It All Began With A Snitch

by VenomAndVerses

Summary:

A snitch, that tiny piece of flying ball, who knew it was the reason that Harry had found his true love.

Funny as it may sound, but it really was the reason how Harry once again found himself in the center of attention no matter where he goes, over a small tiny flying golden snitch.

A Snitch At First Sight

Chapter 1: A Snitch At First Sight

The air buzzed with energy, the kind that made your skin hum and your bones vibrate. Harry followed Arthur Weasley up the narrow staircase, his trainers slipping slightly on the steep wooden steps. Ron was ahead of him, bounding two steps at a time, barely able to contain himself.

 

“I can’t believe we’re actually here!” Ron shouted over his shoulder. “The bloody World Cup! Top Box!”

 

Harry managed a tired smile, brushing a hand through his wind-tossed hair. “Yeah,” he muttered, breathless from the climb. “Kind of surreal.”

 

Fred and George were already at the top, practically bouncing in place as they leaned over the rail, shouting gleefully at the madness below.

 

“Oi, Harry!” George called out. “You’ve got to see the Irish mascots, they're mental!”

 

“Not yet, they’re not out yet, you prat,” Fred corrected, elbowing him. “But when they come out—just you wait.”

 

Harry gave a small laugh and stepped toward the railing, catching his breath. The view took him off guard. The stadium was enormous — impossibly large — a vast amphitheater of glittering movement and noise. Rows upon rows of enchanted banners and magical fireworks lit up the air, while the stands overflowed with fans dressed in green or red, some painted head to toe, others waving sparking wands, some even levitating just above their seats with enchanted cushions.

 

He leaned on the railing, letting the cool metal bite into his forearms, grounding him. For a moment, he just watched.

 

“Mad, innit?” Ron murmured beside him. “Never seen anything like this. Ireland’s gonna crush them, I’m telling you.”

 

Harry nodded vaguely. “Yeah… it’s brilliant.”

 

But his voice was distant. He wasn’t really thinking about the match. Not yet. He was watching the crowd — the way it pulsed and swayed, an ocean of magical humanity — and somehow, even here, in the center of it all, he felt oddly separate. The noise barely registered. It was like listening to a world you weren’t quite part of.

 

From above, the Minister of Magic’s voice boomed across the stadium.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

 

The applause was deafening. Ron whooped. Fred and George shouted something crude that was lost in the noise.

 

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cornelius Fudge had launched into one of his overexcited greetings, performing like a showman in front of the masses. His voice was cheerful, theatrical, and far too familiar.

“Ugh,” Harry muttered, frowning faintly as the Minister's voice rang out again, too loud and far too pleased with himself.

 

Ron glanced sideways. “What, you don’t like Fudge?”

 

Harry hesitated, eyes fixed on the pitch. His shoulders rose and fell in a half-hearted shrug.

 

“No reason. Just… don’t, I guess.”

 

His voice was quiet, almost casual. But the shrug didn’t quite match the tension in his jaw.

 

Ron blinked, surprised. He’d never really heard Harry voice an opinion about the Minister before, let alone a negative one. It wasn’t like Harry to care much about people like Fudge — politicians, adults, anyone too far removed from the world he actually had to live in.

 

But before Ron could say anything, Harry leaned farther over the railing, pretending to be distracted by the rising noise of the crowd. His expression was unreadable.

 

Ron looked at him for a second longer, brow furrowed, then let it go.

 

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than to Harry. “Bit of a strange one, that’s all.”

 

He didn’t press. He never really did when it came to Harry. There were things, sometimes, that lived in the silences between Harry’s words — and Ron had learned it was better not to chase them unless Harry offered them freely.

 

So he turned his attention back to the field.

 

And Harry stayed quiet, still watching the pitch — though he wasn’t really watching at all.

 

They let the Minister’s droning continue, filling the air with empty applause and self-congratulations. Then, finally, the words everyone was waiting for:

 

“And now… ladies and gentlemen… please welcome—team IRELAND!”

 

A wave of green light erupted from the far end of the field. Fireworks burst into shimmering shamrocks that exploded midair, raining golden dust over the pitch. The Irish team flew in like comets, their brooms slicing clean arcs through the air, executing perfect formations. The crowd screamed.

 

“They’re flashy, I’ll give them that,” Ron muttered. “Show-offs,” he added, though he was clearly impressed.

 

“Did you see that Wronski Feint?” Fred gasped. “That was Lynch, right? He’s bloody amazing!” George then finished right after.

 

Harry watched, clapping halfheartedly. The Irish players waved, bowed, and circled the stadium like rockstars. But something about it didn’t move him the way it moved the others. Maybe it was too much. Too bright, too loud, too polished.

 

Then came the voice again — booming, deeper this time.

 

“And now… from the mountainous regions of Bulgaria… please welcome—Team BULGARIA!”

 

The shift in energy was immediate. The green and gold disappeared in a flash, replaced by sharp streaks of crimson red that tore through the sky like knives. No fireworks. No bows. Just precision and silence.

 

The Bulgarian team emerged like shadows breaking through a storm. Each player flew low and fast, their formation tight, military. And at the end of the line—

 

Him.

 

Viktor Krum.

 

Harry blinked. There was something jarring about the way Krum moved — not elegant, not even graceful. But purposeful. Like he didn’t need the theatrics. Like he flew not for the crowd, but because it was the only place he belonged.

 

Krum didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He didn’t glance at the audience. He just hovered, still as stone, broom steady beneath him, the storm of his teammates swirling around him.

 

“Blimey,” Ron breathed. “That’s Krum.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, eyes fixed on the figure in red. “That’s him.”

 

He hadn’t expected… that. Not the brooding silence, not the cut-glass focus. The way the stadium seemed to bend around him, as though he was the axis it turned on. Harry didn’t look away.

 

Fred nudged George. “Harry’s gone weirdly quiet.”

 

Ron snorted. “Probably imagining what it’s like to fly against him.”

 

Harry flushed but didn’t respond. Because it wasn’t that. Not really. He wasn’t thinking about flying, or Quidditch strategies, or how famous Viktor Krum was.

 

He was just thinking about him.

 

How someone could move like that. Look like that. Carry that much silence in a place made entirely of noise.

 

It wasn’t anything, really. Just a flicker of something. But Harry knew enough by now to pay attention to flickers.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

The game blurred into motion around him, all muscle and instinct and breathless aggression. The Bulgarian team moved like fire — hot, sharp, and fast — their crimson robes flashing against the sky, while Ireland danced in loops and arcs like a storm of emerald leaves. But Viktor barely saw it. His eyes scanned the air above the pitch, his body tensing with each pass. The Snitch had not yet shown itself. Not even once.

 

That was unusual.

 

He cut through the wind in a hard spiral, then pulled up sharply, higher now, scanning again.

 

Still nothing.

 

Not near the goals, not hovering by the stands. No glimmer of gold in the sun. It hadn’t even flashed to tease them. Five minutes in, and the game had already sunk into that strange quiet space — not in sound, but in awareness — when the Seekers became ghosts drifting on the edges of everything, always searching, always alone.

 

He preferred it that way. It was how he worked best.

 

But still.

 

Something was off.

 

He soared above the chaos, let the game fade from his periphery, let the chants and cries and commentator’s shrieks bleed into static. The rhythm of the game pulsed below like a second heartbeat. His world narrowed into lines — wind, light, shadow, sky. Nothing else.

 

The crowd roared his name again: “KRUUUM!”

 

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t wave.

 

Focus.

 

You are not the game. You are its end.

 

Viktor turned in a slow, deliberate arc. His eyes flicked over the outer edges of the pitch, the banners, the enchanted fireworks, the charmed stadium rim — and then—

 

There.

 

A flicker.

 

Not down by the grass where the game thrashed below, but up — higher. Just above the Top Box.

 

He almost missed it. A shimmer. Like a trick of sunlight. Like a glint of something not meant to be seen.

 

His heart picked up, but his breathing stayed even. Always even.

 

He flew toward it.

 

The wind cut sharp against his face, but he barely noticed.

 

As he neared the Top Box, Viktor narrowed his eyes — and what he saw made him slow. Not stop, but slow, midair, hovering just enough to feel the weight of the moment settle over him.

 

The Snitch wasn’t darting away. It wasn’t spiraling or diving. It wasn’t even resisting the pull of gravity.

 

It was hovering.

 

Perfectly still.

 

Right in front of someone.

 

A boy.

 

There was a boy standing alone at the edge of the Top Box, his hand outstretched toward the Snitch. Not to catch it — no. Not like a Seeker would. It was more like he was… asking for it. Offering something. Or maybe nothing. Maybe it was just curiosity, innocent and strange. A hand open, as if to say come if you want to.

 

Viktor’s breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

 

The Snitch fluttered, wings buzzing, gold and delicate. It hovered inches from the boy’s palm. Unmoving.

 

And the boy — he was something else entirely.

 

He wasn’t dressed like the others in the box. No elaborate robes or Ministry medals. Just a jumper slightly too big for him and dark, messy hair that looked like it had tried to lie flat once and given up. He looked… young. Too young to belong to any of the delegates. And his eyes—

 

Green.

 

Startlingly green, almost unnaturally so, like something out of a myth, sharp and soft all at once.

 

The boy’s gaze was fixed on the Snitch. He didn’t notice Viktor. Didn’t seem to care that he was being watched. His lips parted slightly as the golden ball spun lazily in the air before him. And then—he laughed. Not loudly, just a small, surprised sound, like he couldn’t believe the thing was real.

 

The sound hit Viktor like cold water.

 

He hovered, unmoving, unable to take his eyes off the boy. Off the way he stood there, out of place and utterly unaware of how much space he took up in that moment.

 

Who was he?

 

Why was he holding out his hand?

 

Why did the Snitch go to him?

 

Viktor wasn’t used to not understanding things. The game made sense. Flight made sense. The hunt, the angles, the silence between movements — all of it obeyed its own logic. But this—

 

This boy. This moment.

 

It made no sense at all.

 

He was still staring when the Snitch flicked its wings again and darted away — not toward the field, not toward the players, but upward.

 

Higher.

 

Instinct returned like lightning.

 

Viktor moved.

 

He shot after it, and the roar of the crowd cracked like thunder as they realized what was happening — the Snitch was in play.

 

But for those few seconds, just before he gave chase, time had twisted strangely around him.

 

For once, it wasn’t the gold that caught his breath.

 

It was the boy beneath it.

 

 

He dove after it.

 

The Snitch tore through the air like a shot of light, impossibly fast, but Viktor was faster. Years of training, thousands of matches — his instincts were honed for this exact pursuit. And when the Irish Seeker realized what was happening, he dove too.

 

Their chase sliced the air clean.

 

The crowd erupted. People screamed, rose to their feet, spilled drinks, pointed. It was beautiful chaos — two shadows in red and green locked in a spiral of speed and silence, hurtling past banners and beams of enchanted light. The Snitch darted left, Viktor followed; it dipped low, he tucked in his broomstick and pulled into a dive so sharp the air seemed to snap around him.

 

But then — it vanished.

 

Mid-flight.

 

Gone.

 

No shimmer, no flicker, not even a trace of movement. One moment it was there, just ahead of him, glinting with promise — and then it was not.

 

Viktor slowed, breathing hard, his brows furrowing beneath the wind-stung ache in his forehead.

 

He looked left. Nothing.

 

Right. Nothing.

 

Above. Below. Still nothing.

 

That was impossible.

 

Even when the Snitch evaded him, he could always sense it — a glint at the corner of his eye, the breath of its wings, the ripple in the air. But now?

 

It was like chasing something that had never been there at all.

 

His opponent flew past him, confused, circling. Viktor hovered in place, heart thudding strangely hard in his chest. He turned slowly in the air, high above the noise of the game, and then—

 

A thought.

 

Soft, simple, strange.

 

He turned his broom toward the Top Box again.

 

He approached slowly this time, slower than before, almost as if not to scare something away. He scanned the air first, expecting a shadow of gold. But there was none. And then his eyes dropped — and found him again.

 

The boy.

 

Standing exactly where he’d been before, though now his hand wasn’t just outstretched in curiosity.

 

It was waiting.

 

And the Snitch — Merlin help him — the Snitch was there again.

 

Right above the boy’s palm.

 

Hovering, motionless, wings trembling with energy and intention. But it didn’t flee. It didn’t move. It simply… waited.

 

A hush, deep and electric, seemed to settle over the world.

 

Viktor drifted closer, breath caught behind his teeth.

 

The boy hadn’t moved. Not a step. His eyes were wide now, but not afraid — just confused. His fingers curled slightly, hesitant. He didn’t reach out to grab it. He didn’t even seem sure he should.

 

The Snitch made the decision for him.

 

With a soft, almost imperceptible ding — a chime that echoed strangely through the sky — the Snitch settled onto his palm.

 

Not against it.

 

On it.

 

As if it had always belonged there.

 

As if it had chosen him.

 

Viktor stared.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

The Snitch couldn’t be charmed to behave this way. It couldn’t be jinxed, or bewitched, or bribed. The enchantments woven into each Snitch were complex, ancient, and locked to the boundaries of the game itself. It responded only to intent, to speed, to skill — and to the touch of the Seeker who earned it.

 

But the boy hadn’t chased it.

 

He hadn’t even known what was happening.

 

The Snitch had come to him. Willingly.

 

Viktor felt his stomach dip — not in fear, or anger, but awe. A kind of quiet, breathless astonishment that made the back of his neck prickle. It was like watching something sacred break its own rules.

 

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

 

Gasps rippled through the Top Box.

 

Whispers rose from the staff rows. Even the announcer faltered, voice cracking in confusion as he tried to fill the silence with something resembling control.

 

Viktor heard none of it.

 

He could only look at the boy.

 

At the Snitch, resting in his hand like a secret only they now shared.

 

The boy looked up.

 

Their eyes met for the first time.

 

Green. Bright. Startled.

 

But calm.

 

Not like a stranger meeting a stranger — but like someone recognizing a pull they didn’t have a name for yet.

 

Viktor felt a shift, deep in his chest, as if the game had ended long ago and no one had told him.

 

It was A Snitch At First Sight.

Chapter 2: Missing wand

 

The match roared on, all flashing broomsticks and deafening cheers, but Harry barely registered the score. His focus had narrowed into something quieter, something still. He had long since given up trying to keep track of the Quaffle or who was fouling whom. It was Krum who held his attention — always Krum.

 

Through the lens of the Omnioculars, Harry followed his every move: how he banked to the left a second before his opponent, how he stalled midair for what looked like hesitation but was really calculation. There was something magnetic about the way he moved — not graceful, exactly, but efficient, like every motion had been cut down to its sharpest edge.

 

Krum didn’t seek the way most Seekers did. He didn’t flit about hoping to be lucky. He hunted — quiet, methodical, almost grim. As if he were looking for something more than a Snitch.

 

Harry found himself leaning forward, arms folded over the railing, breath caught without realizing.

 

“You alright there, mate?” Ron yelled, laughing as he tore his gaze from the pitch long enough to nudge Harry. “You look like you’re studying for a test.”

 

Harry blinked, lowering his Omnioculars a few inches. “Just watching.”

 

“Watching Krum, more like,” Ron said with a grin. “You’ve got a bit of a crush on his flying.”

 

Harry didn’t answer. He just smiled faintly and brought the lens back up.

 

The truth was, Ron wasn’t entirely wrong.

 

It was a bit like a crush, but not the kind Harry understood. It wasn’t about wanting to be Krum, and it wasn’t exactly wanting to know him either. It was something stranger. Something quieter. Like watching someone move through the world in a way you’d never imagined was possible, and wondering what it might feel like to be near that kind of gravity.

 

He imagined what it might be like to fly beside him — not against him. To learn his rhythms mid-air. To match him.

 

To be seen.

 

The crowd shrieked as a Bludger whizzed past one of the Irish Chasers, and Harry flinched, only just catching the tail end of the maneuver. But even then, his gaze returned to Krum.

 

He tracked him until the Bulgarian Seeker shot upward again, looping around the highest banners, cutting across the sun.

 

“He’s bloody brilliant,” Harry muttered, mostly to himself.

 

Beside him, Hermione didn’t respond. She had her own pair of Omnioculars pressed to her eyes and was focused intently on something else.

 

Harry turned to her, curious. “Who’re you watching?”

 

“The Irish Keeper,” she said without looking. “Troy. His blocking form’s interesting — not textbook, but it’s working. Look at his timing on the vertical dive—”

 

Harry smirked. “Interesting form, huh?”

 

Hermione lowered her Omnioculars just enough to glare. “You know what I mean.”

 

He chuckled and finally leaned back, lowering his own lens and giving his eyes a moment to breathe. The sun hit him full-on now, warm and a little blinding. His shoulders relaxed, his heart still somewhere in the sky.

 

And then—

 

A flicker.

 

Something gold, barely perceptible.

 

It darted past his face, quick and strange, the flutter of tiny wings humming in the air like music he half-recognized. His breath caught.

 

He turned his head slowly.

 

There it was.

 

The Snitch.

 

The actual Snitch.

 

Not meters above the pitch. Not locked in some aerial battle between Seekers. No — here.

 

Right here.

 

Hovering in the air just feet away from him, like some small, enchanted bird unsure whether to fly off or stay.

 

Harry blinked. He looked around. No one else seemed to notice. The crowd was still locked on the match, still screaming, still cheering. Even Ron hadn’t seen it — he was halfway out of his seat, shouting about a foul.

 

But the Snitch hovered.

 

Close.

 

And then it darted again — a small spiral, barely wider than Harry’s shoulders — and circled him.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Harry’s lips parted.

 

A laugh escaped him — small, involuntary, surprised.

 

He held out a hand without thinking.

 

It was absurd. He knew that. The Snitch wasn’t his. This wasn’t the game. He wasn’t even on the pitch. And yet… some instinct moved through him like warmth on a cold day, quiet and foolish and oddly hopeful.

 

He let his hand hover in the space where the Snitch spun.

 

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft beside him, curious. “Why are you laughing?”

 

He turned to her, still smiling, almost childlike.

 

“You won’t believe—”

 

But when he looked back, it was gone.

 

The air where it had been shimmered faintly with leftover sunlight, but the Snitch was no longer there.

 

He blinked once. Twice.

 

Gone.

 

Not gone in the way it should’ve been — not darting, not escaping — but vanished. Like a thought that slipped out of your head the moment you reached for it.

