

Harry just nodded his heart fluttering softly as her eyes roamed around his face.

He fell into step beside her.

“Better?” she asked without really looking at him.

“Much,” he said, voice low, steady. Too steady.

She didn’t notice the edge to his tone. Not yet.
But the alcohol was already settling in his veins, and his steps felt lighter. Too light.

The corridor stretched ahead, students filtering into classrooms, the buzz of school echoing around them.

And Harry Potter kept walking.
Smiling faintly.
Numb.

 

Charms was already underway when Harry and Hermione slipped into the room. Light spilled in through tall windows, casting warm stripes across the desks. Professor Flitwick stood on his usual stack of books, beaming over the class.

“Today, we’ll be working on Protego Maxima! A far stronger variant of the Shield Charm. Excellent for dueling, defense, maybe even… tournaments.” He squeaked winking at Harry with discretion.

Harry blinked slowly, his feet dragging just a little as he followed Hermione to a spot near the back. Everything around him felt floaty, like it was underwater. The firewhiskey buzz still curled through his chest, warm and numbing.

Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His smile was too wide. His eyes too glossy.

“You alright?” she whispered.

He grinned lazily. “Peachy.”

 

She gave him a look. One of those looks. The I-know-you’re-lying-but-I’m-too-tired-to-deal-with-it looks. He’d seen it before. It meant she cared. He liked that.

She didn’t buy it. But she also didn’t want to cause a scene, not yet.

“All right, partners!” Flitwick called. “One casts Protego Maxima, the other casts a minor jinx. Control, intent, timing. Off you go!”

Hermione stepped back. “I’ll shield. You jinx.”

Harry nodded absently, barely hearing her.

He swayed slightly on his feet, lifted his wand with exaggerated care, and slurred, “Rictusempra.”

The silver jet of light flew off, but not at Hermione.

It veered wildly and hit Ron square in the back.

“Oi! BLOODY, what the?!” Ron shouted, stumbling forward into Seamus.

Heads turned. Laughter bubbled up. Flitwick blinked in alarm.

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry just blinked, then tilted his head like the room was mildly confusing.

“Huh,” he said vaguely. “That wasn’t… where I meant to point.”

Ron spun around, fuming. “Are you actually serious right now?! You hit me with a jinx and you don’t even care?!”

Harry blinked again his eyes glazed as he stared at Ron.

 

He tilted his head, trying to focus on Ron’s angry face, but it was all a bit swimmy. Ron’s hair looked kind of… fire colored. Like actual fire. That was neat. Is it just me or did Seamus get a bit taller? His internal thoughts continued

 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, scratching his head. “Didn’t mean to hit you. You’re fine.”

Ron’s face flushed. “Of course I’m fine. It’s not the jinx. It’s you being a complete git lately! Merlin, you’re the Triwizard Champion now, right? Too good to even aim straight?”

Harry shrugged. His brain was moving slow, syrupy, like every thought had to wade through fog. “Wasn’t on purpose.”

 

“Oh, brilliant.” Ron’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Another ‘accident.’ You didn’t ask for the Goblet either, right? Didn’t mean to be the star of the show again?”

Hermione stepped in fast her eyes ablaze. “Ron, leave it.”

“No! He doesn’t even look sorry!” Ron pointed. “He’s just standing there like he’s high on, on butterbeer or something!”

Harry gave a lopsided shrug. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a Bat-Bogey Hex.”

Ron looked like he might explode. “Unbelievable. You don’t even care!”

Flitwick quickly intervened, voice sharp. “Mr. Weasley, that’s enough. Move to another partner. Mr. Potter, please try to stay present.”

Ron stormed off, muttering curses under his breath.

Harry just stared at the front of the room, lost somewhere far away. His fingers twitched on his wand. The toast in his stomach didn’t sit right. Neither did the ache behind his eyes.

Hermione didn’t speak. Not right away. She just looked at him, carefully, like he might shatter if she pressed too hard.

“Your turn to shield,” she said quietly.

He nodded and barely managed to lift his wand.

Hermione cast her jinx, light, easy, but his shield didn’t even flicker. The spell grazed his sleeve.

“You didn’t even try,” she said.

He gave a half-smile. “Tried on the inside.”

Hermione let out a soft breath, steadying herself.

“You’re sweating,” she said quietly.

“Warm in here,” he muttered.

“Harry…” Her voice was gentler now. “This isn’t you.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His tongue felt thick. The taste of jam and alcohol still lingered faintly in his mouth. He thought about saying something clever. Or lying. But the effort didn’t seem worth it.

Hermione stepped closer. “Please try.”

He nodded vaguely. Lifted his wand. She fired a jinx, not even a hard one, and it slipped past his half-hearted attempt at a shield, brushing his sleeve.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“Try again,” Hermione said, quiet and steady.

But Harry’s gaze drifted out the window, to the distant sky, the distant lake.

He felt amazing.

 

Hermione walked beside Harry in silence, her books clutched tight to her chest, her brows drawn in a furrow that hadn’t left her face since they left the Charms classroom.

Something was wrong.

Not just tired-wrong. Not post-hangover wrong.

This was deeply, troublingly wrong.

He hadn’t cast Protego. He barely reacted when Ron shouted at him. His spell had misfired completely, and Harry almost never missed. Not like that.

She’d seen him duel. Seen him cast with clarity even when everything was collapsing around them.

But today… he was slow. Wand shaky. Unfocused. And the way his eyes kept slipping off her, like he couldn’t quite follow her words…

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

She should’ve said something. She wanted to say something. But that look on his face, blank, distant, faintly smiling like he was somewhere far away, it scared her.

He hadn’t even defended himself when Ron lashed out.

He just… let it happen.

And that smile, it wasn’t real. It was glassy. Faint. Like the shell of something that used to be Harry.

She risked a glance at him now. He was walking just a step ahead, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly down. His robes were crooked. His tie was barely tied. And there was this… smell.

Not strong. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But she did. She always did.

A trace of firewhiskey.

Her pulse quickened.

He’d gone to the bathroom before Charms. Only a minute or two. She hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d joked. Waited. Smiled.

And he’d come out calmer. Softer. But not better.

He’d come out like he was wrapped in wool.

“Damn it,” she whispered to herself.

They turned a corner. The corridor was empty. She stopped walking.

“Harry,” she said suddenly.

He paused, turning to glance back at her. “Yeah?”

His eyes were soft. Too soft. Like he wasn’t really there.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Because what was she going to say?

Are you drunk again?

Are you falling apart right in front of me?

Do you even know I’m here anymore?

Instead, she swallowed it down.

“Nothing,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t forget we’ve got Hagrid after lunch.” He nodded slowly, then gave a half-smile. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

Hermione watched him walk away.

And every part of her screamed to run after him.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

 

Harry’s steps echoed softly as he drifted down the corridor, the fog in his mind thick and heavy. He wasn’t sure where he was going, didn’t really care. Just away. Away from the looks, the whispers, the pressure.

He glanced back and caught sight of Hermione’s figure, steady and determined, following quietly but surely.

A flicker of panic fluttered inside him, but it was buried deep beneath the haze.

Quickly, he slipped into a narrow alcove by the side staircase, pressing his back flat against the cold stone. His breath caught, quiet, tense.

He peeked around the corner. Hermione slowed, scanning the empty hallway, her brow knitting in worry. She glanced toward the alcove.

Harry froze.

She stepped closer, hesitating for a heartbeat, then shook her head softly, as if deciding not to call him out.

Instead, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes still searching, before she sighed and turned away.

The soft click of her footsteps faded down the hall.

Harry closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. The silence wrapped around him like a shroud, Heavy, but somehow comforting.

He wasn’t ready to tell her yet.

But deep down, he knew Hermione would be waiting when he was and he’d pray to every deity that existed for her forgiveness.

 

Harry shuffled out of the alcove, his mind fuzzy and slow, barely paying attention to where he was stepping. Suddenly, thump! he stumbled over something small but solid.

“Oof! Sorry!” Harry muttered, almost losing his balance.

“Master Harry!” a tiny, ecstatic voice squealed.

Harry looked down and saw Dobby scrambling up from the floor, his big eyes shining brighter than ever, ears twitching excitedly.

“Dobby is so happy to see Master Harry!” the house elf burst out, practically bouncing on the spot. “Master Harry! Master Harry! Dobby missed Master Harry so very, very much!”

Harry blinked, surprised by the sudden flood of energy. “Oh, Dobby… I didn’t mean to”

“No, no, Master Harry must not worry! Dobby is just thrilled!” Dobby exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if to hug Harry through the air. “Master Harry looks tired, yes, but Dobby knows Dobby can help! Dobby will bring tea! Or socks! Or even a nice spot to sit and rest!”

Harry managed a weak smile, still a bit foggy, but warmed by Dobby’s enthusiasm.

He glanced at Dobby, who was bouncing around excitedly like he’d just had a triple shot of firewhiskey.

“Dobby,” Harry said, lowering his voice a bit, “I’ve got a… uh, bit of a problem.”

Dobby’s big eyes widened. “Problem? Dobby is here to help Master Harry! What is the problem?”

Harry hesitated, then leaned in. “I need to get some special drinks. Not just firewhisky, something… different. Fancy stuff. You know, for… research.”

Dobby’s ears twitched. “Alcohol? Master Harry wants Dobby to fetch it?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Think of it like a quest. Dobby can be my trusty helper!”

Dobby clapped his hands, almost knocking over a stack of books. “Oh yes! Dobby can fetch! Dobby will bring all the magical drinks, firewhisky, dragon’s breath, elf-made mead, and even those strong muggle ones like vodka, rum, and Jack Daniels! Master Harry will be the happiest wizard!”

Harry chuckled, feeling lighter than he had all day. “Alright, Dobby. Let’s start with firewhisky, then see where the night takes us.”

“Dobby will not fail Master Harry!” the elf declared, puffing out his chest proudly. “Adventure awaits!”

 

Harry pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall, the noise and light hitting him all at once. His head swam a little, and he blinked hard, trying to focus.

He spotted Hermione sitting near the Gryffindor table, nose deep in a book. He wobbled his way over, clutching his stomach like it was doing somersaults.

Hermione looked up just as he plopped down beside her, eyes wide with surprise. “Harry! Where did you go? I was so worried.”

Harry gave a lopsided grin, fingers fumbling as he tried to find the right words. “S’cuse me, Hermione. I, uh… kinda needed a breather. Too many faces, too much noise, y’know?”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “You disappeared without a word, and we were the only ones in the corridor.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to steady himself. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to leave you hangin’. It’s just… this whole tourney thing… brain’s all scrambled.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, but she kept her tone gentle. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, Harry. “I'm here for you.”

Harry’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “Thanks, Hermione. That… that really means a lot. You’re my best friend.”

She smiled back, reaching out to squeeze his hand. Harry felt a warm buzz, not just from the lingering firewhisky, but from knowing she was there.

“Come on,” she said, closing her book. “Let’s eat before you fall over.”

 

Harry shuffled beside Hermione, the warm buzz of firewhiskey humming just beneath the surface of his senses. His steps were steady enough, just barely, but the world felt a little softer around the edges, like he was walking through a haze no one else could see.

Hermione linked her arm through his, her eyes flicking to him every now and then with a flicker of something unreadable concern? Curiosity? She said nothing, though.

As they neared the trees edging the Forbidden Forest, Malfoy’s sharp voice cut through the quiet like a knife.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Potter. Looking as graceful as ever,” he sneered, leaning lazily against a tree. Crabbe and Goyle stood behind him like oversized bodyguards, scowling.

Harry blinked at Malfoy, his focus sliding just a bit but hiding it with a calm blink and a slow breath.

“Morning, Malfoy,” Harry said smoothly, voice steady.

“Heard you hit your best mate in Charms class. What happened? Trying to show off? Or just can’t aim for anything properly?”

Harry blinked, confused, rubbing his forehead. “Huh? Hit Hermione? When did that happen?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, but she stayed silent, biting her lip trying to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Harry referring to her as his best mate.

Malfoy laughed harshly. “You really are a mess, Potter. Maybe try to keep your spells on target next time.”

Harry squinted at Malfoy, trying to focus but feeling a bit out of it. “I… don’t remember that.”

Malfoy smirked wider. “Figures. You should really pay more attention, or you might hurt someone important.”

Hermione shifted closer, subtly gripping Harry’s arm. “Ignore him,” she whispered.

Harry nodded slowly, the warmth in his chest easing the sting of Malfoy’s words. “Yeah… whatever.”

Malfoy gave one last snide grin before striding away with Crabbe and Goyle.

Hermione watched Harry carefully, worry deepening but she said nothing.

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself as they continued toward Hagrid’s hut.

 

The sun peeked through the trees, casting long shadows over the pens and cages where magical creatures shuffled and snuffled. The murmur of students settling into their spots mixed with distant bird calls and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Harry’s head throbbed faintly, the warmth of the firewhiskey still buzzing beneath his skin like a secret hum only he could feel. His thoughts were soft and fuzzy, like he was wrapped in a thick woolen blanket that dulled the sharp edges of the world.

Focus, Harry, he told himself, blinking against the brightness. Focus on the creatures. No funny business.

But it was hard. Everything seemed a little slower, a little dreamier.

“Alright, listen up!” Hagrid’s booming voice cut through the haze, bringing the class to attention. The big man’s wild hair bounced as he gestured toward a cage.

“Today, we’re meetin’ the Nifflers, tricky little things, love shiny stuff more than anything. Yeh gotta be gentle but watch yerselves, they’re fast as lightning when it comes to shiny bits!”

Around Harry, students shuffled forward, some excited, others wary. Seamus grinned, trying to keep his footing on the slippery grass, while Neville adjusted his robes nervously. Draco Malfoy stood aloof at the edge, sneering quietly as usual, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

As Hagrid rambled on about Niffler habits, Harry’s mind drifted to the bottle he’d hidden earlier. Maybe just one more sip later… But he shoved the thought aside. Focus.

Suddenly, Hagrid clapped his hands loudly. “Alright, everyone! Let’s see how yeh handle the little blighters.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s arm gently. “Nifflers love shiny things, but they can be mischievous. Don’t let them run off with anything important.”

Harry nodded, maybe too hard. “Right. Watch the shiny stuff,” he repeated. Or was it don’t watch the shiny stuff? His brain buzzed like a Quaffle trying to fly through treacle.

Hagrid moved down the line handing out small cages. When he reached Harry, the Niffler inside was already twitching excitedly, nose pressed to the bars. Harry’s fingers brushed the latch, clumsy but careful.

Harry nodded slowly, trying to anchor himself. Easy, Harry. Just hold the cage. Don’t drop anything. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

Hagrid handed Harry a small, black cage containing a twitchy Niffler whose shiny nose sniffed eagerly at the world beyond.

“Hey there, mate,” Harry murmured to the creature. “We’re gonna be great pals.”

The Niffler blinked its beady eyes and immediately darted a paw through the bars, snatching a shiny quill Harry didn’t remember even bringing.

“Oi—!”

Hermione giggled beside him, biting back a smile. “Told you.”

She’s cute when she laughs... no she’s always cute. The thought slipped through Harry’s brain like a warm feather. He blinked slowly, then refocused. Or tried to.

Then, it happened.

As Hagrid gave the go-ahead to release the Nifflers into the pen, Harry opened the latch on his cage, but the Niffler had already slipped out before he even realized, darting between his legs and heading straight for Malfoy.

 

Hermione giggled softly beside Harry. “See? Mischievous little things.”

Harry blinked at her, his smile a little lopsided. “Yeah… little treasure hunters. Like me.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You feeling alright?”

Harry shrugged, eyes unfocused for a moment. Better than alright. I’m golden.

Malfoy’s words from earlier cut through the moment, echoing through his mind. “Better watch your aim next time, Potter. Don’t want to hit anyone important again.”

Harry blinked, confused for a beat, then shrugged it off. Probably nothing.

His Niffler zipped under a nearby bench, snagging a shiny coin from Seamus’s pocket before scuttling back between Harry’s legs.

“Whoa, hey!” Harry bent down to try and catch it and promptly lost his balance. In slow motion, he toppled forward and faceplanted directly into the muddy grass, his arms flailing as his wand shot out of his hand like a dart.

A ripple of laughter erupted around the group. Even Seamus let out a whoop.

“Potter’s got more grace than a troll on skates!” Malfoy snorted.

Hermione rushed to help him up, hands firm around his arm. “You alright?”

Harry blinked at her, cross-eyed with a clump of grass sticking out of his hair. “I was just… bonding with the terrain.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione muttered, brushing off his robe.

 

Malfoy leaned over with a smirk. “Careful, Potter. One more fall like that and the Triwizard Cup might sprout legs and run from you.”

Harry squinted at him, brain sluggish. What does Malfoy have against the grass? It’s a very trustworthy surface. He decided not to respond, mostly because his tongue felt like it had tied itself in a knot.

As the class continued, Harry did his best to act normal. He half-chased his Niffler across the grass (only falling once more), then watched as it happily hoarded several coins, a key, and a piece of Lavender’s bracelet before Hermione finally wrangled it back into the cage for him.

Then Harry’s silly drunk side kicked in. Trying to impress Hermione, he raised his wand dramatically and muttered a spell he barely remembered from last night. Instead of a graceful charm, a sudden shower of sparkles burst from the tip, right onto the back of a passing Pavarti Patil, who turned around, startled, her hair suddenly glowing bright pink.

Gasps and giggles rippled through the crowd. Hermione’s eyes widened, but she bit back a smile.

Harry blinked at the girl, shrugged with a goofy grin. “Uh… fashion statement?”

Malfoy snorted nearby. “Nice one, Potter. Trying to dye everyone’s hair before the tournament?”

Harry squinted, half-focused, and laughed softly to himself. They’re all just a bit jealous.

Hermione gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Maybe no more magic for a bit.”

Harry snorted with distain clearly visible on his face. Who do you think you are Granger, my mother?

“Yes mummy.” he replied quickly.

Hermione froze, her stomach clenched tightly as she let out a surprised gasp. She spun around so quickly, her bushy hair whipped Harry in the face.

“Don’t say that!” She exclaimed loudly feinting exasperation.

But Harry wasn’t paying attention.

All he could think about was the taste of his female best friend's hair as he quietly chewed on it like a cow grazing on grass.

Suddenly, Hermione yanked her hair free from his mouth with a sharp tug.

“Harry! What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” she snapped, eyes wide and cheeks still flushed.

Harry blinked, startled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, It just… slipped.”

Hermione huffed, brushing her hair back. “Well, don’t let it slip again. Honestly, you’re impossible sometimes.”

Despite her scolding, there was a softness in her voice, and Harry couldn’t help but grin.

The lesson continued with the Nifflers causing chaos, students chasing after their treasures, laughter and shouts filling the clearing. Hermione stayed close, steadying Harry whenever he wobbled, though she kept her concern hidden beneath her usual calm exterior.

By the time the class wrapped up, Harry was exhausted but unaware of how much his drunken haze had affected him. Everyone else seemed none the wiser.

As they walked back toward the castle, Hermione slipped her arm through his. “You did well today, Harry. Just… maybe slow down a bit, yeah?”

Harry grinned, eyes glassy but bright. “No promises, Hermione. No promises.”

And somehow, that made her heart flutter all over again.

 

The common room buzzed with noise, laughter, chatter, the clatter of chess pieces, but Harry and Hermione slipped quietly upstairs, steering clear of the crowd. The worn wooden stairs creaked softly beneath their feet as they made their way to Harry’s dormitory.

Once inside, Harry dropped onto his bed with a tired sigh, the day catching up to him. Hermione followed, settling onto the edge of the bed before crawling over towards her friend, her eyes flickering with concern.

“Think we dodged the chaos downstairs,” she said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Harry gave a lazy smile, his head sinking into the pillow. “Yeah… too much noise. Too many idiots.”

Hermione glanced at him, noting the faint flush on his cheeks and the slow, heavy way he blinked. He’s definitely not himself, she thought, but chose not to push.

Instead, she perched beside him sitting on his pillow, close enough to reach out but careful not to crowd.

“Harry… you can tell me if you want to,” she whispered, voice low. “About anything.”

Harry’s gaze lifted, meeting hers with a tired but genuine softness. “I’m okay, Hermione. Just… tired.”

She nodded but didn’t let go of his hand when he reached for hers.

For a long moment, they just sat there in the quiet, the rest of the castle alive and buzzing far below.

And for once, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

She shifted beside Harry, breaking the quiet. “We need to get serious about preparing for the Tournament,” she said, calm but with that fierce Hermione spark that always made Harry’s chest tighten.

She pulled out a heavy book, old and crinkled, full of tiny writing and weird squiggly diagrams. Spells. Lots of ‘em.

Harry blinked at the pages, feeling a soft buzz in his head. Focus, Potter. Focus. But all he could think about was how Hermione looked, her hair falling just so, the way her eyes caught the light, like she was some kind of magic himself.

“I’ve been up all night going through this,” she said, flipping the pages carefully. “Here’s a list of spells you need to learn, defensive charms, offensive spells, curses, and some advanced stuff. Not just power. Control. Speed.”

Harry tried to focus on the words, but his mind wandered, noticing the curve of her smile, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating. How does she look like that even in the middle of stressing over spell lists?

“Some of these,” Hermione said, pointing to a long list, “will keep you safe in fights, or help you out of tight spots. Others might come in handy for puzzles or tricky situations.”

She glanced up and caught his gaze. There was a softness in her eyes that made his heart skip. “I’ll help you practice. We’ll go over each one until you know them by heart and if it’s not enough we can go through the restricted section since you’ve got permission.”

Harry nodded slowly, warmth buzzing low and steady in his chest, his mind thick and slow from the firewhiskey still lingering in his veins. He kept glancing at Hermione, watching the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft curl of her mouth as she bit her lip.

Could she be... the angel from last night? The question floated through his mind like a whisper. That soft smile, the gentle way she stayed with me... Could it really have been her? But no, I’m probably just imagining things. It was the firewhiskey playing tricks.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she was the one who stayed by my side when I was at my worst? If I told her I thought that... would it change everything? Could I risk it?

His thoughts spun in circles. If I say it, maybe she’ll think I’m crazy. Or worse, she might think it was just pity. I don’t want to lose her; don’t want to ruin what we have. It’s enough just having her here, right now. Safe, real.

He swallowed, feeling the warmth swirl in his stomach, confusing his head. No, it can’t be her. It has to be someone else. Someone I imagined in a drunken haze. Because if it is her... then maybe that means something more. And besides she told me she didn’t know who it was.

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on Hermione’s face, tracing the soft line of her cheek, the sparkle in her eyes as she studied the page. She’s so beautiful. Always has been. But this, this closeness, it’s different now. It makes my heart race.

The internal tug-of-war kept him frozen, caught between wanting to reach out and terrified of what that might mean.

Suddenly, Hermione glanced up and caught him staring. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter. Her eyebrows rose slightly, and a soft, knowing smile played at her lips.

Harry blinked, cheeks flaring hot. “Uh… sorry. I was just... thinking.”

She chuckled softly. “It’s okay. I like when you think.”

That simple acceptance sent a warm glow through him. Maybe some questions could wait. For now, he just wanted to stay here, beside her.

 

The castle was wrapped in deep, velvety silence. Moonlight spilled softly through the curtains, painting silver patterns across Harry’s room. The usual bustle of the common room had long since faded, replaced by the gentle hum of nighttime stillness. It had been an hour since Hermione left, her faint scent of vanilla etched onto his bedsheets.

Harry lay on his bed, eyes half-lidded but restless. The warmth from the firewhiskey still fluttered in his chest, but something was missing, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Then he remembered.

He had to prepare for tomorrow

Softly, almost like a whisper, he called out, “Dobby?”

A tiny rustle came from the corner, and in a blink, Dobby appeared, his big eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Harry Potter wishes for something, sir?” Dobby asked eagerly, bowing low.

Harry smiled faintly, voice low and lazy. “Could you bring me a bottle of vodka? Just one.”

“Dobby will fetch it immediately, sir!” The elf disappeared with a soft pop.

Minutes later, Dobby returned, carefully carrying a single bottle of vodka. “Here is your request, sir,” he said softly, setting it on the bedside table.

Harry reached out, fingertips brushing the bottle. “Thanks, Dobby. You’re a lifesaver.”

Dobby beamed. “Dobby is always happy to help Harry Potter, sir.”

Just as Harry settled back, a faint murmuring drifted from the corner of the dormitory, Neville’s sleepy voice echoing softly across the room.

“I’ve got to feed the toads... don’t forget the worms...”

Harry chuckled quietly, the peaceful oddness of the moment settling over him.

Chapter Text

The boys' dormitory door creaked open, letting in a slice of golden sunrise and the unmistakable sound of determined footsteps.

“Hermione?” Neville croaked from his bed, squinting at the doorway.

“Go back to sleep,” she said briskly, already marching across the room like a general on a mission. “I’m here for Harry.”

She stormed straight to the bed with the thick curtains drawn shut and ripped them open in one, dramatic flourish.

“Up,” she commanded.

A groan came from the tangled mess of limbs and blankets. “No,” Harry muttered, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “It’s not morning yet. This is illegal.”

Hermione was unmoved. “It’s six. Plenty of time before breakfast. We’re studying.”

“We?” Harry’s voice was muffled and pitiful. “We’re sleeping.”

“Wrong.” She yanked the blanket off him with a sharp tug. “You’ve got a month before the tournament starts, and you don’t know half the spells on my list.”

Harry blinked at her, hair sticking in every direction, eyes bleary and confused. “Did I do something? Did I offend you in a past life?”

“Get dressed,” she said simply, turning away as he groaned again and flopped onto his back like a tragic medieval jester.

Crookshanks, who had been peacefully curled up at the end of Harry’s bed, gave Hermione a grumpy mrrrow and leapt off with his tail twitching in protest.

“Even your cat hates this,” Harry mumbled as he sat up, rubbing his face.

Hermione scowled. “Honestly! I’ve been calling for him since five and he just ignored me! The moment I leave the room; he comes in here and sleeps on your bed?”

Harry blinked blearily, hair pointing in all directions. “He has excellent taste in nap spots.”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “He’s supposed to be my cat.”

“Maybe he’s unionizing,” Harry said, flopping back onto his pillow. “Demands better working conditions. More bed access.”

Hermione ignored him, already pulling a small roll of parchment out of her bag. “I’ve got a list of spells we’re going to run through today. Nothing too difficult to start, just shielding and disarming charms, then we’ll move into basic elemental work.”

Harry blinked at her. “You planned a full curriculum?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Do you want to survive?”

He sighed, running a hand through his mess of hair. “Not sure anymore.”

Hermione smirked. “Tough. You’re surviving whether you like it or not.”

And despite the ungodly hour, the cold floor, and his aching bones, Harry felt something warm flicker in his chest.

He grumbled, pulling on a shirt. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Hermione pretended not to hear him, but the faint smile tugging at her lips said she definitely did.

 

The castle was still half-asleep as Harry and Hermione walked through the quiet corridors, the soft golden light of morning just beginning to pour through the tall windows. Their footsteps echoed gently on the stone, and Crookshanks padded alongside them, tail twitching with mild annoyance at being awake so early.

“We’re heading to the Transfiguration corridor,” Hermione said, glancing at a folded bit of parchment. “There’s a room Professor McGonagall said we could use. It’ll be like our own little training camp!”

Harry yawned, rubbing his eyes. “You say that like it’s a reward.”

“It is,” she replied flatly. “Unless you’d rather be in the common room with everyone staring at you.”

They stopped in front of a heavy oak door. Hermione gave it a push, and the hinges creaked as it swung open to reveal a dusty classroom. Rows of unused desks were shoved to the sides, and half-faded notes still lingered on the blackboard. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, painting long golden stripes across the stone floor.

Crookshanks immediately leapt onto a desk and flopped into a beam of sunlight like he owned the place.

Hermione strode to the center of the room and spun around, her face bright. “This’ll be perfect!” she beamed at Harry, practically bouncing.

With a flick of her wand, the remaining desks and chairs floated neatly into a back corner.

“Right, warm-ups first. Ten shield charms. We’ll start light.”

She raised her wand, grinning. “Stupefy!”

Harry barely got his wand up in time. “Protego!”

The spell slammed into his shield and fizzled away. He staggered slightly but stayed on his feet.

“Again.”

They fell into rhythm, Hermione casting with sharp, graceful precision, Harry blocking (barely breaking a sweat), his breath growing shorter with each round. The air shimmered faintly with leftover magic, dust floating lazily through the golden light like tiny stars.

“You’re improving,” Hermione said, brushing a curl out of her face. “But you still need to react faster.”

Harry leaned against a desk. “Sorry, the pressure of trying to impress you is slowing me down.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Moving on. Expelliarmus next.”

“Fantastic. I love flinging my wand across the room.”

They continued, sparks crackling in the air. Crookshanks gave an unimpressed flick of his tail whenever a spell zipped too close to his sunbeam.