 

Hermione tilted her head. “What?”

 

He hesitated. His hand was still half-outstretched, fingers loose and open.

 

“I just… thought I saw something,” he said.

 

She studied him for a second, eyes narrowing. “The Snitch?”

 

He hesitated.

 

“Maybe,” he admitted.

 

Hermione’s mouth quirked upward. “Then I’m not the only one seeing things. There was a weird delay on the pitch too, just a second ago. Almost like the players didn’t know where it went.”

 

But Harry wasn’t listening anymore.

 

His eyes drifted upward, instinctively, toward the sky.

 

Toward the figure in red hovering just above the Top Box.

 

Viktor Krum.

 

And Viktor was looking at him.

 

Not the crowd. Not the referee. Not even the Snitch.

 

Him.

 

Their eyes met — just for a second — and something in Harry stilled.

 

The wind rushed louder in his ears. The stadium seemed to tilt slightly. His heart did something odd and unspoken in his chest.

 

Krum’s gaze was unreadable. Focused, intense, but not cold. Not quite.

 

And then he was gone — off again, chasing after something only he could see.

 

But Harry was left standing in the golden echo of that moment.

 

And the strangest part of it all wasn’t the Snitch circling him.

 

It was how, for the first time in a very long while, he didn’t feel invisible.

 

 

He raised the Omnioculars again, ignoring the ache in his neck from looking up for so long. The crowd thundered around him, voices colliding, cheers echoing off the enchanted ceiling of the stadium — but Harry had gone quiet inside. All that noise had dulled to something muted, like he was underwater.

 

The only thing he saw was Krum.

 

He followed the Bulgarian Seeker’s every move through the lens — the way his silhouette broke the light, how his shoulders hunched low in concentration, and how even now, even in this exact moment, he seemed to belong more to the sky than to the people screaming his name from below.

 

And then Harry caught it.

 

The flicker.

 

There — just beyond Krum’s shoulder, dancing like a sunbeam.

 

The Snitch.

 

His heart kicked.

 

Viktor moved with sharp purpose, cutting the air clean as he shot after it. He was close — so close — his hand stretched outward like a second instinct. He moved like the game had been born beneath his skin. Every angle, every adjustment of speed and tilt, was second nature.

 

Harry barely breathed.

 

The crowd surged to its feet. People yelled, shouted, pointed — but Harry couldn’t tear his eyes from the chase.

 

And then—

 

The Snitch disappeared.

 

No darting escape. No clever loop. It simply blinked out of existence.

 

Harry blinked too. Once. Then again.

 

“What the hell?” he muttered.

 

He lowered his Omnioculars slowly, as if expecting to see it somewhere else, hovering over the pitch. But there was nothing. Just players flying, the game roaring on without pause, and one lone Seeker—

 

Floating in place.

 

Krum was no longer chasing.

 

He was hovering, frozen in midair, gaze fixed not on the pitch…

 

But on Harry.

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

Wait.

 

Why is he looking at me?

 

And then—

 

A blur of gold streaked past his cheek.

 

Harry gasped — a quiet, stunned noise — and jerked back as the Snitch reappeared.

 

But it wasn’t flying off this time. It was circling him.

 

It looped once over his shoulder, then under his arm, brushing past his chest like it was threading a pattern through the air only it could understand. Harry went very still.

 

No one else saw it.

 

No one noticed.

 

Even Ron was standing now, eyes locked on the field, yelling something that Harry didn’t hear. Hermione was making a note in her tiny notebook about the Keeper’s blocking form. The rest of the Top Box was thunder and motion.

 

But around Harry — silence.

 

Just the soft whirr of delicate golden wings.

 

It was dizzying.

 

He didn’t move, barely breathed. His heart was a quiet hammer behind his ribs.

 

The Snitch circled again, more slowly this time, then paused — paused — right in front of him, hovering a few inches above his palm.

 

Harry stared at it.

 

It shimmered.

 

Not just bright — alive. The gold seemed to pulse faintly, as if it had a heartbeat, or knew something he didn’t. He didn’t understand. None of this made sense.

 

Snitches didn’t leave the game.

 

Snitches didn’t hover over spectators.

 

And they certainly didn’t—

 

He didn’t know why he did it.

 

His hand rose, unthinking, like it was moving of its own accord — as if there was some invisible thread tugging it upward, whispering, this is what you do now.

 

His fingers opened, tentative.

 

The Snitch stilled.

 

For a moment, the air felt impossibly thin, like the world was holding its breath.

 

And then—

 

It landed.

 

In his hand.

 

Softly. Gently. Wings folding inward.

 

Like it had never belonged anywhere else.

 

Harry stared at it.

 

Mouth open. Breath held. Fingers trembling slightly around the tiny sphere of gold.

 

What the fuck.

 

That wasn’t magic. That wasn’t rules. That was—

 

He didn’t have words for it.

 

He couldn’t move.

 

Couldn’t even pretend to understand what had just happened.

 

And then, slowly, as if pulled by gravity or fate or something else entirely—

 

He looked up.

 

Viktor was still watching him.

 

Still hovering midair. Still unmoving. The wind tugged at the loose edges of his robes, but otherwise, he might have been a statue carved out of stillness and sky.

 

Their eyes met.

 

And Harry forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.

 

It wasn’t just that Viktor had seen. It wasn’t even that he had stopped mid-chase.

 

It was the way he looked at him.

 

Not confused. Not angry.

 

Just quiet.

 

Like he was watching something rare unfold.

 

Like Harry had just done something impossible and Viktor recognized it — not with shock, but with a kind of solemnity that made Harry feel strangely exposed.

 

Like he’d been chosen.

 

Not by the Snitch.

 

But by the moment.

 

His fingers tightened slightly around the gold. It buzzed once — faint, warm — and went still.

 

Gasps erupted like a wave.

 

It was faint at first — scattered murmurs, hushed surprise — but then it spread. Row by row, voice by voice, until the sound was no longer shock but disbelief, awe, and something close to wonder.

 

Harry turned.

 

Ron was staring at him, jaw slack, eyes wide like dinner plates. He looked stunned — as if Harry had just pulled a dragon out of his sock. Hermione stood frozen beside him, brows drawn together, her gaze flicking between Harry and the Snitch still perched in his hand. Around them, others in the Top Box were craning their necks to see, whispering furiously, some standing outright.

 

And then—

“W-Well…”

The commentator’s voice cracked in the magically amplified air, a tremble of uncertainty breaking through the usual bravado.

“Er—it… it seems that… Harry Potter has caught the Snitch?”

 

The entire stadium shifted like a living creature.

 

People twisted in their seats. Spectators scrambled for binoculars. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, rising into something louder, confused, electric.

 

Harry wanted to disappear.

 

His face flushed a deep, horrible pink. It crawled up his neck and burned his ears, and his hands — traitorous hands — were still holding the damned Snitch.

 

Why now? Why always him?

 

He hated it — the attention, the way eyes pressed down like stones, the way the world seemed to stop and stare whenever he hadn't even meant to do anything.

 

This had been an accident.

 

He hadn’t chased it. He wasn’t even playing.

 

He looked up—

 

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

 

Viktor Krum was hovering just meters away.

 

Not above the pitch. Not circling the arena.

 

Right there.

 

In front of him.

 

The wind tugged at his robes, tossing strands of hair into his eyes, but he didn’t move to fix them. He didn’t need to. He hovered with the stillness of someone who belonged in the sky, effortless and anchored by something deeper than gravity.

 

His expression was unreadable — unreadable, that is, until his mouth curled into the faintest smirk.

 

“Vell, vell,” he said, his voice low and thick with his accent, but unmistakably amused. “Never have I ever thought… a Snitch would choose its Seeker.”

 

The words hit Harry like the beat of wings inside his ribs.

 

His cheeks flared hotter.

 

He swallowed. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.

 

“Palm.”

 

Krum blinked, confused for half a second — and then, understanding dawned.

 

He extended his hand without a word.

 

Harry placed the Snitch in it.

 

It was small. Simple. Quiet.

 

But it felt like handing over something far larger — not just a Snitch, but the moment itself.

 

Viktor’s fingers curled around the tiny golden ball, and Harry stepped back, heartbeat rattling against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

 

Without thinking, he moved behind Hermione, as if she could shield him from the weight of so many eyes. She didn’t speak. Her gaze was still locked on Krum, stunned and blinking.

 

Around them, the hush of confusion had become an uproar.

 

“HARRY POTTER HAS GIVEN VIKTOR KRUM THE SNITCH—BULGARIA WINS!!!”

The commentator’s voice boomed over the stadium, triumphant now, loud enough to shake the banners.

 

The cheers exploded like fireworks.

 

Red and gold erupted from the Bulgarian stands. Spells shot into the air, sparking across the enchanted sky. People clapped, roared, hugged, lifted one another in celebration.

 

But Harry hardly noticed any of it.

 

His heart was still in his throat. His hand tingled from where the Snitch had rested. And Krum — Viktor — was still hovering nearby, palm now closed around gold, gaze flicking back one last time toward Harry.

 

Just a look.

 

But a knowing one.

 

Like something had been exchanged between them, something unspoken and maybe unreal — and it had nothing to do with Quidditch.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

 

“How did you do it, Harry?”

“Yeah mate, you were brilliant!”

“I swear the Snitch flew to you! Is that even allowed?”

“Did you jinx it?”

“Fred said you can jinx Snitches—”

 

The words came at him too fast to separate.

 

All around him, redheads swarmed, loud and flushed and dizzy with excitement. The inside of the tent buzzed like a hive, lit by flickering lanternlight and thick with the scent of firewhisky and damp socks. Someone had knocked over a crate of chocolate frogs in the commotion — one hopped past Harry’s foot, entirely ignored.

 

He stood in the middle of it all, dazed.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate their joy. The Weasleys had a kind of warmth that filled every space they entered — messy, overwhelming, full of life — and for years, it had made Harry feel like he was part of something bigger.

 

But tonight… it felt like too much.

 

Too many eyes. Too many voices. Too many questions he didn’t know how to answer.

 

The moment still clung to him — the Snitch in his palm, the silence, Krum's gaze steady in the sky — and now it was being picked apart like a story that didn’t belong to him anymore.

 

“Did it know who you were?” Ginny was saying, eyes wide. “Maybe it was enchanted, like the Sword of Gryffindor—”

 

“Maybe Viktor Krum fancied him,” Fred added with a wink. “Would explain why he didn’t hex him for stealing the catch—”

 

“Oh shut up,” Harry muttered, running a hand down his face.

 

The questions wouldn’t stop.

 

And then—

 

“All right. Enough.”

 

The air shifted.

 

Arthur Weasley’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the chatter like cold water.

 

Silence fell like a blanket.

 

Harry looked over and found Mr. Weasley standing near the table, a plate of half-eaten sausages in one hand and his expression unusually stern.

 

“Leave Harry be,” he said gently but firmly. “It’s been a long day. Everyone off to bed.”

 

The Weasley children groaned and mumbled protests, but none dared argue. Even Fred and George — eternal mischief incarnate — looked sheepish as they slunk toward their shared bunk.

 

Hermione lingered beside Harry, her eyes flickering with concern. She didn’t say anything — just gave him a small nod, quiet and understanding.

 

Harry exhaled.

 

“Thanks,” he said softly, turning toward Mr. Weasley. But he paused and looked back to the others.

 

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t do anything, alright? I didn’t jinx the Snitch.”

 

He turned to the twins. “Didn’t bribe anyone either.”

 

They both raised their hands in surrender.

 

He looked at Ginny, who raised a skeptical brow but gave a reluctant nod.

 

“And I definitely didn’t do it on purpose,” he finished, looking at Ron.

 

Ron gave a small shrug, not unkind. “Didn’t think you did. Just—bloody cool, that’s all.”

 

Harry offered a small smile.

 

Then he turned back to Mr. Weasley. “Would it be alright if I… took a walk? Just for a little while. I need some air.”

 

Arthur studied him for a long second, the lines around his eyes soft with concern.

 

“Stay close,” he said at last. “And don’t cross the treeline. The woods stretch for miles — easy to get turned around.”

 

Harry nodded. “I won’t. I just… need quiet.”

 

Arthur gave a faint smile. “Of course you do.”

 

As Harry reached for the flap of the tent, his fingers brushing against the canvas, a hand caught his.

 

Soft. Familiar.

 

He turned.

 

Hermione stood behind him, half-shadowed by the lanternlight inside. Her curls were slightly frizzed from the evening air, eyes warm but uncertain, fingers still curled loosely around his wrist like she didn’t want to stop him—just reach him.

 

“Hey, Harry?” she said gently.

 

He paused, startled by the quiet in her voice. Her concern didn’t push. It hovered.

 

He blinked at her, then offered the smallest of smiles — tired, but real.

 

“If you need to talk…” she began, her voice softening even more, “…I’m here. Alright?”

 

Her words weren’t demanding. There was no need for him to explain himself. Just that steady, grounding promise she always gave without expecting anything in return.

 

Harry nodded slowly. Something in his chest loosened.

 

“Thanks, ’Mione,” he said — low, a little hoarse.

 

He gave her hand a brief, grateful squeeze before letting go.

 

The tent flap fell behind him with a soft rustle, muting the sounds of the others settling in for the night. Out here, the air was cooler. Calmer. The moon hung low in the sky, bright and full, casting long silver shadows over the grass.

 

Harry breathed.

 

For the first time all day, he could hear the quiet.

 

His boots crunched over the soft earth as he made his way toward the lake, a glimmering black shape in the distance. Crickets chirped somewhere in the weeds, and the scent of damp earth mixed with the fading smoke from distant campfires.

 

He dug his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing against the edge of the tunic he hadn’t yet changed out of. The material still carried heat from the day, from the game, from the moment.

 

And in his right pocket—

 

The Snitch was gone, of course. Given back to Viktor. But the memory of it still lingered. The weight. The warmth. The feeling that something had settled itself into his hand like a living thing.

 

He wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

 

But something inside him — something small and sharp — knew this wasn’t normal. Knew that this wasn’t just some fluke of magic.

 

Snitches didn’t choose people.

 

Not like that.

 

And Viktor Krum didn’t smirk at people like that either.

 

Harry stopped by the edge of the lake.

 

The water was still, dark and glassy, rippling only with the faint breeze. He looked up. The stars were scattered like dust, glowing in the endless black above him. The world felt quiet here, sacred, like magic moved slower under the weight of night.

 

He sat down in the grass, hugging his knees, and tilted his head back.

 

Somewhere in the distance, a firework burst — a leftover from the celebration — but it felt far away.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

For the first time in what felt like days, he let himself be still.

 

Harry flinched at the sound of footsteps.

 

He twisted around, shoulders tense, ears straining. The quiet of the lakeside was no longer peaceful — it was thick, charged with uncertainty. His hand shot to his pocket out of instinct, reaching for his wand—

 

But his fingers brushed only the inside lining.

 

Shit.

 

He remembered too late — he’d left his wand back in the tent. Just sitting on his bedroll like a complete idiot.

 

“Foolish,” he muttered to himself. “So bloody foolish.”

 

His eyes scanned the shadows ahead, narrowing on the shape moving between the trees. The steps grew louder. Closer.

Chapter 3: Death Eaters

Then a voice came, low and calm — almost gentle.

 

“I mean no harm.”

 

A man’s voice.

 

A voice he knew.

 

Harry’s heart jumped for an entirely different reason now.

 

He shouldn’t flush. Not before he knew. It could be anyone, anyone in the dark. But—

 

What if it was Viktor?

 

That ridiculous flutter in his stomach returned, annoying and unmistakable.

 

Don’t be stupid, he told himself.

 

But as the silhouette stepped forward, emerging into the moonlight, all the breath left his lungs.

 

It was him.

 

Viktor Krum.

 

In the flesh.

 

And gods, he was tall.

 

Without the bulky gear or the broom, Viktor looked even more imposing — broad-shouldered, all quiet gravity and unreadable calm. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind. His eyes, dark and sharp, caught Harry’s like a net.

 

Harry’s brain short-circuited.

 

“W-What are you doing here?” he asked, voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle. The words stumbled out of his mouth before he could even catch them.

 

Brilliant, Potter, he thought. Stammer like a schoolgirl why don’t you?

 

Viktor didn’t seem bothered. If anything, his mouth curved slightly in amusement.

 

“I could ask you the same thing… Little lion.”

 

Harry’s face burned.

 

“I… needed some fresh air?” he said, the end of the sentence curling into a question without permission. He wanted to crawl into the lake and drown himself.

 

Get yourself together, Potter!

 

Viktor tilted his head, studying him.

 

Then, in that same calm, infuriatingly blunt tone, he said, “Hm. I followed you.”

 

Harry blinked. “You… what?”

 

That was—well—surprisingly honest. And also, when you thought about it… a little weird?

 

He stared, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

 

“You followed me?” he repeated dumbly, and then, because his brain had officially gone rogue:

“Are you gonna kill me?”

 

Oh my god.

 

Did he actually just say that?

 

Harry nearly hissed out loud, partially from embarrassment and partially to punish himself. Stupid, stupid Potter! What the hell was he doing saying something like that in front of Viktor bloody Krum?

 

Now he was going to think he was a complete fool. Or worse — a weirdo. Or both.

 

He resisted the urge to smack himself in the face.

 

To his relief — or horror — Viktor only chuckled.

 

It was low. Warm. A sound that settled beneath Harry’s skin like heat.

 

“You say very strange things,” Viktor said simply, as if that explained everything.

 

Harry groaned and covered his face with both hands.

 

“Brilliant,” he mumbled into his palms. “Kill me now.”

 

 

“vell,” Viktor said, his voice low with amusement, “if I did kill you… dat means I couldn’t give you this.”

 

Harry looked up, blinking.

 

There was a glint in Viktor’s eye — the kind that made Harry’s stomach do something treacherous.

 

“Give me what?” he asked, warily.

 

Viktor didn’t answer.

 

Instead, he smirked — that maddening, quiet little smirk — and without warning, threw something straight at him.

 

Harry barely had time to react.

 

His hands shot up on instinct and caught whatever it was mid-air — but the sudden movement, paired with the awkward surprise, threw him off balance.

 

His heel slipped.

 

One step.

Another.

And then—

 

“Oh no—!”

 

The world tilted beneath him.