“Let's go Harry, Chop chop we don’t have all day!” Hermione nagged.

Harry raised his wand, trying to steady his breath. “Expelliarmus!” he called out, but the spell fizzled a bit, missing Hermione by a few inches.

She gave a mock gasp. “Oh no! That was so close! Again.”

This time, she fired back a quick spell, a harmless tickling charm, that caught Harry mid-spell and made him twitch.

Harry blinked, eyes wide. “Hey! What was that?”

Hermione grinned. “Just keeping you on your toes. You must expect the unexpected.”

Harry shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re brutal, you know that?”

She moved closer, stepping just inside his personal space. “Only for you. I’m trying to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself.”

Harry caught the way her eyes sparkled and felt a warmth rise in his chest. Why does she always look like she’s messing with me? he thought.

Hermione flicked her wand again, this time firing a spell that sent his wand flying across the room.

Harry gaped. “Hey! That was low!”

She shrugged, voice teasing. “All fair in training. Now, go get it.”

He scrambled to retrieve his wand, and when he turned back, Hermione was watching him with a small, soft smile.

“So, ready to try again?”

Harry grinned, feeling a bit more confident. “Yeah. Let’s see if I can get you this time.”

Hermione’s smile widened, but Harry didn’t notice the way her cheeks flushed just a little.

He raised his wand, aiming carefully. “Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s spell shot straight at Hermione’s wand. She caught it effortlessly, flashing him a proud smile.

“Much better!” she said, stepping closer again, her voice softer this time. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”

 

“If you keep practicing, you might just be the best disarmer in the whole school.”

Harry blinked. Is she serious? “Really?”

Hermione nodded, her gaze locking with his. “Yeah. But only if you let me help.”

Harry swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “I’m all for help.”

Hermione’s smile softened, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear again. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s heart did that weird jumpy thing again, but his brain got distracted by the next spell Hermione was sending.

He blinked, muttered, “Okay, ready for round two.”

She tilted her head, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re cute when you try to act all serious.”

Harry blinked again. “I’m not cute. I’m… focused.”

Hermione grinned, but then she went serious, voice dropping a little. “Honestly, Harry, I just want to make sure you’re ready. For everything.”

Harry’s heart hammered and he struggled to keep up with her gaze. “Yeah, me too.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “We’ve got this.”

Harry nodded, cheeks heating. He swore he felt a little less clumsy already.

After half an hour of practicing spells, mostly Hermione blocking Harry’s spells and giving encouragement, they finally packed up their things, the classroom settling back into quiet.

The sun was higher now, casting warm light through the castle’s tall windows as they made their way down the stone corridors toward Gryffindor Tower. Crookshanks padded quietly at their heels, occasionally flicking his tail with mild annoyance.

Harry’s muscles ached pleasantly from the practice, and a satisfied grin tugged at his lips. Hermione walked beside him, her brow still furrowed in that focused way, though her eyes softened whenever they met his.

“Not bad for a morning workout,” she said, nudging him lightly.

Harry shrugged, feeling a little proud. “Could’ve been worse.”

Hermione laughed softly. “You’re improving. Just don’t let Malfoy hear that.”

Harry smirked. “He probably won’t believe it anyway.”

Hermione paused for a second, her arm shooting out in front of Harry’s stomach blocking his path. She steadied for a second before turning towards him.

“I reckon, we should look into things on the muggle side as well Harry, what do you think?”
Harry paused, considering her words.

“I think that's a great idea Hermione!” he replied enthusiastically.

They slipped through the castle’s winding hallways, their footsteps echoing softly. For a moment, Harry could picture it all, for the next months this would be his new routine. Waking up to Hermione barging into his room, waking him up at the break of dawn before forcing him into an hour of vigorous training before breakfast. As tiring as it sounded, he was looking forward to spending time with Hermione individually.

But as they walked, his thoughts drifted, darkening. He thought about Ron.

Harry clenched his fists tightly. Out of all his friends, it was Ron’s acceptance he’d wanted most. But after everything, facing Voldemort in their first year, the Basilisk in the second, and Sirius just last year, Ron hadn’t even taken the time to believe him. Even though Sirius wasn’t truly evil, Harry had been stressed and scared that whole year. Just thinking about their third year made Harry want to vomit.

He paused, then suddenly threw his arm out to the side, forcing Hermione to stop.

“Harry?” She questioned, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow.

Harry took a deep breath, the weight of old raw guilt pressing down on him. He looked at Hermione, his eyes honest and a little raw.

“Hermione… I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. About what happen with the Firebolt last year.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I was awful to you. I blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. You were just trying to help, and I pushed you away.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, but she said nothing, letting him continue.

“I know I was scared, and maybe I didn’t know how to say it right, but I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve how I treated you.”

Harry’s voice cracked a little. “You’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I just… I should have trusted you more.”

Hermione smiled gently, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Harry, you don’t have to apologize. We all make mistakes. What matters is that you’re here now.”

“Besides, If Ronald wasn’t influencing you, I think you would’ve realized that ages ago.”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to defend Ron. “He wasn’t all bad, you know, he’s been under a lot of pressure, and maybe-”

But then he stopped himself. He thought about how Ron had acted, the way he’d ignored Harry’s side and snapped at Hermione instead. How sometimes he let his fears and jealousy get the best of him. It wasn't even his Firebolt and yet he was offended on Harry’s behalf.

He sighed softly, lowering his gaze. “I guess… sometimes friends mess up. Maybe Ron’s struggling too, in his own way.”

Hermione nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “We all do, Harry. But what matters is that you’re honest with yourself.”

Harry looked up at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Hermione.”

As they climbed through the portrait of the common room, Hermione glanced at Harry with a small smile. “I’m going to get changed and shower, then I'll meet you back down here in 20 minutes?”

Harry met her gaze and grinned back. “I’ll be quick?”

They climbed the stairs toward their rooms, the castle slowly waking up around them.

Harry froze mid dig, the trunk’s cavernous interior staring back at him empty.

Do I really need it? he thought, hands still buried in coat pockets. It’s been such a pleasant day so far, it couldn’t have been that bad. Maybe I’m exaggerating how awful being an unwilling champion is.

He straightened, brushing dust from his robes. His eyes suddenly fell onto it, The missing item.

The bottle of Vodka.

Harry got up.

He crept towards his bedside table. Picking it up, then paused.

 

No, he told himself, not today.

“Hermione would be so disappointed if I did.”

 

The classroom door banged open with a crack that sent a flock of parchment sheets fluttering to the floor. A towering figure limped in, supported by a weathered wooden leg. His shaggy hair framed a face lined with years of battle, one eye bloodshot and unblinking, the other a blue orb that whirled constantly, sweeping the room in slow, mechanical circles.

“Books away!” he barked, voice like gravel rolling down a pitch. His wand hand came up, knuckles white around its length. “I am Alastor Moody, Mad‑Eye to those of you who know your Dark Arts and today you will learn why some spells aren’t for your notebooks or your homework.”

He cast a single, sharp glance at the sea of pale, startled faces. The magical eye settled on Harry and Hermione, then cracked a half‑smile that didn’t reach the rest of his features. “My lessons are practical. My lessons are dangerous. And if you survive, you’ll thank me later.

The classroom fell silent under Moody’s stare. Even the usual whisperers in the back, Dean and Seamus, kept their mouths shut.

Moody limped to the front of the room, his wooden leg thumping dully against the stone floor, then turned sharply on his heel. He flicked his wand once, and all the desks shuffled themselves into a wide arc around the front.

“No point in learning about the Dark Arts if you never see them,” he growled. “You can’t defend yourself from something you don’t understand.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small jar, inside of which crawled a large, twitchy black spider. The class collectively leaned back.

“Now!” he barked. “Today, we’ll be going over the three unforgivable curses.”

Moody slammed the jar onto the desk with a sharp thunk, the spider inside scuttling wildly as if it could sense what was coming.

“Three curses,” he said, pacing before the seated rows of students like a predator sizing up his prey. “Three spells so vile, so twisted, they were outlawed for a reason. Use any one of them on a person, anyone, and you’ll earn yourself a life sentence in Azkaban.”

He drew the spider out with surprising gentleness, setting it on the desk. Its legs scrabbled against the smooth surface, trying to find a corner to hide in.

“Can anyone name me an unforgivable curse.” Moody continued, “Yes, Miss Granger.” He pointed his rugged boney finger towards Hermione who was bouncing up and down next to Harry enthusiastically.

“The imperius curse.” She replied “It’s a curse that places the victim completely under the caster’s control. They lose their free will entirely, they’ll do whatever they’re told, even if it’s something dangerous or… or against their nature.

Harry glanced at her with admiration, surprised by how steady her voice was.

“Very good,” Moody said gruffly, his normal eye narrowed while the magical one spun lazily. “Mind control. Slippery stuff. You wouldn’t believe what people will do when they think it’s not their choice.”

He raised his wand.

“Let’s see it in action.”

Moody gave the spider a cold glance before flicking his wand sharply.

“Imperio!”

The effect was instant. The spider froze mid-scramble, its twitching legs going utterly still for half a heartbeat, then, it began to dance.

It reared up on its back legs, spun in a little circle, and began to cartwheel in strange, jerky motions across the desktop. Some of the students gasped. Others laughed uncertainly.

Harry didn’t laugh.

He watched, brow furrowing, as the spider twitched and flopped on command, as if invisible strings were yanking it around. Hermione had gone quiet beside him; her eyes locked on the tiny creature with a mix of horror and fascination.

“You, see?” Moody said, pacing again, his wooden leg thumping with each step. “Under the Imperius Curse, you’ll do anything. Climb, jump, dance, throw yourself off a roof. Doesn’t matter what you want. That part of you? Gone.”

He flicked his wand again. The spider collapsed instantly, motionless and dazed.

“Some wizards learned to fight it,” Moody went on, his voice rough as cracked stone. “Takes strength. Real strength. In here” he tapped his temple with his wand, “and in here.” He thumped his chest.

He turned, his magical eye whirring as it zeroed in on Harry for a long moment. Then Hermione. Then the rest of the class.

“Don’t think you’re safe just because you’re in a classroom. The world doesn’t wait for you to be ready.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Even Seamus and Dean looked uneasy now.

Moody scooped the spider back into its jar and sealed the lid with a sharp flick of his wand.

“Next week,” he continued, “I’ll be casting the Imperius Curse on each of you. You’ll be trying to fight it.”

A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Now then,” he barked. “Who can name another?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Hermione raised her hand at once. And to everyone’s surprise, so did Neville.

Moody’s magical eye locked onto Neville like a hawk. The boy froze, hand half-raised, face pale but determined.

“Well now,” Moody said, his voice lowering slightly. “Mr. Longbottom. Let’s hear it.”

Neville swallowed hard. “The—uh—the Cruciatus Curse. It causes… unbearable pain.”

Moody gave a single nod. “Correct. The Cruciatus Curse. Crucio. One of the foulest spells ever created.”

He drew the spider back out of the jar and set it gently on the desk again. The class leaned back in their seats, as if distance might protect them from what was coming.

Without hesitation, Moody raised his wand.

“Crucio!”

The effect was immediate. The spider convulsed, legs twitching madly. It flailed and writhed on the desktop in obvious agony. Though it made no sound, the suffering was clear, and horrifying.

Gasps filled the classroom. Hermione’s eyes widened, and without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm firmly. Harry felt the sudden warmth and strength of her grip, and he squeezed her hand back, drawing comfort from the small contact.

Moody ended the spell after a few seconds. The spider collapsed into a heap, unmoving, twitching slightly.

“Not nice, is it?” Moody growled, scanning the class. “Not fun. And that was just a spider. Imagine that pain, multiplied a hundredfold, hitting you. Hitting someone you love.”

Neville had gone very pale, his knuckles white on the edge of his desk. Harry glanced at Hermione from the corner of his eyes.

Moody’s magical eye spun back toward Neville. His tone softened, just a hair. “You alright there, Longbottom?”

Neville gave a small nod but didn’t speak. Hermione shot him a worried glance.

Moody turned back to the class. “There’s no counter-curse. No defense but your own damn strength. And most don’t have it.”

He let that hang in the air for a long moment.

“Now then,” he said gruffly, “One more to go.”

A heavy silence lingered.

Harry’s chest felt tight. He already knew what was coming.

The buzz of unease curled in his gut. His mouth was dry.

Just a sip, his mind whispered. Just a little, to take the edge off.

His chest tightened. He knew exactly where he’d stashed the bottle this morning. Beneath his bed with his used towel over it. He could sneak it after class. One gulp. Maybe two. No one would know. No one would see.

Moody let the silence hang heavy for a moment, as if he wanted the discomfort to settle deep into their bones.

Then he turned sharply toward his desk again.

“There’s one more,” he said grimly. “The worst of them all.”

He reached towards the table and pet the spider softly, stroking its fuzzy head. It looked limp now, twitching weakly in the curve of his gnarled palm.

Hermione’s fingers dug slightly into Harry’s sleeve.

“This one doesn’t hurt,” Moody said softly, almost too softly. “Not in the way you’d think. No screaming. No twitching. Just—nothing. Silence.”

He raised his wand.

“I’m sorry little one, Avada Kedavra!”

A flash of green light burst from his wand tip, brilliant and sickly and cold.

The spider didn’t jerk or scream this time. It simply collapsed, legs folding in like a dead flower. Gone.

A collective breath was held.

No sound followed. Not a whisper. Not even a whisper of magic lingering in the air.

Harry felt Hermione’s hand trembling slightly against his arm.

“There’s no counter-curse,” Moody said, voice low and rough. “No shield that stops it. You get hit with that, and you’re dead. Simple as that.”

Harry’s stomach curled. That green flash, it hadn’t just been a spell. It was a memory. A scream. A cold nursery in Godric’s Hollow. The smell of smoke and something burning..

He blinked hard, jaw tightening.

A familiar itch tugged at him again. Just a sip. Just something to steady you.

Hermione’s thumb brushed against his arm, just the smallest motion, like she knew.

“We’ll talk about detection, evasion, and how to never give someone a clean shot,” Moody finished, pocketing the dead spider without ceremony. “Class dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Bags rustled. No one spoke.

Hermione let go of Harry’s arm only when they stepped into the corridor. Her fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

“You alright?” she asked quietly, eyes searching his.

Harry forced a shaky smile. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just… not the usual kind of lesson, is it?”

The corridor outside Moody’s classroom felt colder than usual. Students filed out in silence, heads down, voices hushed. No one was joking or laughing now. The lesson had left something behind, a chill that followed them like a shadow.

Harry walked beside Hermione, neither of them speaking for a while.

Eventually, she cleared her throat softly. “I hate that curse,” she said. “All of them, really. But that one…”

Harry didn’t answer at first. The flash of green still burned behind his eyes.

He glanced sideways. “Do you think he’s right?” he asked. “About needing to see it, to understand it?”

Hermione hesitated. “I think… I think he’s not wrong. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t feel… wrong. Watching it. Hearing it.”

She clutched her books tighter to her chest. Before Harry could reply, a blur of orange fur darted out from an alcove up ahead. Crookshanks padded toward them, tail swishing like he owned the corridor.

“Crookies!” Hermione lit up, kneeling without hesitation. “Where did you come from, you handsome little man?”

Her voice went soft and sweet, all warmth and affection, as her fingers sank into the half Kneazle’s thick fur.

Harry stared, something sharp tugging at him just under the ribs.

What’s that about?

He looked away quickly, jaw tightening for reasons he didn’t fully grasp. It was a bloody cat. A cat. And yet… he hated how easily Crookshanks made her smile. How she called him sweet names and held him like that, like that used to be meant for someone who wasn’t covered in fur and didn’t walk on four legs.

He scuffed his shoe on the stone step as they started climbing again, his mood darkening with every echoing footfall.

What is wrong with me? he thought. It’s Crookshanks. He’s... fuzzy.

But the image of Hermione still crouched, beaming, petting something else wouldn’t leave his head.

I need a distraction, Harry thought bitterly. Something to push that scene, and that sound, out of his head.

The itch returned, low and warm in his chest. Familiar. Comforting. Just a sip. Just enough to settle it.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, jaw tight.

Not now. Not in front of her.

Hermione’s voice cut through the thought like a blade.

“Library?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I figured we could look up counter-spells for controlling curses,” she said gently, her tone careful. “Something to make us feel a bit less… helpless, besides we’ve got a free period before lunch.”

He hesitated. He wanted to say no. He wanted to retreat. Wanted to vanish into that buzz where nothing hurt.

But then he saw the quiet worry in her eyes, the slight way she tilted her head toward him like she was waiting for the real answer behind his words.

“…Yeah,” he said finally. “Let’s do that, I just need to run to my room to get something, I'll meet you there in 10 though.”

Hermione smiled, small but warm, and started toward the library.

Harry watched her disappear down the corridor, her silhouette swallowed by the soft torchlight. He didn’t move until she was gone.

Then he turned and headed the opposite way, back toward Gryffindor Tower.

His footsteps were fast but quiet, the castle hushed around him. Too hushed. Every corner looked like a place that could hide a curse. Every shadow seemed to whisper Crucio. Imperio.

His mind throbbed, not with pain, but pressure, too much in too little space. The echo of screams, Hermione’s pale face, the feel of her hand clinging to his arm... and that damn cat.

By the time he pushed open the door to the fourth-year boys’ dormitory, his hands were already shaking.

He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside his trunk. The latch creaked open, and after a few blind seconds of digging, his fingers closed around cool glass.

The bottle was still there. The label read ABSOLUTE VODKA.

Harry sat back on his heels, staring at it. His reflection wobbled on the curved surface, wide eyes, messy hair, red-rimmed stare. He unscrewed the cap slowly, his throat already preparing for the burn.

Just one sip.

Just to stop thinking for a second.

The scent hit him first, sharp, bitter, familiar.

He hesitated.

She’d be disappointed.

His fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle.

But she wasn’t here.

He raised it.

And drank.

The vodka seared down his throat like liquid fire. His eyes watered, and he coughed once, hard, but the shaking in his hands slowed.

Just one sip. That’s all.

Except… his hand didn’t put the bottle down.

He took another. A smaller one. Just to even it out.

“That is disgusting,” he muttered to himself.

The silence in the room stretched.

Harry sat slumped against the four-poster bed, the vodka bottle resting loosely in his hand. His head spun, and the quiet of the dorm felt heavy on his chest. Just then, with a soft pop, Dobby appeared beside him, eyes wide with concern.

“Harry Potter must be careful, yes, very careful,” Dobby whispered, his voice urgent but gentle. “Dobby can help! Dobby knows a charm, a masking charm! It will hide signs that Harry is... not feeling quite himself.”

Harry blinked, surprise flickering through his foggy mind. “You can do that?”

“Of course, Harry Potter! Dobby learned many things! Not just cleaning and sock collecting.”

Dobby raised his hand, waving it carefully in a shimmering pattern. Soft blue sparks danced in the air before settling around Harry like a gentle mist.

“There,” Dobby said, smiling. “Now your eyes won’t be so glassy, your cheeks won’t be flushed, and your hands won’t be shaking so much, and you won’t smell! No one will know.”

Harry felt the charm settle over him, a light, calming veil that smoothed out the rough edges of his unsteady state. Relief bloomed quietly inside him.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry murmured, feeling a bit steadier already.

Dobby nodded seriously. “Harry must be careful. But Dobby will watch over Harry.”

Harry slipped the bottle back into his trunk, the weight a little lighter now, thanks to his small, loyal friend’s magic. Ten minutes. Then the library. Then Hermione.

He took a deep breath and prepared to face Hermione with Dobby’s help, at least.

 

The library was quiet, the soft morning light spilling through tall windows and casting warm patches on the worn wooden tables. Hermione was already there, surrounded by open books and neat notes, when Harry slid into the seat beside her.

Thanks to Dobby’s masking charm, Harry’s slight wobble was hidden, but inside, the dull buzz still hummed low, making his thoughts sluggish and his head heavy.

“Hey,” Hermione said smiling at him while pushing a heavy book toward him. “I found even more spells and curses for the tournament, but I couldn’t find anything for the unforgivables. We need to know these if you want to stand a chance.”

Harry blinked, trying to focus as his tongue felt thick. “Yeah, sounds… good.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, Hermione. I really want to get a handle on this.”

She studied him for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Harry… did you drink again?” Her voice was soft but serious.

Harry’s heart pounded. He forced a quick smile, shaking his head. “No. No, I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.”

Hermione’s eyes searched his face, doubt flickering there, but she didn’t press. Harry felt a knot twist inside him, guilt and shame prickling sharp.

He hated lying to her. But he hated showing weakness even more.

She sighed, letting the subject drop for now. “Okay. Just… be careful, alright?”

Harry nodded, swallowing the lie like a bitter pill.

 

The week blurred by in a haze of lessons, training, and quiet desperation. Every morning started the same: Harry dragging himself out of bed, his head pounding from the lingering fog of last night’s drinks. He managed to sneak sips here and there, careful to keep the effects hidden beneath Dobby’s masking charm.

Classes were a struggle. Potions felt like trying to read through smoke; spells wobbled at the edges of his concentration. But Harry kept his mask up, smiling politely and doing just enough to avoid suspicion. Hermione watched him closely, her sharp eyes filled with worry she rarely voiced aloud.

After lessons, Hermione was relentless with training. She pushed him through spell drills and curses, her voice patient but firm. “We need you ready for the Tournament, Harry. No shortcuts.”

Harry gritted his teeth, exhausted but stubborn. The physical training left him shaky, the mental strain worse. Still, he welcomed the distraction.

At night, the bottle beckoned, a siren promising relief. He hated the dependence but couldn’t shake the urge. The warm burn down his throat was sometimes the only thing that quieted the noise in his head.

The morning air was crisp, the kind that bit at your fingertips but didn’t quite hurt. Harry’s robes were slightly uneven, his collar crooked where he hadn’t realized he’d buttoned it wrong. There was a faint warmth curling in his belly, not from nerves, but from the single mouthful of Jack Daniels and coke, he’d sneaked in the toilet that morning. Just a sip. Just to take the edge off.

Dobby’s masking charm hummed faintly against his skin, hiding the scent, the slight flush in his cheeks, the distant fuzziness behind his eyes. Hermione, walking beside him with a small roll of parchment in her hand, didn’t notice a thing.

"Honestly," she muttered, scanning her notes as they walked down toward Hagrid’s hut, "I was expecting Flobberworms. Maybe Bowtruckles if we were lucky. Something gentle."

Harry blinked at her, only half-listening. “Floppy worms sound safe.”

Hermione frowned slightly. “You're walking funny.”

“Just cold,” Harry said quickly. “One of my legs is... protesting.”

She gave him a puzzled glance, then turned back to her notes.

They crested the hill, and the sight hit them all at once.

A large wooden pen had been set up just past Hagrid’s hut, its tall sides reinforced with iron bands that were blackened in places. Smoke curled faintly from one corner. A few brave students were already clustered near the edge, peering over with clear hesitation.

Hagrid stood in front, massive hands on his hips, beaming like it was Christmas morning. “Gather round! Come on now, don’t be shy!”

They did, slowly, reluctantly, inching toward the pen like they expected something to leap out and bite them.

"Blast-Ended Skrewts!" Hagrid announced, puffing out his chest. "Brand new! Little firecrackers, ain't they?"

Harry stared. "They're... hideous," he whispered.

Hermione pinched her nose. “They smell like the bottom of Snape’s cauldron.”

One of the Skrewts exploded a small fireball and flew sideways into the pen wall. The class jumped as it hissed angrily and reoriented itself.

Inside the pen, the Blast-Ended Skrewts twitched and hissed. Some were as small as cats, others nearly the size of terriers. They looked like overgrown, shell-less scorpions with too many legs and stumpy tails that sparked occasionally, giving off small pops of flame.

“Right,” Hagrid called out proudly, “today we’ll be learnin’ how ter care for these little beasties, feeding first!”

“Little?” Dean muttered under his breath.

Harry leaned over the fence, squinting. One Skrewt was doing something that looked suspiciously like trying to set another one on fire.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “This is… horrifying. It smells like someone boiled socks in dragon dung.”

“Pair up!” Hagrid boomed, already lifting a sloshing bucket of something red and slimy. “Grab yerselves a liver, put on the gloves, and step right up!”

Hermione immediately grabbed Harry’s sleeve. “You’re with me.”

Harry nodded, only a bit delayed. “Excellent. I can throw things.”

She gave him a look. “We’re not throwing anything. We’re feeding them, gently.”

They pulled on thick dragon-hide gloves that came up to their elbows. Hagrid handed them a dripping chunk of what looked like raw liver. It jiggled obscenely in Harry’s hand.

“This is not food,” Harry whispered. “This is revenge.”

“Don’t drop it!” Hermione hissed. “They get... excitable.”

They crouched by one of the smaller Skrewts, though “smaller” still meant it came up to Harry’s knee and had a tail like a stubby cannon.

“Easy,” Hermione said, inching forward with her liver piece. “Like offering food to a nervous cat. A really ugly cat.”

Harry snorted. The Skrewt hissed, sparks puffing out from its rear end.

Hermione crouched lower. “Okay, Harry, just extend your hand and”

“Feeding time, ya little dynamite sausage,” Harry mumbled.

He moved too fast. The liver flopped through the air and slapped the Skrewt on the back.

It froze.

Hermione froze.

Then the Skrewt exploded.

Not entirely, but its rear end shot a short BANG! of flame, launching itself backwards and directly into Harry’s chest.

He stumbled, yelped, and fell flat on his back in the mud.

Hermione gasped. “Harry!”

“I’m good!” he called up, blinking at the clouds above him. “I’ve become... one with the earth.”

The class roared with laughter. Even the Slytherins.

“Ten points to Gryffindor for bravery!” Seamus called.

“I’ve been chosen,” Harry said from the ground. “I’ve been chosen by the Skrewt gods.”

Hermione leaned over him, her face hidden behind a tight frown that was definitely covering a smile. “You’re covered in mud.”

“I feel connected,” Harry said dreamily, still lying down. “Physically. Spiritually. There’s mud in my ear.”

The Skrewt hissed again and scuttled away.

“Back on yer feet!” Hagrid called, helping Harry up with a single, massive hand. “Yeh did well. They like a bit o’ chaos.”

“I noticed,” Harry muttered.

Hermione wiped some of the mud from his shoulder with her sleeve, then shoved a new piece of liver at him. “Try again. Slowly this time.”

They kept going, Harry lurching from one near-death encounter to the next, while Hermione grew increasingly frustrated and yet somehow still patient.

One Skrewt chased Seamus halfway around the pen before Hagrid scooped it up with a laugh. Another set fire to Crabbe’s glove.

At one point, Harry tried to pet one, for science, and nearly got pinched in the face.

“Don’t touch them!” Hermione hissed, dragging him back.

“But he looked like he wanted a cuddle.”

“He looked like he wanted to explode your nose.”

Even Crookshanks, who’d appeared halfway through the lesson and sat grooming himself on a tree stump, looked unimpressed.

By the end, Harry was sweaty, smudged with soot, and had a small scorch mark on his robe sleeve. Hermione had tied her hair back in a hasty bun and was scribbling notes, muttering something about aggression patterns and defensive tail firing.

Hagrid waved them off cheerfully. “Great work today, all of yeh! Next lesson, we’ll start measurin’ their growth!”

“I vote we measure their distance from me,” Harry mumbled, dragging his feet as they walked away.

Hermione took a hold of his hand. “You’re lucky I charmed your robe earlier. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure your sleeves would be on fire.”

Harry laughed, genuinely this time.

Hermione glanced over at Harry, who was trying, and mostly failing, to wipe a smear of blackened liver off his sleeve without drawing too much attention.

“You’re a disaster,” she said with a small smile, shaking her head.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “I prefer ‘chaotic genius.’”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the warmth tugging at her lips. “You smell like you fell into a cauldron of stew.”

“Better than smelling like a Blast-Ended Skrewt,” Harry replied, glancing sideways at her. “You don’t look so fresh yourself.”

She laughed softly. “It’s the gloves. They don’t exactly breathe.”

They fell into step together along the stone corridor, the sounds of distant chatter and footsteps growing louder as they neared the Great Hall.

Harry’s mind was still buzzing from the lesson, the flashes of flame, the thumping Skrewts, and the way Hermione had barely seemed to notice his slightly off-kilter state. The charm Dobby had cast was working, but only just.

“So,” Hermione began, folding her arms thoughtfully, “how are you holding up? Today wasn’t exactly easy.”

Harry hesitated. “I’m… managing.”

She looked at him sharply, searching his face. “You sure?”

He gave her a quick smile, hoping to reassure her. “Yeah. Just… a lot to take in.”

They rounded the final corner, the Great Hall’s enormous doors looming ahead, its long tables already filling with hungry students.

Hermione gave a small sigh, smoothing her robes. “Come on. Food always makes things better.”