 

Harry felt the ground give way, his body lurching backward. His foot caught the edge of the bank — and then there was nothing.

 

Only air.

And gravity.

And panic.

 

His eyes widened as the lake opened beneath him like a mouth.

 

Shit, shit, shit!

 

He yelped — loud, undignified — as he flailed, the object he’d caught still clutched in his hand. A golden glint.

 

The Snitch.

 

He threw me the Snitch?!

 

But by the time he processed that, it was too late.

 

He was falling.

 

His heart leapt up into his throat. His entire life didn’t quite flash before his eyes, bit of dramatic there.

 

And then—

 

Hands.

 

Strong, callused fingers wrapped around his wrist.

 

Harry gasped.

 

Viktor.

 

Viktor’s face was above him, eyes wide, mouth set in alarm. He’d lunged forward fast, faster than Harry thought possible, and caught his arm with a grip like iron.

 

For a split second, Harry thought he was saved.

 

Until he wasn’t.

 

Because the momentum of the fall dragged Viktor forward — and Viktor, bless him, clearly wasn’t thinking like a Seeker anymore.

 

His boots skidded on the grass.

 

And suddenly both of them were toppling down.

 

Splash.

 

Cold. Sharp. Immediate.

 

The lake swallowed them in a rush of bubbles and water and stunned silence.

 

Harry resurfaced first, sputtering, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face and glasses clinging to the tip of his nose.

 

He gasped, blinking the water away.

 

And then, right beside him, Viktor emerged — soaked and still holding onto Harry’s wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

They stared at each other, chest-deep in water.

 

Harry was speechless.

 

Viktor was soaked.

 

The Snitch was still in Harry’s hand.

 

And for some reason—

 

Harry laughed.

 

It bubbled out of him before he could stop it — breathless and ridiculous and dripping wet.

 

Viktor looked at Harry.

 

And then — unexpectedly — laughed.

 

It was a low, rough sound, chest-deep and caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. It echoed across the lake like a shared secret.

 

Harry stared, stunned for a second. But the sound was so infectious, so real, that he started laughing again too. Not loudly — just a quiet, breathy chuckle that left his chest a little lighter.

 

And then — silence.

 

Neither of them moved.

 

They simply floated there, chest-deep in cool water, the moonlight dancing in pale ripples between them. The night buzzed with crickets and the distant pop of a far-off firework, but neither of them noticed.

 

Their eyes met. Held.

 

And suddenly, the air changed again.

 

It wasn’t loud or obvious — no dramatic shift in lighting or soundtrack swell. Just a slow, steady current tugging something invisible between them.

 

They stared.

 

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

 

Neither of them registered they were still in the lake — soaked, dripping, hair flattened, breath uneven — until Harry did.

 

He blinked, the moment snapping like a taut thread.

 

He flushed.

 

Why’s he staring at me like that? Why am I still in here? Why does it feel like he’s—

 

Viktor shifted — just slightly — leaning forward, water lapping at his shoulders, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

 

It was subtle. So subtle. But close. Too close.

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

He turned away quickly, pretending to splash some water from his face as an excuse. He heard Viktor inhale sharply and then —

 

“I— I apologize…” Viktor said, voice a little lower now. “I didn’t realize you were so close to the edge. And now you are… all wet.”

 

Harry huffed a laugh under his breath. “I noticed.”

 

Water clung to his eyelashes, dripping slowly down his cheek. He didn’t dare meet Viktor’s gaze again, not yet. Instead, he gave a small shrug and said lightly, “It’s fine. I’ll just take it as an excuse. Merlin knows when I’ll next get the chance to take a dip.”

 

He hadn’t meant for it to sound… like that.

 

But it did.

 

Weighted. Vague. Like something unspoken sat behind the words, floating just beneath the surface.

 

And Viktor caught it.

 

Harry could tell — not because Viktor said anything, but because he didn’t. Because he froze, eyes searching Harry’s, as if trying to understand the shape of something that didn’t want to be seen directly.

 

The silence stretched.

 

Harry looked away first.

 

He swam slowly back to the edge of the lake, feet finding soft mud beneath the shallows. He dragged himself up onto the grass, water pouring from his clothes, his hair a dripping mess. The cold night air hit him, sharp and clean.

 

With a long, dramatic sigh, he flopped down onto the grass — arms and legs spread like a starfish, chest still rising fast from the plunge.

 

The sky above him was enormous — full of stars and clouds that moved like whispers.

 

And then, a moment later, he heard the gentle splash of someone else climbing out beside him. The soft thud of a body collapsing onto the ground.

 

Right next to his.

 

Close enough for their arms to almost brush.

 

Neither of them spoke.

 

The grass was cool beneath their backs. The stars blinked silently above them. And between them — laughter, tension, lakewater, and something else entirely.

 

The night had grown impossibly still.

 

The lake lapped gently at the shore behind them, as if trying to erase the chaos from just minutes before — two figures slipping, falling, flailing into the water like schoolboys. The echoes of laughter had faded, but the feeling lingered, suspended in the air like starlight.

 

Harry lay flat on the cool grass, his limbs splayed out, his chest rising slowly now. The weight of his soaked robes pressed into his skin, the tips of his hair still dripping, clinging to his temples. Somewhere behind the scent of earth and lakewater, he could smell pine.

 

And silence.

 

Not the kind that made you itch to fill it — but the kind that made you stay still, just to keep it alive.

 

After a long pause, Harry lifted his hand.

 

The Snitch still rested in his palm — golden, trembling slightly, its wings fluttering now and again like breath. He watched the way the moonlight danced across its curves, slipping into the fine etchings along the surface.

 

He turned it over carefully, the way one might hold a delicate clock or a memory.

 

His voice, when it came, was little more than a breath.

 

“Is this…”

 

He didn’t finish.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

Beside him, Viktor shifted — just enough for his elbow to brush faintly against Harry’s.

 

“Yes,” Viktor said, voice low and certain. “It is.”

 

Harry blinked, slowly.

 

The way Viktor said it — like there was no room for doubt — made something twist in his chest. Something uncertain and warm.

 

“No one has ever done that before,” Viktor added. “You know.”

 

Harry turned his head slightly toward him.

 

Viktor wasn’t looking at the Snitch.

 

He was still looking at him.

 

There was no envy in his eyes. No irritation. Just quiet curiosity, and something that felt oddly like pride.

 

“The creator… the inventor of it,” Viktor continued, his accent thicker now in the hush of night, “he did not make it to do that. Its purpose was to be caught. Not to choose.”

 

Harry let out a soft huff of a laugh.

 

There was something absurd about it all. He wasn’t even in the game. He hadn’t been flying. He hadn’t tried. And yet—

 

“Does it make you jealous?” he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could catch them.

 

The moment they left his mouth, he wanted to pull them back.

 

His face flushed. God, why did I say that?

 

It sounded too pointed. Too sharp. He hadn’t meant it that way — hadn’t meant to sound like he was mocking Viktor, of all people.

 

But Viktor — to Harry’s surprise — laughed.

 

And not the tight, polite kind.

 

It was a real laugh. Low, quiet, genuine. It rippled from his chest and vibrated through the grass between them.

 

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “I’m not.”

 

Harry turned his face toward him again.

 

Viktor was lying on his back now, arms behind his head, eyes on the stars.

 

“In fact…” he continued, “I am glad. That the attention is not on me. For once.”

 

Harry let out a soft, breathless laugh — part amusement, part disbelief.

 

“Lucky you,” he said. “Unfortunate me. Yay.”

 

He held up the Snitch again, waving it slightly as he drawled the last word in mock celebration.

 

Viktor turned his head toward him.

 

There was something different in his face now. Softer. Almost apologetic.

 

“I did not mean it like that,” he said, voice low.

 

Harry sat up slowly, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

 

“I know,” he said. And he meant it.

 

He rolled the Snitch between his palms again, watching the way it shimmered faintly under the moon. It didn’t buzz. It didn’t try to fly. It just rested there.

 

And somehow… that made sense.

 

Eventually, Harry stood, dragging his limbs up from the damp grass, still feeling the weight of water clinging to his robes.

 

Each movement was slower now, heavier, like the night itself had settled into his bones. His clothes clung to him in awkward folds, cold and sticky against his skin. The tips of his hair still dripped onto his forehead in stubborn, erratic drops.

 

Beside him, Viktor rose too — smoother, quieter, as if he belonged to the night air itself.

 

Harry rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and sighed. The tent would still be lit, and with it, the full Weasley battalion. Ron would be demanding answers. Fred and George would be primed for mockery. Ginny would try to hide her laugh behind a smirk, and Hermione would probably give him that look — somewhere between concern and exasperation.

 

What do I even tell them?

 

That he fell into the lake with Viktor Krum?

 

That Viktor followed him?

 

The moment played again in his mind: his foot slipping, the water rising, the weightlessness, Viktor’s hand grasping his wrist like an anchor—and then the splash, the cold, the sky vanishing.

 

Yeah, he thought. That’ll go over well.

 

He could already hear Fred’s voice: “Well, well, Potter, falling headfirst into lakes now? Is that your new flirting strategy?”

 

Or George chiming in with something worse: “Did Viktor kiss your bruises better too?”

 

Nope. Harry groaned internally. Definitely not telling them the truth.

 

Maybe he could say he tripped. Maybe he could say he saw a Niffler. Maybe he could just disappear into the earth.

 

He sighed aloud this time, long and dramatic, half to himself, half to the moon.

 

And then — he stilled.

 

Because Viktor had turned toward him and was now pointing his wand… directly at Harry’s face.

 

Harry startled. “What are you—?”

 

Before he could finish the sentence, a soft gust of magic swept over him — not violent or sharp, but controlled, warm, like summer wind after a storm.

 

It blew through his hair, rustled his robes, and in seconds, his clothes were dry.

 

Harry blinked.

 

His shirt clung less. His robes no longer dripped. His socks — thank Merlin — felt normal again. Even the faint ache in his fingers, cold and cramping moments before, had ebbed.

 

He looked at Viktor.

 

The older boy — man, really — had already lowered his wand, a faintly amused look tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

Harry swallowed.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, a little more shyly than he meant to.

 

He wished his voice didn’t always betray him like that — softening when he least expected it.

 

Viktor’s smile lingered. Not wide. Just real.

 

“It vas nothing,” he said.

 

Harry, on the other hand, felt like everything was something.

 

Because his heart was now doing that ridiculous fluttering thing again, and the warmth in his chest had nothing to do with drying charms and everything to do with the fact that Viktor had thought to do that at all.

 

He glanced away, grateful for the shadows hiding the colour in his face. If Viktor noticed how pink his cheeks had gone, he was too polite to say anything.

 

Then, out of nowhere:

 

“Harry.”

 

His name.

 

Harry blinked.

 

He looked up slowly. “Wait—how do you know my name?”

 

His brows drew together, genuinely confused. Had he introduced himself? He didn’t think he had. Surely he hadn’t. He would've remembered—

 

Viktor just chuckled softly.

 

He reached up and tapped a single finger against Harry’s forehead — right where the scar sat, just barely visible under his fringe.

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

Of course.

 

Harry froze.

 

The familiar chill of recognition settled into his stomach, dull and familiar. He should’ve expected it. Of course that’s how Viktor knew him. Not from conversation. Not from observation. Not from… him.

 

Just the scar.

 

Just the name.

 

Harry Potter.

 

The icon. The symbol. The boy people whispered about in crowded rooms without actually knowing a single thing about him.

 

Something inside him tightened.

 

His eyes dropped. His hands twitched at his sides.

 

Of course. he thought bitterly. Why else would he stay this long?

 

But just as the silence threatened to stretch — just as Harry’s chest clenched in that old, too-familiar way — Viktor’s voice cut through.

 

Quiet.

 

Steady.

 

And just a little softer than before.

 

The air was cooler now. The moon had risen higher, casting silver shadows over the lake, stretching the trees long and quiet. The grass beneath Harry’s feet squelched slightly, still damp from where he’d flopped down just moments ago. The hem of his robes curled around his ankles, but the drying charm Viktor had cast earlier held firm — no chill, no dripping sleeves, no discomfort. Just the weight of the moment, heavy in his chest.

 

Viktor still hadn’t moved far. He stood only a few feet away, gaze unwavering, his wand now tucked securely in a leather holster at his wrist — as if this sort of thing, drying drenched boys after midnight swims, was simply part of his routine.

 

But his eyes hadn’t left Harry. Not once.

 

“I didn’t stay because you’re Harry Potter,” Viktor said at last.

 

The words weren’t harsh or defensive. They were plain, like the truth laid carefully on a table.

 

Harry blinked. A quiet sort of tension settled behind his ribs.

 

Viktor took a measured step forward. It wasn’t bold, not looming — just enough to close the distance between them slightly. His posture remained loose, one hand at his side, the other resting near his belt, casual.

 

“I stayed because you’re… interesting,” he continued. “Because something about you made me want to.”

 

Harry looked down, unsure what to do with that.

 

Interesting.

 

Of all words.

 

It wasn’t flowery or dramatic. It didn’t sound rehearsed. It wasn’t a compliment in the way Harry had heard from strangers who only wanted to shake his hand or brag to friends later. No. It was softer. Thoughtful. Like Viktor had thought about it and decided it was the most honest word he could offer.

 

“You looked different back at the match,” Viktor added after a beat.

 

Harry tilted his head. “Different how?”

 

“You smiled.”

 

That made Harry blink again.

 

Viktor didn’t elaborate right away. His eyes drifted past Harry’s shoulder for a second, as if remembering.

 

“You were watching the match,” he said slowly. “Omnioculars in hand. But when the Snitch came near… you laughed. Just a little. Like no one else existed for a second.”

 

Harry felt his ears heat up.

 

“I don’t remember laughing,” he muttered.

 

Viktor shrugged. “It was small. Most people wouldn’t have seen it.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Harry huffed, trying to sound unimpressed, “you must be the observant type.”

 

“I am,” Viktor said simply.

 

Harry glanced away, unsure what to do with the warmth now prickling at his face. He hated compliments. Or rather, he didn’t know how to carry them. They always felt like clothes that didn’t fit quite right.

 

“You don’t have to say things like that,” Harry said after a moment. “You already dried my robes. Compliments weren’t part of the deal.”

 

A quiet chuckle. Not smug — just amused.

 

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

 

Harry gave him a look, his brows slightly raised, half-daring him to prove it.

 

Viktor just smiled faintly.

 

“It’s just what I saw.”

 

Harry looked back down at the Snitch in his hand. It was still — silent, delicate, no longer fluttering. A little too warm from the tightness of his palm.

 

“It’s just…” he began, struggling to find the right words. “That’s usually all people ever do see. The version of me they’ve already decided is true. They see a name. A headline. A story. Not…”

 

He didn’t finish.

 

But Viktor understood.

 

“I know what that’s like,” he said.

 

Harry looked up sharply. “Do you?”

 

Viktor nodded. “People say things. They think because I play for Bulgaria, because I don’t talk much… that they know everything. That I’m arrogant. That I’m simple. That I’m just a broomstick and a brooding face.”

 

Harry snorted — he couldn’t help it.

 

“That’s… not really how I’d describe you.”

 

“Good,” Viktor said. “Because it’s not me.”

 

They looked at each other again, longer this time.

 

Harry swallowed.

 

“So what do you see, then?” he asked, quieter now.

 

Viktor didn’t hesitate.

 

“I see someone who’s been through too much. Who’s still here anyway.”

 

Harry stiffened — slightly, instinctively — as if bracing for a weight.

 

“You think I’m brave?” he asked, but it didn’t come out as a question so much as a challenge.

 

“No,” Viktor said, with surprising ease. “Not like that.”

 

Harry blinked.

 

“I think you’ve endured,” Viktor said. “That’s different.”

 

The words landed hard — not cruelly, but firmly. Like a truth someone had finally named aloud after years of pretending it wasn’t there.

 

Harry didn’t know what to say.

 

His mouth opened, closed. He looked at Viktor, trying to find the cracks — the place where this was a joke, a trap, a misunderstanding.

 

But there weren’t any.

 

Viktor’s face was calm, his expression unreadable but not guarded. He meant every word.

 

“I’ve read the stories,” Viktor said next, his voice softer. “Not because I believed all the things they say — about you being a hero or a savior. But because I kept wondering how someone like you… kept going. After everything.”

 

He paused, as if tasting the next words.

 

“I don’t know you,” he admitted. “Not really. But I’d like to.”

 

It was quiet after that.

 

No rustling of leaves. No late summer insects. Just the steady hush of the lake behind them and Harry’s heart, thudding somewhere near his throat.

 

He didn’t know what to say.

 

So he just… looked.

 

At Viktor. At the calm in his face. At the steadiness in his voice. At the sheer lack of performance in him. No act. No agenda. No rehearsed charm.

 

Just a boy — not much older than himself — who watched closely, and spoke when it mattered.

 

Harry nodded once.

 

Almost imperceptibly.

 

And Viktor smiled.

 

Not big. Not confident. Just… warm. Quiet.

 

It was enough.

 

And for the first time in a long time, so was Harry.

 

Viktor held out his hand, palm up, as the night hummed quietly around them.

 

“Give it here.”

 

Harry turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

 

“The Snitch,” Viktor said again, softer this time. His accent rounded the words gently. “Just for a moment.”

 

Harry glanced down at the golden ball still resting in his hand. Its wings were still now, folded neatly against its smooth surface. The metal was warm from his touch, warmer still from whatever magic it had absorbed from earlier. He’d almost forgotten he was still holding it.

 

“I thought you gave it to me,” Harry mumbled, unsure, clutching it a little tighter.

 

“I did,” Viktor said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I have one more thing to do.”

 

Still hesitant, Harry placed the Snitch into Viktor’s hand.

 

It felt strange giving it up again, as if it had already become something personal. But the way Viktor held it — gently, reverently — eased something in Harry’s chest.

 

Without a word, Viktor drew his wand, and with a practiced wave, the Snitch floated an inch above his palm. It hovered there, perfectly still, as though waiting for something.

 

Then the air around it shimmered — softly at first — and Harry squinted as fine, threadlike lines began to unfurl from the base of the Snitch like strands of starlight. They wrapped slowly around it, forming a long chain that spiraled in fluid motion, as if being spun from moonlight itself. But as the threads thickened and took on form, Harry noticed they weren’t silver at all — they were green.