Harry nodded, grateful for her steadiness.

The Great Hall was buzzing with energy, the clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing beneath the enchanted ceiling. Sunlight streamed in, bouncing off the polished wood of the long tables piled high with steaming platters of roast chicken, potatoes, and fresh vegetables.

Harry and Hermione slid into an empty spot near the end of the Gryffindor table, the familiar faces around them chatting about the morning lessons and the latest gossip. Harry’s stomach growled loudly, betraying his focus.

Hermione set down a neatly crafted sandwich on her plate and looked over at him with a small smile. “You, okay? You look a little pale.”

Harry shrugged, trying to keep his face casual. “Just tired, I guess. The Skrewts are something else.”

She nodded, biting into her sandwich. “Yeah, I still can’t get over how dangerous those things are. And Hagrid’s idea of ‘harmless’ is always… interesting.”

Harry chuckled quietly. “You think that’s bad? Did you see me almost trip over one when I wasn’t paying attention?”

Hermione laughed softly, but Harry’s eyes kept flicking to the pumpkin juice beside his plate. The juice itself was plain, bland and spicy.

But not spicy enough.

He waited for a moment, watching as Hermione chatted with Neville a few seats down, then tilted pulled a small bottle from out of his robe pocket and with a quick maneuver he quickly poured its content into the goblet.

Giving it a quick stir which Hermione noticed. He took a small sip. The familiar burn warmed his throat almost instantly, the sharp taste cutting through the sweetness of the pumpkin juice. His fingers tapped nervously on the table, trying to steady himself.

Hermione turned back, catching his eye. “Harry?”

He forced a grin. “Yeah, just thirsty.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go and launched into a discussion about the notes on Ventus. A N.E.W.T level spell they’d found and started studying in the library earlier. Harry nodded along, though his thoughts were clouded and the world felt just a bit softer around the edges.

He took another discreet sip, careful not to attract attention, and let out a soft sigh of relief. The tight knot of stress in his chest loosened, replaced by a hazy calm. He smiled, catching Hermione’s gaze again and quickly looking away, hoping she didn’t notice the slight flush creeping up his neck.

Around them, laughter and lively chatter swirled, students trading jokes about Quidditch scores and the upcoming first task which was in 2 weeks. Harry tried to focus on the lightheartedness, but the pull of the vodka was steady and insistent.

Hermione’s voice broke through his haze again. “Harry, you’re awfully quiet. You sure you’re, okay?”

He blinked, realizing he’d been staring blankly at his plate. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, but his voice was a bit softer than usual.

She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly, but didn’t press. Instead, she nudged a plate of roast chicken toward him. “Eat something, at least. You need your strength.”

Harry forced himself to pick up a piece, chewing slowly. The taste was rich and savory, grounding him just a little more. Another sip of the spiked juice and he felt the familiar haze wrap around him like a warm blanket.

Thinking quickly, he subtly drew his wand and flicked it in the familiar pattern Dobby had taught him, casting the masking charm. A soft blue mist shimmered briefly around him, washing over his senses and dulling any telltale signs of intoxication.

He felt a calm bubble rise inside, pushing back the edges of panic and fatigue. The charm worked like a cloak, smoothing his expression and steadying his movements.

As the lunch hour wore on, Harry fought to keep his composure. His motions were slower, his grin a little looser, but no one seemed to notice, except maybe Hermione, who kept shooting him quiet, worried glances.

When lunch ended, Harry set down his cup and straightened, willing himself to focus.

Hermione gathered her things and gave him a pointed look. “Try not to disappear on me after lunch, okay we’ve got potions?”

Harry smiled, a bit too brightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they got up from the table, Harry felt a sudden burst of confidence, or maybe it was just the vodka talking. He grinned at Hermione a little too widely.

“So,” he said, wobbling slightly as he stood, “I think I could definitely take on a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a dance-off.”

Hermione blinked at him. “A dance-off?”

“Yeah! I mean, think about it, they’re all explosive, right? I bet I could out-boogie them.” He did a very uncoordinated little shuffle step, nearly knocking over his pumpkin juice bottle.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, a light, surprised sound. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. He reached out to steady himself on the table and accidentally knocked over a saltshaker.

“Oops. I swear that wasn’t part of the plan,” he said, cheeks flushing a little.

As they made their way out of the Great Hall, Harry’s steps were a bit uneven, and every now and then he would catch himself humming the tune of an old wizarding song, badly.

Hermione kept glancing at him, amused but also a little concerned. “Maybe lay off the pumpkin juice for now?”

Harry gave her a mock offended look. “What? You don’t trust me to handle my… spirits?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “I’m just saying, you’re acting like a first-year who’s had too much Butterbeer.”

Harry laughed, a genuine, easy sound. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m finally letting loose.”

Suddenly, he stopped mid-step and reached out to grab Hermione’s arm, or maybe just to keep his balance.

“You know,” he slurred slightly, “you’re the best dance partner a guy could ask for.”

Hermione’s cheeks colored, but she hid her smile behind a cough.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to sound serious. “Not like I’m saying you should ever dance with me. I’m terrible.”

“Thank goodness,” Hermione teased.

Harry grinned. “But if you ever want to change your mind, I’ve got moves.”

Hermione shook her head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible, Potter.”

By the time they reached the stairs to their dorms, Harry was trying, and failing, not to stumble on a loose stone. Hermione reached out and steadied him again.

Harry laughed. “Maybe I am. You’ve got sharp eyes, Granger.”

She smirked. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

Harry reached out and gave her arm a playful nudge. “Well, you’re definitely good at it.”

Hermione looked up, surprised for a moment, then shook her head with a small laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

They rounded the corner, their footsteps echoing softly.

As the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth years arrived for their double potions, a nasty drawl came from behind Harry.

Draco smirked, stepping closer to Hermione with a mocking tilt of his head. “Well, well, Granger. Still trying to be everyone’s know-it-all, huh? Maybe if you spent less time with Potter and more time studying, you wouldn’t be so useless.”

Harry stepped forward, voice low and sharp. “Back off, Malfoy.”

His vision blurred slightly at the edges, and a warm, fuzzy weight settled deep in his chest. His hands felt heavier than usual, trembling just a little beneath his sleeves. The sharp edges of Draco’s sneer seemed less sharp, almost dull.

He blinked hard, trying to clear his head, but the steady hum inside him wouldn’t fade. His heart beat a bit faster, but his movements felt sluggish, like moving through thick water.

Hermione’s jaw tightened but she held her ground. “I know more than you ever will, Malfoy.”

He laughed coldly. “Big words for a Mudblood. But no matter how many books you cram, you’ll never be anything but a glorified servant.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “That’s enough, Malfoy.”

He leaned in, voice dropping. “Just speaking the truth, Granger. You’re always so busy playing the hero’s shadow, but you’re nothing without him.”

Her hand tightened on her wand, but Draco just smirked wider. “Careful, don’t get yourself hurt trying to keep up.”

Harry’s wand was in his hand immediately, “I said shut your mouth blondie”

Draco’s eyes flashed as his own wand was relieved.

Harry watched in slow motion as Draco raised his wand. In reflex his own wand raised.

Harry’s vision blurred a bit, the edges of the world softening like a fog rolling in. His heart thudded harder, not just from anger but the warm buzz curling in his veins. The vodka he'd sneaked earlier wrapped around his thoughts, dulling sharp edges but making him feel bolder, recklessly so.

His spell shot out fast, aimed right at Harry’s face.

Harry’s head snapped to the side, the spell missing him by inches, but in that split second, Hermione was caught in its path. The curse hit her square in the chest, and she gasped as her teeth suddenly grew painfully long and sharp.

Harry’s stomach twisted with horror, his head swimming not just from the spell but the alcohol clouding his mind. “Hermione!” he shouted, stumbling toward her.

Hermione clutched her jaw, her eyes wide and panicked as she tried to pull her hand away from her mouth. “Harry… help…”

The buzz in Harry’s veins fought with the surge of adrenaline. His hands shook as he reached for her hand, the room tilting slightly around him. The weight of his mistake pressed down like a stone.

Malfoy sneered from across the room, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Harry gritted his teeth, fighting through the haze. “Finite Incantatem!” he whispered, flicking his wand. The spell surged toward Hermione, wrapping her in a faint shimmer of light, her teeth stopped growing, but they didn’t shrink back. She whimpered, clutching her jaw.

Snape swept into the scene like a thundercloud, black robes flaring behind him.

“What,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous drawl, “is going on outside my classroom?”

The room froze. All eyes turned to him.

Hermione was still seated on the floor, cradling her jaw, her breaths shaky. Harry knelt beside her, blinking too fast, the faint flush in his cheeks deepening, not just from panic.

Snape’s cold gaze locked onto them.

“Potter,” he snapped. “Explain.”

Harry opened his mouth. No words came out. His tongue felt clumsy, heavy. The buzz in his head hadn’t gone. If anything, it made everything feel too bright, too loud. His heart pounded in his ears.

“It was Malfoy,” Neville blurted. “He cast Densaugeo at Harry, and Hermione got hit instead!”

Snape didn’t blink. “And you, Potter, failed to block it? Again?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I dodged; he was aiming at me.”

Hermione stood shakily, still pale, but managing to speak. “It’s not Harry’s fault. He reacted quickly, it just… it happened so fast.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, flicking from Harry to Hermione. Then back to Harry.

Something in his expression sharpened.

Harry’s throat tightened. The warmth from the vodka still hummed beneath his skin, twisting his stomach into knots.

“I—” he started, then stopped. His eyes darted to Hermione, who was gripping his arm tightly, her enlarged teeth making her breathing ragged. Her eyes were watery and wide.

“She needs the hospital wing,” Harry said, louder this time. “Please. She’s in pain, Malfoy attacked her, look.”

Snape’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before turning to Hermione looking at her coldly.

“I see no difference.”

Hermione let out a soft whimper and took off, Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up laughing with silent giggles, pointing at her as she scampered away.

Something in Harry snapped.

He turned back to Snape, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The vodka buzz was still humming through him, not enough to stumble, but just enough to make everything feel too loud, too raw. His wand was in his hand before he even realized it.

“She’s hurt,” he said, voice low and shaking. “And you just stood there.”

Snape didn’t flinch. “Lower your wand, Potter.”

“You didn’t even try to help her!” Harry’s voice rose now, echoing off the stone walls. “You don’t care—”

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Snape cut in coldly. “And detention. Tonight.”

Harry’s vision swam. His breath came fast. The room tilted slightly as he struggled to keep the fire in his chest from bursting loose. His wand twitched in his fingers, but deep down, through the haze, he knew, one more step and it was over. He’d cross a line he couldn’t uncross.

Neville grabbed his sleeve gently. “Harry…”

His wand shot up, before anyone had any chance to respond.

“Depulso.” He screamed.

A sudden, invisible force hit Snape square in the chest. He flew back, crashing hard into the wall behind him with a loud crunch, his eyes wide with surprise as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

Snape’s body crumpled, slumping to the floor unconscious.

The corridor fell dead silent. Fourth-year Slytherins stared wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Draco’s jaw clenched tight, his usual sneer gone, replaced by shock. “Did Potter just... knock out Snape?”

On the Gryffindor side, whispers rippled like wildfire. Some students gawked, others grinned nervously. Ron’s eyes were huge. “Blimey... Harry actually did it.”

Malfoy’s face twisted with rage, eyes burning. “You’re gonna regret that, Potter!”

He raised his wand quick. “Petrificus Totalus!”

A jet of bright red light shot out, aiming straight for Harry.

Even with his slowed reaction time, his training with Hermione had improved his spell casting and dueling immensely, it was almost instinctual as a blue hue shield flared up, stopping the spell dead in its tracks with a loud crack.

Before Malfoy could react, Harry fired back, “Depulso!”

The force hit Malfoy hard in the chest, sending him crashing against the wall. He slumped down, out cold.

Harry stood tall, chest still pounding, eyes blazing as he glared across the room at the remaining Slytherins. His voice was low but sharp.

“Anyone else wanna try?”

The silence stretched thick like a spell hanging in the air. Then, Crabbe stepped forward, sneering but clearly cautious. “You’re just lucky, Potter. This isn’t over.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “Lucky? I’m done playing nice.”

Pansy Parkinson shot a sharp look at Crabbe, then glanced nervously at the rest of their group. “Maybe we should back off... for now.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel and dashed out of the hallway, the buzz of the vodka still clouding his thoughts but fueling his urgency.

The corridors blurred past him as he ran, the cold stone walls closing in. His footsteps echoed wildly, bouncing off the high ceilings. He barely registered the confused looks from passing students as he sprinted toward the hospital wing.

When he burst through the door, Madam Pomfrey looked up sharply from her desk. “Mr. Potter! What’s the meaning of this—?”

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry gasped, scanning the beds. “She needs help. Now.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded quickly, gesturing toward a curtained bed at the far end. Harry hurried over and pulled back the curtain.

Hermione lay there, pale and still, her breathing shallow. The long teeth that had terrified her earlier were gone, but she still looked fragile, her eyes fluttering weakly.

“She's stable, but she’s been through quite a shock,” Madam Pomfrey said softly, reaching for her potion vial. “She’ll need rest and care.”

Harry pulled a chair close to her bed and sat down heavily. His mind was spinning, not just from the alcohol, but from fear and guilt. He reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Hermione’s forehead.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice rough. “You’re going to be okay.”

For a moment, Hermione’s eyes opened fully, and she managed a faint smile. Then she closed them again, drifting into a deep sleep

“Harry! You’re needed, now!” Colin Creevey practically bounced into the room, The door bursting open with a bang

Harry blinked, startled. “What? Needed where?”

“The wand weighing ceremony! It’s starting and they’re calling your name. Everyone’s waiting. You can’t miss it!”

Harry rubbed his tired eyes, still feeling the dull haze of the vodka lingering in his brain. “Right… yeah. I’ll be there.”

Colin grinned, clearly excited. “Good! You don’t want to keep the whole school waiting.”

Harry pushed himself up from the chair, steadied himself for a moment, then headed for the door. He glanced back at Hermione, who was still peacefully asleep, and swallowed down the worry knot tightening in his chest.

“Thanks, Colin,” he said quietly.

“No problem! Come on!” Colin called as he bounded out, leading Harry towards the Great Hall.

Chapter Text

In the room, where the staff table usually stood near the tall windows, sat a row of judges. Dumbledore was in the center, flanked by Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman on one side, and Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff on the other. To Harry’s surprise, Mr. Ollivander stood nearby, quietly polishing a slender wand with a cloth as fine as spider silk.

The other champions were already gathered in a neat row in the middle of the room. Cedric stood tall and calm, his hands clasped behind his back. Viktor Krum looked as though he wished he could melt into the wall, shoulders hunched, and eyes narrowed. Fleur Delacour, poised and confident, stood with her arms crossed delicately. A single empty chair sat beside her, its polished wood gleaming in the afternoon light.

Harry hesitated in the doorway. His head felt fuzzy, the remnants of vodka curling warmly in his chest. He hoped the masking charm Dobby had taught him was still holding strong.

“Harry! Over here!” Ludo Bagman’s booming voice cut across the murmurs. “There’s our fourth champion!”

Harry forced a smile, walking briskly across the room. His legs didn’t feel entirely attached to the rest of him, and the floor swayed slightly beneath his feet, but he made it to the chair without tripping, which felt like a small miracle.

Fleur glanced at him, then away again, her nose slightly wrinkled. Harry pretended not to notice. Cedric gave him a brief nod. Krum didn’t look at him at all.

“Right then!” Bagman clapped his hands. “We’ll begin with the wand weighing and the first press conference for the Triwizard Tournament. Mr. Ollivander, if you please?”

Ollivander stepped forward with a polite nod, his pale eyes glinting as they swept over each of them. “A simple check,” he said softly, “to ensure all wands are in working condition before the tournament. No tampering, of course.”

Harry’s fingers twitched as he held out his wand, wondering if Ollivander could sense anything strange, anything off about him. Or maybe that was just the vodka talking again.

The weighing started. Fleur’s wand, rosewood and veela hair, gave off a faint, floral scent when tested. Krum’s wand made a sharp, crackling noise like thunder. Cedric’s was smooth and steady, producing a series of blue sparks in an elegant arc.

“Ah, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Supple,” Ollivander said, taking Harry’s wand. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold.” He turned it over in his fingers with reverence. “This one shares a core with another… curious how fate works, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t respond. He could feel a slow warmth spreading across his cheeks, and not just from the alcohol. All the eyes in the room were on him.

Ollivander flicked the wand. A stream of red and gold sparks shot into the air with a crackle. He smiled faintly. “Still in fine condition.”

“Excellent!” Bagman said. “You may be seated, Harry.”

“And with that, I am done for the day.” Ollivander declared and waved goodbye as he bounced across the room towards the exit.

“And now that-” Ludo started, but before he could continue the doors to the great hall slammed open. In strolled Professor Minevera McGonagall and she did not look happy.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ludo continued stepping towards the estranged professor. McGonagall ignored him as she pushed past him with ease, marching up towards the teacher’s bench before leaning over and whispering in Dumbledore’s ear.

“Ah-, I'm sure he had his reas-” was all anyone could hear before a silencing ward shot up.

As the headmaster and the deputy head conferred in the corner, a dramatic flutter of parchment and a series of loud, exaggerated heel-clicks drew every eye toward the open doors once more.

In strode Rita Skeeter, wrapped in glittering green robes that shimmered like dragonfly wings under the enchanted ceiling. Her crimson lips curled into a wide, toothy smile as she surveyed the room like a hawk about to descend on its next meal.

“Well, well, what a charming little gathering,” she trilled, her Quick-Quotes Quill already hovering by her shoulder, its feather twitching eagerly over a length of enchanted parchment.

Bagman’s expression turned slightly strained. “Ah, Rita, we weren’t quite expecting—”

“Of course you weren’t,” she said sweetly, cutting him off with a well-practiced smile. “But the people have a right to know, Ludo. The public demands insight. Especially when one of our champions is so… unexpected.”

Her eyes snapped toward Harry like a targeting charm, gleaming behind her bedazzled spectacles.

Harry, who had just sat down and was trying to breathe normally, froze. His stomach twisted uneasily, not entirely from nerves. The faintest buzz still curled around the edges of his thoughts, making the lights too bright and the noise too sharp.

“Harry Potter,” she cooed, gliding past the other champions without a glance. “Just the boy I wanted to see.”

Before he could react, she was beside him, all perfume and press. “A quick word, darling? Just a short interview for the Prophet. Won’t take a moment.” She batted her lashes dramatically. “Privately, of course.”

Harry blinked at her. “Er—I—”

McGonagall and Dumbledore turned just in time.

Rita Skeeter’s glittering eyes found Harry instantly.

“No,” McGonagall said crisply, her voice carrying across the hall like a slicing wind. “I have a special interview with Mr. Potter. Both me and the headmaster right after this wand weighing nonsense is finished.” She uttered the last bit with a disappointed glare at Harry.

Rita’s painted smile faltered for half a second before snapping back into place. “Oh, of course, Minerva,” she said sweetly. “I’d never dream of interrupting school protocol. Though I must say” she leaned toward Harry again, lowering her voice conspiratorially “I do hope we get a proper chat soon. The truth always comes out in the end.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to wince at the overly strong perfume cloud curling around her. “Sure,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. His head was still buzzing faintly. It made her words feel oddly distant, like they were underwater. Did she suspect something.

She couldn’t.

If she did his whole life would be ruined.

Without warning, Harry shifted slightly, meaning to step back from Rita’s too-sweet smile and suffocating perfume cloud, but his foot caught on the leg of the chair behind him.

He staggered, bumping hard into the table beside him.

Rita’s magically self-inking quill, which had been floating obediently near her shoulder, gave a twitch, then, as if insulted by the jostling, flipped mid-air and splat, dumped a stream of purple-black ink straight down the front of her lime green robes.

“Merlin’s beard!” she screeched, hopping back as the ink soaked into her blouse and splattered down one sleeve.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean—” Harry started, but even as he fumbled upright, his other hand smacked the corner of a goblet. Juice sloshed straight onto Rita’s clipboard, smudging her notes into a mess of dripping, illegible blotches.

Her lips curled back like she’d bitten a lemon. “Well,” she snapped, dabbing at the ink with her sleeve, “how very charming.”

McGonagall raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Rita, if you’re done being dramatic, kindly leave.”

Rita shot Harry a glare that could’ve scorched parchment, then stormed off towards the corner of the room, quill trailing sadly behind her like a wounded duck.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and muttered to himself, “Least it wasn’t fire.”

Dumbledore chuckled quietly behind his beard. “Accidents do happen, Miss Skeeter.”

From her spot at the judges' table, Madam Maxime gave a low hum of amusement. Even Krum cracked a tiny smirk.

Hermione would’ve probably had her head in her hands if she’d seen it.

But Harry just sat back down, the buzz in his head mixing with a strange, giddy relief.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You alright?” Cedric murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

Harry nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Just… she’s a lot.”

McGonagall came to stand beside him, fixing him with a look that was both stern and strangely understanding. “You don’t need to say a word to her, Potter. If she corners you again, come straight to me.”

“Right,” he mumbled, gripping the edge of his chair as the warmth in his veins gave a lazy swirl.

Dumbledore stepped forward again. “Now, champions, please remain seated for your official photograph.”

Another flashbulb went off. Then another. Harry blinked, squinting against the bright lights. He couldn’t tell if the flush in his cheeks was from the vodka or the endless staring.

A photographer called out, “Smile, Mr. Potter! Big smile!”

Harry gave a half-hearted attempt, jaw tight. Just a few more minutes. Then he could get out of here. Then maybe

His fingers twitched again, brushing the hidden flask inside his robes.

Maybe just a little more.

Far at the edge of the room, Rita Skeeter was still watching. And her quill hadn’t stopped writing.

Harry blinked, eyes stinging slightly as the room swam with light and movement. He shifted in his seat, shoulders tense. The back of his neck prickled, too many eyes, too much attention. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

Across the room, Rita Skeeter was still dabbing furiously at her ink-stained robes, shooting him the occasional dagger-like glare. Her quick-quill was circling her like a vulture, scribbling away in angry loops.

“Smile, Potter!” the photographer barked again.

Harry gave a twitchy thumb-up instead. Cedric gave him a sidelong look, half amused, half concerned.

As the final photo snapped, Harry stood quickly, nearly bumping the stool behind him again. “Sorry!” he muttered, catching it just in time.

“Mr. Potter,” Bagman called cheerfully, “a moment with the judges, please!”

Harry froze, halfway to the door.

Bagman beamed. “Just a quick word before we wrap up. Come along!”

With a resigned sigh, Harry turned back, plastering on what he hoped passed for a calm expression. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, still unsettled from the earlier Rita disaster.

As he approached the judges’ table, Madam Maxime gave a polite nod, and Karkaroff barely glanced at him. Barty Crouch smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, offered Harry a twinkle-eyed look and a gentle nod, as if silently telling him you're fine.

“Everything alright Harry?” Dumbledore asked quietly, out of earshot of the others.

Harry hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Just… a bit much.”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter, but his tone was soft. “It often is. But you handled yourself well.”

Harry nodded again, this time more genuinely. He glanced toward the exit, where he thought he saw a flash of bushy hair.

“May I go now, sir?”

McGonagall looked at him sharply.

“Not yet Potter.” she spoke her voice icy yet calm. “Remember, you still have to give me an interview.”

After the judges dispersed, McGonagall gave Harry a sharp gesture to follow. The hum in his head was starting to fade, but his nerves were still jangling as he walked beside her, leaving the crowded Great Hall behind and stepping into the quieter corridor beyond.

“Harry!”

Hermione’s voice cut through the bustle. She was threading her way through the dispersing crowd of champions, reporters, and judges, her eyes sharp with concern.

McGonagall turned, one brow arching. “Miss Granger, this is not—”

“Please?” Hermione said quickly, stepping up beside Harry and fixing her favorite professor with a familiar, earnest look, big doe eyes, furrowed brow, pleading just enough to still look respectful.

McGonagall paused, expression unreadable. Then, to Harry’s quiet surprise, she gave a curt nod.

“Very well.”

They entered a small, wood-paneled room with high windows and a heavy desk. Dumbledore was already seated; his calm gaze fixed on Harry with that gentle kindness that somehow managed to be both comforting and unnerving.

McGonagall closed the door behind them with a soft click and turned sharply.

“Sit, Potter,” she said. Her tone hadn’t lost its edge, but it was quieter here, more measured.

Harry obeyed, the chair creaking beneath him. Hermione took the seat beside him, looking slightly confused, her fingers twitching in her lap.

Dumbledore offered a faint smile. “We wanted to speak with you about what happened earlier, in the Potions corridor.”

Harry shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his wand in his pocket and the lingering hum of adrenaline still pulsing in his chest. Hermione’s hand hovered near his, just barely brushing against his knuckles. She didn’t speak, but the message was clear, I’m here.

“I reacted,” Harry said. “That’s all. Malfoy was taunting Hermione again. He cast Densaugeo. I dodged, but… Hermione got hit.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned into a line. “And what about Professor Snape?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “He insulted her.”

Hermione turned to him, startled, not by the words, but by the fire behind them. Her cheeks flushed. He attacked Snape… for me?

Harry’s fists were clenched white against the arms of the chair. Without thinking, she reached out, gently touching his hand, a quiet anchor.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Potter. You cast Depulso on a professor.”

Harry didn’t blink. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and steady. “I did.”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain, thick and humming.

“He stood there while Hermione was hexed,” Harry said tightly. “And he laughed. He mocked her. Didn’t even lift a finger to help.”

Hermione lowered her gaze; lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, voice calm. “And your response… was a jinx. In a crowded corridor. With students present.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged. “He deserved it.”

“That,” McGonagall snapped, “is not your decision to make.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. He shot to his feet.

“Then someone needs to do something!” he barked. “He’s been allowed to bully anyone who isn’t a Slytherin for years, and nobody stops him!”

The room froze.

Hermione inhaled sharply beside him.

McGonagall’s expression didn’t shift, but something hard flickered behind her eyes. “Sit. Down. Potter.”

Harry held her gaze a second longer, then dropped back into his chair, still shaking.

“I am well aware of Professor Snape’s… behavior,” she said icily. “But yelling at me will not help your case.”

Dumbledore remained composed, hands folded. “Harry, no matter how unfair someone may seem, attacking them with magic isn’t the answer. That’s not how we solve problems in this school.”

Harry stared at the grain of the desk. “He laughed at her,” he muttered again. “Like it was funny.”

Hermione’s fingers found his under the table. She gave it a small, grounding squeeze.

A pause. Then McGonagall’s tone softened just a touch. “You’re not wrong to be angry. But being right doesn’t mean you get to lash out.”

Dumbledore nodded. “We will speak with Professor Snape.”

That caught Harry off guard. He looked up, surprised.

“We can’t promise anything will change overnight,” Dumbledore continued, “but I want you to know, you’ve been heard.”

Harry gave a slow nod. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

Dumbledore sighed. “I understand anger, Harry. I understand loyalty. But if every student answered injustice with spells, Hogwarts would be chaos.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly.

McGonagall crossed her arms. “Then you’ll accept the consequences. One month’s detention. With me. And no Quidditch next year when it restarts.”

Harry’s head jerked up. “No quidditch?”

“You’re lucky it’s not expulsion,” she said coolly. “You attacked a professor, even if it was under emotional strain.”

Hermione finally spoke. “He was protecting me,” she said, voice soft but certain.

McGonagall held her gaze for a moment. The sternness in her face wavered, just barely. “And you’re lucky he didn’t make everything worse for both of you.”

Dumbledore gave Harry a final, searching look. “Let this be the last conversation of its kind, Harry. I’d much rather talk about your future than your temper.” A pause. “And I will be having a word with Professor Snape… once he’s recovered.”

Harry rose slowly. The chair legs scraped faintly on the floor.

Dumbledore’s eyes followed him. “Is there anything else you’d like to share? About your state of mind? Anything that might’ve… influenced your behavior?”

Harry’s heart skipped. That look, was it suspicion?

“I was angry,” he said quickly. “Tired. The Tournament. The stares. The pressure. It’s just… a lot.”

McGonagall gave a tight nod and flicked her wand. The door creaked open.

“Go,” she said. “And Potter, if you ever feel like that again, come to me. Before you act.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Professor.” He stepped into the corridor. Hermione followed, silent at his side.

They walked in quiet for a long moment.

Then she nudged him lightly. “You actually hit Snape.”

Harry gave a short exhale through his nose. “Yeah.”

“…That’s mad,” she murmured.

“We’re still going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, right?” He asked happily.

Hermione blinked at him, caught between disbelief and exasperation.

“You just got banned from Quidditch, sentenced to a month of detention, and nearly got expelled,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “And you’re thinking about butterbeer?”

Harry grinned. “Well, yeah. I figured I’d earned one.”