 

A deep, shadowy green — not emerald, not Slytherin house green, but something darker. Like pine needles under frost. Like forest canopies in twilight.

 

The chain wasn’t metal, at least not any Harry had seen before. It had a strange, woven texture — thin, flexible, but glinting faintly with ancient magic. Along its length were markings: tiny patterns, runes maybe, though too fine for Harry to make out clearly. If he squinted, they almost looked like vines — curling, whispering, alive.

 

He watched, awestruck, as the chain looped itself around the Snitch like a locket’s clasp. A slow, almost shy hum filled the air as the magic settled. Then Viktor flicked his wand again, and Harry stepped back slightly when the Snitch shrank — not just in size, but in presence.

 

A pendant.

 

A pendant made from a Snitch that had chosen Harry.

 

Viktor caught it midair before it fell, the now miniature Snitch gleaming softly in his hand.

 

And still — he wasn’t done.

 

He murmured a charm Harry didn’t catch, and conjured something sharp — a thin sliver of polished wood, transfigured and shaped into a fine-tipped needle.

 

“What are you—?”

 

But Harry stopped mid-sentence when Viktor pricked the tip of his finger.

 

It was so subtle, so precise — just enough to draw a single drop of blood.

 

Harry inhaled sharply.

 

Viktor tilted his hand above the floating pendant and let the blood fall, one drop, maybe two.

 

The runes along the chain lit instantly — a deep, pulsing red that bled through the green like ink in water. The Snitch shimmered. Not harshly. It didn’t flare or spark. It glowed from within — softly, steadily — like a small, beating heart.

 

Harry couldn’t look away.

 

He’d never seen magic like this.

 

Not in books.

 

Not in Hogwarts classrooms.

 

This was older. Quieter. A kind of magic that wasn’t meant for crowds or duels. This was magic made for meaning.

 

For offering.

 

For keeping.

 

Viktor didn’t explain what he was doing. He didn’t narrate it or look for approval. He just moved with intention — like someone raised in tradition, someone who had learned spells by candlelight and not with applause.

 

When it was done, he stepped forward and held it out again — this time by the chain, letting the pendant dangle gently between them. The Snitch was still unmistakable in shape, but now wrapped in that strange woven thread, pulsing faintly with life.

 

Viktor stepped close again, his expression gentle in the moonlight, the space between them quiet and glowing. He held the Snitch-turned-pendant between his fingers, the dark green chain catching what little light the stars offered. The wind moved softly around them, but Viktor’s voice broke through it, calm and clear.

 

“Turn around.”

 

Harry blinked, but didn’t question it. He turned slowly, the night air brushing the back of his neck, and felt Viktor step in behind him — not too close, but close enough that Harry could feel the quiet gravity of his presence. The chain slipped lightly over his head, and then there were Viktor’s hands again — careful, steady, the pads of his fingers barely grazing Harry’s skin as he clasped the necklace behind his neck with a delicacy that felt like ritual.

 

Harry closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

 

He didn’t know why it felt so heavy — not the chain, not the pendant, but the meaning. The stillness of the gesture.

 

When he turned back around, the pendant was warm against his chest, dangling just beneath his collarbone. He looked down at it, gently lifting the Snitch between two fingers, watching how it pulsed faintly — a soft thrum of rune-light, red and green and gold.

 

Then he looked up.

 

“Now you’ll have something to remember me by,” Viktor said.

 

Harry stared at him.

 

Viktor’s voice was soft, but not uncertain. There was a quiet steadiness to him, the kind that made Harry feel both flustered and seen. Like he was standing in the middle of something important without fully understanding it, but still allowed to stay.

 

“Why...?” Harry asked.

 

The question slipped out before he could stop it, quieter than he meant it to be. He didn’t even know exactly what he was asking — why the gift, why this magic, why him. Just… why?

 

Viktor smiled — smaller this time, almost nostalgic.

 

“There’s this saying,” he said slowly, “that when you meet someone, you’ll know. Love at first sight, they call it.”

 

The words landed heavy and featherlight all at once.

 

Harry flushed. He looked away, because it was too much, too close, too something. He was certain his ears were glowing, that Viktor could see right through him — could hear how his heart was doing something strange and rapid in his chest.

 

But Viktor didn’t press.

 

In fact, his tone softened further, almost amused.

 

“Of course,” he added, “ours wasn’t love.”

 

Harry dared to glance back at him — a breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

 

“Not yet.”

 

Harry’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

 

He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure how to feel it. It wasn’t a declaration, not a confession — it was just true. Quiet and honest and hanging in the air between them like the thinnest strand of thread.

 

Viktor exhaled, and his gaze dropped to the pendant now resting against Harry’s chest.

 

“I believe it was a Snitch at first sight.”

 

That broke the stillness.

 

Harry laughed — caught off guard, a bit breathless. He wasn’t even sure it was funny, but the way Viktor said it — dry and almost shy — made it impossible not to grin.

 

Viktor laughed too, low and quiet, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of them, standing in the pale silver grass under a sky full of stars, still wet from the lake and flushed from something they didn’t have a name for yet.

 

Harry fingered the pendant again, the chain smooth and cool against his skin, the Snitch humming faintly as if it recognized him.

 

Viktor watched him with that same look of calm pride — not ownership, not expectation, just quiet pride. Like he was content to see something he'd made be worn. Be cherished.

 

“And when we grow old,” Viktor said softly, “when people ask where you got that pendant from…”

 

Harry looked up again, meeting his eyes this time.

 

“…if they ask how it all started…” Viktor continued, gaze never wavering.

 

He gave the smallest smile.

 

“…we’ll tell them. It all Began with a Snitch.”

 

Harry didn’t speak.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

He only smiled — small, real, and warm in a way he hadn’t smiled in a long time — and felt the pendant against his heart like it belonged there.

 

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

 

The words barely made it past his lips, soft and uncertain, but they still lingered between them, carried on the hush of the night.

 

He didn’t dare say more. The moment felt too delicate — as if the wrong word would cause it to crack apart. It was too sudden, too close, too… something. Something Harry wasn’t ready to admit. Not even to himself.

 

Viktor, however, wasn’t finished.

 

“I will admit something,” he said slowly, his voice steady, like each word had been considered carefully before being released into the dark.

 

Harry glanced up.

 

Viktor’s gaze held his. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just honest. Grounded.

 

“This is why I followed you,” he continued. “Because I wanted to understand what happened back there. I wanted to know if… maybe… it wasn’t just a coincidence.”

 

Harry swallowed, throat dry.

 

“I wanted to believe,” Viktor said, “that it meant something. That out of everyone in that stadium — thousands, maybe more — the Snitch chose you. Not me. Not the game. You.”

 

He took a half step closer. Not imposing, but present.

 

“And I want to be the person who knows what that means. I want to be close enough to understand it. Not the headlines. Not the myths. You.”

 

Harry’s heart gave an anxious little skip. A part of him recoiled — not from Viktor, but from the sheer weight of being wanted like that. It was too much. Too fast. It made something vulnerable ache in his chest.

 

Viktor paused, then exhaled.

 

“I won’t lie,” he added. “I am not the kind of man who likes to share.”

 

His tone didn’t change. There was no boast in it. No bravado. Just quiet truth.

 

“I am… jealous,” he admitted. “When I care about something. When I want something. I want it to be mine.”

 

Harry stiffened.

 

The word mine hit something raw in him — something that curled into itself without meaning to. He hated being claimed. He didn’t want to be owned or turned into another thing someone needed to win or protect. He braced himself for that version of the story — the one where people loved the idea of him, but not him.

 

And as if sensing it, Viktor stepped back slightly. Gave him space.

 

“I don’t mean that I want to own you,” Viktor said. “Not like a trophy. Not like a prize.”

 

Harry looked up.

 

Viktor’s voice softened again — no longer just earnest, but vulnerable.

 

“I don’t want to keep you in my shadow. I want to see you shine. Not as the Boy Who Lived. Not as a name. But as you, as Harry.”

 

Something in Harry’s chest cracked open, just a little.

 

Viktor wasn’t done.

 

“I want people to see how you are when no one’s looking. When you're quiet. When you're laughing. When you're just Harry. And yes… I want to know you in ways others only wish they could. I won’t pretend to be someone else. This is who I am. Possessive. Honest. Probably too blunt.”

 

He gave a small shrug, like he was offering up a flaw, not an excuse.

 

“But I don’t want to start by making claims.”

 

Viktor’s eyes found his again — and this time, they were steady, unguarded.

 

“I want us to start as friends. The kind of friends who… get to choose what happens next.”

 

He hesitated, just briefly.

 

“Do you want that too?”

 

The silence that followed was not heavy — not awkward. It was gentle. Open.

 

Harry didn’t answer right away.

 

He needed a breath.

 

Then another.

 

There was something terrifying and freeing about someone being so direct. So clear. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a dare.

 

It was a choice.

 

Harry found himself nodding.

 

A small, real nod.

 

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah. I do.”

 

Viktor smiled — and this one wasn’t laced with mischief or irony. It was something softer. Grateful.

 

Like hope.

 

“Good,” Viktor said, his voice soft, sure. Then, without hesitation, he held out his hand.

 

“Why don’t I walk you back?”

 

Harry looked at the offered hand, then up at Viktor’s face. The smile was kind, without pressure. But something in Harry twisted — that knot of fear that came from too many people watching, judging, naming him before he could name himself.

 

He shook his head.

 

“People talk,” he said quietly, the words tasting bitter as they left his tongue. “And they talk a lot. I don’t want you caught up in it — the media, the whispers, the rumors. I don’t want your name dragged through the mud just because you were seen with me.”

 

His voice cracked a little on the last word.

 

But Viktor didn’t step back.

 

He didn’t flinch.

 

“I meant what I said,” Viktor replied calmly. “I want to be friends with you, Harry. Maybe more. But even if all we ever are is this — talking, walking, being — I can handle it.”

 

Harry blinked.

 

Viktor’s expression didn’t waver.

 

“I’m older. Stronger. And—” his mouth quirked, just a little, “—quite capable with magic. And if magic fails, well… I can always punch someone in the face.”

 

That made Harry laugh — startled, a little breathless.

 

Viktor smiled.

 

“I’ll take it,” he said softly. “Everything. Every good thing, every bad one. The press. The pressure. The danger. Just to be near you. Just to know you.”

 

It was too much, Harry wanted to say. Too sudden. Too real.

 

But Viktor kept going, his tone gentler now — not persuasive, just sincere.

 

“My father once told me the story of how he met my mother,” he said. “He said it started with a gut feeling. That something about her felt right. Before he even knew her name. Before they even spoke.”

 

Viktor looked down, almost shy, then met Harry’s gaze again.

 

“I have that same feeling now. With you.”

 

Harry’s throat tightened.

 

It wasn’t a grand declaration of love. It wasn’t even a plea. It was a gift. Quiet and true.

 

Then Viktor stepped back slightly, enough to give him space — enough to let him choose.

 

“So,” he said. “Will you?”

 

His voice dropped lower, quieter.

 

“You have the right to say no, Harry. No pressure. No guilt. If you want me to leave — if you need space — I’ll go. No questions. No hard feelings.”

 

A pause. Then, gently, Viktor added:

 

“…But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop trying to be your friend.”

 

Harry didn’t answer right away.

 

He stood there, heart thudding against the new weight of the pendant on his chest, eyes fixed on the outstretched hand. His skin still damp from the lake, his mind still spinning from how fast everything was moving — and yet, in the middle of the chaos, there was this. A stillness. A choice.

 

No one had ever given him that before.

 

Not when it came to feelings.

 

Not when it came to himself.

 

And somehow, that made all the difference.

 

And finally… he agreed.

 

Harry didn’t say the words aloud — he didn’t need to. Instead, he simply reached forward, his hand trembling just slightly, and placed it into Viktor’s still-outstretched palm.

 

Their fingers met in the soft, cool dark — and for a breathless moment, that was all there was.

 

Harry glanced down at where their hands touched, at how small his looked against Viktor’s. Viktor’s hand was rougher, calloused in places, warm and solid. Like someone who had held too many things — broomsticks, weights, the weight of expectations. His grip was firm, but careful, as if aware of every tremor running beneath Harry’s skin.

 

Harry flushed — and for a moment, the world went quiet.

 

Viktor’s fingers curled slowly around his, and Harry wondered what it might feel like — truly feel like — to be held like that. Not just touched, not just brushed against in passing, but held. Deliberately. Gently.

 

His chest ached in a strange, unfamiliar way.

 

But just as Viktor took a step forward towards the field-

— the sky split open.

 

A jet of red light sliced past them, so fast and close that the air itself cracked. Harry barely had time to gasp before Viktor shoved him hard to the side, knocking him out of the way with a fierce, protective movement that nearly sent Harry sprawling into the grass.

 

“Viktor—!”

 

Another curse shattered the silence behind them — and then came the screaming.

 

High, sharp, real.

 

Harry whipped his head around, breath catching in his throat — and what he saw made the blood in his veins run cold.

 

The horizon was aflame.

 

Across the distant fields, tents were burning. Fire rolled like smoke-draped fog through the night, wild and untamed. People were running in every direction — some stumbling, some falling, some too slow to get out of the way. Screams echoed from every direction, piercing the calm of just moments before.

 

Harry’s heart dropped as he saw a dark figure in the sky — masked, cloaked — casting spell after spell into the crowd.

 

A voice howled from somewhere behind the chaos:

 

“DEATH EATERS!”

 

And that was when Harry felt it — the old, familiar terror. The cold dread in his chest that told him this wasn’t a dream, this wasn’t a drill, this wasn’t some Quidditch prank or magical accident.

 

This was real.

 

His skin prickled with fear. His legs tensed to run.

 

But then — he looked sideways.

 

Viktor was standing just ahead, wand already out, eyes hard and sharp. The easy smile from earlier was gone, replaced by something fierce. Protective. Ready.

 

Harry’s hand still tingled where Viktor had held it.

 

Everything had changed in a single breath.

 

And there was no turning back now.

Notes:

“I wanted to believe,” Viktor said, “that it meant something. That out of everyone in that stadium — thousands, maybe more — the Snitch chose you. Not me. Not the game. You.” This scene reminds me of the chest scene in Harry Potter Book Two 😭 or is it just me? Lmfaooo

Chapter 4: Not Alone

Harry’s heart was pounding so violently he could feel it in his throat, in his teeth, in his ears — a relentless, muffled thud-thud-thud that drowned out almost everything else.

 

His lungs burned.

 

His legs moved before thought could catch up, feet hammering into the earth as he sprinted through the field. Somewhere behind him, footsteps echoed in wild rhythm — and a voice, distant but unmistakably Viktor’s, called his name.

 

“Harry!”

 

But Harry didn’t stop.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Not now. Not until he saw them — Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the twins, Mr. Weasley. He had to know they were safe. He had to see it with his own eyes. The idea that something might’ve happened to them — that someone might’ve gotten to them before he could — made his chest seize with panic.

 

It was happening again.

 

Just like it always did.

 

Bad things, horrible things, always happened when Harry was nearby. He brought it with him — a storm that followed wherever he went. He knew coming here had been a mistake. He knew he should’ve just stayed behind. Why hadn’t he insisted? Why had he let himself believe, even for a second, that he could have something as simple as a good night?

 

Stupid. Stupid.

 

He muttered the word under his breath, over and over, a mantra of shame.

 

And then — he saw it.

 

And everything inside him froze.

 

Just ahead, hovering in the smoke-streaked sky, were the twisted outlines of Muggles. Suspended like broken marionettes — limbs bent at impossible angles, some of them screaming in voices too human and too real. Others were silent. Their eyes wide and empty, the life draining from them like light from a snuffed flame.

 

Harry skidded to a halt, breath catching in his chest.

 

Then they fell.

 

Bodies hit the ground like sacks of meat — one by one — with sickening thuds that seemed to echo across the flames. There were shouts. More screams. And all around him, fire was spilling through the tents, leaping up ropes and fabric, dancing over the very paths they’d laughed and walked on earlier that day.

 

People were running in every direction — some stumbling, some trampling over others, too panicked to care. Wands fired uselessly into the sky. Spells ricocheted. Children screamed for their parents. Somewhere a woman cried, and it sounded like someone tearing paper.

 

The world had become chaos.

 

But all Harry could think was:

 

This is my fault.

 

 

Harry didn’t know how it happened — one second he was running, forcing his legs to keep moving, the next… he wasn’t. His feet had stopped. His body, stiff and unyielding, wouldn’t move.

 

Why can’t I move?

 

His breath stuttered, then broke apart completely, splintering into short, shallow gasps that scraped his throat raw. It felt like the world was closing in — like the smoke and the screaming and the fire were all collapsing inward, crushing him from every side.

 

He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t think.

 

The sounds around him twisted, warped — screams became static, fire became thunder, the voices a low hum in his ears like he was submerged underwater. His chest rose and fell in erratic, panicked jolts. Move. Move, dammit, move! he screamed at himself silently, but his limbs were locked in place. Paralyzed. Useless.

 

And then — hands.

 

Strong hands grabbed him around the waist, firm but careful. He was lifted before he could even blink, hoisted off the ground like he weighed nothing. Harry barely registered the movement, barely made sense of the blur of fire behind him and the streak of trees rushing into view. His breath hitched again, but there was something familiar now — a scent, a presence, the cadence of a stride he somehow already knew.

 

Viktor.

 

When they finally stopped — just past the tree line, where other people had begun gathering in the shadows — Viktor set him down gently, crouched in front of him, and cupped Harry’s cheeks in his large, calloused hands. The warmth was grounding, his thumbs brushing lightly against Harry’s damp skin.

 

Viktor’s mouth was moving.

 

His eyes were wide, locked onto Harry’s, brimming with alarm and something deeper — something protective. He was saying something. Maybe a question. Maybe reassurance.

 

But Harry couldn’t hear a thing.

 

Everything was still muffled — like someone had thrown a thick veil between him and the world.

 

His own name seemed to come from a tunnel far away:

"…Harry… Harry…”

 

His breathing was still too fast. His vision swam.

 

And then — something clicked.

 

Like a distant pop, a pressure releasing. And suddenly, he could hear again — the thrum of distant spells being cast, the rustle of leaves in the wind, and Viktor’s voice, close, desperate, calling again—

 

“Harry.”

 

Harry blinked.