She stared at him for a second, then shook her head and muttered, “Unbelievable,” but there was no heat in it.

They turned the corner, Gryffindor Tower just ahead. The castle was quiet now, the torchlight soft on the stone walls.

After a long pause, she spoke.

“I’ll still go with you tomorrow.”

Harry opened one eye. “To Hogsmeade?”

“To make sure you don’t hex anyone else.”

He snorted. “Fair.”

“Password?” the Fat Lady asked, slightly startled as they approached.

“Fizzing Whizbee,” Hermione said automatically.

The portrait swung open, and they climbed through.

Inside, the common room was mostly empty, just a few first-years playing chess in the corner and a sleepy-looking cat curled up by the fire.

“Crookiess!” Hermione cried swiftly making her way over to her pet.

Crookshanks ignored her and bounded straight towards Harry rubbing himself on his leg.

Harry blinked, startled, as the ginger cat began purring and weaving around his ankles like he was the one who’d just saved the day.

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed again. “…Traitor,” she muttered at Crookshanks.

Harry smirked and bent to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “What, you on my side now?”

Crookshanks gave a throaty purr in response and headbutted Harry’s knee like it was a clear yes.

Hermione huffed, arms crossed, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly. I feed him, I brush him, I let him sleep on my Transfiguration notes, and you cast a jinx on a professor and suddenly you're his favorite.”

“Snape deserved it,” Harry said again, not even pretending to feel guilty.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she replied, settling into the armchair beside him. “I’m just saying this isn’t going to help with your reputation as champion Harry.’”

He sank deeper into the cushions, stretching his legs toward the fire. “Yeah, well. I figure if I’m already a villain to everyone, I might as well lean into it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but laughed softly. “Honestly, Harry…”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Crookshanks hopped up beside Harry, curled into a warm, vibrating loaf, and dozed off.

“…Thanks,” Hermione said suddenly.

Harry turned his head. “For what?”

“For standing up for me. Even if it was stupid and reckless and kind of completely mental.”

Harry gave a tired smile. “Anytime.”

They sat there like that for a while, no questions, no judgments, just the soft crackle of fire and the slow rhythm of Crookshanks’ purring.

Eventually, Hermione’s head rested lightly on his shoulder.

Harry didn’t say anything.

 

The fire in the common room had long since burned low, leaving behind a faint orange glow and a soft warmth. Harry stirred, blinking blearily as he realized he’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Crookshanks was still curled against him, his tail flicking once before settling again.

Harry shifted slowly, rubbing at his neck. His robes were wrinkled, and he felt groggy, but not bad. For once, his chest wasn’t knotted with nerves.

Hermione was gone. Probably upstairs. The common room was empty except for the gentle clack of chess pieces somewhere in the corner and the occasional snap of the fire.

He stood, stretched, and padded upstairs to change. By the time he came back down, the sky outside the windows had lightened into a soft gray blue. Morning.

Hermione was already there, bundled in her coat, scarf neat and tight around her neck. She was sitting near the fire again with a book open on her lap and two steaming mugs on the table.

Harry blinked. “You’re up early.”

Hermione glanced up, a small smile playing at her lips. “You’re one to talk. Here, tea.”

He took the mug with a quiet “Thanks” and sat beside her, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

“Sleep alright?” she asked, turning a page without looking at it.

He nodded. “Crookshanks used me as a mattress, so… decent.”

Hermione hummed, amused. She hesitated, then added, “How do you feel?”

Harry leaned back against the cushions. “Like I should probably regret blasting Snape. But I don’t.”

A flicker of a grin crossed her face before she could stop it. “Well… I’m not saying I condone violence, but he did sort of have it coming.”

Harry sipped his tea. “Exactly.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit. The sounds of students stirring and footsteps on the stairs filled the background.

“You still up for Hogsmeade?” he asked eventually.

Hermione nodded. “I thought we could go early. I need to pick up a new quill, and” she paused, her voice softening, “I thought I'd browse through Tomes and Scrolls, they have a new section of books on spell crafting and stuff like that.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the mention of the bookstore. “Of course you do.”

Hermione gave him a look, but it was more fond than annoyed. “Well, you don’t have to come with me.”

“Nah, I will,” he said, grinning. “You’ll just take ages in there and I’ll end up sitting in a dusty chair looking confused.”

“Like always,” she teased.

Harry sipped the last of his tea. “Deal. But only if we stop at the broomsticks after.”

Hermione smiled. “Bribing me with butterbeer. Classic.”

Harry stood up and stretched, his joints popping a little. “Works every time.”

Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder, following him out of the portrait hole.

 

The October air was sharp, mist curling along the path as Harry and Hermione stepped through the gates. The sky hung low and grey, soft with clouds, and the scent of wet leaves filled the morning.

Hermione tugged her scarf tighter, the ends fluttering as she walked beside him. “Honestly, you didn’t even bring gloves?”

Harry shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets. “They’re somewhere. Probably under a pile of socks that haven’t moved since August.”

She gave him a sideways look, amused. “You’re hopeless.”

“And yet here you are,” he said, grinning.

She smiled faintly, eyes ahead. “Someone has to make sure you don’t freeze to death.”

The path wound gently toward Hogsmeade, groups of students ahead and behind them. A few glanced over, Harry caught snippets of muttering, but Hermione didn’t seem to notice or chose not to.

“Everyone’s staring,” he muttered.

Hermione glanced at him, then nudged his shoulder lightly with her own. “Let them. You’re kind of famous, in case you forgot.”

“Right. Forgot.”

“You also attacked a professor for me, so…” She let the words trail, lips curling slightly as she looked down at the frost-dusted path.

Hogsmeade came into view, bright against the greys of morning, lamps glowing, windows fogged, the scent of baked things drifting in the air. Hermione paused in front of Scrivenshaft’s.

“Five minutes,” she said, almost guiltily.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said last time. We were in there forty.”

“Yes, but that was before I had self-control,” she said, tugging him gently toward the door by the sleeve.

He let himself be pulled, hiding his smile.

Inside, while she browsed parchment weights and blotting pads with faux-absent care, Harry leaned near the window. He caught her sneaking glances every now and then, like she was checking to see if he was watching her pick between two quills.

When she caught him actually watching, she raised an eyebrow in mock warning. “Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said, lips twitching. “Except maybe that you’ve spent three minutes debating between two quills that look exactly the same.”

“They have very different nibs.”

“Truly scandalous.”

She bumped his arm as they headed to the counter. “Your sarcasm is getting worse.”

“I blame you. Bad influence.”

Outside, she didn’t let go of his sleeve right away. He didn’t mention it.

They wandered past Honeydukes, past Zonko’s (where Harry snuck in and out with a grin and something suspiciously shaped in his coat), and finally made their way into the warmth of Hermione’s favorite store.

The bell above the door tinkled as Harry and Hermione stepped into Tomes & Scrolls. Warm air wrapped around them like a cloak, thick with the smell of old parchment, candlewax, and dust. The shelves were tall and cramped, every inch packed with aging books and newer titles squeezed together like stubborn neighbors.

“Merlin, I missed this smell,” Hermione murmured, already drifting toward the Charms section like she was following a scent trail.

Harry trailed after her. “Smells like dust.”

“Smells like comfort,” she said without looking back.

He watched her fingers brush the book spines, gentle, familiar. Like she was greeting friends. The lamplight caught the curl of her hair as she tilted her head, reading titles.

“You know you could just live here,” Harry said. “I’d bring you meals. Once a week.”

She smirked over her shoulder. “You’d get lost in five minutes and starve in the Ancient Runes aisle.”

“Rude. I can survive. I’ve fought a basilisk.”

“You’ve fought luck,” she teased, stepping sideways into another row.

Harry chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and wandering behind her. “Still counts.”

She picked up a slim volume, frowned, and tucked it back. Then another. “Oh, look at this,” she said, tugging a thick book from a low shelf. Magical Mishaps: A Beginner’s Guide to Wand Accidents and How Not to Die from Them.

He raised a brow. “Very me.”

“I was actually going to get this for Ron last year.”

The words dropped like a pebble into still water.

Harry stilled. “Oh.”

Hermione glanced up, sensing the sudden weight between them.

The air felt different, heavier. Less warm.

Harry didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly, staring at the bookshelf like it held answers.

Hermione’s voice was quieter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You can talk about him. I’m not mad.”

Her expression softened, eyes scanning his. “You sure?”

He shrugged. “Not sure about anything these days.”

Hermione hesitated, then stepped a bit closer, lowering the book. “He’ll come around.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just looked at the floor, jaw tight.

A pause.

Then, trying to shift the weight off both of them, she added gently, “Until then… you’ve got me.”

That made him glance up. Her eyes were steady, very shy. She meant it.

A flicker of something eased in his chest.

He cleared his throat. “So, that book. Are you saying I’m at risk of wand-induced injury?”

“Constantly,” she said, relieved to see the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I figured this, or a helmet.”

“Why not both?” he said, brushing past her lightly as he reached for a book titled Advanced Defensive Jinxes and When to Duck.

“Progress,” she teased.

“It’s got pictures,” he shot back.

They moved through the shelves again, the tension thinning but not quite disappearing. Every now and then, their hands brushed. Once, she bumped her shoulder into his and didn’t apologize. Once, he leaned a little too close reading over her shoulder and didn’t move.

At the counter, Hermione was balancing five books and a rolled-up scroll, while Harry plunked down one lonely paperback.

“Really?” she said, amused. “One?”

“It’s a start.”

Outside, the wind bit again, but it felt cleaner than before. Sharper, in a good way.

Harry nudged her. “Still on for the Three Broomsticks?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Hermione said, smiling. “But if you spill Butterbeer on my books, I will hex you.”

“I’ll guard them with my life.”

He offered her his arm like he was half-joking. She took it anyway.

As they walked along, a massive figure that could only be one person intercepted them.

“Hagrid?” Harry blinked. “What’re you-”

The half-giant stomped the snow off his boots, waving cheerfully in their direction before squeezing through the crowd.

“There yeh are!” Hagrid beamed, face ruddy from the cold. “Bin lookin’ all over for yeh.”

Hermione shifted, suddenly wary. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, nah,” Hagrid said quickly, eyes darting around the street. “Jus’ need a word with yeh, Harry. Bit o’ fresh air’ll do yeh good, eh?”

Harry glanced at Hermione, confused. “Er… alright?”

Hagrid leaned in, dropping his voice to a rumbling whisper. “Grab yer cloak and meet me by me hut tonight, round midnight. Got summat I want ter show yeh. Important stuff, but hush-hush, right?”

He gave Harry a wink so exaggerated it nearly shut both eyes, then he strolled off as if nothing ever happened.

They waved Hagrid off as they continued towards the broomsticks.

Madam Rosmerta waved them to a corner booth, away from the crowd. Harry sank into the seat with a sigh. Hermione slid in across from him, tugging her scarf loose.

“Two Butterbeers,” Rosmerta said, arriving with a wink. “On the house. Heard someone made a statement yesterday.”

Harry groaned. Hermione, unhelpfully, bit back a grin.

He raised his mug. “Here’s to fame for all the wrong reasons.”

She clinked hers softly against his. “And for the right ones, too.”

They drank, and for a long moment the noise of the pub faded around them.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Hermione said, voice low. “Is it… the tournament? Or…”

Harry shrugged, looking at the foam on his Butterbeer. “Bit of everything, I guess. Tournament. Snape. Ron. I Dunno.”

Hermione leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t always have to be okay, Harry.”

“I’m okay now,” he said. “At least, I think I will be.”

Just warmth.

She brushed a crumb from his collar without thinking.

 

The fire had long since burned low, throwing soft amber flickers against the stone walls. The common room was silent now, save for the occasional rustle of the pages in Hermione’s lap. Her quill hovered above a fresh sheet of parchment; her brow furrowed in hesitation.

Crookshanks dozed beside her, curled up like a forgotten cushion. Harry had gone up to bed hours ago, or at least, he'd said he was going. She hadn’t heard him come down again, but she’d noticed how quietly his trunk had creaked open, the soft clink of something glass beneath his robes.

She dipped the quill in ink and finally began to write.

 

Dear Sirius,

I hope this letter finds you safe, wherever you are.

I wouldn’t be writing this if it weren’t important. It’s about Harry.

He’s not okay.

I know he tells you he’s fine, he tells everyone he’s fine, but he’s not. Something changed after his name came out of the Goblet. He’s tired all the time, and I mean really tired, like it’s a weight he’s dragging around. He skips meals. He flinches at noise. His hands shake sometimes.

And… I think he’s drinking. Firewhisky. A lot.

I’ve smelt it on him in class once and after that it’s stopped. I think his found a way to hide the smell, I've seen it in how he slurs sometimes when he thinks no one notices. He carries something in his robes; I’ve seen him reach for it when he thinks no one’s looking. I don’t think he wants to drink. I think he needs to.

He’s scared, Sirius. He’s under so much pressure, and he’s bottling it all up. He won't talk to me, not really. He says he’s "handling it" but I know him. He’s not. I don’t know if it’s pride, or shame, or if he just thinks no one would understand.

Maybe he thinks no one can.

I'm very worried about the First Task. Harry went off with Hagrid earlier tonight and now I know what they’re facing. It’s dragons, Sirius. Real dragons.

Not models. Not illusions. Actual, live, fire-breathing dragons.

He saw them. Four of them. I’m furious. I couldn’t breathe when I realized what they were planning. They're expecting seventeen-year-olds, and Harry, to face those monsters in front of a crowd.

It’s not just dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s mad.

They keep saying “no help allowed,” but what are they expecting to happen? One wrong step, one slip, and they’ll be burned alive. How is this remotely acceptable? How is this legal?

Harry didn’t choose this. He was forced into it. And now he has to fight a dragon because no one in authority seems willing to stop this insanity.

I didn’t know who else to tell. I don’t want to go to a teacher. I don’t want to break his trust. But you’re family. He listens to you, or at least, I hope he still does.

Please… write to him. Talk to him. He needs someone who isn’t just another student or a professor watching from a distance. He needs someone who can actually see him.

I’m scared he’s slipping, Sirius. I don’t know how far. But I don’t want to find out the hard way.

Yours,

Hermione

P.S. Please don’t tell Harry I wrote. He’d be furious. But I couldn’t keep this to myself anymore.

She let the quill drop and folded the parchment slowly, staring at the fire as it crackled its last.

When she finally stood, Crookshanks blinked awake and trailed her quietly up the stairs. She slipped the letter into her bag, ready for Hedwig in the morning.

Because if no one else could reach Harry… maybe Sirius still could.

She let out a long sigh. The First Task was in two days, and even with the new training routine she and Harry had managed to scrape together each morning—some wandwork, a few dodging drills, bits of theory she’d pulled from half a dozen textbooks—she still felt like it wasn’t enough.

It couldn’t be enough. Not for a dragon.

Crookshanks leapt into her lap, purring heavily as he rubbed his head against her jumper, his tail flicking. She absentmindedly scratched behind his ears, staring down at her nearly-finished letter, the ink still drying.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered, her fingers curling around the parchment.

Harry had been better lately, calmer, at least. But she didn’t trust it. Not really. Not when he still wouldn’t talk to her properly. Not when she still saw the tired slump in his shoulders, or the way he flinched slightly when startled, or the way his hand always found his robes when he was stressed.

She’d started walking with him to class more often. Sitting next to him in the common room even if he didn’t say much. Leaving snacks in his bag when she thought he wasn’t eating.

But it all felt like paper over cracks in a dam.

Crookshanks gave a low, rumbling meow and pressed his paw into the parchment, almost like he was trying to hold it in place.

“I know,” she murmured. “He’s going to be furious if he finds out I sent this. But I’d rather him hate me and survive than—”

She cut herself off, throat tight.

Outside the window, the sky was dark and quiet. The castle hummed softly with torchlight and late footsteps and the wind against the old stone. Two days. Just two more days.

She gently lifted Crookshanks off her lap and rolled the letter, tying it with string. Then she stood, crossed the room, and knelt beside her open trunk. She pulled out the small, secret tin she kept tucked under her extra quills, just in case.

Inside was some parchment, sealing wax, some flowers and a small photo.

Harry had his arm around her waist, looking at the camera and smiling, while Hermione was watching him, her eyes shining with adoration.

She stared at the photo for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of it.

She hadn’t meant to look at him like that when it was taken, it had been a Hogsmeade weekend, and she remembered how warm his hand had felt around her waist, how his laugh had made her forget, just for a little while, about everything else. But the camera had caught the truth in her eyes, plain as ink on parchment.

A truth Harry hadn’t noticed. Probably never would.

Hermione blinked, then set the photo aside carefully. Not now. This wasn’t about feelings. This was about helping him. Saving him, if she could.

She sealed the letter with wax and Sirius’s name, then tucked it gently into the tin, slipping it beneath the flowers and photo like a secret she didn’t want the world to see.

She’d send it in the morning. Early. Before Harry woke.

She climbed into bed quietly, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Crookshanks curled into the crook of her knees, purring softly, and Hermione lay there wide-eyed in the dark.

Two days. Dragons. Fire. Danger. And Harry, half-smiling, half-crumbling, trying to pretend he wasn’t afraid.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but her thoughts raced on.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy pressed himself flat against the cold stone behind one of the many dusty tapestries lining Hogwarts’ corridors, his wand twitching in his pale hand.

He was waiting.

The hallway was silent. Empty.

His target had humiliated him again, right in front of everyone. Laughter in the common room, whispers in the corridors. Both his arms had been broken, as well as his knee and nose from the impact of Harry’s depulso.

He’d had enough.

“Stupid Potter and his even dumber pet Mudblood,” he muttered darkly. “I’ll make them both pay.”

He’d been planning this ambush ever since he was released from the hospital wing. His eyes flicked across the corridor to the other side, where his ever-loyal cronies were crammed behind a single suit of armor.

Draco narrowed his eyes and hissed, “Move, you idiots. I can see you.”

Greg and Vincent shuffled awkwardly to the left, ducking behind the next suit of armor like oversized toddlers playing hide-and-seek.

Draco stared.

“I can still see you both!” he snapped. “Are you completely brain-dead?”

Crabbe knocked the suit; its helmet clanged against the wall. Goyle knocked over a halberd with a clatter.

Draco buried his face in his hands. This was going perfectly.

Crabbe froze mid-step, one foot in the air like a very large, very confused flamingo.

“Sorry,” he whispered, which only made it worse because he whispered it loudly, the kind of loud that echoed off stone and made owls shift uncomfortably three floors up.

“Brilliant,” Draco hissed, throwing his hands up. “Why don’t you just yell ‘We’re ambushing you, Potter!’ while you’re at it?”

Goyle, not known for his grip on sarcasm, blinked slowly. “Should I?”

“No!” Draco nearly screamed. “No, Goyle, you shouldn’t! Honestly, I’ve seen flobberworms with more tactical sense.”

Crabbe leaned close to Goyle and whispered, again, loudly, “What’s a tactical?”

Goyle shrugged. “Dunno. Think it’s a kind of toffee.”

Draco groaned into his sleeves. He didn’t know why he bothered. All he needed was for Potter to come stumbling around the corner so he could hex him flat. Just one good spell. He deserved that, didn’t he?

But instead, he was crouched behind a tapestry with two blundering trolls and a suit of armor that had just sneezed.

“Did, did that armor just sneeze?” Draco muttered, blinking.

There was a long silence.

Then the armor sneezed again.

“…Bless you,” Crabbe offered.

Draco stared at them all like he was considering walking into the Forbidden Forest barefoot instead.

“Merlin help me,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “I’m surrounded by morons.”

Footsteps echoed. Slow, dragging.

Draco’s eyes lit up with anticipation. He motioned towards his cronies.

Harry rounded the corner, alone, his tie half undone, robe swinging unevenly. He looked… off. His steps wobbled slightly, and his hand was pressed to the wall for balance.

Draco grinned. Perfect. Now all he had to do was wait for Potter to get closer...

The castle corridors were quiet for some reason, the kind of quiet that made every creak and distant echo sound louder than it should. Harry leaned against the wall as he walked, one hand trailing along the cold stone to steady himself.

He wasn’t wasted. Just… floaty. Slippery. Like his legs were walking on a different floor than the one his brain was standing on.

He hiccupped.

Somewhere ahead a tapestry, a suit of armor muttered to itself.

"You're fine," Harry mumbled to no one. “You're the bloody Champion.”

He took another swig from the flask in his pocket, only a sip, and winced as the Butterbeer with vodka mix burned down his throat. Good burn, though. Warm. Fake courage.

Up ahead, near a corner by the Charms corridor, a shadow twitched. Harry paused, steading himself once more, his eyes squinting.

“Must’ve been the wind” he muttered to himself before continuing.

The stone floor gave a little wobble under Harry’s boots, well, maybe it was just his knees. Either way, things were slightly sideways now.

He blinked hard and kept moving. No idea where he was going. Maybe the kitchens. Or maybe he was already in the kitchens. He sniffed the air.

Definitely not the kitchens.

Then.

ZAP!

A red flash of light shot right past his head.

Harry hiccupped and spun, but his foot skidded on something, maybe a dropped quill, or a ghost, or his own foot and he slipped.

He went down hard, arms flailing like a Quidditch Keeper having a nightmare.

As he fell, another hex whizzed by, missing him by an inch and instead smacking straight into Goyle’s shoulder.

“ARGH!” Goyle yelped, launching sideways into Crabbe, who had just leaned out to see what was happening. The two of them collapsed in a heap of limbs, armor, and profanity.

“MY KNEE!” Crabbe cried.

“YOUR KNEE’S IN MY FACE!” Goyle shouted back.

Harry, now flat on the floor and blinking at the ceiling, gave a thumbs up to no one. “Nailed it.”

Draco stepped out from behind the tapestry, wand raised, face flushed with fury.

“POTTER!” he roared. “YOU’LL PAY FOR EVERYTHING!”

Harry sneezed.

Draco's spell sparked from his wand, but Harry suddenly rolled sideways in a clumsy attempt to stand up, causing the spell to miss completely and strike the ceiling, raining sparks down.

“Why is the floor moving,” Harry mumbled, crawling forward.

Then, with great effort, he got to his feet, sort of. It was more of a hunched slouch. He swayed.

He turned slightly, facing Draco. His eyes squinted like he was trying to remember if Draco was a real person or just the hallucinated ghost of a ferret.

“Malfoy?” he asked, tilting his head. “You always looked this blurry?”

“What.” Draco hesitated, wand raised.

Harry blinked at him.

Then turned and kept walking.

Right past him.

No spell, no reaction, just kept going.

“Oi—OI!” Draco yelled. “I’m attacking you!”

Harry raised his hand lazily behind him. “Good luck with that,” he called, already half around the next corner.

Draco stood frozen. His plan, his perfect plan, had been ruined by sheer stupidity, and Harry Potter’s complete lack of situational awareness.

Behind him, Crabbe groaned. “I think I dislocated my nose.”

“Thats your arm, not your nose Crabbe.”

The suit of armor sneezed again.

Draco looked skyward. “Why do I even try.”

Harry opened his eyes, the bright sunlight piercing through the veils of his curtains like an arrow through a link of chainmail.

 

For once in a while, he hadn’t been dragged awake by nightmares or weirdly explicit dreams of a beautiful women with angel wings. He’d fallen asleep early, too tired to speak, too tired to think. Now his heart thudded steadily in his chest, not from fear, but from anticipation.

Today was the day of the First Task.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the canopy above his bed, trying to breathe slowly. Calmly. Like Hermione had shown him.

“Control your breath. Control your magic.”

His wand was already in his hand; he must’ve slept with it. He sat up and rubbed at his face. His mouth was dry, but his head was clear. No haze. No regrets. Just the task ahead.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the robes they’d set out the night before. The Gryffindor lion glared proudly from his chest. His fingers trembled as he tied his shoes.

Down in the common room, Hermione was waiting.

She stood when she saw him, her book shut and forgotten on the table. There were bags under her eyes, but her face lit up with quiet relief.

“You slept?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Sort of.”

“Good.” She crossed the room quickly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Me neither,” he said honestly.

She gave a faint, breathless laugh, then tugged on his sleeve and led him to the sofa.

“You remember what we went over?”

“The Summoning Charm, stupefy, dodging and all those other spells” he said. “The broom drill. Shield spells. Smoke and concealment tricks. How to face a dragon without dying immediately.”

She gave him a tight, anxious smile. “You’ve got this Harry!”

Harry nodded. “Still not sure it’ll work, but yeah.”

“It will,” Hermione said firmly. “You’ve got a plan. That’s already more than most.”

He looked at her, at the way she wrung her hands and kept biting her bottom lip like she was holding something back.

“You’re scared,” he said.

“Of course I am,” she said quickly. “You’re facing a dragon. I should be scared. But I also know you. You’ve worked harder than anyone else. You’re ready.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “I don’t feel ready.”

“You don’t have to feel it,” she said gently. “You just have to be it.”

He met her eyes, and for a moment, the noise in his head quieted.

“Cmon,” she said, voice trembling. “Let’s go get you some breakfast.”

 

“Mister Potter it’s time. The champions are to assemble at the Quidditch pitch.”

Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the Great Hall, calm but firm. She stood just behind them, her expression unreadable, though Harry caught the flicker of worry in her eyes.

Harry and Hermione looked up from their half-finished lunch. The Hall was nearly empty now; most students had already headed down to the pitch.

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said quickly, rising to her feet. “We’ll head there now.”

“Oh, and Mr. Potter” McGonagall started. “Please do be careful.”

Harry nodded.

The two stood and made their way out, met by a chorus of cheers and claps from the last lingering Gryffindors. Hermione stayed close beside him, silent and tense, and Crookshanks padded along behind, tail flicking.

Harry didn’t say a word. His feet kept moving, but his chest felt tighter with every step.

As they neared the stadium, Harry slowed for a moment, taken aback by the noise. The roar of the crowd was loud, but it was nothing compared to the low, bone-rattling growls that echoed through the air, deep and guttural, the sound of something massive and angry.

He and Hermione passed through the flap of the champions’ tent, Crookshanks slipping in silently behind them. Inside, the air felt heavy with tension.

The headmasters and judges stood in one corner, deep in hushed conversation. Krum and Karkaroff whispered intently near the edge of the tent. Ludo Bagman laughed at something Dumbledore said, while Crouch stood rigid beside them, arms crossed, his eyes distant.

Each champion wore elaborate robes marked with their school crest, fine fabrics, polished boots, every detail tailored for spectacle.

Fleur turned as Harry and Hermione entered. Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled slightly as she looked them over, lifting her chin with a scoff before turning away.

“Cedric!” Harry said, clapping him on the back as he approached. The older boy looked pale, his jaw tight. Harry leaned in close.

“Did you get my message?”

Cedric nodded once. His expression was tense, but there was a flicker of relief there too. “Yeah. Thanks, mate.”

Off to the side, Minister Fudge stood with Rita Skeeter, her acid-green quill darting across floating parchment. She glanced lazily toward the new arrivals, then her eyes snapped back, narrowing with interest. Her lips curled into a grin.

She spun on her heel and started towards them, parchment flapping behind her. Fudge spluttered as she abandoned him mid-sentence, but Rita was already halfway across the tent.

“Harry, darling,” she cooed. “And Miss Graper, always nearby, I see”

Hermione’s expression hardened immediately. “It’s Granger and we’re not giving interviews.”

Rita didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, but surely you have a word or two before the big event? Just something for the Prophet readers. Harry, how are you feeling? Terrified? Heroic?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at the tent wall, where the roars outside were growing louder… closer.

Suddenly, Bagman’s voice rang out, falsely cheerful, “Champions, if you could all gather, please! It’s nearly time!”

The tent fell silent. Cedric gave Harry a brief, tight-lipped smile as he stood. Krum cracked his knuckles. Fleur, with cool poise, swept her silvery hair over her shoulder and stepped forward like she was already being watched.

Harry didn’t move until he felt arms wrap tightly around him. Hermione. She hugged him fiercely, as if trying to pass her strength into him.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered in his ear, voice shaking just slightly. “Remember what we practiced. Stay low. Be quick. Don’t try to fight it, just finish your objective.”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks.”

He pulled away, not trusting himself to say anything else, and stepped toward the others. Bagman stood at the center, grinning like this was all a game show, holding up a velvet purple sack.

Harry glanced over to Hermione, her worry clearly evident in her face.

“Now people, I’m going to be offering each of you champions this bag, one at a time.” Bagman announced, once all the champions were gathered in a semi-circle around him. “From the bag, you will be picking out a small model of the dra- Uh thing you’ll be facing. There are some different varieties you see. Oh, and by the way, your task is to collect a golden egg from inside the arena.”

Harry stood between Cedric and Fleur. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Hermione stood at the back of the tent, arms wrapped tightly around herself, teeth worrying her bottom lip. She looked like she wanted to run to him again. Or run away.

That lip.

Where have I seen that before. He thought

His thoughts slipped, unbidden, unwanted, back to the dream. The one with firelight and the mysterious Angel, her breath, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Bagman was offering the sack to Fleur first. The girl reached in with a steady hand and pulled out a tiny model, Harry couldn’t see what it was, but Bagman nodded approvingly.

His thoughts drifted again, back to the Angel from that night. He couldn’t stop picturing her: the way she’d stayed with him, comforting him through the dark. Her soft, pale face. That small frame that looked like it would fit perfectly in his arms. And her hair, long, wavey, beautiful, impossibly soft and most importantly, those gorgeous deep chocolate eyes.

He felt like he could stare into them forever. That rich, warm color, so full of life and feeling, had burned itself into his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the way they looked at him that night, like she saw through all the mess, straight to something good inside him.

Then came the memory, her body colliding into his, his hands at her waist and in her hair, her lips pressing against his, the rush of heat and

…mhmmm. Minty.

Wait.

What.

His pants tightened significantly.

Brilliant. Fantastic. Just what he needed before grabbing a tiny dragon out of a bag in front of half the bloody judges and champions.

He tried to think of something else. Anything else. Professor Sprout pruning mandrakes. Snape in a tutu. Fudge naked and screaming about goblin rebellions.

Nope. Not helping.

Bagman raised an eyebrow, waving the sack at him now.

“Anytime now, Harry.”

Harry cleared his throat, stepped forward, and shoved his hand into the sack with the confidence of a boy definitely not battling a full-blown fantasy and an unfortunate physical reaction in front of a crowd. He’d for sure definitely be thinking about the identity of this girl later.

His fingers brushed velvet. Fumbled. Then—

A blur of orange streaked across the floor.

“Crookshanks?” Harry blurted, just as the squashed-faced menace launched himself at the sack.

There was a startled yelp, Bagman’s, as the cat latched on, claws out, tail puffed like a bottlebrush. The bag flew from Bagman’s hands as he spun in a panic, trying to shake the beast off.

Hermione groaned audibly from the sidelines, face going bright red. “Crookshanks!” she hissed, clearly mortified. "Honestly!"

Too late. One of the tiny models had rolled out, the last one.

A black dragon. Wings spread wide. Red eyes gleaming.

Bagman stared at it, panting. “Well. Looks like we’ve got your pick then, Potter.”

Harry blinked. “Uh… thanks, Crookshanks.”

The cat gave him a smug look, as if he’d planned the whole thing.

It was the Hungarian Horntail.

It snarled in Harry’s palm, wings flapping, tail twitching like it wanted blood.

Bagman cleared his throat and straightened his robes. “Ah. Yes. That’s the… Horntail. Nasty one. Right then, off we go!”

Fleur was first. She stepped out from the tent like she owned the place, her chin tilted up, eyes glinting with determination. The crowd hushed, then erupted into cheers as she strode toward the arena. A flash of her wand, a burst of flame, and suddenly a sleek, fiery eagle appeared, circling above the cheering crowd.

Harry caught Viktor Krum’s sharp gaze on Hermione, who stood nearby watching quietly. Viktor’s eyes narrowed, flicking to Hermione with something unreadable, maybe suspicion, maybe jealousy.

Next came Cedric. Calm and steady, he walked out with that easy confidence that made people trust him without question. The crowd roared his name as he raised his wand. The dragon he faced was massive, but Cedric’s steady voice and calm eyes never wavered. A steady charm, a whispered word, and the beast hesitated, subdued by the grace in Cedric’s command.

Back in the tent, Hermione stepped toward Harry, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She reached out, grasping his arm firmly.

“Harry,” she said, voice low but fierce, “I know you’re scared. But we’ve been training for this for the past months, you know our plan? Stick to your strengths and summon your broom. If that doesn’t work, you could always try what we worked out in practice?”

Harry looked at her, feeling that fierce belief settles inside him like a shield.

Hermione glanced toward Viktor again, catching his sharp gaze. She squared her shoulders, refusing to back down under his scrutiny.

“You’ve got this,” she said softly. “Just be yourself.”

With that, she gave him a quick, tight hug, then slipped out of the tent to find her place in the stands.

And suddenly, he was alone. Just him and Krum.

The Bulgarian’s sharp eyes flicked toward Harry, cool and assessing. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade, replaced by the steady beat of his own heart.

Krum gave a curt nod. No words. Just respect.

Harry swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders.

The tent flap shifted behind him as the second last champion stepped out.

Time to face what was waiting beyond.

There was nothing but silence in the tent. The roars of the crowd echoed faintly through the canvas walls, but none of it registered in Harry’s mind. All he could think about was the fifty-ton flying mountain he was about to fight.

For entertainment...

Then, suddenly, it came back, the urges, the tempting pull of bliss and ignorance that those beautiful bottles of booze and spiked butterbeer had given him.

A flicker of warmth spread through his chest, easing the sharp edge of fear. It whispered promises of courage, of numbness to the pain, of escape.

Harry clenched his fists. No. Not now.

He shook his head, trying to push the craving aside. This was his moment. He had to be sharp, focused.

But the pull was strong.

And somewhere deep down, he wondered if he could really face that mountain without it.

Then.

He gave in.

“Dobby!?” he whispered.

There was a small crack!

“YES, MASTER HARRY?” came the small, excited voice from somewhere nearby.

“Could you please bring me the special?” Harry asked quietly.

A snap of fingers later, a small lunch bag appeared beside him on the bench.

Harry stared at it for a moment.

It was now or never.

He peeled back the bag, pulling out the bottle. Green butterbeer infused with tequila, a shot of lime juice, and a few raspberry leaves for garnish.

He lifted the canteen, hesitated, then took a slow sip.

The warmth spread fast, flooding his chest and calming the storm inside. The exotic taste of raspberry infused with lime and butterbeer. It was delicious.

For a moment, the roaring crowd, the monstrous dragon, all of it seemed distant, like a dream on the edge of waking.

Harry closed his eyes, raising the canteen to his lips, tipping back before emptying the rest of its contents.

12 standards.

That was how much alcohol packed into this canteen.

Dobby really did outdo himself this time.

And suddenly, it hit him, all at once.

Harry blinked, the world tilting sharply for a moment. His legs felt suddenly lighter, his heartbeat slowing as the fire of the drink spread through his veins. The tension that had knotted his chest began to loosen, just enough to make the fear manageable.

He grinned, a little crooked and shaky, but genuine.

“Well, that’s one way to boost confidence,” he muttered to himself.

The tent flap rustled behind him as Bagman’s voice called out, “Potter! Your turn!”

Harry straightened, gripping his wand like a lifeline. The warmth in his chest was a dangerous comfort, but right now, it was the only thing steadying him.

With one last deep breath, he stepped toward the opening.

Outside, the sunlight blinded him for a second. The crowd roared, a living wave of noise and excitement that rolled over the arena.

Harry stepped into the arena, and for a split second, he thought the sunlight was trying to blind him on purpose. He blinked like a confused owl, then stumbled forward, catching himself on thin air.

“Whoa,” he muttered. “That’s... bright.”

The crowd’s roar felt like a tidal wave crashing over him, and Harry waved awkwardly like he was greeting distant relatives at a wedding. Only, the relatives were thousands of strangers shouting his name.

He gripped his wand, but it felt oddly slippery in his hand, as if it was coated in butter or maybe something stronger like honey.

He tried to stand tall and heroic. Instead, he swayed like a scarecrow caught in a breeze.

“Okay, focus,” he told himself, wobbling slightly. “Don’t fall. Don’t fall.”

But then, his foot caught on a stray pebble, or maybe it was just the arena floor deciding to trip him, and Harry went into a slow-motion, overly dramatic stumble.

He flailed one arm, trying to catch balance, then turned it into an accidental dance move. A quick little shuffle that looked suspiciously like the hokey pokey.

The crowd laughed, maybe out of amusement, maybe out of confusion.

Harry blinked again, trying to act like this was exactly what he’d planned.

“Yep, just my usual warm-up routine,” he mumbled, swaying side to side.

Then he aimed his wand at the dragon, and for a second, forgot the spell. Instead, he muttered, “Accio... Fir-, what was it again?”

A few nearby students snorted.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Firebolt. Firebolt.”

The words came out slurred, but somehow, the spell worked. A small invisible force sputtered from his wand, barely shifting a tuft of grass from breeze.

Harry grinned, slightly embarrassed but proud.

“See? Totally in control.”

The dragon blinked at him, then gave a low, amused snort, as if it was trying not to laugh too.

Harry tried to bow, gracefully, of course, but ended up tipping forward like a leaning tower.

He caught himself just in time and threw up his arms.

“Ta-da!” he announced.

Inside, he was screaming, but outside, the crowd cheered.

He took a shaky breath, shot the crowd a wink, and steeled himself to fight.
Kind of.
Maybe.

The dragon let out a bloodcurdling screech and charged, clearly done with whatever this performance was.

Harry yelped, waving his wand like mad.
“ACCIO! ACCIO! ACCIO! ACCIO—”

“FIREBOLT, MY FIREBOLT!” he screamed at the sky.

There was a collective gasp from the stands.

And then, with a series of whooshes, several figures were violently yanked into the arena—
Draco Malfoy.
Professor Snape.
Cornelius Fudge.
And Ron Weasley.

Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs as his wild yelling backfired spectacularly.

Suddenly, Draco Malfoy landed with a graceless thud beside him, face twisted in fury. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing, Potter? Are you trying to get us all killed?!”

Before Harry could answer, Professor Snape appeared, arms crossed and eyes blazing. “Potter! Do you have any idea how reckless you’re being? This isn’t a bloody joke!”

Cornelius Fudge stumbled in next, looking utterly bewildered and clutching his head. “What in the name of the Ministry is going on here? Stop shouting, for heaven’s sake!”

Ron Weasley crashed into the arena last, shouting, “Harry! You’re mental! I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

The dragon, clearly annoyed by the sudden chaos, let out a deafening roar and swung its massive claw dangerously close at Fudge, sending sparks flying like fireworks.

Everyone screamed at once, Malfoy’s sneer twisting into a shout, Snape’s voice cold and sharp, Fudge’s panicked yells, and Ron’s furious warnings blending into a chaotic symphony.

Harry blinked, completely overwhelmed. “Okay, okay! I get it! Sorry! Geez!”

He frantically waved his wand. “Firebolt! Firebolt! Come to me!”

A blazing streak tore through the air, and the broomstick straight into his hands.

Harry grinned, heart pounding, wobbling but finally ready to face the dragon for real.

Harry climbed onto the Firebolt, wobbling like a newborn hippogriff but holding tight. The dragon snarled, smoke curling from its nostrils, its eyes blazing with fury.

“All right, big guy,” Harry muttered, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Let’s dance.”

He kicked off clumsily, spiraling into the sky with a whoosh that made his stomach flip.

Looking down, the arena was pure chaos. The four unwilling participants were shooting spells willy-nilly at the dragon, desperately dodging its fiery attacks.

Snape rolled expertly, narrowly evading the Horntail’s whipping tail. Draco fired spell after spell, his face a mask of concentration. Meanwhile, Cornelius Fudge and Ron Weasley huddled together behind a rock, clutching each other and trying their best not to get roasted.

Harry wobbled on the Firebolt like a spinning top with a mind of its own. He gripped the wand tight but somehow ended up using it like a conductor’s baton, wildly flailing as if leading an invisible orchestra.

He sneezed mid-spell, and instead of firing a curse, a shower of glitter burst out, drifting down over the stunned crowd below.

“Oops,” Harry muttered, blinking, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He tried to focus, but his broom suddenly tilted sideways, sending him into a slow-motion sideways roll. Harry laughed uncontrollably, yelling, “Wheee! Look, I’m flying sideways! Wheee!”

Then, out of nowhere, he started waving his wand like he was swatting at invisible flies, accidentally casting Rictusempra, making himself burst into uncontrollable giggles.

“Can’t stop laughing! Help!” he shouted, clutching his sides.

Hermione’s eyes were wide, jaw practically on the floor as she watched Harry wobble and flail above the arena like a tipsy acrobat.

“Honestly, Harry!” she muttered under her breath, cheeks flushing red. “What on earth are you doing up there? Stop messing about and focus this wasn’t part of our plan!”

She bit her lip, torn between wanting to scream instructions and trying not to laugh at how ridiculous he looked.

When Harry accidentally showered glitter over the crowd, Hermione covered her face with her hands, groaning. “Oh no, not the glitter spell again…”

And when he pulled out a rubber chicken, she just stared, utterly dumbfounded.

“Is he actually serious?” she whispered to herself, cheeks burning hotter.

But underneath the embarrassment, there was something else, an undeniable spark of pride. Despite everything, Harry was up there, facing the dragon in his own chaotic way. It was in genius, making other people fight the dragon for him. It was so Slytherin of him..

Hermione took a steadying breath, smoothed her robes, and shouted toward the sky, “Harry! Concentrate! You can do this, just… please try to stay upright!”

In the judges’ box, Dumbledore and the other officials sat frozen, slack jawed. This was not how they expected the First Task to go. No one had accounted for a champion summoning the audience. The arena had been heavily warded against dragon fire and the dragon itself as well as spells with offensive capabilities, but not a summoning spell.

Down on the ground, the chaos continued in spectacular fashion.

Snape moved like a dark blur, his wand a deadly extension of his fury. He muttered spells with razor precision, each one hitting its mark.

“Sectumsempra. Diffindo. Bombarda. Stupefy.”

Each incantation cracked through the air, pelting the Horntail with bursts of magical force, singeing its scaly hide and staggering its advance. His face was a storm cloud of rage and professionalism.

Draco, just a few yards away, was unleashing spells like a duelist possessed. His hair was windswept, his tie askew, his eyes blazing.

“This is your fault, Potter!” he hissed under his breath, launching a furious volley. “You ruin everything!”

This wasn’t about house points or rivalry anymore, this was personal. It was a buildup of interactions from the start of their first year. From his rejection of friendship to his stupid ugly girlfriend punching him and to most recently, his failed ambush in the corridor.

Behind the safety of a rock (well, mostly safe), Ron and Fudge were crouched and twitchy. Fudge’s wand quivered in his grip as he cast something that turned a pebble into a screeching chicken. The chicken immediately flapped up into the stands, honking madly.

“Keep it together, Fudge!” Ron shouted, ducking as flames licked over the rock. “You’re turning rocks into poultry!”

“I’m under extreme duress, Weasley!” Fudge yelped. “I’m the Minister of Magic! I don’t do dragons!”

Still, for all their bumbling, even their panicked spells were wearing the dragon down, bit by bit.

Above them, Harry wobbled on his Firebolt like a drunken rodeo clown. His arms flailed, wand twirling in all directions as he attempted to control the broom with a mixture of instinct and liquid courage.

He hiccupped.

“Oi! Is this what flying feels like!?” he yelled gleefully.

He attempted a majestic loop and instead did something between a cartwheel and a nosedive. Somehow, he recovered, barely, and grinned as if he’d meant to do that all along.

“Ten points to me for style!”

The dragon paused, momentarily stunned by the glittering figure spiraling above it like a particularly enchanted Christmas ornament.

Hermione, watching from the stands, clawing her face with anxiety. “Just… don’t fall off, Harry,” she whispered. “Please don’t fall off.”

Suddenly, ZAP!

A pink streak of magic hit Snape square in the back, blasting him face-first into the ground.

“ARGH!” he roared, spitting dirt. “Who in Merlin’s name?!”

Behind the rock, Fudge looked horrified. His wand still smoked.

“I—I was aiming for the tail!”

“That was not the tail, you absolute buffoon!” Snape snarled, rising from the grass with murder in his eyes and twigs in his hair.

Ron couldn’t help it. “Honestly, sir, from back here… it did look like a tail.”

Snape shot him a look that could curdle milk, but then the dragon roared and slammed its spiked tail down between them.

All three men screamed in perfect harmony.

Snape was launched backward into a tree.

Ron hit a boulder with a hollow thud.

Fudge flipped through the air like a startled cat… and landed with expert precision—crotch-first onto a jagged rock.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t speak. His cheeks simply turned purple, eyes bulging, lips parting in silent agony holding his crouch as he slid down faceplanting onto the dirt.

Above them, Harry spun into view upside-down and slurred, “Oh look! They’re playing tag with a dragon!”

Then he sneezed, shot out another glitter bomb, and barrel-rolled back into the sky like a tipsy comet.

The Horntail roared and snapped toward the rock where Ron was now awake, flinging spells with all the precision of a toddler with a fire hose. Snape dragged Fudge’s unconscious body farther back with his teeth gritted and his wand flashing, blasting debris out of the way as the dragon's claws gouged the earth just meters behind them.

“Stop screaming and aim, Weasley!” Snape bellowed.

“I am aiming!” Ron shouted, even as his Stunning Spell ricocheted off a rock and singed his own sleeve. “This wand’s rubbish!”

The dragon reared up, furious and flailing, just as a burst of confetti exploded above its head.

“I’LL TRY SPINNING!” Harry yelled from above, now standing on his broom like a surfboard, arms out like wings, wobbling wildly in the air. “THATS A GOOD TRICK!”

“Harry!” Hermione screamed from the stands, gripping the railing like it owed her money. “Sit down! You’re going to fall and die, you absolute moron!”

Instead, Harry spun dramatically and hurled a bottle—was that Butterbeer? —at the Horntail. It bounced off a scale with a clink and promptly exploded in flames on the grass.

“OI!” Draco shouted from across the field at Hermione, limping and dodging dragon fire. “Get your idiot boyfriend under control!”

“MAKE ME, YOU GEL-SLICKED FERRET!” Harry bellowed, waving his wand like it was a conductor’s baton. “I COMMAND THE AIR!”

The dragon shrieked and leapt into the sky after him.

“Oh shit” Harry swerved, upside-down again, his legs kicking uselessly as the Firebolt corkscrewed out of control.

Snape dove for cover. Ron screamed. Draco swore. Hermione sobbed into her hands.

And Cornelius Fudge lay face-up in the mud, twitching faintly, mumbling, “No dragons... just tax reform...”

The Horntail shot up after Harry like a jet-fueled missile, jaws wide and eyes locked onto the idiot wobbling through the sky on a broomstick he was barely holding onto.

“YOU CAN’T CATCH ME, I’M A BUTTERFLY!” Harry roared, spinning the broom around backwards and flying in reverse.

Everyone watching gasped.

“HE’S GONE INSANE,” McGonagall shouted over the chaos, holding her hat to her head. “COMPLETELY INSANE.”

“I’VE BEEN TELLING YOU THAT FOR YEARS!” Snape snapped, dragging Fudge’s unconscious body behind a boulder as dragon fire scorched the ground nearby.

Meanwhile, Harry was now attempting to juggle three golden goblets he'd conjured out of nowhere. One smacked him in the face. He laughed like a man who thought gravity was a joke.

The Horntail came within inches of his broom.

“Oh, bugger me,” Harry muttered, losing a shoe as he kicked wildly, then pointed his wand and slurred, “Wobblius Confundus Flipendo Maximus!”

Nothing happened. Then suddenly, a gust of wind from nowhere sent the Horntail spiraling into a nosedive smashing into the ground.

“HE HEXED THE WIND?” someone screamed from the crowd.

“LUCKIEST BASTARD ALIVE,” Moody growled, watching through his spinning magical eye.

Hermione, still white-knuckled in the stands, shouted, “GET THE EGG, HARRY, PLEASE!”

Harry, now twirling upside down again, blinked, then spotted the golden egg sitting neatly on the rock ledge. “Oh! Look, it’s a lemon.”

He flew headfirst, straight for it.

The Horntail roared back to its feet, furious and battered, and lunged just as Harry plowed into a rock, missed the egg entirely, flipped over, and accidentally landed on the dragon’s snout, His broom shooting away into the atmosphere.

Time stopped.

Everyone stared.

Harry blinked.

“Nice doggy,” he slurred, patting it.

The Horntail went cross-eyed.

Then it sneezed.

Harry was launched into the air like a ragdoll.

He flew, crashing and landed in a heap right next to the golden egg.

“Ta-daa,” he wheezed, raising one shaky thumb before grabbing the egg.

For half a minute, there was silence.

Madame Pomfrey fainted.

Bagman dropped his wand.

Karkaroff screamed.

Hermione burst into tears, of what, even she didn’t know.

From behind the boulder, Snape stood over Fudge’s limp form, glaring at the scene.

“This is your champion,” he said bitterly. “A lunatic in pajamas who thinks dragons are puppies.”

Fudge, just coming to, blinked up at Snape… and screamed.

His wand went off with a CRACK, blasting Snape square in the chest with a Stinging Hex. Snape collapsed backward with a snarl.

Fudge screamed again, panicked, scrambled to stand, and tripped over his own cloak, faceplanting into a patch of singed grass before going limp again.

The dragon gave a weak whimper and passed out.

And Harry?

Harry stood, holding the egg high, wobbling dangerously.

“I AM THE DRAGON WHISPERER!” he roared.

Then he tripped on his own foot, rolled off the ledge, and vanished behind the rocks with a faint thud.

The crowd erupted into confused, chaotic applause.

Dumbledore calmly conjured a lemon tart and took a bite. “Well,” he said, “he’s certainly got style.”

 

The champion tent was buzzing, Fleur pacing and muttering in French, Krum silently downing water like it was vodka, Cedric giving Harry the kind of look reserved for people who just survived being hit by a train and called it a win.

Then Harry stumbled in.

Soot-streaked, limping, one shoe, his robes half-scorched and the golden egg clutched like a football.

“I did it,” he slurred proudly, holding up the egg. “Victory snack.”

Hermione burst in.

Her eyes locked on him, wild, red-rimmed, teary. She marched straight up to him and

SLAP.

Everyone jumped. Even Krum flinched.

“You absolute IDIOT!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “You could’ve died! You were laughing while juggling goblets in front of a dragon! Who does that?! What happen to our plan?”

Harry blinked at her, then grinned. “Did you see the backwards flying? I was like a sexy bee.”

“SHUT UP!”

And then she threw her arms around him.

He staggered back a step, nearly fell over again, then caught her, arms wrapping around her tightly, egg still tucked under one arm like a very confused pet.

“I thought you were gonna die,” she whimpered into his shoulder.

“I thought the dragon was a dog,” he murmured back.

“Of course you did,” she said, half laughing, half sobbing.

Somewhere behind them, Fleur muttered, “Zey are in love or 'e is brain damaged. Possibly both.”

Fleur’s muttering went ignored. Harry was too busy swaying gently, arms around Hermione, blinking like he’d just been hit with a Bludger , full of emotions.

Hermione pulled back just enough to look at him. Her hands gripped his face. “You smell like charcoal.”

Harry gave her a dopey grin. “Best cologne I own.”

She exhaled sharply, part exhausted, part relieved, and, completely unexpectedly, kissed his forehead. Then smacked it again for good measure. “You’re not allowed to die stupidly. Not before I figure out if I want to kill you myself.”

Harry froze.

All he could think about, was his dream. Once again, a vision of an angelic brunette, her hands on his cheeks, leaning in. He could feel his blood pressure going south.

Cedric, standing nearby, cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh… is now a bad time to say good job?”

Harry gave him a lazy thumbs up. “Cheers, mate. Dragon didn’t stand a chance.”

“Pretty sure it did,” Cedric muttered.

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey barged in with the urgency of a woman who’d seen too many idiot teenagers. “Alright, move, move, who’s dying, who’s concussed, who’s emotionally unstable, oh, never mind, that one’s obvious.” She pointed straight at Harry.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, wobbling as Hermione still clung to him.

Pomfrey muttered something that sounded like “bloody Gryffindors,” then pushed him down onto a stool. “Sit. Shut up. Don’t throw up on me.”

Outside the tent, the crowd roared, Bagman’s voice announcing scores. But inside, it was just Hermione brushing soot off Harry’s face with shaking fingers, while he sat there with his golden egg, grinning like a lunatic who’d survived an accident.

The tent flap burst open like it had been kicked.

Percy Weasley stumbled in, red-faced and panting, holding a scroll and looking way too proud of himself for someone who wasn’t even supposed to be there.

“I have the scores!” he yelled, like a town crier with something to prove. “Officially sanctioned by the judges and- Merlin’s pants, what happened to Minister Fudge?!”

Everyone ignored the fainted Minister still snoring softly in the corner, his hat on sideways and his wand smoking.

“Scores,” Hermione snapped, eyes still watery, hands still on Harry’s shoulders. “Now.”

“Right!” Percy puffed out his chest. “First task results”

He dramatically unrolled the scroll like he was revealing the prophecy of doom.

“For Fleur Delacour: 38 points!”

Fleur gave a small, graceful nod, though she looked like she might hex someone if she wasn’t acknowledged properly.

“For Viktor Krum: 40 points!”

Krum gave a gruff shrug and stared at the ground, clearly annoyed he hadn’t scored higher for nearly being mauled.

“For Cedric Diggory: 44 points!”

Cedric nodded, trying to look humble and totally failing. “Good show, everyone,” he mumbled.

“And for… Harry Potter…” Percy hesitated, squinting at the paper like it couldn’t possibly be right.

Hermione tensed.

Pomfrey looked up from inspecting Harry’s pupils with a light.

Harry swayed a bit in his seat, blinking blearily. “Did I win?”

“Forty-eight,” Percy said flatly.

The tent went dead silent.

“WHAT?!” Fleur shrieked.

“Forty-eight?!” Krum barked.

Cedric just made a noise like someone had stepped on his foot.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “You- you scored the highest?!”

Harry looked down at the golden egg cradled in his lap like it was a pineapple. “Huh. Neat.”

He promptly fell off the stool.

The tent flap flew open with a sharp crack once again, cutting through the tired hush like a curse.

Snape stormed in, eyes blazing with fury, his cloak swirling like a storm cloud. Close behind him, Draco scowled, arms crossed tight following him was a red-faced Ronald Billus Weasley.

“What were you thinking, Potter?!” Snape hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Summoning us into the arena, dragging innocent people into your reckless chaos? You could’ve killed us all!”

Harry blinked, still dizzy from the adrenaline and booze. “I didn’t mean to. It just... happened.”

Draco stepped forward, sneering. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

Ron stepped forward, cheeks still red but voice louder now, full of disbelief. “Blimey, Harry, you really dragged us into a right mess! Snape nearly got his eyebrows singed off, Draco’s limping like a blasted hippogriff, and I thought for sure I was a goner. What were you thinking?”

Harry winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, honestly. It just... happened.”

Ron shook his head, frustration clear. “You’re impossible, you know that? Reckless as ever.”

Snape’s glare intensified, but Ron wasn’t finished.

“But...,” Ron’s eyes sparkled a little despite himself, “I’ll be honest, mate, watching you actually go toe-to-toe with that dragon? That was... well, it was bloody brilliant. I reckon someone was really trying to do you in.”

Draco snorted, and even Snape blinked in surprise.

Ron cracked a grin. “You might’ve been a danger to us all, but at least you made it interesting. Not every day you see someone flying upside down on a broomstick, waving a wand like a maniac, and still come out alive.”

Harry blinked, a slow smile spreading. “Thanks, Ron.”

Ron threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Don’t get used to it, though. Next time, try not to get us all killed, yeah?”

Ron grinned. “Friends again?”

Harry smiled back, grateful for the truce, but then his expression grew a little more serious.

“Hey, Ron... since we’re friends again, can you do me a favor?”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Could you... maybe ease up on Hermione a bit?” Harry asked, scratching the back of his head. “Stop being such a bully towards her. I’ll seriously consider it if you do.”

Ron blinked, then laughed. “You want me to go easy on Hermione?”

Harry shrugged. “Look, she’s been worried sick about me. And honestly, she deserves better than you're teasing.”

Ron grinned but held up his hands. “Alright, alright, I’ll tone it down. But only because you asked.”

Hermione, who’d been quietly listening nearby, shot Ron a grateful smile and gave Harry a quick nudge.

“Thanks, Harry,” she whispered.

 

Snape’s glare sliced through the tent. “Enough of this soppiness Potter, I'm putting you in detention. Until you leave Hogwarts.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “Detention? Until I—?”

“Yes, Potter,” Snape said flatly. “You’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you. Maybe some time locked away will teach you to think before acting.”

Suddenly, the tent flap swung open again, and Dumbledore stepped inside, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore said softly, his voice calm but firm. “Might I interject?”

Snape’s glare flickered but remained steadfast.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles as he spoke gently, “Severus, while Harry’s methods may stray from the conventional path, they reveal a certain courage and ingenuity, traits we hold dear within these walls. Moreover, he navigated the challenges set before him using nothing more than the resources at hand, abiding by the very spirit of the Tournament’s trials.”

Snape grumbled, but Dumbledore raised a hand.

“Detentions are hereby cancelled.”

Draco scowled, but even he didn’t argue with Dumbledore’s calm authority.

Harry exhaled, relief washing over him.