 

“Harry,” Viktor repeated — clearer this time, and laced with relief.

 

Harry’s chest rose sharply. He sucked in a breath. Then another.

 

“Thank Merlin,” Viktor muttered, not hiding the emotion in his voice, before he pulled Harry into him — arms wrapping around his back, holding him tightly against his chest.

 

Harry didn’t fight it.

 

He couldn’t.

 

He shouldn’t.

 

It wasn’t the right time — he knew that. The night was on fire, people were screaming, danger loomed just beyond the trees. This wasn’t the moment for comfort. And yet — Harry didn’t know what else to do but stay there, curled against Viktor’s solid chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

 

The world was chaos.

 

But in that embrace — in that one grounding, anchoring touch — he found the clarity to breathe again.

 

The clarity to feel again.

 

And, perhaps, the strength to move.

 

The hug broke slowly.

 

Not abruptly, not all at once — but with the kind of unspoken hesitance neither of them could name. As if their bodies knew that once they let go, the storm would find them again. That the moment would dissolve, and the fire waiting on the other side of the tree line would remind them what was still burning.

 

But Harry pulled back first.

 

Not far. Just enough to draw breath into his lungs, enough to feel the separation and grieve it for a moment. His hand reached for Viktor’s arm — not consciously, but instinctively — fingers curling tight around the fabric of his sleeve.

 

He looked up, eyes wide, frantic, still slightly out of focus. The adrenaline still thundered in his ears, his heart pumping far too fast, like it hadn’t quite gotten the message that he was out of immediate danger.

 

“I…” Harry began, but his voice cracked, dry and uneven. He swallowed, nodding. “Okay. Okay…”

 

His breaths came short, shallow — like each one was a separate task. His chest rose too fast, his mouth tasted like smoke and copper. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not the nervous kind of tremble — no, this was worse. This was the kind that came after, when your body realized what almost happened. When it caught up to the terror it couldn’t afford to feel at the time.

 

“You—” Harry tried again, stumbling over the words. “You need to go back. Your team. They’ll be looking for you. I… I don’t want—”

 

But Viktor was already shaking his head, one corner of his mouth lifting in something too firm to be called a smile, too soft to be called defiance.

 

“Harry,” he said, voice low, certain. “I am grown. My team is grown. We can take care of ourselves. We’ve trained for chaos. We’ll find each other.”

 

He reached forward — not to grab, not to guide — but to touch. His fingers closed gently over Harry’s wrist, still trembling. “That is not what matters right now.”

 

Harry blinked.

 

Because he’d expected refusal. Expected argument. Expected something colder, something distant. But this?

 

This was something else entirely.

 

“You matter right now,” Viktor said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

 

And Harry — who’d heard too many times that other people came first, that his needs could wait, that he had to be strong, always strong — didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know how to hold it, how to hear it without flinching.

 

He stared at Viktor, lips parted, stunned.

 

The world was still burning. People were screaming not far off. The air still reeked of ash and fear.

 

And yet, here Viktor was — standing in front of him, breathing with him, not leaving.

 

Harry didn’t know how to process the weight of it.

 

“Did you have someone with you?” Viktor asked, calm and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t afraid of the fire.

 

Harry nodded shakily. “Ron—the Weasleys. And Hermione. They’re—” he inhaled, sharp, nearly choking on it. “They could be anywhere. I can’t—I don’t know where—”

 

His voice gave out, but the panic was still there, coiled in his spine like a whip waiting to snap. His hands curled into fists, his arms tense. He hated how weak he felt. How small.

 

Viktor didn’t look at him with pity.

 

He didn’t look at him like a boy.

 

He looked at him like someone who understood what it meant to be terrified and still try anyway.

 

“Then we find them,” Viktor said, simple and final.

 

Not you find them. Not I will help you.

 

We.

 

And it was that — that one word — that undid Harry.

 

He didn’t realize his chest had gone still again until the air came in, slow and trembling, and stayed. He didn’t realize how much he'd needed that single syllable until it echoed in his mind, louder than the fire, louder than the fear.

 

We.

 

The idea that he wasn’t alone tonight. That someone, somehow, had chosen to stand with him even when they didn’t have to.

 

And for the first time since the spell shattered the sky, since the camp became a battlefield, since he'd seen people fall like rag dolls in the night—

 

Harry believed he might not have to survive it alone.

 

“Okay,” Harry whispered, nodding more to himself than to Viktor. He drew in a breath that still trembled, but it stayed. And that was progress.

 

His eyes flicked back toward the field — the distant stretch of fire-lit chaos beyond the trees. Screams still echoed across the camp, mingled with spellfire and the unmistakable crack of tents being torn from the earth. Smoke curled like fingers into the sky, swallowing what little moonlight remained.

 

“My wand,” he said suddenly, his voice tight. “I left it back at the tent. It—”

 

He didn’t finish. The guilt stung too sharp. He hated that he’d left it behind, hated that he’d run without thinking, hated how his body had frozen up when it mattered most. The wand had been on the table beside the bedroll — he remembered that now, clear as day. He’d meant to grab it, he always meant to grab it.

 

Viktor didn’t judge him. He didn’t even look surprised.

 

Instead, he nodded once, like he’d already anticipated it.

 

And then — from the folds of his coat — he pulled something else.

 

Harry blinked as another wand slipped from Viktor’s hand. A second one. Not identical, no — this one was shorter, darker, and slightly curved, like it had seen combat before.

 

Harry’s eyes widened. “You carry a spare?”

 

“What?” Viktor said with a half-smile. “My father prepared me for the worst.”

 

Harry didn’t even get a chance to respond before Viktor surprised him again.

 

He didn’t hand Harry the spare wand.

 

He held it in his own hand — and instead, offered his wand. The one he’d used in the match. The one Harry had seen held steady in the air minutes ago.

 

Harry stared at it. He didn’t reach for it immediately.

 

“You’re… giving me your wand?”

 

Viktor only shrugged. “Try it.”

 

Harry hesitated. Wands were personal. Intimate, even. They chose you. They matched you. It was said that borrowing another’s wand was like wearing someone else’s skin — it rarely fit quite right.

 

And yet…

 

He reached out. Slowly.

 

The moment his fingers curled around Viktor’s wand, a warmth surged up his arm. Familiar. Not overwhelming, not repelling — welcoming.

 

It didn’t fight him.

 

It accepted him.

 

He wasn’t sure why that stunned him so much.

 

Maybe because nothing had ever accepted him that easily before.

 

Harry took a shaky breath. There was no time to analyze it. “Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s see.”

 

He lifted the wand — still warm from Viktor’s palm — and turned toward the field. They were still half-hidden in the shadows of the trees, but the distance gave him a clear line of sight toward the edge of the camp where a plume of smoke was curling into the air.

 

His grip tightened. He aimed.

 

“Bombarda.”

 

The spell exploded from the wand like it had been waiting for him.

 

A sharp crack echoed through the trees — and something, someone, fell.

 

Harry lowered the wand, blinking.

 

He hadn’t realized how smoothly the magic had come — how little resistance he felt. It was like casting with his own wand. No, more than that. There was… clarity in it. Power he could feel in his bones.

 

From behind him, Viktor gave a satisfied grunt.

 

“See?” he said, stepping up beside Harry. “I thought it might suit you.”

 

Harry turned, still stunned. “I just hit a Death Eater.”

 

Viktor nodded solemnly. “And likely saved someone.”

 

Harry looked back down at the wand in his hand.

 

It didn’t feel borrowed.

 

It felt… right.

 

Harry inhaled through his nose, slow and deep — steadying his nerves as best he could. Smoke stung the back of his throat, and the scent of burning canvas lingered in his nostrils like ash clinging to memory.

 

“Alright,” he finally whispered. “Let’s go.”

 

Viktor didn’t hesitate.

 

He simply nodded, took a single step forward—and then reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand.

 

It happened so naturally, Harry nearly missed it. But the moment their fingers laced, warmth surged through his arm, not from the wand this time, but from contact. His breath caught in his throat, and for a second—just a second—his feet nearly forgot to move.

 

He didn’t even have time to process it.

 

Because Viktor was already pulling him forward, fast but careful, leading them back out into the chaos.

 

The field was worse than Harry remembered.

 

Smoke billowed across the ruins of the tents, now charred skeletons scattered in ash. Embers floated like dying stars in the darkness. Bodies—too many of them—lay crumpled in the dirt, unmoving. Some magical, some Muggle, their distinctions blurred in death. And off to the side—sweet Merlin—two Irish Quidditch players in green lay face down, their uniforms streaked with soot and blood, unmoving.

 

Harry’s stomach twisted. A low, bile-like dread crawled up his throat.

 

He almost stopped moving.

 

Viktor must have felt the stutter in his steps, because his grip tightened. Not forcefully—just enough to anchor him.

 

“Don’t look,” Viktor murmured under his breath. “Not if you don’t have to.”

 

But Harry looked anyway.

 

He needed to remember.

 

In the distance, silhouetted by the glow of spellfire, were the culprits—Death Eaters. Their masks were unmistakable. Glinting silver in the flicker of flames, they moved with theatrical, drunken cruelty, hurling spells at anything that moved. It wasn’t a battle. It was a performance. One of dominance. One of terror.

 

They weren’t just attacking.

 

They were celebrating.

 

“Do you see them?” Harry hissed, crouching behind what remained of a splintered crate.

 

Viktor crouched beside him, his expression like stone. “I see them.”

 

Harry looked at him. “They’re drunk.”

 

Viktor’s jaw tightened, eyes following the sweep of wandlight across the field. “Yes. That makes them careless.”

 

It didn’t make them less dangerous.

 

Together, they moved forward, sticking to the shadows where the broken remains of tents and scattered debris offered limited cover. Harry’s eyes flicked from face to face, searching, scanning—for anything red, anything familiar. He was beginning to feel the ache behind his eyes again, the strain of trying not to panic. But he had to keep moving. He had to.

 

Then—

 

“Ron's the redhead, yes?” Viktor asked quietly. “The one standing beside you at the top box?”

 

Harry glanced sideways, surprised by the observation. “Yeah. That’s him.”

 

Viktor nodded, eyes still sharp on the path ahead. “And the bushy-haired girl is Hermione?”

 

Harry blinked, surprised again by how carefully Viktor had watched—how closely he’d remembered. “Yes. That’s Hermione.”

 

Viktor didn’t comment further. He just tucked the information away, like he did with everything else. Quiet. Methodical. Unshakable.

 

And Harry realized—

 

Viktor wasn’t just here to protect him.

 

He was here to help him find them.

 

To search the battlefield with him, without question or complaint. And Harry couldn’t help but feel something twist in his chest—not fear this time, but something else. Something that both comforted and terrified him.

 

They pressed forward through the scorched earth, two figures in the smoke, a heartbeat apart. Hands still tangled, wands drawn. One with a borrowed wand that felt like home. The other with a backup ready, steady.

 

Together.

 

They crept deeper into the wreckage of the campsite, Harry’s heart thudding in his ears like it was trying to outrun the horror around them. Fire flickered in the distance, casting a red haze over everything. Ash clung to his face. His wand — Viktor’s wand — stayed clutched in his hand, warm and pulsing with the last trace of magic.

 

Then — a sharp hiss cut through the dark.

 

“Psst! Harry!”

 

Harry froze.

 

The voice was frantic but familiar, cracked by smoke and panic. He turned, scanning the shadows near a partially collapsed tent — and there, crouched behind it, two shapes peeked out. One with a shock of red hair and the other with a halo of frizzed curls catching firelight like a cloud.

 

“Ron,” Harry whispered. “Hermione—!”

 

He didn’t wait. He yanked Viktor by the sleeve and pulled him toward the collapsed canvas. The second they rounded the edge, the two figures leapt up — and then Hermione threw herself into Harry’s arms.

 

“Thank Merlin, thank Merlin, thank Merlin—” she was crying into his neck, her arms wrapped so tightly around him that he nearly dropped the wand.

 

Harry stood frozen for a moment, heart hammering — until he let himself hold her back. He could feel her trembling, shoulders hitching with every breath. Her hair smelled like smoke and sweat and whatever cheap shampoo the Burrow used — but it was familiar, so familiar that it hurt.

 

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “I’m okay, I’m okay…”

 

She pulled back only slightly, cupping his face with shaky hands, eyes wild and wet with relief. “We thought—we didn’t know if you—” her breath hitched. “You weren’t at the tent. We couldn’t find you, and everything was—was on fire, and—”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, guilt punching the wind from his lungs. “I should’ve found you first. I should’ve come sooner—”

 

“No.” Ron cut in, stepping up beside them, eyes serious in a way Harry rarely saw. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself.”

 

Harry looked over, and Ron gave him a tight nod. “Dad rounded up the others. Fred, George, Ginny, all of them. They’re safe — we got them out and the Aurors were already setting up a perimeter.”

 

“Then why—?”

 

“We couldn’t leave you,” Hermione answered for him, brushing angrily at her eyes. “We snuck back the second we saw you weren’t back with the rest of us. We knew you'd come toward the field. You always—”

 

Harry’s throat went tight.

 

He didn’t say thank you. He just gave them both a small, crooked smile, and for a second, the four of them stood there — surrounded by smoke, by ruin, by war drums in the form of distant spells — together.

 

Then Ron looked past Harry and raised an eyebrow. “So, uh… Viktor Krum?”

 

Harry flushed. “Yeah. Long story.”

 

Viktor, standing behind Harry like a silent shadow, gave a polite nod. “Good to see your friends are safe.”

 

“They’re… yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Thanks to you too.”

 

They didn’t have long to breathe. Another crack of magic echoed far too close.

 

Ron stiffened. “We need to move. The Death Eaters are circling. They’re pushing people into the woods.”

 

Hermione nodded, eyes darting toward the edge of the tree line. “We need to get to your dad. Now.”

 

Harry looked back at Viktor, hand still holding his borrowed wand, heart still pounding. But this time, it wasn’t panic — it was adrenaline. And something like hope.

 

“Let’s go,” he said.

 

They moved quickly through the shadows, the scorched remnants of the campsite stretching endlessly around them. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burning magic. Ron led the way, his shoulders tense, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. Hermione was right behind him, muttering detection spells under her breath as they ducked between broken tents and shattered crates.

 

Harry followed, heart pounding, Viktor at his back like a second shadow — silent, composed, ever alert. The Bulgarian Seeker kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the darkness behind them with the precision of someone used to surviving in chaos.

 

They were close now. Harry could feel it — the forest wasn’t far, just beyond the ruined pitch. The sounds of screaming had dulled to echoes, far off but constant. Fire lit the sky behind them like a second dawn.

 

“Almost there,” Ron whispered.

 

And then—

 

A sickening pop of Apparition cracked through the stillness.

 

Viktor stiffened. “Get behind me.”

 

Harry barely had time to react before Viktor’s arm shot out, shoving him back against a toppled bench.

 

Seven cloaked figures emerged from the smoke — tall, masked, and swaying on their feet like predators that had overindulged. The fire behind them cast their silver masks in molten light. Wands already drawn. Laughing.

 

One of them stepped forward with a drunken sort of swagger.

 

“Well, well, well,” the Death Eater drawled, voice slurred but unmistakably cruel. “Look what we’ve got here… Harry Potter.”

 

Harry’s stomach dropped.

 

The others didn’t hesitate. Almost immediately, spells were fired—crimson, violet, and gold—all aimed directly at Viktor.

 

He didn’t flinch.

 

But Harry moved.

 

"NO!"

 

The word tore from his throat before he could stop it. Without thinking, Harry threw himself forward, shoving Viktor aside with more force than he thought he had in him. He landed hard against the ground, dirt and ash scraping his palms, and threw up a Protego as fast as lightning. The shield sparked alive, catching three of the spells midair in a sizzling flash.

 

The Death Eaters stumbled, surprised by the boy’s quick reflexes.

 

Ron was already shouting a curse—“Stupefy!”—and Hermione screamed something sharper, more intricate, as her wand arced with blue light.

 

Spells collided.

 

Air cracked with impact.

 

Viktor hit the ground beside Harry, rolled once, and sprang back up with the grace of someone trained in combat far beyond a Quidditch pitch. He was already returning fire — short, vicious spells that lashed through the air with unerring speed. His expression was no longer calm. It was feral.

 

Harry didn’t even realize he was shaking until another spell missed him by inches and singed the ground where he’d stood a heartbeat earlier.

 

He met eyes with one of the Death Eaters. That mask. That tilt of the head. Recognition.

 

They were toying with him.

 

“Harry, move!” Hermione screamed, yanking him to the side just as another curse scorched through the smoke.

 

A searing bolt of red light ricocheted off Viktor’s hastily cast shield. He grunted—just once—and then returned fire, aiming a blasting curse that sent one of the Death Eaters sprawling backwards, robes aflame.

 

“We need to fall back!” Ron shouted. “There’s too many—”

 

“No!” Harry yelled back, jaw clenched. “We can hold them!”

 

“Harry!”

 

But Harry wasn’t listening.

 

Because these people — these cowards — wanted to hurt them. Had hurt them. Were laughing while Muggles screamed and tents burned and people ran.

 

Harry stood taller, rage crackling through his bones like lightning as he raised Viktor’s wand once more. His voice rang out through the smoke.

 

“Expulso!”

 

The spell struck the ground just in front of the advancing Death Eaters and exploded in a shower of dirt and flame, sending several of them stumbling. They screamed — enraged now, not drunk, not amused.

 

They came harder.

 

And Harry knew — this wasn’t going to be a quick skirmish.

 

This was a fight.

 

The air was thick with magic, hot and volatile, every spell crackling like a live wire.

 

“Protego!”

 

Harry barely had time to deflect the oncoming hex before another one struck near his shoulder, sending dirt and sparks flying. He pivoted, wand raised, heart hammering. His chest ached from casting—his arm burned—but he couldn’t stop now.

 

One Death Eater came at him from the left, two from the right. Their spells were fast, jagged, desperate. Harry ducked one curse, shielded another, and then cast a blasting charm that knocked one of them backwards into the smoldering remnants of a tent pole.

 

Behind him, Viktor moved like a storm — sharp, deliberate, devastating. He kept to Harry’s side, refusing to let more than an arm’s length separate them. With two Death Eaters engaged, Viktor barely looked winded, but his protective stance spoke volumes: he was watching everything, ready to shield Harry even mid-duel if needed.

 

Still, the pressure mounted.