Hermione smiled, squeezing his hand.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. “Now, Harry, tell me more about this ‘hugging the dragon’ plan of yours.”

Harry’s grin was sheepish but genuine.

“Alright,” he said. “But it’s not as weird as it sounds...”

 

The Gryffindor common room was alive with noise and laughter, a chaotic mix of celebration and disbelief. Fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm, flickering shadows across the sea of red and gold banners. Reminisce of the party from the selection of the champions.

Students crowded around Harry, who was propped up on the big armchair by the fire, a blanket draped over his shoulders. His hair was a wild mess, and his cheeks still bore the faintest scorch marks.

Hermione sat nearby, nursing a cup of pumpkin juice but keeping a sharp eye on Harry, who was now attempting to juggle three pieces of toast and missing spectacularly.

“Honestly,” she muttered, shaking her head, “you’re lucky to be alive, and not just from the dragon.”

Across the room, Neville was nervously handing out homemade snacks, and Seamus was trying to set off harmless fireworks, which exploded in showers of colorful sparks and occasional bangs that sent everyone ducking.

The door burst open, and Fred and George Weasley marched in with a goblet shaped like a dragon, smoke gently curling from its nostrils.

“To Harry!” George shouted, tossing a handful of glitter into the air.

Fred winked at Harry, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Hermione caught the exchange from across the room, her cheeks flushing just a little.

Harry grinned and reached for the goblet Fred handed him, but before he could take a sip, Hermione stepped forward and gently but firmly took the cup from his hands.

“No, Harry,” she said softly but clearly, eyes locked on his. “Not tonight. You’ve already done enough, let’s keep you safe.”

Harry blinked, a bit surprised but trusting her completely. He set the goblet down, the buzz of the party swirling around them, but for a moment, it felt like just the two of them in the room.

Fred chuckled quietly, nodding at Hermione’s protectiveness. “Fair enough, Hermione. Party’s better when the champion stays standing.”

Hermione smiled, relief mingling with pride, as Harry settled back into the chair, the warmth of friendship and celebration wrapping around them like a soft cloak.

As Hermione turned away, feeling proud for keeping Harry grounded, Fred slipped a sly glance her way. With a quick, practiced motion, he subtly flicked his wand and muttered under his breath.

A tiny shimmer danced into Hermione’s water goblet, unnoticed by anyone but George.

He winked again, this time at no one in particular, his grin mischievous but good-natured. “Just a little something to keep the party lively,” he whispered to himself.

Hermione took a tentative sip from her goblet a few moments later, unaware of the subtle influence of alcohol woven into the drink.

As the evening went on, she began to feel a warm, light-headed buzz creeping in, her usual seriousness softening into unexpected giggles and relaxed smiles.

Nearby, Fred nudged George and nodded toward Hermione with a satisfied smirk. “Operation ‘Loosen Up Hermione’ is a success.”

George chuckled softly, eyes twinkling. “She won’t see it coming.”

As the night wore on, the Gryffindor common room slowly quieted down. The wild laughter and fireworks fizzled into sleepy giggles and the occasional snore.

Harry and Hermione flopped onto a lumpy, overstuffed couch, both a little tipsy and wobbling like an elephant on stilts.

Harry grinned, eyes half-lidded. “I swear, I was part dragon tonight. Or maybe part drunken hippo.”

Hermione snorted, nearly spilling her drink. “You definitely looked like a flailing hippogriff on a broomstick.”

Harry waggled his eyebrows. “I could’ve sworn I was doing a fancy dance. The ‘flail and fail,’ very advanced technique.”

Hermione giggled, her usual serious face melting into a goofy grin. “If that’s advanced, then I’m the Queen of the House Elves.”

He nudged her. “Queen Hermione, may I have this dance?” Then promptly tried to stand and immediately plopped back down, face first.

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch. “Smooth move, Your Majesty.”

Harry threw an arm around her, grinning wide. “You know, if surviving a dragon was an Olympic sport, I’d win gold... or at least a participation ribbon.”

Hermione smiled, bumping his shoulder. “You’re the luckiest, most ridiculous champion Hogwarts has ever seen.”

They sat in silence for a while, Hermione’s cheek laying to a rest on Harry’s shoulder as she snuggled into his chest.

“Harry?” She turned her face towards Harry, their nose’s slightly touching. “Can I ask you a question?”

Harry’s grin softened as he looked down at her. “Anything,” he said, voice low and warm.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “What do you want?”

Harry blinked, surprised. “What do you mean.”

Her eyes searched his. “Like… what do you want most in the world?”

Harry laughed softly, shaking his head. “Someday I will be, I will be the most powerful wizard ever. I promise you I will even learn to stop people from dying.

Hermione’s only reply was a gentle, heartfelt, “Oh, Harry.”

Chapter Text

The days following the first task were... awkward. Students and even a few teachers seemed to go out of their way to avoid Harry, as if he was carrying the plague. They’d gone from openly mocking him to pretending he didn’t exist.

Harry didn’t mind one bit. He still had Hermione.

And now Ron was back, too even if he hadn’t really apologized properly.

Speaking of Hermione, Harry had been thinking a lot about the mystery tugging at his heart, the identity of the girl who had somehow settled there. On one hand, his friendship with Hermione had never been closer. They’d sit side by side so often that their shoulders and thighs would brush, and neither of them would pull away. They spent late nights in the common room, Hermione buried in her homework or a book, and Harry just... there, quietly watching.

But on the other, there was that feeling from that night, the one that was completely different from anything else. The memory of that unknown beauty had woven itself into his thoughts, sneaking into every move he made.

Sometimes, he’d catch the firelight flickering over Hermione’s face, the soft scratch of her quill the only sound around them and feel a calm settle over him. Other times, pretending to focus on his own work, he’d find himself studying how her hair curled when she leaned forward, or how she’d bite her lip when deep in thought.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of behavior you could casually explain to Ron without getting teased for life.

It was the kind of closeness that made Harry’s stomach flip in a way no firebolt ever had. He’d catch himself staring at the curve of her smile, or the way she bit her lip when reading, and then quickly look away before she noticed.

Very confusing.

Especially when Hermione laughed at one of his bad jokes, and his brain went fuzzy like he’d just taken a Bludger to the head.

Harry tried to tell himself it was just because they’d been spending more time together. That it was normal to notice things about your best friend when you practically lived in each other’s pockets.

But then she’d nudge him with her knee under the table or roll her eyes in that mock-exasperated way that meant she was actually amused, and his stomach would do that stupid swooping thing again.

But there was still that dream. That angelic brunette who cupped his face like he was the only thing in the world her voice soft, her touch warm. Every time he tried to picture her clearly, Hermione’s face kept slipping in. Which was… confusing.

Well, that was the worst part. Some nights he’d wake up with his heart pounding, the ghost of her hands on his cheeks still fresh, and he wouldn’t know if he should feel relieved or panicked. It didn’t make any sense. Who was this mysterious person?

What made it worse was that every time Hermione smiled at him like he wasn’t a complete disaster, it felt dangerously close to the same warmth from that dream.

Which left him with one very annoying, very inescapable problem:

He might be in trouble.

Big trouble.

Over the past month, he’d been trying, badly to match the dream’s angel to someone at school. At some point, he’d even started making a list in the margins of his notes.

Parvati Patil? Maybe.
Padma? No, not even in Gryffindor.
Cho Chang? probably not, and also why would she be in the Tower?
Alicia Spinnet? nope.
Marietta Edgecombe? double nope.
Katie Bell? possibly?
Sally-Anne Perks?no clue what she even looks like in low light.
Ginny? no. Definitely no.
Romilda Vane? er… maybe?
Angelina Johnson? nope.
Megan Jones? Hufflepuff, so… no.

By the time he’d crossed out most of them, he was left staring at a pathetic little shortlist: Parvati, Katie, and Romilda.

Which didn’t make him feel any closer to solving the mystery, really. If anything, it just made him more aware that he was spending far too much time thinking about brunettes in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione wasn’t on the list. Obviously. That would be ridiculous… right? She was his best friend. Listing her would feel like breaking some unspoken rule between them, the kind of thing you couldn’t take back once it was out there. Still, every now and then, the thought crept in, her laugh, her hand brushing his, the way she always knew exactly what to say. But then he’d shove it away fast. No point in entertaining ideas that could blow up his entire life and earn him a lifetime of Ron’s teasing.

I need to talk to Sirius about this, Harry thought. He’ll know what to do… or at least make fun of me until I figure it out myself.

Luckily, he’d just gotten a letter from Sirius that morning. Harry dug it out of his robes; the parchment already creased from damage during the flight. The writing was quick and messy, like Sirius had been scribbling it while running from something.

Harry,

I got a message from someone. Don’t worry, I’m not going to rat you out or make a fuss. But people are worried about you. And so am I.

I know this tournament’s a nightmare. I know you’re expected to be some kind of hero when you don’t even feel like one.

But hiding behind that “I’m fine” act won’t help. I’m not here to lecture or tell you what to do, I’m here to remind you that you don’t have to carry all this alone.

You don’t have to carry all this alone. Talk to Hermione. Let her in. You might be surprised how much lighter things get when you do.

You’re stubborn as hell, and that’s part of why we all care so much. But even the toughest bloke needs someone to lean on now and then.

If you want to talk to me too, I’m here. But start with Hermione. Trust her.

—Sirius

P.S. Seriously, cut down on the alcohol It’s not the answer, mate. Also, if you would like, we could maybe try meet up at your next Hogsmeade visit.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

He was shocked.

Flabbergasted.

He knew Hermione was aware of his drinking, but he never thought anyone else noticed. He liked it that way, just him and Dobby in this quiet, blissful bubble. Maybe, if Ron stopped being such a pain, he’d even let him join in someday, if he stopped being a dick.

A soft shuffle echoed nearby as Hermione stepped into the dim light, her eyes tired but steady. Crookshanks padded close behind her, the orange feline alert and curious, sniffing the air around them.

“I’m exhausted,” Hermione whispered, letting out a loud yawn.

Harry patted the empty spot beside him on the couch, he decided to forget about the letter for now. It could be sorted out later, Hermione grinned and bounced over, settling down next to him. She curled up, a blanket draped over their legs, her hair falling forward as she pulled out a book.

“Harry,” she murmured without looking up, “hold this for me a second.”

Before he could ask what, she meant, she grabbed his hand and gently placed it on her knee to keep the blanket from slipping. Warm. Soft. Oh no.

Harry stared straight ahead, heart pounding like he’d just run a marathon. “Uh, sure. Blanket… very secure now.”

She finally glanced up, smiling faintly. “Thanks.” Then, Merlin help him, she leaned her head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He could feel every nerve in his body screaming, don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t ruin this.

Hermione sighed contentedly, flipping a page with one hand. “You know,” she said softly, “I’m really glad you’re okay after the task. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Harry’s brain promptly melted.

“Blimey,” a voice drawled from behind them, “should I give you two a minute?”

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Hermione’s head snapped up, cheeks instantly flushing as Ron strolled in from the boys’ staircase, grinning like a lunatic.

He dropped into the armchair across from them, stretching his legs out like he owned the place. “Blanket-sharing, shoulder-leaning… anything else I should know about? Should I grab you some cocoa, or are you fine as you are?”

Harry’s ears went hot. “It’s not—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” Ron said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just two best mates… sitting super close… under one blanket… in front of the fire. Completely normal.”

Hermione shifted under the blanket, clearly wishing she could vanish into the cushions. She flicked Harry a quick, embarrassed glance, biting her lip before snapping her book shut. “Ron, maybe you should go bother someone else for a while.”

“Nah,” Ron said cheerfully, sliding to the floor and leaning back against the couch. “I like the view. You two look cozy.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Hermione crossed her arms, trying to look stern despite the pink still warming her cheeks.

Ron smirked over his shoulder. “Alright, alright… but when you’re done being all cuddly, you’re both playing me at chess. I’ll even let you lose with dignity.”

“I don’t lose,” Hermione shot back automatically.

“Yeah,” Harry said with a crooked grin, “she just throws the board instead.”

That earned him an incredulous look from Hermione and a bark of laughter from Ron.

Ron tilted his head, studying them with exaggerated suspicion. “Y’know, Hermione… your face is almost the same color as your jumper right now. Bit warm under that blanket, is it?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, but the pink on her cheeks betrayed her. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, maybe a little too quickly before fussing with the blanket like it needed urgent adjusting.

“Uh-huh.” Ron’s grin widened. “And Harry’s ears are glowing. What, did the fire suddenly get hotter?”

Harry gave him a flat look. “You’re hilarious.”

“Thanks,” Ron said brightly. “It’s a gift. Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d walked in on—”

“RON!” Hermione’s voice jumped an octave, and she swatted him on the arm with her book. “We’re not! I mean, Harry and I- It’s just—” She clamped her mouth shut, realizing she was only making it worse.

Ron’s eyes sparkled with victory. “Wow. That was convincing.”

Harry’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “You really need a hobby, mate.”

“This is my hobby,” Ron said cheerfully, leaning back on the floor in front of them. “Winding you two up. And clearly, I’m excellent at it.”

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands, mumbling something about “immature boys” while Harry tried not to laugh.

Ron, clearly satisfied with the chaos, began setting up the chessboard. “Right then. Ten minutes, and I’m taking both of you down. Unless you’re too… busy.”

Harry sighed, disentangling himself from the blanket with all the grace of someone trying very hard not to touch Hermione any more than necessary under Ron’s watchful gaze. “Fine. But I’m not losing in ten minutes.”

“You’re right,” Ron said, arranging the pieces with a smirk. “Five should do it.”

Hermione, still slightly pink, folded the blanket neatly beside her and crossed her arms. “You’re both insufferable.”

Ron shot her a grin. “Careful, Hermione. With you glaring at me from across the board and Harry sitting there all moody, people might think you’re… a couple defending your honor.”

Harry groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yep,” Ron said, moving his first pawn forward with a flourish. “And I’m about to be unbeatable, too. So, Potter, think you can focus? Or is your head still full of—”

“Your move, Ron,” Harry cut in sharply.

Hermione shook her head, muttering something about childish boys, but she still shifted forward in her seat, eyes locked on the board. “Harry, take his knight on your third turn.”

Ron gasped in mock betrayal. “Ohhh, so now you’re coaching him?”

Hermione dropped her face into her hands while Harry leaned back, half laughing despite himself. “Mate, do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m winning,” Ron said with a wink.

Ron’s confidence only grew with each move, humming under his breath like he was already planning his victory lap.

Hermione gave Harry whispered advice, leaning closer than strictly necessary, which only made Ron’s grin widen. “Secret strategy sessions now?”

Harry ignored him and went for Ron’s bishop. “Your turn.”

Ron’s eyes sparkled. “My pleasure.” He moved his queen with deliberate slowness. “Check.”

Harry frowned, scanning the board. Hermione pointed toward his rook, but Ron cut in, “Ah-ah-ah no coaching now. That’s practically cheating.”

“Since when do you care about fair play?” Harry shot back, but he moved anyway.

It didn’t matter. Ron’s smirk only deepened. Two turns later, his knight landed in place with a triumphant clack. “And that, my dear friends, is checkmate.”

Harry groaned and slumped back in his chair. Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Harry, if you’d just taken his pawn when I told you—”

“Don’t listen to her, mate,” Ron interrupted, looking far too pleased with himself. “Some things are just destiny. Like me winning. And you two… looking very cozy before I came in.”

Hermione’s blush returned in full force. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Ron said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Shall we play again? Or would you rather go back to your little blanket date?”

Harry threw a pawn at him.

Ron just laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Hermione arched a brow, still pink from earlier but clearly recovering faster than Harry. “Honestly, Ron, you seem far more interested in what Harry and I are doing than your own love life.”

Ron blinked. “My what now?”

Harry smirked, sensing danger. “Oh, this’ll be good.”

Hermione leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I’m just saying… you spend all this time teasing us, yet I haven’t seen you spend more than five minutes talking to any girl who isn’t me or Ginny.”

Ron scoffed. “That’s not—”

“What about Susan Bones?” Hermione interrupted, her tone deceptively casual. “Or Hannah Abbott? Or that Ravenclaw who kept smiling at you in the library yesterday?”

Ron’s ears went scarlet. “She wasn’t, she just wanted the ink pot!”

“Mm-hm,” Hermione said, lips twitching. “And Susan! She did ask if you’d walk her back from charms class…”

“That was because it was cold!” Ron sputtered, looking increasingly cornered.

Harry grinned. “Face it, mate, you’re an idiot.”

Ron groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “I hate both of you.”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “We know.”

 

The three Gryffindors wandered down into the Great Hall for breakfast. Three of the four houses were still buzzing, celebrating the aftermath of the first task. Hufflepuffs were swapping wide-eyed stories about the dragons, Ravenclaws were quietly analyzing every move, and Slytherins lounged smugly, some muttering about Potter’s reckless luck.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron slid into a corner table, trying to dodge the stares and whispers. Harry caught a few sideways glances, some admiring, others skeptical, and a few downright jealous even still, most avoided direct eye contact.

Hermione picked at her toast, eyes flicking around nervously. “I still can’t believe you faced a dragon, Harry. You were incredible.”

Ron, munching on a sausage, smirked. “Yeah, mate, though maybe try not to drag me into the next task?”

Harry grinned despite himself. “No promises.”

Just then, a flurry of owls swooped through the open windows of the Great Hall, clutching letters, packages, and newspapers in their talons. Students scrambled to catch their mail as the owls circled overhead and settled on tables.

Hermione eagerly gathered her stack, and among the usual letters was a crisp copy of the Daily Prophet. She unfolded it quickly, her eyes scanning the bold headlines. Harry leaned over, resting his head gently on her shoulder, causing her to let out a small, surprised squeak.

Daily Prophet Bombshell: Harry Potter’s Latest Stunt, Endangering Friends and Faculty Alike!

By Rita Skeeter

Once again, Harry Potter manages to steal the spotlight, but this time, not for any dazzling display of bravery or magical prowess. No, this time the Boy Who Lived has outdone himself by dragging four unsuspecting individuals into the chaos of the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, risking not only his own life but theirs as well.

If you were expecting a dignified, tightly controlled competition, think again. Eyewitnesses describe a scene that resembled a reckless boy’s wild tantrum more than a display of wizarding skill. Potter, apparently fueled by a mix of bravado and desperation, summoned Professor Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, and shockingly, the minister of magic, Minister Fudge into the arena with him. None of these individuals had agreed to be part of the spectacle, yet they found themselves at the mercy of a fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail, scrambling for safety while Potter waved his wand and shouted orders that seemed to make little sense.

A source close to the Ministry whispered to me, “It’s astonishing the Ministry allowed this nonsense. Potter’s recklessness could have cost lives. Snape looked ready to hex Potter on the spot.”

One student overheard Malfoy muttering under his breath, “I’ve been humiliated enough. Being dragged into Potter’s mess? Absolutely unacceptable.”

Even Minister Fudge, usually fond of dramatics, appeared unsettled. “This was not how the Tournament should be run. We can’t have champions endangering everyone else, even if it is within the rules.”

Poor Ron Weasley, caught up in the chaos, reportedly stormed off afterward declaring, “Next time he drags me into something dangerous, I’m hexing him myself.”

One can only question the judgment that allowed a teenage boy, known for his impulsive tendencies, to wield such dangerous magic in front of a live audience, endangering not just himself but others who had no say in the matter.

Speculation is rife about whether Potter is spiraling under pressure. A close friend confided, “Harry’s been different lately, more reckless. This isn’t the boy we all believed in.”

This raises grave concerns about the oversight, or lack thereof by Hogwarts staff and the Ministry. Were they so desperate for spectacle that they turned a blind eye to the dangers posed by Potter’s reckless actions? Was anyone in charge paying attention when four unwilling “volunteers” were swept into a life-threatening situation? It’s a miracle no one was seriously injured or worse.

Moreover, this chaotic display has left many students and staff alike questioning the very nature of the Tournament’s rules and the ethical considerations of putting minors in such perilous positions, especially when a “Champion” flouts every bit of protocol with childish recklessness.

Is Harry Potter truly the heroic figure the Wizarding World has built him up to be? Or is he a liability wrapped in celebrity, endangering everyone around him for the sake of his own twisted sense of glory?

One thing is certain: the wizarding community deserves better oversight and a lot less Potter-induced chaos.

Stay tuned, dear readers. There’s much more to come as this story unfolds…

Ron grunted, tossing his own letter aside. “Looks like the whole school’s reading this garbage now.”

Hermione sighed, folding the paper. “Ignore it, Harry. The Prophet loves a scandal.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

Ron nudged him. “Well, whatever they say, you made it through, mate. That’s what counts.”

“Thanks guys.” Harry replied calmy.

They gathered their things and headed toward the dungeon stairs, the chatter in the hall growing louder as students discussed the latest news.

“Potions next,” Hermione reminded them, her tone more focused now.

Ron groaned. “At least Snape’s likely to give us something to stew over that doesn’t involve the Prophet.”

Harry forced a small smile. “Let’s just get through it without getting cursed or turned into a toad.”

As they descended into the shadowy dungeons, the tension from the morning’s gossip weighed on Harry, but having Hermione and Ron by his side made it a little easier to face whatever came next.

The Potions classroom was cold and dim, the stone walls lined with dusty shelves filled with strange jars and odd ingredients. The air smelled like burnt toast mixed with something worse, old socks, maybe.

Professor Snape stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes sharp and cold as ever. The moment Harry walked in; Snape’s gaze locked onto him like a hawk spotting prey.

“Ah, Potter,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with venom. “Back from your little… circus act. Dragging innocent students into your reckless chaos do you have any idea how close you came to turning this school into a disaster zone?”

Harry stiffened but kept his eyes forward.

Snape paced slowly, flicking his gaze around the room. “Today you will attempt the Draught of Peace, which, judging by your performance in the arena, you will likely ruin. But then again, perhaps the potion will do more for you than mere calming perhaps it will finally teach you some sense.”

Ron grunted under his breath, but Hermione’s eyes narrowed with mild anger.

Snape stopped beside Harry’s table, leaning in slightly, voice low but cutting. “You should consider yourself fortunate I haven’t put you on probation for endangering your classmates and dragging poor Mr. Malfoy into your madness. Though, I suppose even idiots have their limits.”

Harry gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the sting of Snape’s words.

As Snape stalked away, Hermione gently touched Harry’s arm. “Ignore him, Harry,” she whispered, her voice soft. “He’s just… trying to get under your skin.”

Harry looked up, the weight of the insults settling on him, but Hermione gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“Remember, you’re doing better than you think. You’re not alone in this.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed a little as Hermione squeezed his arm reassuringly.

Snape’s voice cut through again, sharp and sneering, “Don’t embarrass yourself further, Potter. I’ll be watching closely.”

Harry focused on his potion, carefully measuring valerian root, peppermint, and chamomile. Hermione leaned in, whispering, “You’re doing great. Just breathe. I’m here.”

The cauldron bubbled quietly as Snape prowled the room, tossing more snide comments at Harry. “See if you can manage not to poison yourself today, Potter. That would be a nice change.”

Harry bit back a retort, feeling Hermione’s steady presence beside him.

By the end of class, Snape gave a curt nod to Hermione. “Well done, Miss Granger. As for you, Potter… you survived. Barely.”

Hermione gave Harry a quick, supportive glance. “See? You’re tougher than you think.”

Harry exhaled, the weight in his chest easing just a little, grateful for Hermione’s quiet strength.

The three of them left the Potions classroom, Ron grumbling under his breath about “greasy gits” and “completely unfair marks.” Harry kept his eyes on the flagstones, Snape’s barbed comments still rattling around in his head.

Hermione walked a little closer, her sleeve brushing his. “Don’t let him get to you,” she said quietly. “He’s just trying to rattle you.”

Harry huffed. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“Only because you let him,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You still managed your potion perfectly in the end. That’s what matters.”

Ron gave a snort. “Perfect’s a stretch. Yours looked like swamp water until you fixed it.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but Hermione’s smile didn’t waver. “And he fixed it under pressure. That’s not easy.”

They turned down the corridor toward the Transfiguration classroom, weaving past a group of chattering second-years. Hermione slowed her pace just enough that Harry stayed beside her. “You know,” she said, “if Snape could, he’d probably blame you for Filch’s bad mood… or the weather.”

That earned her the smallest laugh from him, which seemed to be her goal. She gave a satisfied little nod.

By the time they reached the tall wooden doors, Ron had gone ahead to grab their usual seats. Hermione lingered just a moment with Harry. She shot him a cheesy smile; The kind she usually saved for him.

He met her eyes for a second, feeling a little of the heaviness ease. “Thanks, Hermione.”

She gave a brisk nod before pushing open the door. “Come on, let’s see if we can get through McGonagall’s class without any accidents this time.”

 

“WEASLEY! Will you pay attention!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the classroom like a whip. Ron froze mid sword fight with Seamus, the tip of his transfigured carrot inches from Seamus’s nose.

The lesson was winding down; they’d already attempted their object-to-animal transfigurations and copied the notes from the board. Well, everyone except Ron, who clearly planned on borrowing someone else’s work later.

“Now that I have everyone’s attention…” McGonagall’s glare lingered pointedly on Ron. “I have an announcement to make.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “The Yule Ball is approaching a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament, and an opportunity to socialize with our foreign guests. Attendance is limited to students in fourth year and above, though you may invite a younger student if you wish.”

Her eyes swept the room, sharp as a hawk’s. “Dress robes will be worn.”

Her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “The Yule Ball is, of course, a chance to… let our hair down,” she said in a tone that suggested she’d rather be hexed than do such a thing.

Lavender shot a look at Parvati, and the two collapsed into giggles, hiding behind their hands. Harry didn’t blame them, McGonagall’s tightly pinned bun looked like it had never been within a mile of being “let down.”

“That does not mean,” she continued, voice growing sterner, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if any Gryffindor embarrasses this school in any way.” Her eyes found Ron again, resting there long enough to make her meaning clear.

The bell rang, and the room erupted in the scrape of chairs and chatter as students shoved books into bags and headed for the door.

The bell rang, and the class erupted into noise as students packed their bags.

“Potter! A word, if you please,” McGonagall called sharply over the chatter.

Harry stopped, feeling a few eyes on him. Hermione hesitated at the door, then said, “Professor, I’ll stay with him.”

McGonagall gave her an exaggerated eye roll. “I didn’t realize we had two Potters in the class.”

Hermione flushed but didn’t back down. “I just thought, if it concerns the Yule Ball it might be useful for Harry to have someone to help him remember the details.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched, though whether from amusement or irritation, Harry couldn’t tell. “Very well, Miss Granger. Stay, if you must.” She closed the door with a flick of her wand and turned to Harry.

“As a champion, Potter, you are required to open the first dance at the Yule Ball. This means you will need a partner.”

Harry nodded awkwardly. “Right.”

McGonagall’s eyes flicked almost too casually toward Hermione. “You may wish to consider someone you already work well with. Someone dependable, graceful under pressure… and unlikely to trip over your feet.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward the professor, eyes widening slightly. “Professor—” she started, but McGonagall raised a hand.

“I am merely making a suggestion, Miss Granger. Champions are… expected to present themselves well, and a partner of similar caliber is strongly advised.” Her gaze lingered a second longer on Hermione before returning to Harry.

Harry coughed into his sleeve, feeling the air grow warmer. “Er… right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do,” McGonagall said crisply. “Dismissed.”

They stepped into the corridor, the door shutting behind them. Hermione adjusted the strap of her bag, avoiding his eyes. “Well… that wasn’t subtle.”

Harry gave a lopsided smile. “No. Not at all.”

They headed up the corridor side by side, both staring very intently at the floor as they walked.

Hermione shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “So… the Yule Ball,” she said after a moment, her tone studiously casual. “It’s… a pretty big deal.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, eyes fixed on the stone tiles. “Guess so.”

“I mean,” she went on, “it’s not just dancing. It’s tradition. Formal. People spend weeks planning for it.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Sounds like a lot of work just to trip over each other to music.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, but she kept her gaze forward. “It’s also… a chance to make an impression. Show you can present yourself well and have loads of fun.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “Suppose so. Probably more fun for people who actually like this sort of thing.”

They turned up the staircase, still not looking directly at one another.

“Some people might surprise you,” Hermione said quietly. “Once they decide to make an effort.”

Harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but she was focused on the steps ahead. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… full.

They pushed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling warmly in the hearth. Ron was sprawled on the sofa closest to it, a half-eaten Chocolate Frog in one hand and Quidditch Through the Ages balanced on his stomach.

He glanced up as they came in. “Finally. Thought you’d both been kidnapped by McGonagall.”

Harry dropped into the armchair opposite him. “Not quite. Just got a lecture about the Yule Ball.”

Ron snorted. “Figures. Bet she loved telling you about the dancing part.”