 

Another Death Eater popped into existence just meters away, their mask cracked, robes scorched. With a cruel laugh, they flung a slicing hex directly at Viktor.

 

“VIKTOR!”

 

Harry shouted before he even thought. Viktor turned just in time, deflecting the spell with a well-timed arc of his wand—but it threw off his rhythm, and one of his own opponents seized the opening to hex his leg. He staggered.

 

“I'm fine,” Viktor growled, steadying himself with one hand while casting another shield charm over Harry with the other. “Keep moving!”

 

To their right, Ron and Hermione were back to back, surrounded by three cloaked figures. Hermione’s hair was wild, her face drawn in fierce concentration as she screamed an incantation Harry couldn’t hear over the chaos. A bright silver net exploded from her wand, wrapping around two Death Eaters and dragging them to the ground.

 

Ron fired curses with his jaw clenched tight, sweat pouring down his temple. “This is bloody mad!”

 

“More of them!” Hermione shouted, nodding toward another flicker of apparition behind the smoke.

 

Too many.

 

Their magic was draining fast. Every spell cast took a piece of them with it — and Harry could feel the exhaustion clinging to his skin like ash. His legs trembled, his hand ached from gripping Viktor’s wand too tightly.

 

And then—

 

Pop!

 

Another apparition. But this one was different.

 

Multiple pops followed.

 

Suddenly, the air behind them exploded with light as wizards in deep navy robes surged forward—Aurors.

 

Harry saw the gleaming silver of their badges, heard the barked orders, the precision of their spells.

 

“STAND DOWN!”

 

“DISARM THEM!”

 

The Death Eaters faltered, then panicked.

 

One raised his wand toward Harry again—but it was too late.

 

“Expelliarmus!” Viktor roared, his voice hoarse but clear, and the wand flew from the Death Eater’s hand just as three Aurors descended on him.

 

Two more Death Eaters near Ron and Hermione tried to Apparate — and disappeared into the void just as the anti-Apparition wards flickered into place behind them, a second too late.

 

But the rest weren’t so lucky.

 

Bound in glowing magical restraints, they dropped to their knees, disarmed and snarling, some laughing through broken teeth, others spitting blood.

 

Harry stood frozen, panting hard, wand still raised. His shirt was damp with sweat. There was dirt in his hair, his mouth tasted like smoke and metal, and his whole body thrummed with leftover adrenaline. He barely registered the Aurors shouting over each other, rounding up the fallen enemies.

 

Viktor placed a firm, grounding hand on Harry’s shoulder.

 

“You’re safe,” he said softly, voice low beside his ear. “It’s over.”

 

Harry looked at him, still catching his breath, and managed a nod.

 

But in truth—it didn’t feel over. Not yet. Because even as the Death Eaters were bound and cuffed, even as the camp was secured…

 

The final flashes of spellfire died in the distance. The screams had quieted to scattered sobs and Auror commands. The air still smelled of smoke and blood.

 

Harry stood motionless, his breathing slowing but still uneven. His entire body ached with the toll of battle—soreness blooming in his limbs, his throat dry and raw. He should’ve felt relieved.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Because as the levitating forms of the bound Death Eaters drifted away, wands confiscated and robes scorched, a different kind of chill crept over him.

 

From the firelit shadows ahead, three figures emerged—uniformed, imposing. Two Aurors, both tall and unsmiling, flanked a third man. One Harry recognized instantly.

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt.

 

His presence demanded attention—not because he shouted, but because he didn’t need to. His steps were steady, his face composed with practiced severity. But his gaze, sharp and unwavering, was trained on Harry from the moment he appeared.

 

Harry’s heart dropped.

 

He could see it then—clutched in the hand of one of the Aurors walking just behind: his wand. Sealed in a magical containment bag, glinting faintly beneath the pale blue stasis charm wrapped around it.

 

His mouth went dry.

 

Ron, to his left, took a half-step forward, but Hermione held his arm tightly, her own lips parted in silent worry. None of them spoke.

 

Kingsley stopped a few feet away, his voice calm but clipped. “Harry Potter. Please, if you could. We need to have a word.”

 

Harry’s pulse surged. A thousand explanations whirled in his mind—It wasn’t me. I didn’t start anything. I was trying to help— but no words formed.

 

He opened his mouth—

 

And then Viktor stepped forward.

 

Immediately. Instinctively.

 

He positioned himself squarely between Harry and the Aurors, shoulders broad, stance firm, his wand still in hand though lowered.

 

“If you are here to question Harry’s whereabouts tonight,” Viktor began, his voice deep, accented, and ice-steady, “then I will be present.”

 

The Aurors’ hands shifted slightly at their sides, not enough to be threatening—but enough to show they noticed.

 

“I was with him the entire time,” Viktor continued, voice louder now. “From before the fires started until the Death Eaters arrived. And I will speak to any and all questions directed at his actions. He is not alone.”

 

Kingsley raised a brow, but said nothing.

 

Viktor didn’t falter. “As someone who fought alongside him tonight, as someone who has nothing to gain from lying, and—” he turned slightly toward Harry, softer now—“as someone who refuses to let him shoulder blame for protecting innocent lives—I have the right to stand as his witness.”

 

There was a weight to his words.

 

Not defensive. Not emotional. Just undeniable truth.

 

“And,” Viktor added, eyes fixed back on Kingsley’s with quiet steel, “you cannot deny me that right. Not under international code. Not when I have seen what he’s done. Not when I am prepared to speak for it.”

 

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

 

The silence buzzed.

 

Harry stared at Viktor, stunned. Not because he was surprised by his support—Viktor had done nothing but protect him all night—but because of the way he did it. Calm. Certain. Proud.

 

Kingsley finally spoke. “Mr. Krum,” he said with a slight dip of his head, “you’re right. And your presence will not be denied.”

 

Relief swept over Harry, fast and cold.

 

But it was short-lived.

 

“Still,” Kingsley continued, “we’ll need to hear exactly what happened. Both of you. From the beginning.” He held up the containment bag with Harry’s wand. “Several spells were cast. Some quite powerful. Standard protocol is to log them all. It’s not an accusation—just procedure.”

 

Harry nodded slowly. “I understand,” he rasped.

 

Viktor stepped back just slightly, enough to let Harry take the front if he wished—but he remained close, a reassuring shadow at his side.

 

“I’ll explain everything,” Harry said, voice steadier now. “But I didn’t start anything. I was just trying to get to my friends. I—”

 

Kingsley held up a hand. “Let’s talk somewhere quieter. There’s a medical tent up past the hill. Once we’ve sorted the scene, we’ll meet there. You’re not under arrest. We just want clarity.”

 

Harry blinked. Not under arrest. Right.

 

But still being watched. Still being recorded.

 

As the Aurors moved past to finish binding evidence and scanning magical signatures, Viktor touched Harry’s shoulder again.

 

“You don’t owe them guilt,” he said quietly, just for him. “You owe them the truth. That’s all. And you have me beside you.”

 

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that.

 

So instead, he just nodded—and didn’t let go of Viktor’s sleeve.

Notes:

PS: I'm TERRIBLE at writing fight scenes so I hope I'm doing it rightT^T

Chapter 5: Letters

“Why are we here?” Harry asked again, for what felt like the third time—though, in truth, he’d lost count.

 

The tent was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the air. It wasn’t a medical tent. It wasn’t even one of those standard Ministry containment units for crowd control or misplaced belongings. No, this one was different.

 

This one was bare.

 

Too bare.

 

A single table stood between them, the wooden surface gleaming dully in the harsh light from the lantern hanging above. The space around it stretched out like an empty echo after a conversation that had already ended. Two chairs—one Harry sat in, the other Viktor had claimed the moment they were ordered inside—faced each other, and neither was comfortable. No tea. No cushions. No kind words. No reassurance. Nothing.

 

Just two Aurors stationed by the flap of the tent, their bodies stiff, unmoving, their faces stone. But Harry knew it wasn’t just their stance that made them seem colder. It was the weight of the silence, the suffocating quiet that stretched between them and the rest of the world. And then there was Viktor—sitting beside him, not speaking, but somehow saying more with his silence than anyone else had said in the past ten minutes.

 

Except they weren’t quite stone when they met Viktor’s gaze.

 

Harry noticed it. The way one of them shifted his weight uncomfortably. The way the other’s mouth twitched—not quite in fear, but not far from it either. Viktor hadn’t said anything, not since they’d entered. But his silence wasn’t passive; it was coiled, his presence a quiet storm that neither Auror seemed willing to provoke.

 

Still, no one answered Harry’s question. Again.

 

“I said—” Harry started once more, his voice sharp, the irritation pushing the words from his throat like splintered wood.

 

“They’re not going to tell you,” Viktor murmured beside him, his voice low, rich with an unspoken understanding. “They’re just placeholders.”

 

Harry’s fingers drummed restlessly against the table, the sound too loud in the stillness. He was starting to feel the weight of the room press down on him, suffocating him with each passing second. “This doesn’t feel like someone not under arrest.”

 

Viktor turned fully to him now, his dark eyes locked onto Harry’s. His gaze was sharp, yet there was something almost comforting in the intensity. “That’s because it isn’t meant to feel that way. It’s meant to unnerve you.”

 

Harry scoffed and shifted in his seat, leaning back in the hard chair. The corners of his mouth curled downward, his discomfort now mingled with a simmering anger that gnawed at the pit of his stomach. “Well, they’re doing a damn good job of it.”

 

Ten minutes, maybe more, had passed since they were brought in. The silence felt endless, but Harry could already feel the creeping anxiety of being away from everyone—Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys. Enough time, Harry figured, for Ron to have noticed his absence. Enough time for Hermione to have started worrying, for Ron to begin swearing under his breath, pacing, thinking of ways to break through the Ministry’s walls to find Harry.

 

And yet no one had come.

 

A flicker of worry sparked behind his ribs.

 

Harry rubbed at his arm absently, the phantom ache curling there from earlier—the lake, the field, the duels, the screams—everything had come crashing down so quickly, and now this. Being dragged into a silent tent, the pressure building and building until it was almost too much. It felt too familiar. Like he was back in his second year again, staring down suspicious glances in the corridor. A prisoner, in a way.

 

Always back here, weren’t you, Potter?

 

“Maybe they’re waiting for me to break,” Harry muttered, bitterness coating the words like ash.

 

“You won’t,” Viktor said, his voice quiet, but the certainty behind it was like a rope thrown out to Harry in the storm.

 

Harry sighed, and it came out like a confession.

 

Not loud. Not obvious. But quiet and trembling, like the breath had been kept somewhere in the hollow of his chest for far too long and only now remembered how to find its way out. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t clear the fog of unease that had sunk into his bones since they’d been escorted here. But it was a release, however small. And it was enough.

 

His hands had stopped fidgeting. They now lay quiet, fingers brushing against each other absently as he sat hunched in a chair that felt colder by the minute, as though even the fabric had learned how to keep its distance. He tilted his head and stole a glance beside him.

 

Viktor was looking at him.

 

And not the way most people looked at him—curious or awed or wary or worried they might catch whatever curse they believed Harry carried in his name. No. Viktor looked the way people look at something they’ve already decided to stay with. He looked like he chose to stay.

 

His gaze dipped, briefly, to the pendant around Harry’s neck—the snitch, now shrunk and silver, caught between collarbone and breath. A glimmer of memory clung to it. And then his eyes met Harry’s again. Dark, unwavering, and impossibly still.

 

Harry looked away. Too fast. Too suddenly.

 

That was when the thought came.

 

"You should—you don’t have to be here, you know," Harry muttered. The words came out stilted, unpolished. Like they’d been scraped out of him. He didn’t know if he meant them or not. But they were there now, laid bare between them like something fragile.

 

He felt Viktor shift slightly beside him.

 

“I mean,” Harry said quickly, stumbling over his own breath, “you are here, obviously. I just... I don’t know. It’s strange. Being in this tent that’s not supposed to feel like I’m under arrest but clearly does. And—you’re here. Viktor Krum. Sitting beside me. And I’m just—me.”

 

He stopped talking because anything else would’ve sounded worse. Because everything else would’ve come out in pieces.

 

The silence didn’t feel heavy this time. It felt... full.

 

Viktor hadn’t moved much. Only turned toward him a little more. Watching Harry with that same soft, deliberate patience, like he had all the time in the world to sit here in this godforsaken tent and wait for Harry to breathe properly again.

 

And then Harry remembered.

 

“I’ll take it,” Viktor had said back at the lake. “Everything. Every good thing, every bad one. The press. The pressure. The danger. Just to be near you. Just to know you.”

 

As though he’d said it without expectation. Without needing an answer. Just a truth spoken aloud to a world that never seemed to speak back.

 

Harry rubbed a hand against his arm, not to warm it, but to feel something. He wasn’t used to people choosing him for reasons that didn’t come wrapped in prophecy or pity. He wasn’t used to someone wanting the mess that came with knowing him—and still staying.

 

"You meant that, didn’t you?" Harry asked quietly, not really looking at Viktor this time. He didn’t know if he could. He was already too exposed, and they hadn’t even asked the first question yet.

 

Viktor didn’t pause.

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

Just that.

 

And somehow, it felt like the most important answer Harry had received in a long time. Not because it was surprising—but because it wasn’t.

 

He believed him. And that, too, was strange. It curled into the pit of his stomach like warmth in winter, like a fire lit beneath the ice. Not hot, not dangerous—just enough. Just... there.

 

Harry’s shoulders dropped just slightly. His fingers twitched again. And Viktor, still silent, still watching, didn’t say another word.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

They sat like that for a while—neither of them moving, neither of them explaining, not until the silence folded itself neatly around them and became something less like suspicion and more like breath.

 

Then—

 

The flap of the tent rustled. A gust of cooler air rolled through.

 

Footsteps.

 

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

 

Viktor’s eyes sharpened, but his body didn’t tense. It just readied. Like he was waiting for the cue to step in, if Harry needed him to.

 

Harry sat up straighter, knuckles white against the wood of the table.

 

Then Kingsley entered. Cloak trailing like shadow behind him. Magic clinging to his presence like dust. A man who carried too many secrets in his pockets and didn’t spill any unless it was time.

 

But what Harry saw first—was his wand.

 

Sealed in a magical evidence pouch, floating beside Kingsley like it was already a verdict.

 

And suddenly, everything else dropped away.

 

This was why they were here.

 

And Harry—Harry—had already been judged before the first word left anyone’s lips.

 

But Viktor... Viktor didn’t flinch.

 

And somehow, because of that, neither did he.

 

Harry straightened, his hand curling into a fist against the table. His muscles tensed involuntarily. Viktor didn’t move, but his eyes were already trained sharply on the entrance, body tight with a quiet readiness, like a predator at rest, waiting for the right moment to strike. There was no fear in Viktor’s posture, just a quiet, contained power that made Harry feel safer than he had since the start of this madness.

 

His stomach turned cold, a sickening knot twisting in the pit of his gut. His heart dropped into his stomach. This wasn’t a simple matter of bad luck or misunderstanding. No. They didn’t just have Harry under suspicion—they were questioning him. This was serious. He could feel the weight of it now, pressing down on his chest, suffocating him.

 

He didn’t speak right away, and neither did Kingsley—not until he sat across from them and placed the wand down with careful precision on the table. It landed with a whisper, yet it might as well have been a thunderclap in the tense quiet of the room.

 

Harry stared at it, a frown pulling the edges of his mouth downward. His breath hitched slightly as he looked at his wand—the one he had left in the tent. The one he hadn’t even touched when all hell had broken loose.

 

“You had my wand,” he said, his voice clipped, each word biting the air like ice. “Why?”

 

Kingsley didn’t dodge the question. His eyes softened, but there was no hesitation in his voice. “It was recovered from the scene, near the field where the Dark Mark was cast.”

 

Harry’s jaw tightened, and his mind raced. “I left it. In the tent. I wasn’t even near there until the screaming started.”

 

Kingsley gave a solemn nod. “We know. But there’s more.”

 

Harry’s fingers flexed against the table, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he waited for the rest. He didn’t like where this was going.

 

“Go on,” Harry pressed, his voice a little hoarse, like he was afraid to hear the words that were coming next.

 

“A figure was seen running just before the Mark appeared in the sky. The silhouette couldn’t be identified—hooded, likely a Death Eater. When Aurors arrived, there was no trace of the caster, but your wand… it was found lying nearby. Abandoned.”

 

The words hit Harry like a hammer, each one slamming into him with the force of an accusation. The panic surged, but he fought it down, refusing to let it show.

 

“You thought it was me,” he said, his voice rough.

 

“No,” Kingsley said calmly, almost too calmly, “we thought it was someone trying to make it you.”

 

And somehow, that felt worse. Like it wasn’t just that they suspected him—it was that someone had gone out of their way to frame him, to make it seem like he was the one who had cast the Dark Mark. Harry could feel his chest tightening, the breath coming too fast, his pulse thudding in his ears.

 

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the wand on the table, unable to tear his eyes away from it. The weight of everything was starting to crash down on him—the pressure of being Harry Potter, of the expectations, of the consequences. This was his life now, wasn’t it? One endless, tangled mess after another.

 

Viktor, still quiet beside him, slowly pushed the wand back across the table—gently, but with finality. “Then you have your answer.”

 

Harry swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. He looked at Viktor, who was still seated beside him, eyes sharp, waiting for the moment to unfold. Viktor’s calm was almost too much for Harry to absorb right now, too much of a contrast to the chaos inside his own mind.

 

The space between them felt heavy, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him, and for the first time, Harry felt the quiet certainty that Viktor was more than just a person standing beside him. He was a force. Something solid, unshakable in the storm of uncertainty.

 

 

“But the question is,” Kingsley continued, tone even but piercing as a blade drawn too slowly, “how your wand ended up in the hands of a Death Eater.”

 

The tent fell utterly still.

 

Harry’s eyes dropped to the wand again—his wand—sealed in a transparent magical pouch, lying between them like a severed limb. It looked wrong in there. Smaller, somehow. Stripped of what made it his. As though someone had tried to turn it into evidence instead of memory. Instead of magic.

 

How.

 

Yes. That was the question, wasn’t it?

 

The one he couldn’t answer.

 

The one that curled in the pit of his stomach like a thorn.

 

Harry swallowed. His throat felt thick. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. He glanced at Kingsley, then at the Aurors behind him, then—almost without meaning to—at Viktor. His gaze was steady, firm in the shadows.