Hermione sat down beside Harry, smoothing her skirt. “It’s not just dancing, Ronald, it’s—”

“Tradition, yeah, yeah, I know,” Ron said through a mouthful of frog. “Still sounds like a nightmare. All that dressing up and trying not to step on people’s toes.”

Harry leaned back in the chair, smirking. “Funny, that’s exactly what I said.”

Ron grinned at him. “At least we’re agreed, mate.”

Hermione huffed but didn’t press it, instead pulling a book from her bag. “Well, you two can laugh about it now, but if you wait till, you’ll have nobody to go with.”

Ron gave her a sideways glance. “Cheers for the encouragement.”

The three of them lapsed into a companionable quiet, the firelight flickering over their faces, though Harry caught Hermione’s eyes flick to him once or twice over the top of her book.

The quiet didn’t last long. A group of second years thundered past toward the boys’ staircase, laughing about something Harry couldn’t catch. Before he could even turn back to Ron, a third-year girl with curly blonde hair and a determined look marched right up to their table.

“Harry?” she blurted, cheeks flushed. “Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Ron froze mid Chocolate Frog bite, his grin already forming.

But it was Hermione who reacted first. She whipped her head around so fast her hair nearly smacked Harry in the face. “What?” she demanded, her voice pitching higher than usual. “He, he hasn’t even thought about it yet!”

The girl blinked at her, looking startled. “Oh… I just thought I’d ask”

“Well, He’s saying no!” Hermione said sharply, snapping her book shut a little too hard.

Harry stared between them, his ears burning. “Hermione”

She crossed her arms, glaring at the poor girl, who mumbled something about “thinking it over” before practically fleeing toward the portrait hole.

Ron leaned forward, eyes wide with delight. “Blimey, Hermione, you nearly hexed her where she stood.”

Hermione sniffed, flipping her book back open with exaggerated focus. “I was just… making sure Harry didn’t feel pressured. That’s all.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, still grinning like he’d just won the House Cup. “Merlin’s beard… I don’t think Harry is feeling pressured at all.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked up from her book, narrowing. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I was simply… protecting him from making a rash decision.”

“Rash decision?” Harry said, incredulous. “It was just a question.”

Hermione set her book down with a thud. “Yes, and if you’d said yes just because she caught you off guard, you’d be stuck dancing with someone you don’t even know for an entire night. That’s… strategic sabotage.”

Ron snorted. “Sounds more like jealousy to me.”

Hermione’s cheeks went pink. “I am not jealous,” she said crisply, grabbing her bag and shoving it onto her lap. “I just happen to care about you making sensible choices.”

Harry tried not to smile but failed. “Well, thanks for… uh… caring.”

Hermione gave a little huff and went back to her book, but her ears stayed red. Ron shot Harry a look that said you’re in for it, then shoved another Chocolate Frog in his mouth.

The common room settled again, but Harry couldn’t shake the faint, awkward warmth that lingered between them.

The fire crackled in the grate, throwing warm light over the worn armchairs and the cluster of Gryffindors still chattering about the Yule Ball.

Harry leaned back in his seat, pretending to focus on the flames. Hermione had her book open, but he could tell from the way her eyes hadn’t moved in several minutes that she wasn’t actually reading.

“So…” Ron began, breaking the quiet. “Who are you asking then?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “That’s none of your business.”

Ron smirked. “That’s a no, then? Haven’t got anyone?”

Hermione sniffed. “I have options.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Options?”

“Yes, options,” she said firmly, though her voice faltered just slightly. “I simply haven’t decided who’s… most suitable yet.”

Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice. “Blimey, you make it sound like you’re picking a new Minister for Magic.”

Harry chuckled, but Hermione just pressed her lips together and went back to staring at her book.

 

For a while, the only sounds were the rustle of parchment, the pop of the fire, and Seamus laughing loudly at something across the room.

Ginny walked past, tossing a curious glance at the three of them before heading upstairs. Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry, but Harry ignored him, still watching Hermione as she pretended to read.

“We’ve got Defense after lunch,” Hermione declared, snapping her book shut. “Let’s get going!”

Ron looked appalled. “But we’ve just sat down!”

“Let’s go, Ronald,” she said, shooting him a sharp glare. “We can have lunch first there’ll be food.”

Ron’s face quickly brightened. “C’mon, Harry, let’s go get some food.”

Harry finally pushed himself up with a small smile. “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

The three of them stood, moving together through the bustling common room, the chatter and warmth of the castle wrapping around them like a familiar cloak.

They made their way through the crowded hallways, the chatter of students growing louder as lunchtime approached. Harry could feel the weight of whispers still hanging around him, but with Hermione and Ron beside him, it felt a little less heavy.

As they reached the Great Hall, the smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet treacle tarts filled the air. Hermione practically tugged Harry toward their table, her eyes brightening at the sight of the spread.

Ron immediately grabbed the sausages, grinning as he loaded his plate. Harry grabbed a bit of everything, trying to focus on the moment instead of the constant buzz of gossip in his head.

Hermione leaned in, lowering her voice. “Harry, have you thought any more about the second task? I mean, about the golden egg?”

Harry shuffled his food nervously, not meeting her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it... but I don’t know. Seems like a lot to figure out.”

Ron snorted. “I’m sure you’ve got it mate.”

Before Harry could reply, a sudden burst of laughter caught their attention. Across the hall, Lavender Brown was chatting with Parvati Patil, both glancing in their direction with mischievous smiles.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Here we go...”

Harry noticed Lavender and Parvati inching closer, eyes practically glued to him like he was some kind of prize. Lavender waved brightly, and Parvati flashed a cheeky grin.

Ron nudged Harry with a smirk. “Looks like you’ve got some fans, mate.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed sharply, and she stepped forward, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, great. Just what Harry needs, more distractions from the biggest gossipers.’”

Lavender and Parvati strutted up, flashing wide smiles. Pavarti called, “Harry! Any luck finding a date for the Yule Ball? We’re dying to hear!”

Hermione’s head whipped around like a whip crack, eyes blazing daggers. “Are you actually that clueless? It's only been two hours! Honestly, it’s pathetic.”

Lavender’s smile faltered. Parvati’s eyes widened.

Hermione took a slow step forward, voice low and venomous. “Keep this up, and I swear, no one’s going to want anything to do with you, least of all Harry. You’re embarrassing yourselves so badly it’s painful to watch.”

Her stare was ice sharp, cutting straight through them. “So, unless you want to be hexed, I suggest you crawl back under whatever rock you came from and stay there.”

Lavender’s face went deathly pale; Parvati backed up, nearly tripping over her feet.

Hermione turned on her heel, voice dripping with finality. “Consider this your only warning.”

Ron gulped quietly, his eyes wide with awe. Harry was speechless, his gaze shifting between the retreating forms of the two girls and Hermione’s fierce, unreadable expression.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the weight of what had just happened hanging thick in the air.

Finally, Ron cleared his throat. “Blimey, I’m not in the mood for food anymore. Let’s just head to Defense.”

Harry nodded, still a bit dazed. “Yeah, probably for the best.”

Hermione gave a small, tight smile but didn’t say anything as they made their way out of the great hall. The castle corridors felt colder somehow, the usual noise and bustle replaced by a quiet tension that wrapped around them like a cloak.

 

“Imperio.” Moody barked, the red beam impacted Ron directly on the center of his chest. “Now Weasley, I want you to jump.”

Harry stared in horrified fascination as Ron sprang onto the table. He started hopping up and down, pounding his chest with both fists and letting out loud, ridiculous monkey noises.

The class erupted in laughter. Chairs scraped, parchment tumbled to the floor, and even Malfoy nearly toppled from his seat, howling.

“Excellent,” Moody growled, his mismatched eyes glinting. “See that? His will is gone. He’ll do whatever I tell him. Dance, boy!”

Ron immediately spun clumsily on the tabletop, arms flailing like a drunken puppet.

Hermione stifled a laugh, burying her face against Harry’s side. “I wish I could record this,” she whispered, barely able to keep the giggle out of her voice.

Moody’s gaze swept the class again, landing squarely on Malfoy. “And you, Draco. Time to show us how strong your mind really is.”

Malfoy’s sneer faltered for a split second, but he straightened immediately. “I don’t need your lessons, old man,” he spat.

Moody’s wand flicked, and a thin red beam shot toward Malfoy. He froze mid-sneer, his eyes going wide and unseeing.

“Now, Malfoy,” Moody said, voice low and commanding, “cluck like a chicken.”

A strangled noise escaped Malfoy’s throat. Then another. His arms flailed, hands clawing at the air, and he let out a series of awkward clucking sounds, hopping on one foot while trying to balance.

Then, bizarrely, he began banging his head against the floor, pawing and scouring the wooden deck as if hunting for food.

The class lost it. Even Harry couldn’t help but laugh, though he quickly covered his mouth. Hermione buried her face deeper into her robes, trying not to giggle.

The chaos only made Moody’s expression grow darker, like a storm ready to strike. “Enough,” he barked. “Sit, Malfoy. Let’s see how you handle it, Potter.”

Harry’s stomach tightened as Moody’s gaze swung toward him. “Your mind. Let’s see how strong it is.” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Harry froze. His wand felt heavy in his hand, and his palms were slick with sweat. “I… I’m ready,” he said, though his voice sounded smaller than he intended.

Moody’s wand flicked. The familiar red beam shot toward Harry.

Harry felt it wash over him, but instead of panic or fear, a strange calmness settled in. His thoughts sharpened, and, oddly, he felt in control. The sensation was… familiar. A little dizzy, a little lightheaded, but clear.

Then it hit him.

This was exactly how he felt when he was drunk.

“Jump Potter!” Moody repeated.

Harry grinned. If he was going to play along, he might as well make it fun. He bent his knees, pretending to prepare for a standard leap, but when he launched himself, he veered sideways toward Hermione, arms outstretched.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Harry!” she yelled, catching him with a surprised yelp.

The class erupted into laughter. Ron toppled sideways off his chair, still dizzy from the earlier Imperius antics, while Malfoy clucked and flailed in horror.

Moody barked, “Potter! That’s not—”

Harry swung lightly in Hermione’s grasp, letting the dizzy confidence from his “drunk” mind make him bold. “Relax, Professor! I’m just… improvising.”

Hermione struggled to keep her balance under his weight but couldn’t help a small laugh. “You’re impossible,” she murmured.

Harry leaned close, whispering conspiratorially, “Tell me you didn’t see that coming.”

Moody’s wand twitched, eyes blazing. “Great job Potter, with a bit of time you’ll be able to fully resist the curse.!”

Moody’s sharp gaze swung toward Hermione. “Granger. Your turn. Let’s see how clever your mind really is.”

Hermione stiffened, clutching her wand like a lifeline. “I… I’ll do my best,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Moody’s wand flicked, and the familiar red beam shot toward her.

“Now Granger, I want you to rehearse the 12 uses of Dragon’s blood.”

For a heartbeat, her eyes glazed over. Her lips parted, and the words began spilling out, rapid and precise. “Dragon’s blood can be used as an effective cleaner, a strengthening agent for potions, a—”

But then she stopped. Her brow furrowed, lips tightening as if she were biting back the next answer.

Hermione pressed her lips shut and shook her head violently. “No!” she gasped. Her voice trembled, but her will was unshaken. “I don’t want too!”

A ripple of surprise ran through the class. Ron whispered, awestruck, “She fought it!”

Moody lowered his wand slowly, a grim smile tugging at his scarred mouth. “Outstanding. Most students would’ve rattled off the list without blinking.” He nodded at her. “You’ve got a steel trap for a mind, Granger. That’ll serve you well.”

Moody’s magical eye swiveled, sweeping across the room, lingering on each student long enough to make them squirm.

“The Imperius Curse isn’t easy to beat,” he growled, “but with enough practice and strength of mind, it is possible. Remember that. You’ll need it.”

He gave one last glare, then slammed his staff against the floor with a sharp crack. “Class dismissed. Tomorrow, we’ll be working on offensive spells. Don’t be late.”

Chairs screeched back as the students hurriedly packed up, buzzing with chatter. Ron stumbled over, still rubbing his temples. “Blimey, I feel like my brain’s been scrambled.”

“Because it has,” Hermione said, smoothing her robes with shaky hands.

The group finally split up, Hermione heading briskly toward Ancient Runes while Harry and Ron trudged up the stairs to Divination.

Ron looked oddly fidgety, wringing his hands as though he had something bottled up. He kept glancing sideways at Harry, opening his mouth once or twice before shutting it again.

Finally, Harry sighed. “Spit it out, Ron. What’s wrong?”

Ron broke into a lopsided grin. “When are you going to ask her?”

Harry groaned, closing his eyes. “Ask who again?”

Ron gave him a look. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Hermione, of course. It’s obvious she wants you to ask her”

Harry stumbled on the step, nearly tripping. “What? Ron, that’s no.”

Ron snorted before leaning in smirking.

“All I’m saying,” Ron muttered, grinning as they climbed the stairs, “is you’ll regret it if you don’t say something.”

Harry scowled at him, but before he could answer, they pushed open the trapdoor to Divination. Inside, Trelawney’s tower room was as stuffy as ever with the thick sweet stench of perfume and incenses. Students were already settled at their little tables, teacups steaming in front of them. As Harry slid into a seat beside Ron, he could feel Parvati and Lavender’s eyes flicking toward him, whispering behind their hands.

Harry had just sunk into his usual seat when Professor Trelawney floated into view, eyes wide and misty as though she’d seen ghosts lurking in the teapots.

“My dears…” she breathed, her shawls trailing dangerously close to the candles. “The air is heavy tonight with secrets… with hidden truths waiting to be revealed…”

Her gaze drifted across the class before locking suddenly on Harry. She leaned forward, bracelets jangling. “Yes… I sense a question that burns brighter than the rest. A question of the heart.”

Harry stiffened, already dreading where this was going. Ron was grinning like a madman beside him.

“Yes… the crystal speaks of music, of twinkling lights, of… dancing!” Trelawney’s voice trembled with importance. “The fates whisper of a ball! And you, dear boy, are not free of its tangle. A partner waits… veiled in mystery.”

A ripple of giggles ran through the class. Parvati’s eyes went wide, and Lavender nearly spilled her tea in excitement.

Trelawney’s rings clinked against the table as she reached for Harry’s cup. “Let us peer within, let us see who walks at your side beneath the stars!”

Harry groaned, sinking lower in his chair as Ron tried and failed to stifle his laughter.

Professor Trelawney lifted his teacup with both hands, squinting into the swirls of half-finished tea. Her breath quickened. Ahh… I see…” she whispered, voice trembling. “A bright light!” She trembled, her hands shaking “WINGS!” She yelled with a moan, jumping backwards 5 meters.

The whole class gasped. Lavender clutched Parvati’s arm.

“W-wings?” Ron snorted. “A Hippogriff?”

Trelawney clutched her shawls tighter, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “Not a beast, you foolish boy! I see radiance, feathers, soaring high above all others. She is marked by light, purity, untouchable beauty” She suddenly froze, her stare fixed on Harry. “A celestial being… come to guide you through destiny!”

Half the class leaned in with open mouths. Parvati squeaked, “An angel?”

Harry’s face burned, but underneath it all, a flicker of interest stirred. An angel? Could she have…? He bit the inside of his cheek. Maybe Trelawney had somehow stumbled on his dreams. Maybe this was a chance to find out who—

But Trelawney wasn’t finished. She jabbed a finger at him, bracelets jangling wildly. “The heavens demand it! You shall walk into the Yule Ball at the arm of a girl with wings, or else—” she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, “darkness shall swallow you whole!”

Ron was bent double now, wheezing. “Brilliant, mate. Don’t forget to pluck your date outta the Owlery.”

“Wings,” Parvati whispered breathlessly, eyes darting toward Lavender. “Radiance. Feathers…”

Lavender’s jaw dropped. “It has to be Fleur Delacour.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. Fleur? Out of all the people Trelawney could’ve pointed him at…

Ron clutched his sides, face red. “Oh, this is golden!” he croaked between wheezes. “Just wait till Hermione finds out”

Harry glared at everyone, feeling extreme annoyed. This was his personal life! Who he took to the ball was of his concern only.

The last thing he needed was the whole school gossiping about him and Fleur. As if things weren’t already bad enough with people staring every time she walked past.

“I’m not asking Fleur,” he muttered under his breath, though his ears were scarlet.

Parvati leaned in toward Lavender, her voice carrying just enough for Harry to hear. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s like… glowing all the time.”

Lavender nodded furiously. “And the way she just floats when she walks wings, obviously.”

Ron thumped the desk, tears rolling down his cheeks from laughing. “Oh mate, this is the best thing that’s ever happened in Divination.”

Harry shoved his teacup away, scowling. “You lot are ridiculous. Trelawney’s wrong. She’s always wrong.”

But as the class wore on, he couldn’t shake the whispers or the way Parvati and Lavender kept shooting him dreamy looks. By the time they were climbing down the ladder after the lesson, Harry wanted to hex himself invisible.

Ron elbowed him, still grinning ear to ear. “Well, angel boy, better start working on your French. Maybe Fleur’ll teach you how to say ‘wings’ properly before the ball.”

Harry groaned. “If I hear the word ‘wings’ one more time, I’m jumping off the Astronomy Tower.”

Chapter Text

Bang!!

Harry and Ron nearly jumped a foot off their chairs. Hermione had slammed her deluxe copy of Hogwarts: A History onto the table so hard that the ink bottles rattled.

It had already been a long day for Harry. Thursdays were the worst, only one class with Hermione, and he still wasn’t used to that.

“What is this?!” Hermione snapped, eyes flashing. “What is all this nonsense about you and Fleur going to the ball?”

Ron snorted into his sleeve, shoulders shaking. “Brilliant,” he muttered, failing miserably not to laugh outright.

Harry blinked at her, wide-eyed and drained. “Er… what gossip?” he asked weakly.

Hermione’s nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb. Half the common room is whispering about it. Apparently, Professor Trelawney had some vision, wings, lights, destiny, and now suddenly you’re escorting Fleur Delacour under the stars like some sort of storybook prince!”

Ron finally lost it and howled with laughter. “Harry the Prince! Merlin, wait till Malfoy hears this.”

“Shut up, Ron!” Hermione barked, cheeks pink, then whirled back on Harry. “And you, tell me it isn’t true.”

Harry threw his hands up. “It isn’t true! I haven’t even asked anyone yet!”

Hermione folded her arms, lips tight. “Good. Because Fleur already has half the boys in this castle tripping over themselves, and you do not need to add to it.”

Ron wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Yeah, mate, she’d probably use you for imformation anyways.”

Harry groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table. “It’s not even been a day yet…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Hermione huffed, finally sinking onto the couch beside him. Her tone softened just a touch. “You’ve still got 2 months until the ball.”

Harry nodded, not sure what to say. Honestly, he was sick of ball talk already. He didn’t even want to go, he just wanted to figure out what was going on between him and Hermione, who the mysterious person in his dreams was, and, of course, how to survive the tournament.

Beside him, Hermione shifted, clearly still bristling. “And for the record,” she added primly, though her voice wobbled at the edges, “if anyone should believe silly rumors about you being a prince, it ought to be someone who actually knows you. Not her.”

Harry lifted his head slightly, surprised. Her cheeks had gone scarlet, and she was staring very hard at the fire.

Ron, who’d been about to crack another joke, froze mid-snicker and gave Harry a look that said Well, figure that one out yourself.

“Hermione?” Harry began, hesitantly resting a hand on her thigh. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked, slightly concerned. He still wasn’t used to her being so… emotional.

Hermione stiffened at his touch, her quill nearly slipping from her lap. “I-I’m fine,” she stammered, her voice climbing an octave too high. “Perfectly fine. Nothing’s wrong at all, Harry, don’t be ridiculous.”

Her hands fumbled with the corner of her book, tugging at it like she might unravel the pages. She opened her mouth again, then closed it, then opened it once more before blurting, “It’s just, you can’t go around letting people think you’re going to… to waltz about with Fleur Delacour as if, well, as if you even care!”

Harry blinked. “But I don’t care.”

“You shouldn’t!” she shot back far too quickly, cheeks burning so bright they nearly matched the Gryffindor banners. “I mean, you don’t, obviously, of course you don’t, why would you it’s absurd, isn’t it?” She gave a laugh that came out all strangled, like she was choking on her own words.

Harry, fighting the urge to grin, leaned back in his chair. He decided to put her out of her misery.

“It’s alright, Hermione,” he said gently. “I promise I’m not going to ask Fleur out.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, wide and startled, then darted away just as quickly. “Well, good! I mean yes, obviously, you shouldn’t. Not that it’s any of my business,” she added in a rush, fingers fiddling with the corner of her book. “You can, you can do whatever you like, Harry. Of course you can.”

Ron, still watching from the sidelines, smirked like he was at the best show of his life.

Harry tilted his head, lips quirking. She looked awfully adorable when flustered.

The common room had gone quiet again after their awkward exchange. Ron had already shuffled off toward the boys’ dormitory, still grinning like a fool, leaving Harry and Hermione sitting side by side by the fire.

For a while neither of them spoke. Hermione had opened her book again, though she wasn’t really reading, and Harry found himself staring into the flames, feeling oddly restless.

Finally, he pushed himself up. “Want to take a walk? Just around the castle. I can’t sit still anymore.”

Hermione blinked up at him, surprised, then closed her book with a snap. “Alright,” she said softly. “Bring your egg, we could try figure it out while walking.”

Harry groaned but picked it up anyway, tucking it under his arm. The two of them slipped out of the common room and wandered through the dim, echoing corridors. Torches sputtered against the walls, throwing long shadows across the stone. Every now and then Harry’s sleeve brushed against Hermione’s, and each time his chest gave a little jolt he couldn’t quite explain.

They didn’t talk much, Hermione muttered the occasional comment about exams or how Peeves had been chased out of the library earlier, but mostly they just walked in comfortable silence.

When they passed a tall window overlooking the snowy grounds, Hermione paused, gazing out at the frosted lawns and the glittering lake in the distance.

“It looks different at night,” she murmured.

Harry found himself looking at her instead of the view.

Harry didn’t answer, he was too busy staring at her reflection in the glass. The firelight from a nearby torch traced warm gold across her hair, and for a dizzy moment, he forgot entirely about the Triwizard Tournament, the egg under his arm, and even the ball.

Hermione turned, catching him looking. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Harry’s ears went hot. “Nothing. Just… yeah. You’re right. It does look different.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile, then nodded toward the lake. “Come on, let’s go down. We’ll just catch the last of the sunset.”

They slipped outside into the cold evening air, their breaths misting as they crunched through the thin layer of snow on the lawns. The sky was painted in streaks of orange and violet, fading fast into night. By the time they reached the shore, the lake was catching the last ribbons of light, shimmering like liquid glass.

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter and sat on a flat rock near the edge. Harry dropped down beside her, setting the egg between them. For a moment neither spoke; the quiet lapping of the water and the distant sounds of the castle were all that filled the air.

Harry dug his hands into his pockets, trying not to shiver too much. The air smelled sharp and clean out here, so different from the stuffy common room.

Hermione tilted her head back, watching the sky darken. “You don’t really stop to look at it, do you? The lake, the castle… everything just feels so normal until you slow down.”

Harry followed her gaze. The towers of Hogwarts were glowing faintly in the fading light, warm and distant. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I forget it’s… home. Feels more like… I Dunno.”

Hermione glanced at him, her expression softening. “That’s why moments like this matter.” She nudged the egg lightly with her boot. “Even if you’ve got this looming over you.”

Harry groaned. “Don’t remind me.” He picked the egg up, rolling it in his hands. “I’ve tried everything. Shaking it, tapping it with my wand, even yelling at it. Nothing.”

Hermione smirked, but her eyes were kind. “Maybe it’s not about brute force. Maybe it’s about listening.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Listening to an egg?”

She gave him a playful shove. “Yes. Stranger things have happened here, haven’t they?”

Harry chuckled, setting the egg back down. The sound of the water, the hush of the evening, Hermione sitting close enough that her shoulder brushed his, He wouldn’t give this up for anything.

They sat like that for a while, the quiet between them gentle, not heavy. The lake rippled softly under the breeze, the last colors of the sunset fading into starlight.

Harry picked up the egg again, tracing its odd grooves with his thumb. “You’re right. Maybe it’s about listening.”

He tilted it to his ear, trying to catch something, anything. He frowned. “Sounds like… a kettle boiling? Or someone being strangled?”

Hermione leaned in, curious, her hair brushing his shoulder. “Here, let me-”

But Harry’s fingers slipped on the slick shell. The egg bounced once against his knee, then rolled right off the rock.

Both of them froze as it hit the water with a hollow plunk.

“Harry!” Hermione shot to her feet.

“I didn’t mean-!” He scrambled after it, but the egg had already sunk below the dark ripples. For a moment, nothing. Then-

A warped, angelic voice rose from beneath the surface, muffled yet carrying, like a lullaby echoing through water. The sound was beautiful, otherworldly, and loud enough to make the hairs on Harry’s neck stand.

He stumbled back, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell…”

Hermione grabbed his arm, steadying him but staring into the lake. “I think,” she whispered, “we just figured out how you’re supposed to listen to it.”

Harry’s stomach knotted. “You mean… I have to dive in?”

Hermione’s eyes were wide, the last rays of sunlight catching the determination in them. “Looks like it. But… maybe we can figure out a way to make it safer.”

Harry glanced around. The shoreline was slick with snow and ice, and the water looked impossibly dark. “Safe?” he muttered, already squirming out of his robes. “You call freezing to death safe?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, tugging her cloak tighter. “I said safer, not comfortable. You’ll survive. I promise.”

Harry groaned, giving the lake one last incredulous look. “If I drown, you owe me a week of chocolate frogs.”

She snorted, stepping back. “Fine. But only if you survive to tell the story.”

With a resigned sigh, Harry edged toward the water. The moment his feet hit the icy shallows, a cold shock ran through him, stealing the breath from his lungs. The egg lay a few feet away, bobbing slightly as if teasing him.

“Come on, Harry, you can do this,” Hermione murmured, crouching at the edge, her hand hovering over the water like she wanted to reach in but didn’t.

Taking a deep breath, Harry plunged in, the freezing water swallowing him almost instantly. His arms flailed, legs kicking, until his hands finally closed around the slippery egg.

As he kicked toward the shore, the song rose again, louder and more controlled, echoing from beneath the surface. Harry shivered, teeth chattering, but clutched the egg tightly.

When he finally emerged, gasping and soaked, Hermione grabbed his arm, helping him stagger to the snowy bank. “Are you insane?” she exclaimed, though her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.

Harry shook water from his hair, holding up the egg like a trophy. “Maybe. But I’ve got it!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the hint of a grin betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin back. “I’ve figured out the clue.”

The lake rippled silently behind them, the last light fading, as if the water itself was satisfied.

When they got back to the common room, it was still fairly busy. Fifth- and seventh-years were hunched over their books, scribbling notes and muttering spells under their breath. Nearby, a group of third-years were engaged in a chaotic game of wizard’s chess, pieces clattering and occasionally exploding, while another corner echoed with the sharp snap of cards in a heated game of Exploding Snap.

Harry and Hermione ducked past the noise, settling on a worn sofa near the fire. Hermione carefully set the dripping golden egg on the table in front of them, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention.

“Okay,” she whispered, leaning forward, “While you were getting the egg, I managed to write down what I hear from the song”

She took out a notepad from within her robes.

Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you're searching ponder this;
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour, the prospect's black,
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.

Harry’s chest tightened. His stomach churned. No…

They wouldn’t…

They couldn’t possibly know about it.

And yet, a cold dread seeped into his bones.

His secret… his carefully hoarded stash of firewhiskey…

The thought of it being discovered made his palms sweat, heart hammering like a drum. He felt trapped, cornered by the very lines of a riddle that should have been about dragons or merpeople, not his personal vice.

Harry gritted his teeth. He couldn’t lose it. Not now. Not ever.

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on the golden egg, but his mind was racing faster than any broom he’d ever flown. No, no, no… it can’t end like this. I’ve guarded it for months. Every galleon, every quiet sip in the dormitory… all of it, wasted if it’s gone.

His fingers twitched, itching to reach out and shield it, even though it sat safely in a locked box under his bed. What if it gets stolen? What if someone else touches it? The very idea made his stomach twist painfully.

He imagined the exotic collection of liquor slipping from its basket in the black lake, the different colored liquids disappearing in the depth of its waters. All gone. Every single drop… evaporated, lost to the world.

I can’t let it happen. Not now. Not when I-

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched and stared at Hermione. But she was calm, poised, eyes scanning the egg like a strategist mapping a battlefield. She didn’t seem to see the crisis looming over him like a thundercloud.

Why can’t she see it? Doesn’t she understand what’s at stake? His hands trembled slightly, gripping the edge of the sofa. If I lose it… it won’t just be gone. I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t.