 

“I don’t know,” Harry said again, stronger this time, as if repeating it would change how hollow it felt. “I left it in the tent.”

 

Kingsley gave a slow, solemn nod, folding his hands on the table like someone delivering news at a funeral. “And that’s why we need to ask you where you were tonight. Who you saw. If anyone acted strange—too close, too friendly. Anyone who might’ve had the chance to take your wand.”

 

Anyone.

 

Harry’s mind flicked automatically to Malfoy, that blond blur in the Top Box, the way he had stared—not out of cruelty, but something else. Something unreadable. But then Harry shook his head inwardly. No. Not even Malfoy would be so reckless. That was grasping at smoke.

 

So he breathed, steadying himself.

 

“I left the tent,” he began slowly, tracing his own memory like it was something delicate he could crush just by pressing too hard. “After the match. I just… I needed air. Everyone was loud. It was like—”

 

Like they were watching me again. Waiting for me to do something spectacular. To fall apart or fly.

 

He didn’t say that part aloud. He didn’t need to.

 

“I walked toward the forest, by the lake. There was no one there, just quiet. Then… Viktor found me.”

 

There was the smallest pause. The name settled into the air like dust.

 

Harry didn’t glance at him this time. He couldn’t. Not with the weight of what wasn’t being said hanging between them. He didn’t mention the pendant or the accidental fall into the water. Didn’t talk about how Viktor’s hands had steadied him, how the warmth of them still lingered on his skin even now.

 

He just pressed on. Because there wasn’t time for softness in a room built for suspicion.

 

“We talked. That’s it. And then the screaming started.”

 

He remembered the way the sky lit up orange and red, the way the crowd’s joy had twisted into terror so fast it made his chest ache just thinking about it. “There was fire. And shouting. I tried to run back, to find Hermione and Ron. That’s when we saw the Death Eaters.”

 

Harry’s fingers flexed against the wooden edge of the table. “I didn’t even notice my wand was gone until it was too late.”

 

He stopped. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was brimming. With doubt. With unasked questions. With the horrible feeling that no matter how honest he was, it might not be enough.

 

Kingsley looked at him long and hard. Not cruelly. But not kindly either.

 

Harry wondered if that’s how people saw him now. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not even the boy at all. Just a person orbiting trouble. Always too near to it. Close enough to be useful. Close enough to be dangerous.

 

When Kingsley finally nodded again, it was neither confirmation nor relief. Just a quiet mark in the margins of something far from over.

 

And beside him, Viktor slowly leaned forward, the chair groaning under his weight as he interlaced his fingers on the table with practiced control. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet—but low, dark with the promise of something sharper.

 

“You ask where he was. I tell you, I was with him,” Viktor said. “You ask how his wand was taken. He tells you, it was left behind. But you ask like it’s his fault it was stolen. As if he invited it.”

 

One of the Aurors shifted.

 

Kingsley’s expression didn’t change. But Harry saw it—just the faintest flicker. Interest. Or maybe respect.

 

Viktor went on, his gaze unwavering.

 

“There were hundreds of people out there tonight. Thousands. But you brought him here. For what? Because the world always looks for the easiest target? The most familiar scapegoat?”

 

“No one is accusing—” Kingsley started.

 

“You don’t have to,” Viktor cut in softly. “You’ve already placed the burden.”

 

 

Kingsley nodded at last, slow and composed, then rose from his chair. The scrape of wood against earth was barely a sound, but to Harry it echoed like an exhale at the end of a long-held breath. With the same careful hands that had laid it down, Kingsley reached across the table and picked up the sealed pouch containing Harry’s wand.

 

He held it for a beat—examining the wand through the shimmering containment spell as though it might offer one final truth—and then, without ceremony, he dispelled the enchantment and passed it over to Harry.

 

Harry’s fingers closed around it with an almost reverent quiet. Warm. Familiar. Like something lost had come back to him, and with it a small shard of control he hadn’t realized had been taken. He let his thumb brush over the carved wood, grounding himself in the grooves he knew by touch alone.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured, though it barely passed his lips. His voice still felt raw. Like it had been speaking all night even when he hadn’t said much at all.

 

And then, a bitter thought curled somewhere at the edges of his mind—half amusement, half regret.

 

Maybe he should take a page from Viktor’s book. A wand holster wouldn’t be such a terrible idea. Or a backup wand. Viktor, ever-prepared, ever-collected. Harry could use a bit more of that. Merlin knows how easily things slipped from his grasp.

 

Kingsley’s voice pulled him back.

 

“I realize this has felt more… formal than necessary,” he said, tone clipped but sincere. “It wasn’t meant to suggest guilt. Only precaution. Given the circumstances.”

 

“Precaution,” Harry echoed, more to himself than anyone. He looked up then, his wand resting lightly in his palm. “So, what happened out there?”

 

Kingsley folded his arms behind his back, his expression darkening with something more solemn now—professional, yes, but touched with weariness.

 

“The Death Eaters who were captured… they’d been drinking heavily before the attack,” he said. “Uncoordinated. Sloppy. The spellwork was inconsistent—cruel but chaotic. We believe they were rogue actors, trying to stir fear more than deliver a message. There were… casualties. But fewer than we feared. Thanks, in part, to those who resisted.”

 

Harry nodded. A flicker of memory darted behind his eyes—wandlight flashing through smoke, Ron shouting spells beside him, Hermione’s hand trembling as she held her stance. And Viktor. Always near. Always steady.

 

“We fought some of them,” Harry said quietly. “There were at least seven. One recognized me.” His throat tightened around the words. “He smiled when he saw me.”

 

Kingsley’s eyes flicked to him, something unreadable passing through them. “I’m not surprised.”

 

“Neither was I,” Harry muttered.

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Kingsley gave a small incline of his head. “Thank you, Harry. Again, I apologize for taking up your time.” His gaze shifted to Viktor, respectful now. “And for yours, as well.”

 

Viktor only nodded once, silent and unmoving.

 

Kingsley stepped back, the tent flap rustling behind him. “You’re free to leave.”

 

The words dropped like a stone into still water—clean, official. But they didn’t land in Harry the way they should have. He didn’t move right away. Neither did Viktor. They just sat there for a breath longer than necessary, the tent strangely quiet now that the pressure had broken.

 

Harry turned slightly to Viktor, studying the sharp set of his jaw, the stillness of his posture. He hadn’t said a word since his quiet defense earlier, but the way he’d pushed back, the way he’d stood so firmly at Harry’s side—that would echo for a long time in Harry’s head.

 

When he finally stood, Harry’s knees felt a little too stiff, like they’d forgotten what standing meant. He pocketed his wand carefully, the weight of it a strange comfort now.

 

Viktor led him out.

 

The flap of the tent fell closed behind them with a muted thup, the kind of sound that felt too soft for what had just happened inside. And yet, somehow, it landed like punctuation—like the end of something unspoken, and the beginning of something else neither of them had quite named yet.

 

Outside, the world was grey.

 

Not the kind of grey that came with weather or twilight, but the kind born from smoke and ruin. The kind that clung to your skin and crept into your lungs until it replaced the breath you were trying to catch. All around them, the remnants of celebration lay in shambles—tents half-collapsed, streamers charred, scorched bits of color stained into the earth like memories refusing to fade. The fire had burned fast, but its aftermath lingered like a scar that refused to scab over.

 

Harry’s boots crunched on debris. His body felt like it had been lit and hollowed out, then left to cool in its own stillness. He couldn’t tell if the shaking in his hands was from adrenaline or from the cold, or if it had more to do with the silence that had begun to buzz in his ears ever since Kingsley handed back his wand.

 

It hadn’t felt like an apology.

 

It had felt like a reminder.

 

A reminder that he would always be questioned. Always suspected. Always one foot away from being the boy they cheered for… and the boy they doubted.

 

Viktor didn’t speak for a while. He didn’t need to.

 

They walked across the smoke-drenched field slowly, like the wreckage might still be breathing. They passed a tent whose walls were caved in, the fabric blackened at the edges like burnt parchment. There was a child’s broomstick outside of it, snapped in half.

 

Harry swallowed hard.

 

A part of him wanted to say he was fine. That everything was fine. But he’d spent too many years learning how to lie like that. And right now, he was too tired to pretend.

 

“I still do not regret being here,” Viktor said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

 

Harry looked up.

 

The words caught him off guard—not their meaning, but the quiet conviction behind them. The smoke and wind moved between them like a veil, curling around Viktor’s shoulders, tugging at his shirt. His face was streaked with ash, and there was a dark smudge on his cheekbone that looked like it might’ve come from someone else’s blood. His eyes were steady, though. Clearer than they had any right to be after what they’d just seen.

 

Harry didn’t answer at first. He only looked. Really looked.

 

Viktor Krum. The Viktor Krum. International Quidditch star. The boy who made thousands scream in stadiums without saying a word. The boy who could have vanished in the chaos, and no one would’ve questioned it. The boy who had stayed. Chosen to stay.

 

And right now, all Harry could see was the way he was looking at him—like he was still here not because he had to be, but because he wanted to be.

 

“Today may have had its good and bad sides,” Viktor added, his voice lower now, touched with something almost hesitant, as if he was toeing the edge of something he wasn’t sure Harry would let him cross.

 

Harry gave a short, disbelieving snort. “What good could there be?” he asked, glancing toward the scorched horizon where the stars barely shimmered through the smoke.

 

Viktor didn’t smile exactly, but something softened in his face.

 

“Meeting you,” he said.

 

And it landed with a kind of weight that didn’t hurt, but didn’t come without pressure either.

 

Harry blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down. The snitch pendant resting against his chest glinted faintly in the dim light, catching the glow of a nearby fire still flickering weakly in a collapsed torch.

 

He could feel the imprint of the chain against his skin. Cool, constant.

 

Meeting you.

 

He wanted to say something back. Something clever or grateful or meaningful. But all he could manage was a breath, the kind that came too late after holding it in too long.

 

And maybe that was enough.

 

They didn’t need to say more. Not right now.

 

Because something had passed between them in the forest, in the lake, in the moment Harry had caught that snitch and Viktor had followed after him—not for answers, not for the crowd, but for him. Because he wanted to see who Harry was outside the headlines. The boy, not the symbol. The person, not the prophecy.

 

They kept walking.

 

Their shoulders brushed once, twice, but neither of them pulled away.

 

Harry could hear distant voices—Aurors coordinating clean-up, sobbing from a cluster of survivors, the faint pop of someone Apparating far away—but they all sounded far, like echoes traveling through water.

 

Viktor’s presence beside him, solid and warm and quiet, was the only thing that felt real.

 

And as they reached the hill overlooking what remained of the camp, Harry paused. So did Viktor.

 

Below them, the forest was still smoldering. The ground glittered with remnants of magical fire, dull and dying. But high above it all, stars were slowly returning to the sky, faint and trembling, but there.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

 

Back to school.

 

The words sat in Harry’s chest like something unfinished, like a sentence someone had begun for him and never intended to complete.

 

He pushed his trunk into the overhead rack with a quiet grunt, the edges scraping against metal, loud in the emptiness of the compartment. Hedwig’s cage was next, her amber eyes following him closely, her feathers ruffled—not from motion, but from mood. She hooted once, softly, as if reminding him that she, too, had noticed the change in the air since that night.

 

The compartment door slid shut behind him with a click, sealing him in. A brief silence folded itself around him like a second cloak.

 

He sat down by the window, resting his forehead lightly against the cool glass. Outside, the platform still pulsed with life—parents waving, little siblings crying, prefects calling out names, laughter muffled beneath the shrill whistle of the engine warming up. But inside, it was still. And in that stillness, the noise in his mind only got louder.

 

Hermione had been dragged by Ginny—half willingly, half exasperated—toward a cart full of girls Harry didn’t know by name. Her face had the look of someone mentally cataloguing an escape plan while still letting herself be hugged. Ron, on the other hand, had the misfortune of catching Fred and George’s attention the moment they arrived. He was now, as far as Harry could tell, being used to test something that smoked and sparked every few seconds, earning a yelp from Ron and twin grins from the twins.

 

Poor Ron, Harry thought with a half-smile. He’ll have eyebrows singed off before supper.

 

They’ll be back, he told himself. They always are.

 

And yet…

 

He couldn’t shake the strange hollowness in his chest. The way the quiet had settled around him like a fog that didn’t lift, not even after the train jerked forward and started its slow, steady roll out of the station.

 

The Prophet had been relentless.

 

It wasn’t the Death Eaters. Not the fire. Not the chaos. No.

 

It was him.

 

Him and the snitch.

 

“Chosen One Catches the Chosen Snitch!”

“Destiny Confirmed?”

“Harry Potter and the Seeker’s Bond: Magic or Myth?”

 

No one cared that people had died. That the night had ended in screams. That children had been hexed and Aurors left wounded. All they cared about was the image—Harry, standing in the middle of the pitch, soaked through and blinking at the snitch fluttering toward him like a thing possessed.

 

And then there was Viktor.

 

They’d gotten his name wrong in one of the headlines—called him "Valentin Krum"—before correcting it two pages later. A single photo of them on the pitch had made it to print. Harry handing the snitch over, and Viktor… looking at him.

 

Really looking.

 

And that was it. No mention of the lake, the fire, the curse that nearly hit Harry square in the chest. No mention of how Viktor had pulled him out of it. No mention of what came after—how quiet it was between them, even in all the noise.

 

He reached up and gently tugged the chain from beneath his collar. The pendant—what was once a snitch—gleamed faintly in the dim light of the compartment, silver turned soft green by the enchantments Viktor had woven through it. It pulsed faintly against the base of his throat, as if alive with something unsaid.

 

Harry held it in his palm.

 

He remembered Viktor’s hands—rough, sure, careful. The way they’d fastened the clasp behind his neck. The way he’d said, “Now you’ll have something to remember me by,” like it had been a goodbye before the world had even given them a beginning.

 

He traced the runes lightly with his thumb.

 

He doesn’t regret it. That’s what Viktor had said.

 

Standing at the edge of the battlefield, soot-streaked and breathing hard, Viktor had looked at him—not past him, not through him, but at him—and said, “I still do not regret being here.”

 

Harry had looked up, surprised. And Viktor, covered in ash and blood and whatever was left of that night, had simply smiled. “Today may have its good and bad side.”

 

Harry had snorted. “What good could there be?”

 

And Viktor—Viktor had said: “Meeting you.”

 

It made something twist and tighten inside Harry now, remembering it. That someone could still find something good in the wreckage. That someone could look at him—not the boy in the headlines, not the scar, not the survivor—but him, Harry, and think: worth it.

 

He let the pendant fall back against his chest and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose.

 

There was guilt. There was always guilt.

 

No one had seen them together after the stadium. No one knew about the lake. About the conversation. The pendant. The nearly-kiss. And Harry was glad for that. Not because he was ashamed, but because he didn’t want to taint it. Not yet. Not with the world’s scrutiny. Not with people who couldn’t understand.

 

He could already hear the headlines if they did:

“Potter and Krum: The Golden Pair?”

“International Relations or Teenage Rebellion?”

 

He knew Viktor would take it in stride. He was good at that—brushing things off, carrying weight quietly. But Harry… he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

 

He leaned his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling.

 

Maybe this year would be different.

 

Maybe it would be the same.

 

Don’t get Harry wrong — he loved Hogwarts. He really did.

 

More than anything, probably.

 

The castle, for all its ghosts and secrets, was still the first place that had ever made space for him — where he wasn’t just the boy in the cupboard or Dudley’s punching bag. At Hogwarts, even when things were chaotic, even when the eyes of the world were on him, something felt… right.

 

Familiar. His.

 

But now, as the train rattled on toward Hogsmeade and the fields outside the windows turned to long swaths of late-summer green, Harry found himself… elsewhere. His body was here, sure — shoved into a seat by the window, a book unopened on his lap, Hedwig’s cage above his head. But the rest of him — his mind, his thoughts, whatever was left of him that mattered — hadn’t quite boarded the train.

 

It was still there.

 

Back at the field. In the cinders. In the smoke.

 

With Viktor.

 

He tried not to think of it. Not too hard, anyway.

 

But memory had a way of disobeying. It crept in through the edges, through the fold of a collar, the way someone pronounced a word, the way his fingers absently touched the small, warm shape beneath his shirt — the snitch pendant, now dull and gold against his chest, hidden like a secret.

 

But still… he would’ve given anything — anything at all — for just a few more minutes with Viktor.

 

A few more seconds, even. To look properly. To say something.

 

But life didn’t work like that. Not his, anyway.

 

After the chaos had settled — or pretended to — Mr. Weasley had been swift in his movements, determined in that gentle, fatherly way of his. He’d placed a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder and said something about getting them out safely, about portkeys and emergency return plans and not wanting to waste another minute in a place that had turned into a war zone.

 

Harry hadn’t argued. Not really. He was too stunned. Too wrung out. Too full of the noise of everything they’d just escaped.

 

But as they’d stood there, portkey humming in Mr. Weasley’s palm, the twins gathered close and Ginny looking at him like he had grown another head, Harry had looked to his right — just once — and there Viktor was.

 

Right there.

 

Soot still clinging to his collarbones, a dark smear along the side of his jaw, his shirt torn slightly at the sleeve. He looked like a boy pulled from the center of a battlefield, and yet somehow, he stood like someone untouched. Or maybe it was that Viktor always stood like he knew how to carry the weight.

 

There’d been no time.

 

No final words.

 

No parting gestures.

 

And Harry didn’t even think to reach for his hand until it was too late.

 

He remembered — sharply — the way Viktor’s eyes had softened when they landed on his. That look. That unreadable thing that hovered between understanding and regret. And then he’d said, almost too quietly to be heard over the rising whirl of portkey magic:

“I’ll send a letter.”

 

As if he knew.

 

As if he already understood that Harry, for all his bravery, had no clue how post worked outside the Hogwarts owls.

 

It had dawned on Harry in that moment — embarrassingly late — that he’d never even told Viktor where he lived.

 

But Viktor had only smiled. That secret, knowing kind of smile that made Harry’s stomach twist. And he’d said nothing more.

 

The light flared.

 

The ground pulled away.

 

And the next thing Harry knew, he was stumbling forward onto the flattened grass in front of the Burrow, the sun just beginning to rise behind the crooked chimney stacks, Mrs. Weasley running down the porch steps barefoot with her arms wide and her face already wet with tears.