Hermione’s sharp eyes flicked up from the egg, narrowing as she caught the tension in Harry’s posture- the way his shoulders hunched, the way his fingers clutched the edge of the sofa, the haunted look in his eyes.

“Harry?” she asked cautiously, leaning closer. “What’s… what’s going on?”

He flinched, as if caught in the act of some unforgivable crime. Debating with himself internally, Hermione already knew he’d been drinking, it showed from Sirius’s letter. Nobody else would’ve figured it out, besides he did trust her with his life, reaching a conclusion he decided to be honest with her.

“I… it’s… it’s gone, sort of,” he stammered. “Not really gone, but… I can’t lose it. Ever. If it’s gone-” He swallowed hard, heart thundering. “Everything I’ve done.. it’ll be wasted.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her hand instinctively reaching out to touch his arm. “Harry, slow down. What do you mean? Lost what?”

He took a shaky breath, leaning back slightly, trying to calm the storm in his chest. “It’s… my stash. Alcohol, I’ve… been keeping it safe for months, and now…” His fingers twitched, gripping the edge of the sofa as if he could physically hold it together. “It’s connected to the clue somehow. If I mess this up, it’s gone.”

Hermione blinked, then tilted her head, expression softening. She let out a slow sigh. “Harry… I’ve been wondering when you’d talk to me about this. I’ve noticed ages ago but I didn’t want to push.”

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I… I didn’t want anyone to know. Not anyone, especially not you.” He admitted, voice tight. “I thought I could handle it myself, but with the tournament, everything just feels too stressful. I needed something to help, and I guess I found it.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, a mix of concern and understanding in her gaze. She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Harry leaned into her touch. “Harry?” She began quietly. “I don’t like it, I don’t like seeing you like that, you nearly died for Merlins sake during the first task.”

Harry flinched at her words, his shoulders stiffening. “I know, Hermione… I know it’s stupid. I just… I didn’t know how else to deal with everything. Everything keeps piling up, and I just…” His voice faltered, and he shook his head, struggling to find the words.

Hermione’s hand lingered on his cheek, warm and grounding. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, Harry. You’ve got me. We’ll figure this out together, like always.”

He let out a shaky laugh, almost bitter. “I should’ve talked to you about this way earlier.”

“You should have silly,” she said softly, her eyes locked on his.

Green stared into brown.

They stayed there for a while, unaware of the watching crowd, as they spoke softly.

“Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you’ll stop drinking for now, perhaps until we’ve finished the school year.”

Harry gulped.

“I’ll do my best not to.”

She gave a small, relieved smile, brushing her fingers lightly across his arm. “That’s all I ask.”

Harry exhaled slowly, letting some of the tension leave his chest. “Thanks, Hermione… I really mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She leaned closer, her forehead brushing his. “You’ll never have to find out,” she whispered.

The following week at Hogwarts carried on with its usual mix of chaos and quiet study. Classes rolled by in a blur, Charms, Potions, Care of Magical Creatures, while the looming Yule Ball hovered over Harry like a storm cloud. Random girls from different houses and even other schools kept approaching him, shyly asking him to accompany them. Each time, he politely declined, and Ron was always there, dragging Hermione along before she could get too aggressive.

By the evenings, the common room buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional crash of misfired spells. Yet Harry felt… lighter than he had in months. He’d kept his promise to Hermione, resisting the temptation of his hidden stash, and somehow, having her nearby made it so much easier.

Hermione had also adjusted their training. Running and spell practice hadn’t stopped, but now she dragged him to the lake after classes as well. The icy water nearly froze him solid the first time, but she was relentless. “You need to be ready, Harry. The next task is underwater?” she had argued, shoving him in before he could protest.

Soon, swimming laps beneath the surface became routine, and between gasps of breath and shivers, they began researching magical ways to breathe underwater. Bubble-Head Charms, even half-forgotten transfiguration methods, Hermione scoured every book she could get her hands on. Harry followed her lead, though more often than not he caught himself watching her pace the library aisles, quill tapping against her lip, eyes burning with determination.

One afternoon, they were sitting at their usual table in the library. Harry got up to fetch a book from the far shelves. When he came back, Hermione wasn’t alone.

Viktor Krum stood beside her, tall and awkward, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure how to hold himself in such a quiet place. Hermione looked up at him, a little startled but smiling politely.

Harry slowed, clutching the book tight in his hand.

“I vas vishing to ask you something,” Viktor said, his accent thick, his dark eyes fixed on her. “Hermy-own-ninny… vould you come to ze Yule Ball… vith me?”

The words hung in the air like a spell, freezing Harry in place. His stomach dropped, heat rushing up into his face.

Hermione’s quill slipped from her fingers. She blinked, clearly stunned, and for a moment her mouth opened without sound. “Oh- Viktor, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You say yes,” Viktor replied, a rare, small grin tugging at his lips.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He sat down heavily, setting his book on the table with a loud thump. Both of them glanced at him, but he kept his eyes fixed stubbornly on the page in front of him, though the words made no sense.

Hermione hesitated. “I- I’ll have to think about it.”

Viktor gave a short nod, but his gaze lingered on her, dark and steady, before he turned and walked off between the shelves.

The silence he left behind pressed down hard.

Hermione turned back slowly. “Harry…” she began.

“Don’t,” he muttered, still not looking at her. His throat felt tight, every word like broken glass.

Hermione’s brows drew together. “It was only a question-”

“Yeah, I heard,” he said, sharper than he meant, though his voice cracked on the words. He shoved the book open, staring blindly at the ink. Anything but her eyes.

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. She studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching until it stung.

Finally, she leaned forward. “You don’t get to be angry at me for this.”

Harry’s head snapped up, his green eyes flashing. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at him. Walking over here like-like he can just…” He gestured vaguely in the direction Krum had gone, his fist clenching on the table. “Like you’re some prize to be snatched.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry-”

“No, really. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know how you chew the ends of your quills when you’re -” He cut himself off, teeth gritting, heat burning his face.

Hermione blinked, stunned by the rush of words.

He swallowed hard, voice dropping low. “You deserve better than being asked like that. Like he’s just picking the prettiest girl in the library.”

Her cheeks flushed. For a moment, she looked torn between anger and something softer. “Harry… it was just an invitation. Not a… claim.”

“Felt like one,” he muttered.

She hesitated, then reached across the table, her hand brushing against his.

Harry flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. Hermione’s eyes held his, calm and steady now.

“Harry,” she said softly, “if you’re worried about… all of that, why don’t you just ask me yourself?”

He blinked, caught off guard, the words making his stomach twist.

Hermione leaned closer, her voice almost teasing now. “I’d much rather go with someone I know. Someone who I normally have fun with.”

Harry’s hand hovered above hers, frozen, mind racing. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.

“I… I could,” he stammered, his voice low. “I mean… I’ll ask you. If you really want me to.”

Hermione’s smile was quiet but warm. “I do, Harry. I’d rather it be you.”

Harry’s heart pounded as he pushed back his chair, the library suddenly feeling impossibly quiet around them. He swallowed hard, glanced at Hermione’s expectant eyes, and then, on impulse, dropped to one knee right there between the towering bookshelves.

Hermione blinked, startled, her hands flying to her mouth. “Harry- what-?”

He cleared his throat, fumbling slightly with the words. “Hermione… I-uh… would you… go to the Yule Ball with me?” His voice was low, awkward, but steady enough, and he looked up at her, green eyes earnest.

For a moment, she just stared, then her lips curved into a soft, delighted smile. “Harry… of course I will.”

He let out a shaky laugh, standing up quickly, heart hammering in relief. “Right. Brilliant. Okay… we’re- uh- going together.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, a little amused, but her hand slid into his. “Yes, Harry. You don’t have to make a big production of it.”

Harry grinned, feeling lighter than he had in weeks, already imagining the night of the ball with her by his side.

Dinner that night in the Great Hall felt different. The enchanted ceiling glowed with twilight stars, candles floating lazily above the four tables. The usual noise of clattering plates and chattering voices rang out, but to Harry, it all seemed muffled, distant.

He sat beside Hermione, who was calmly spooning potatoes onto his plate, as though nothing had changed. But Harry could barely focus on the food in front of him. His mind kept looping back to the library, to her smile, to the way her hand had slipped into his like it had belonged there all along.

Ron was grumbling about homework, his mouth full of bread. “Honestly, the professors are evil. They pile it all on right before Christmas, like we don’t have enough to deal with.”

Harry hummed distractedly, stabbing at his shepherd’s pie.

Hermione gave him a knowing glance from the corner of her eye, the tiniest smirk tugging at her lips. She didn’t say a word, but the warmth in her gaze nearly made him choke on his pumpkin juice.

Across the hall, Viktor Krum glanced their way. His dark eyes lingered on Hermione for a moment, then flicked to Harry. The weight of the stare was unmistakable.

Harry’s fork tightened in his grip.

Hermione, noticing, placed her hand lightly over his under the table. “Don’t,” she whispered, just for him.

Harry had just relaxed enough to take another bite when a shadow fell across the Gryffindor bench.

“Harry?”

He looked up mid-chew, startled. A girl from Ravenclaw, dark hair, blue-trimmed robes, her face faintly pink, stood there, clutching the edge of the table. “I was wondering… would you go to the Yule Ball with me?”

The words seemed to echo, and Harry nearly choked even though he was use to it by now. Hermione froze beside him; her hand still wrapped around his under the table.

Ron snorted loudly, nearly spilling his pumpkin juice.

Harry swallowed hard, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His heart thudded, but his voice came out steadier than he felt. “Er… I’m- uh- already going with someone.”

The girl blinked, disappointment flashing in her eyes. “Oh. Right. Sorry, then.” She gave a stiff smile and hurried off toward her table.

Harry slumped in his seat, cheeks burning.

Hermione tilted her head, trying, and failing, to hide her smile. “Already taken, are you?” she murmured.

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

Her fingers squeezed his under the table. “Not a chance.”

Ron leaned across the table, eyebrows raised, his mouth still half-full of stew. “Wait- hold on. You’ve already asked someone? Since when?!”

Harry froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Er”

Ron jabbed him with a spoon. “Don’t ‘er’ me! You didn’t tell me! Who is it? Cho? No- she’s still got Cedric hanging about. Maybe that Hufflepuff girl who keeps staring at you in Herbology?”

Hermione busied herself with her goblet, clearly trying not to laugh.

Ron narrowed his eyes, suspicious now. “Or… wait. Did you actually say yes to Fleur? Mate, tell me you didn’t”

Harry sputtered, nearly dropping his fork. “What? No! Fleur-? Merlin, no!”

Ron slumped back, still frowning. “Well, then who? Come on, you can’t just drop it like that and not tell your best mate.”

Harry risked a glance at Hermione, whose lips curved ever so slightly, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“I… uh…” Harry mumbled, stabbing at his potatoes like they’d personally betrayed him. “It’s… a secret.”

Ron groaned, throwing up his hands. “A secret? You’re going to the biggest event Hogwarts has had in years and you’re keeping it a secret?!”

Hermione finally let out a small laugh, which only made Ron’s frown deepen. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said primly, though the smile tugging at her lips told another story.

Ron looked between them, suspicion dawning. “Hang on… it’s not” He pointed his spoon at Hermione, his eyes going wide. “No. No way.”

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice. Hermione’s face flushed scarlet.

Ron stared. “It is, isn’t it?!”

“Finally!” Ron let off a fist pump.

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Ron- please, can you not-”

“No way! This is huge!” Ron exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. “You actually asked her! And she said yes! I knew it! Something’s been going on with you two!”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed, and she quickly leaned toward Ron, lowering her voice. “Ron, please… can we keep this between us for now? We don’t want everyone knowing just yet.”

Harry nodded emphatically, still hiding his red face. “Yeah. Please, Ron. Just… don’t tell anyone. Not yet.”

Ron raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin made it clear he was delighted. “Fine, fine… my lips are sealed. But only because you asked nicely.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “Only because we asked. And don’t even think about letting it slip.”

Ron chuckled, giving Harry a wink. “Got it. Your secret’s safe with me… for now. But I might tease you mercilessly later.”

Harry peeked up at her, cheeks still warm. “Thanks for backing me up,” he muttered quietly.

Hermione smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Anytime, Harry.

Just then, Neville slid into the bench beside Ron, nearly knocking over his goblet in the process. “Oi! You two!” he hissed, eyes darting around the hall like he was about to be overheard by the entire castle.

Harry and Hermione turned toward him, curious and wary.

“I- I just asked Ginny to the Yule Ball,” Neville whispered, cheeks red as if the common room itself was judging him. “She said yes… I think. Well, she smiled a lot, and I… I think that counts?”

Ron nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, eyes wide.

Ron’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed like a suit of armor. He leaned in closer to Neville, voice low and dangerous. “Alright, Neville… I need the truth. What exactly are your intentions with Ginny? Are you just asking her as a friend, or…?”

Neville’s eyes widened, fumbling with his hands. “I- I mean… I like her, Ron! I wanted to ask her properly, that’s all! I didn’t think anyone would-”

“Properly?” Ron’s tone sharpened, every word practically snapping in the air. “You think asking my sister to the Yule Ball is something to do casually? Do you even know what you’re getting into?”

Neville swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I just wanted to be honest with her.”

Ron leaned back slightly, still glaring, but his voice softened a touch. “Honest’s good… but you need to respect her, and me. Got it? You cross a line, and you’ll answer to me.”

Neville nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “I understand, Ron. I won’t-”

Ron cut him off with a pointed finger. “Good. Keep it that way. Got it, Neville?”

“Y-yes, Ron,” Neville stammered, eyes downcast.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, trying not to smother their laughter at Ron’s fierce, almost territorial protectiveness.

Ron muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, “No one messes with my sister… no one.”

Neville hesitated for a moment, then glanced nervously at Ron. “Uh… so… who are you going to ask to the Yule Ball, then?”

Ron’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing like Neville had just challenged him to a duel. “Excuse me? That’s… that’s none of your business!”

Neville flinched, holding up his hands. “I-I just thought… you know, we’re all asking people, it’s kind of the thing-”

Ron leaned closer, voice low and sharp, practically vibrating with indignation. “I said none of your business! My choices aren’t up for debate, understood?”

Harry and Hermione tried not to burst out laughing at the way Ron’s protective, fiery streak had taken over, and Neville’s eyes grew wide, clearly realizing he’d stepped into dangerous territory.

“I… okay, Ron,” Neville murmured, shrinking back a little. “I didn’t mean-”

Ron waved him off, though the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. “Just… keep your questions to yourself, mate. Some things are private. Especially when it comes to the Ball.”

Neville nodded quickly, muttering something about giving Ron space, while Ron flopped back in his chair, muttering under his breath, “No one touches my sister, and no one questions me about the Ball…”

Hermione looked at Harry, her eyebrows wiggling with humor, Harry nodded and grinned.

Hermione leaned forward, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “So, Ronald…” she said, voice deceptively calm, “are you going to tell us who you’re asking to the Yule Ball, or are you going to sulk in silence all night?”

Ron’s face flushed, and he straightened in his seat, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m not sulking! And I’m certainly not telling you- at least, not yet.”

Harry chuckled quietly from across the table, glancing at Neville, who was trying not to look too guilty.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, leaning even closer. “Not telling us, huh? Come on, Ron. We’re your friends… and I promise we won’t tell anyone else.”

Ron’s face went red, half from embarrassment and half from irritation. He crossed his arms defensively. “I don’t… I don’t have anyone to ask yet!”

Hermione leaned forward, eyes glinting with amusement. “Really, Ron? Not even a little idea?”

“No!” he snapped, a little too loudly, and then muttered, “And it’s none of your business anyway.”

Neville slid a bit closer, trying not to grin. “Come on, Ron, you must have someone in mind, right?”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “No. I… I haven’t figured it out yet. And I definitely don’t want suggestions.”

Hermione tilted her head, smirking. “So, you’re leaving it to chance?”

Ron huffed, turning to glare at her. “It’s called thinking it through, Hermione. Unlike some people, I don’t just blurt out who I’m going to the Ball with.”

Harry and Neville exchanged a quiet laugh while Ron jabbed a finger at Neville, defensive. “And you,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “keep your nose out of it, alright?”

Neville held up his hands, smiling nervously. “I was just curious! No pressure, Ron.”

Ron huffed again, still sitting rigidly, clearly determined not to give anything away. “Good. Because I’m not telling anyone until I know it’s… right.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh, while Harry snickered quietly at Ron’s flustered defensiveness.

Ron grumbled under his breath, muttering about “plenty of time,” while Harry and Hermione exchanged amused glances, both quietly enjoying the rare moment of Ron being flustered and protective.

The next morning, Harry walked down the stairs toward the common room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Hermione was already awake, perched on their usual couch with a mug of steaming tea in her hands and a stack of books beside her.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, slumping onto the sofa next to her.

“Morning,” Hermione replied without looking up at first, her eyes scanning over a note she’d scribbled. Finally, she glanced at him, her expression softening. “Ready for Hogsmeade?”

Harry nodded, trying to keep his excitement under control. It was nice to get a day with Hermione to himself, without Ron around to monopolize her attention, or to ask awkward questions about the Ball, even though they usually spent most of their time together anyway.

Ron had already decided to go alone, supposedly to “scout potential dates” for the Ball, leaving Harry a quiet sense of relief. He could enjoy the trip without constant teasing, without worrying about Ron’s over-the-top reactions.

“Do you know where Sirius will be?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione chuckled, a little mischievously. “Knowing him? Probably not. But we’ll find him.”

Hermione set her tea down and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke. We want to get there quickly.”

Harry groaned dramatically, stretching as if the stairs had been an insurmountable obstacle. “You act like I’ve never walked down steps before.”

“I act like you’ve never been distracted by literally everything,” Hermione shot back, a teasing glint in her eyes.

He grinned. “Distracted? Me? Never.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, muttering something about “hopeless Gryffindors,” but her smile betrayed her amusement. Together, they slipped out of the common room, down the quiet corridors, and out into the crisp morning air.

The walk to the village was brisk, the winter chill biting at their cheeks. Harry kept stealing glances at Hermione, catching her humming softly under her breath as she adjusted her scarf.

“First stop, Honeydukes,” she declared. “I need something sweet before we even think about meeting Sirius.”

Harry laughed, following her through the narrow streets, dodging other students and clusters of locals. The smell of chocolate and baked goods made his stomach rumble, and he grinned when Hermione grabbed his hand as they stepped inside the shop.

Inside, it was a riot of colors and smells. Chocolate frogs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, and fudge that looked way too dangerous to eat in one bite. Harry wandered a little behind Hermione, who was already examining a display of fizzing whizzbees.

“You really are worse than a first year in here,” Harry teased. “Do you ever slow down?”

“Not when there’s chocolate,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, popping a candy into her mouth and shoving a few more into her bag for later.

Harry chuckled.

The rest of the day unfolded just as Harry had expected. He and Hermione, with Ron tagging along at the last minute, managed to slip away from the bustle of Hogsmeade. Sirius, still disguised as Padfoot, padded quietly at their heels. They moved quickly, sticking to side streets until the looming shape of the Whomping Willow came into view.

Harry glanced around to make sure no one was watching. The great tree’s branches swayed menacingly, ready to lash at anything that came too close. But Padfoot bounded ahead without hesitation, nose pressed to the roots until he found the familiar knot. With a quick paw, the Willow froze, its branches going still.

“Every time I see that, I can’t believe it works,” Ron muttered, staring warily up at the now-motionless branches.

Padfoot barked once, then led them down into the hidden passage. The tunnel was narrow and smelled faintly of damp earth, but it was familiar to Harry in a way that sent a pang of nostalgia through his chest. He could almost see the Marauders sneaking through it in their school days.

At the end of the passage, they climbed into the Shrieking Shack, dust motes dancing in the shafts of weak afternoon light. Padfoot stretched once, then shifted back into Sirius. His face was tired but warm, eyes glinting with mischief as he grinned at them.

“About time you lot showed up,” he said, brushing cobwebs from his sleeve. “Thought I was going to have to start howling just to get your attention.”

Harry laughed, relief flooding him at the sight of his godfather. “We had to be careful. People are watching.”

“People are always watching,” Sirius replied dryly, before his smile softened. “But that’s why we’re here. Away from prying eyes.”

Hermione crossed her arms, though there was a small smile tugging at her lips.

Sirius paced across the dusty floorboards, boots creaking with each step, before halting in front of his godson. For a moment, his expression shifted, less the fugitive, less the grinning trickster, and more like the family Harry had longed for all his life. Then Sirius opened his arms wide.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space quickly, burying his face against Sirius’s worn coat as his godfather’s arms closed tight around him.

“You’ve grown,” Sirius muttered into his hair, his voice low and rough. “Too much, too fast.”

Harry gave a shaky laugh, pulling back a little. “Not really. Same scrawny me.”

Sirius ruffled his hair, but his smile was tinged with sadness. “Maybe. But I see James in you more every day.”

Ron shifted awkwardly in the corner while Hermione’s gaze softened, watching the exchange quietly. When Sirius finally let go, his face turned grim again.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Have you been following my advice?”

Harry hesitated, glancing briefly at Hermione before nodding. “I’ve spoken to her. But…” His throat tightened. “The urge comes back every now and then.”

Sirius gave a slow nod, his expression serious. “It’ll be like that for a while. Temptation doesn’t just vanish overnight. But I believe in you, Harry you’ve got this.”

Then, as if determined to cut through the heaviness, he let out a crooked grin and flicked his eyes toward Hermione. “Besides,” he said lightly, “you’ve got the help of that brilliant young lady beside you.”

Hermione flushed, ducking her head quickly, though her hand tightened just slightly on the edge of Harry’s sleeve.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the comment, but he didn’t pull away. His ears went hot, and he mumbled, “Yeah… I know.”

Ron rolled his eyes from the corner. “Blimey, Sirius, don’t encourage her. She’s smug enough as it is.”

Hermione shot him a sharp glare, but Sirius only laughed, the sound echoing in the dusty shack. Then his face sobered again. “Jokes aside both of you need to look out for each other. The Tournament’s only getting more dangerous. And the people behind it? They won’t play fair.”

Harry nodded. “We think we’ve already figured out the second task.” He gestured toward Hermione.

Her eyes lit with a mixture of pride and nerves. “We know it involves going underwater. I’ve been researching ways to help Harry breathe, there are a few spells, and possibly potions, that could work.”

Sirius tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Underwater, eh? That tracks with how twisted these tasks are. Just remember, Harry, the Ministry won’t care how much strain it puts on you. They want a show, not your safety.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, that’s what it feels like. But… with Hermione’s help, I think I’ll be ready.”

Hermione beamed before continuing. “We believe that an item of immense value will be taken from Harry, to be used as a hostage for the task. He thinks it’s a bottle-”

“A stash!” Harry cut in quickly, only to yelp as Hermione smacked the back of his head with her notes.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she scolded, though her cheeks were faintly pink. They wouldn’t risk using something like that. It’ll be someone, or something, you care about. That’s how they’ll push you.”

Sirius’s expression darkened, the humor gone from his eyes. “She’s right. They’ll go after what’ll hurt you most. That’s how these people operate. It won’t be about treasure; it’ll be about leverage.”

“I still think it’s my secret stash.” Harry muttered darkly.

Ron frowned from the corner. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this stash of yours.”

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, glaring at him.

“What?” Ron said defensively, throwing up his hands. “I’m just saying my best mate keeps a stash hidden for months, and I’m the last to know? That’s betrayal, that is.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not about you, Ron.”

“Everything’s about me when you’ve been sneaking off with Hermione all term doing Merlin knows what” Ron shot back with a grin.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Honestly, Ronald, can you not for one minute?”

Sirius smirked faintly at the bickering, though his tone stayed serious. “Enough. Focus. Whatever they take, you’ll need to be ready to face it. fear, temptation, or worse. That’s the only way you’ll win.”

 

As the Yule Ball drew nearer, Harry and Hermione, and sometimes Ron, when he couldn’t come up with an excuse barely had time to breathe. Hermione had taken full command of Harry’s training, snapping out orders with the precision of a drill sergeant.

“Hurry up, Harry!” she shouted, standing at the edge of the snowy path with her arms crossed. “You’ve got to run faster than that!”

Harry staggered past her, cheeks burning from the cold and the effort. “I’m trying Hermione!” he wheezed, clutching at his ribs.

Ron, trudging several paces behind, groaned loudly. “I don’t see why I’ve got to do this too. I’m not the one diving into a freezing lake.”

“That’s exactly why,” Hermione shot back, her eyes flashing. “Harry needs someone to pace him, and you could use the exercise.”

Ron groaned dramatically, doubling over with his hands on his knees. “This is abuse. Pure abuse.”

Harry collapsed onto a bench near the lake, brushing snow off the seat before slumping down. “If the merpeople don’t finish me off, Hermione will.”

Hermione’s face turned red at the double meaning, and she quickly waved her hands in front of her. “Honestly Harry, you’ve only ran 8 kilometers!”

Harry rolled his eyes, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Yes mum.”

Ron plopped down beside him, shaking his head. “Surviving Hermione is the real challenge here.”

Hermione crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Well, you two can joke all you want, but if you don’t get this right, the second task is going to be a disaster. Now, Harry, wand at the ready. Let’s try the Bubble-Head Charm again.”

Harry groaned but lifted his wand, muttering, “Fine, but if I pass out, I’m blaming both of you.”

Ron grinned, leaning back on the bench. “And I’ll bring the popcorn.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, “I’m going to turn you two into merpeople myself if you don’t behave.”

Harry groaned, gripping his wand tighter. “Fine… but this better work.”

Hermione stepped back, eyes sharp. “Remember the incantation: ‘Bubbliaro!’ Focus, Harry. Clear thought, precise wand movement.”

He muttered the words, flicking his wand in the careful motion Hermione had drilled him on. For a moment, a small bubble appeared… then wobbled, stretched, and popped with a soft plink, leaving him coughing as a cloud of cold air hit his face.

Ron snickered from the bench. “Well, that’s one way to stay frosty.”

Harry waved his arms, trying again. “No, no! Focus! I can do this!”

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Harry, you’re moving too much. Stand still and keep your head steady!”

He froze, took a deep breath, and muttered the incantation again. A bubble formed, but it immediately drooped, sliding down his shoulders before collapsing entirely. Harry groaned, brushing snow off his robes. “This is impossible!”

Hermione gave him an encouraging look. “It’s fine, Harry. Charming is all about patience. You’re getting there. You just need more practice-”

“Practice?” Harry gasped, shaking his head. “I’ve been practicing for days already! I’m going to be sick before I even reach the lake.”

Ron snorted. “Maybe the merpeople will feel sorry for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled slightly. “Keep at it. You’ll get it eventually. Above ground first, then underwater.”

That night, the common room had quieted down, the fire casting long shadows across the walls. Harry and Hermione moved to the center of the room, hands brushing as they fell into the rhythm of their usual dance practice. This wasn’t their first time, far from it. They’d made this a nightly routine ever since Harry had asked her, refining steps, turns, and spins until they were almost seamless.

“Left, right, left… no, Harry, not that foot again!” Hermione scolded, though her voice had a teasing lilt.

Harry stumbled slightly, shaking his head. “I swear, these shoes have it in for me.”

Hermione’s laughter tinkled across the room as she steadied him. “Your shoes are fine. You just have to focus. One, two, three now spin!”

He followed her lead, and this time they moved smoothly together. But as he twirled, he accidentally got a little too close, his chest brushing against hers. Both froze for a heartbeat, breath hitching, and the firelight caught the faint pink in Hermione’s cheeks.

“Uh…” Harry cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to regain his composure, though his green eyes lingered on her.

Hermione blinked, then laughed softly, a nervous but warm sound. “Careful.”

Harry stumbled over his own feet, spinning too far to the side, and crashed onto the floor with a loud thud. Hermione, trying to steady him, slipped as well and landed on top of him, both of them tangled and blinking up at each other in surprise.

“Oh Shucks!” Hermione exclaimed.

Harry’s face went bright red.

“C-could you please move your hand Hermione?” Harry requested.

Hermione froze, before quickly scrambling up, brushing off her robes. She gave him an apologetic flustered smile. “Sorry… I didn’t- u- mean to gra-.”

Harry sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to look flustered. “It’s… fine,” he muttered, though his voice wobbled.

Hermione extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, the warmth of her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Maybe we should take a break for tonight,” she suggested softly, her eyes flicking down and then back up at him.

Harry nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah… maybe that’s a good idea.”

They stood there for a moment, both acutely aware of the closeness, before Hermione gave a small laugh and stepped back, breaking the spell. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” she said, smiling.

Harry nodded, heart still racing. “Yeah… tomorrow.”

Hermione gave a small sigh, glancing toward the stairway. “I really should get to bed. Big day tomorrow.” She smiled at him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Harry swallowed hard, nodding. “Right… bed.”

Hermione turned and walked toward the girls’ dormitory, her robes swishing softly.