 

She’d kissed his cheek, checked his limbs, fussed over his state like a mother hen — and he hadn’t known how to tell her he was fine and not fine all at once.

 

Not when half of him still felt like it had been left behind.

 

Somewhere back in that burning field.

 

Somewhere near the trees.

 

Somewhere Viktor had stood with ash on his skin and a promise hanging in the air between them.

 

After the attack, everything had moved too fast. Too suddenly. Too much.

 

Harry turned his head and looked out the window. The sky outside was pale, still caught between summer and autumn, with clouds that moved slowly — like smoke that didn’t quite know where it wanted to go. There was something hesitant about the air, as if the season itself wasn’t quite ready to let go of warmth but already bracing for the cold.

 

Then, almost without thinking, his fingers dipped into the pocket of his robes.

 

The letter was still there.

 

Folded carefully. Soft at the edges now, worn where his thumb had brushed it again and again. The parchment held the faint scent of campfire and something sharper — ink, maybe. Or the trace of wind that still clung to it when he’d first unsealed it. He didn’t need to read it again. He’d memorized every word hours ago. But just holding it grounded him. Reminded him that it had been real — that Viktor had been real.

 

He and Viktor wrote to each other now. Almost daily.

 

It had started quietly, tentatively — a short thank-you scribbled on the inside of a match ticket stub that Harry found wedged into his sock drawer the morning after they arrived back at the Burrow. Then came another — neater handwriting this time, thicker parchment — an apology for the chaos after the World Cup. A wish that Harry had made it out unscathed. A subtle nudge that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.

 

A line turned into a page. A page turned into three.

 

There were no formalities between them. No polite greetings or rehearsed sign-offs. Just words. Honest ones. Unfiltered, a bit clumsy sometimes, like stepping into a lake not knowing how deep it ran — but tender, too. Thoughtful in the way that made Harry slow down when he read them, re-reading one sentence over and over, not because he didn’t understand it, but because he liked the way it made him feel.

 

Viktor somehow always knew where to send them.

 

To the Burrow — the first one had arrived tied to the leg of a heavy-looking raven, landing right on the kitchen windowsill while Harry and Mr. Weasley were having tea. Mrs. Weasley had nearly swatted it away until she saw Harry's name written on the envelope. "For Harry James Potter — and only Harry James Potter."

 

The second had come to the backyard during breakfast, the letter tucked between a bunch of fresh flowers the raven had apparently nicked from the neighbor’s garden.

 

Harry should have been unnerved, maybe. Should’ve asked more questions. How Viktor knew he was at the Burrow. How he got past the protective enchantments. But he didn’t ask. Not really. Because deep down, he already knew the answer had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with Viktor being the kind of person who didn’t stop at how — he just did.

 

He’d written Viktor back, of course. The first time had taken him hours — mostly spent chewing on the end of his quill, wondering if he should cross something out. But he didn’t. He wrote. He told Viktor about the Burrow, the ghoul in the attic, Fred and George’s new batch of nose-bleed nougat, and the way Ron’s snoring sometimes sounded like a banshee choking on soup.

 

And then Viktor replied to that too — calling the ghoul a “romantic touch,” calling Ron “admirably loud,” and calling Harry, rather unexpectedly, brave for writing back at all.

 

The correspondence became a rhythm. A quiet exchange that wove itself into Harry’s days like a secret only the two of them knew.

 

He kept every letter Viktor had sent. Tucked in the bottom of his trunk, bundled with a bit of red twine Hermione had once left behind. The bundle smelled faintly of ink and whatever Viktor’s handwriting seemed to smell like. Maybe pine. Maybe the wind over Durmstrang’s icy cliffs. Harry didn’t know. He didn’t want to name it, in case naming it broke the spell.

 

But one letter he kept with him. Always. Folded into his pocket. Carried like a charm.

 

The one from earlier that morning.

 

It had arrived before breakfast — delivered by that same raven, who’d now taken to squawking insistently outside Ron's window until someone opened it. The letter had been warm from the bird’s feathers. Brief, but careful. Viktor’s penmanship was steady, but not practiced — like he didn’t mind if some letters leaned too far left or dipped a little below the line.

 

And it had started simply.

 

Dear Harry,

 

Good morning — or perhaps good afternoon, or evening. I do not know when this will reach you. The raven is fast, but not always punctual. I tell him to go gently, but he likes to show off. I hope he hasn’t stolen anything from your neighbors again.

 

Today began with my mother nearly strangling me with her apron. I told her I was not bleeding. She said she did not care. Then she fed me enough to keep a dragon full for a week and muttered that England was too wild and not meant for her only son.

 

I have not told her about you yet. But I will.

 

Training resumed this morning. Coach barked louder than usual. My shoulders are sore, but I do not mind. Movement is good when the mind is too loud. The stadium was half-silent, still stained by memory. Some of the younger players hesitated to fly. I let them. We all move at different paces when fear still clings to our ankles.

 

They have begun preparing us for our journey to Hogwarts. Beauxbatons will arrive there before us, or so I have heard. Our headmaster says we are to travel by ship — the lake, I am told, is large enough to hold it. He smiled as he said this, which usually means there is something he is not telling us.

 

The Triwizard Tournament is being spoken of like a symbol — a gesture of unity dressed in the clothes of celebration. I am not sure yet if I believe it. Tournaments may be called peaceful, but peace is easy when no one has lost. Competition always demands something. It always takes.

 

Write to me soon. I keepchecking for your letters like a madman.

 

— Viktor

 

P.S. I dreamt of you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jumper with the golden snitch on it. You hated it. I thought it made you look like something important. Like something worth chasing.

 

 

And it wasn’t the fact that Viktor had confessed to dreaming of him — no, Harry wasn’t even sure he knew what to do with that kind of knowledge. He could barely make sense of his own dreams, let alone someone else’s. It wasn’t the dream that made his ears go red and his chest tighten like someone had wound a string too tightly around it.

 

It was the fact that Viktor was visiting Hogwarts.

 

Hogwarts — Harry’s Hogwarts. The one constant he had, the one place that made sense even when everything else didn’t. The corridors that had memorized the sound of his footsteps. The portraits that sometimes whispered his name when they thought he wasn’t listening. The common room armchair by the fire that sank a little more each time he curled into it with a book he didn’t plan to read.

 

And now, Viktor would be there. Would see it. Walk those same corridors. Sit in the Great Hall. Breathe in the same damp, ancient air.

 

It unsettled Harry more than he expected — not in a bad way, but in the way that made you press your palm against your chest to make sure your heart was still yours.

 

He imagined Viktor standing on the lawn, watching the carriages pull up, the lake at his back. He imagined catching Viktor’s eye across the courtyard and pretending it didn’t matter, pretending it wasn’t everything.

 

Hogwarts had always been a place where Harry could tuck parts of himself away — the shy, uncertain, wanting parts. But now someone was coming who might see right through all of it. Someone who already had.

 

He pressed the letter flat across his knee, smoothing the crease down the middle, as if doing so could calm the way his pulse had started to skip again. Viktor would be here. Soon. And the worst part?

 

Harry didn’t know whether he was terrified, or quietly thrilled.

 

Maybe both.

 

His fingers, almost absentmindedly, drifted to the pendant resting against his chest — the snitch, now small and silver, a weight he had grown used to. He brushed his thumb across it, felt the smooth metal warm from his skin, and let it settle between his fingers like a secret. The chain shifted faintly as the train rumbled beneath him, and for a moment, the sound of the moving wheels was the only thing he could hear.

 

Back and forth, he rolled it between his fingers. He didn’t even know he was doing it until the memory returned — Viktor’s hands behind his neck, the quiet clasp, the warmth of someone choosing to be tender when the world was loud and cruel.

 

“Now you’ll have something to remember me by,” Viktor had said.

 

And somehow, Harry hadn’t stopped remembering since.

 

He let his head fall lightly against the glass of the window. Outside, the countryside blurred into a stream of greens and golds, soft and glowing in the late summer sun. The sky was starting to turn that color he’d always liked best — not quite blue, not quite silver, as if the day itself couldn’t make up its mind.

 

The pendant was cool again.

 

He closed his fingers around it and held it close to his chest — not in fear, not in longing, but in the quiet acknowledgment that someone, somewhere far off, was thinking of him too.

 

And that maybe, just maybe, the next letter wouldn’t have to come through owl post at all.

 

Maybe it would arrive in person.

Notes:

PS: I am unsatisfied with this chapter, so I apologize if it might not make sense a bit, I'm currently sick so I'll revise it tomorrow when I can

Chapter 6: Malfoy

“Welcome!”

 

Dumbledore’s voice rang through the Great Hall, grand and echoing, full of light and occasion. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with the soft brush of evening clouds, candlelight dancing just beneath them like tiny golden comets caught mid-flight.

 

It was the same as always. The clatter of cutlery, the murmur of returning students exchanging stories from the summer, the way the first-years looked impossibly small beneath the banners of the four Houses. But for Harry, it all moved a little slower this time, a little out of step.

 

There was an edge beneath the warmth of the feast — something ceremonial. It wasn’t just the return to school; it was the beginning of something larger.

 

He already knew why, of course. Viktor’s letter had said as much. The Triwizard Tournament would be held at Hogwarts this year. It was all anyone would talk about soon enough — glory, danger, unity — wrapped up in formality and spectacle.

 

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore announced, “was first established some hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts.”

 

Around Harry, whispers began to break like ripples on a pond.

 

Dumbledore continued, his tone rising with enthusiasm. “Each school will be represented by one champion, and they will compete in three dangerous tasks designed to test magical ability, daring, and intelligence.”

 

Across the Hall, some students sat straighter, eager. A few others gasped.

 

“In order to ensure the safety of our students, and to avoid the unfortunate accidents of years past,” he added, “the Ministry has decided that only students who are seventeen years of age or older will be allowed to put their names forward for consideration.”

 

That was when Fred Weasley’s voice rang out, scandalized.

 

“Rubbish!”

 

The Hall burst into laughter.

 

Dumbledore smiled faintly, allowing it — almost expecting it — before he gestured for quiet. “This decision is final. The Goblet of Fire, which will choose the champions, will not accept any submissions from those underage. Do not waste your time trying to trick it.”

 

Fred and George looked indignant. Ron turned to them, face lit with glee. “You two are going to try anyway, aren’t you?”

 

“Try?” Fred said, affronted. “We’re going to succeed.”

 

George gave a theatrical nod. “We have a plan.”

 

But Harry barely heard them.

 

He reached for his goblet and took a long sip of pumpkin juice, as if the news didn’t move him in the slightest.

 

But it did. Just not in the way anyone expected.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione watching him. Closely. Her gaze wasn’t sharp, not suspicious — more like she was trying to piece something together she already half-suspected. Her lips pressed in a thoughtful line, head tilted ever so slightly, and Harry could practically hear her voice in his head: You knew.

 

Ron, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as subtle. His fork had frozen halfway to his mouth, sausage and all, and now hovered there while he stared at Harry like he’d just grown antlers. Harry didn’t meet his eyes. He focused on the roast potatoes instead.

 

Because how would he even explain?

 

The pendant beneath his shirt pressed cool against his collarbone.

 

He felt it there like a quiet tap on the chest: I told you so.

 

After the feast had ended, the noise didn’t leave with the food. It lingered — in the flickers of conversation, the weight of eyes watching Harry as he left the Great Hall, the echo of Dumbledore’s announcement still clinging to the walls like something unfinished. He barely had time to reach the common room before Hermione and Ron were flanking him on either side, all but dragging him up the stairs and across the Gryffindor Tower like prisoners escorting a suspect.

 

By the time they shoved him onto the worn red sofa near the fire, Harry’s legs didn’t feel like his anymore.

 

He barely had time to register the hush that followed. The room was still full — Gryffindors trailing in after the feast, stretching, laughing, carrying sweets filched from the table. But several of them slowed when they saw Ron and Hermione frogmarch Harry into the center of the room. A few students paused. Some didn’t even try to hide the way their eyes lingered. Harry caught Seamus nudging Dean, and Lavender whispering something to Parvati.

 

Hermione, catching the way heads tilted and gazes lingered, huffed under her breath. With a quick flick of her wand, she cast a privacy charm so sharp it snapped the air like a closing door.

 

A translucent shimmer settled around them like glass. Instantly, the room blurred — all the murmurs dulled, and the space between the three of them sharpened.

 

Ron leaned back with a grunt and folded his arms. Hermione sat across from Harry, prim and precise, and Harry suddenly felt about three feet tall. Like he’d been summoned to McGonagall’s office after being caught out of bed.

 

“So,” Hermione said evenly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Her tone was deceptively calm — but Harry knew that tone. It was the calm before a storm. “Since when have you known?”

 

Ron didn’t even wait for Harry to process it. He shot forward on the sofa beside Hermione, eyes narrowed. “Yeah — since when have you known about the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts?”

 

Harry shifted slightly on the couch, one hand curling into the hem of his jumper. He looked anywhere but at their faces — the fire, the floor, the portrait of the Fat Lady swinging closed behind a third year.

 

He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

 

“Well?” Ron prompted.

 

“I didn’t mean to hide it,” Harry said quietly, though even as the words left him, he winced. It sounded exactly like someone trying to cover up a secret.

 

“Then what would you call not saying anything?” Hermione asked, not cruelly, but not gently either. “Because it certainly wasn’t telling us.”

 

Harry sighed. He pressed his palms together, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s not like I knew months ago,” he said. “Viktor—” He paused, instantly regretting the slip.

 

Ron’s eyebrows flew up. “Viktor?”

 

“Oh, brilliant,” Hermione muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course.”

 

Harry groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “He mentioned it in one of his letters. Just said they’d be hosting it at Hogwarts. That Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be visiting. That was all.”

 

“Letters?” Ron echoed, blinking. “Plural?”

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Hermione whispered.

 

Harry flushed. “We’ve been writing.”

 

Ron’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, like he was buffering.

 

Hermione, in contrast, sat very still. “How long?”

 

“Since the World Cup,” Harry admitted. “He... he found me after the match. Gave me that pendant, remember? The one I showed you.”

 

“Oh, we remember,” Ron muttered.

 

“And we’ve just… kept in touch.” He paused. “He writes a lot. It's not like I'm planning to elope with him.”

 

Ron made a face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

 

Hermione gave him a look. “Ron.”

 

Ron huffed and folded his arms again. “What? I just don’t understand why he didn’t say anything. We’re your best mates.”

 

“I know that,” Harry said quickly. “But… it was private. I wasn’t sure what it even was at first. I’m still not.”

 

He felt the pendant under his shirt — cold against his chest now that the fire had dulled. It made him feel both anchored and exposed.

 

Hermione sighed, her voice softening. “Look, Harry… we’re not angry. Or at least, I’m not. But we’ve been worried. You’ve been… different. Quieter.”

 

“I thought you were still shaken from the attack,” Ron added, scratching the back of his neck. “And then you’re suddenly unbothered by the biggest tournament Hogwarts has seen in centuries.”

 

Harry looked at them both and saw what he’d missed. This wasn’t about being lied to. This was about being left out. It was about watching their friend drift — in letters they couldn’t read, in thoughts they weren’t part of.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. “Really. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were on the outside.”

 

A long pause.

 

Then Hermione nodded. “Alright. But next time… just tell us.”

 

Harry smiled faintly. “Even if I’m writing to a foreign Quidditch champion?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Especially if you’re writing to a foreign Quidditch champion.”

 

Ron groaned. “You’re so lucky he’s not a Slytherin.”

 

That made Harry laugh — and something tight in his chest loosened.

 

They weren’t angry. They just missed him.

 

And maybe he missed them, too.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

 

A week in, and the other schools were set to arrive in two days. The atmosphere at Hogwarts buzzed with barely contained energy — nervousness and excitement tangled together in every corridor, every common room, every whispered conversation during breakfast. Even the walls seemed to hum with it.

 

Harry felt it too, though maybe not for the same reasons.

 

He landed softly on the pitch, his Firebolt still steady in hand. The last few loops of practice had pushed him harder than usual — Oliver Wood would’ve been proud — and sweat clung to the back of his neck, making his hair stick to his skin.

 

With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pendant.

 

The snitch.

 

Or rather — the one that had become his. Smaller now, charmed and reworked in a way that still made Harry pause every time he looked at it. Viktor had told him it could still fly if he wanted it to. That it wasn’t just a keepsake, but still a snitch in its own right.

 

The detail in it was astonishing. The wings lay folded and invisible against the curve, its gold sheen dulled only slightly by how often Harry’s fingers found it throughout the day. He’d yet to wear it today — not during practice. He didn’t want to ruin it with sweat or a sudden dive into the grass.

 

So instead, he simply tucked it back onto the chain, letting it settle against his palm before slipping it away into his pocket.

 

Ron had skipped today’s practice — something about a date with Hermione. Harry hadn’t asked, hadn’t even blinked when Ron had mentioned it with the pride of someone who’d just won the lottery and was terrified of losing the ticket. He was happy for them. Honestly. He just wasn’t... here.

 

The day was warm, but the wind on his face as he walked off the field felt good. And though his legs were tired and his robes clung to him, Harry felt strangely light.

 

Viktor would be here soon. At Hogwarts.

 

Harry’s thoughts were cut off mid-breath as his foot caught something uneven on the grass—maybe a stone, maybe just his own exhaustion—and the world tilted slightly before he stumbled forward and landed hard on his knees.

 

Laughter erupted behind him.

 

Sharp. Mean. Too loud to be accidental.

 

Harry grimaced, palms stinging against the dirt. He pushed himself upright slowly, breath coming in shallow bursts, and turned.

 

Of course.

 

The Slytherin Quidditch team stood gathered just a few paces behind him, lounging like wolves on the edge of a blood-scented breeze. Flint, Montague, Bole. And Malfoy. Always Malfoy. Leaning against his broom as though he'd been born there, arms crossed, smugness painted across his face like it had cost him nothing.

 

Harry’s fists clenched around his Firebolt.

 

He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know—but then he froze.

 

His chest was suddenly lighter. His fingers darted to his collarbone.

 

The chain was gone.

 

The pendant. The snitch. Viktor’s snitch.

 

Panic slashed across his thoughts like a blade. He spun, scanning the grass, already halfway to his knees again.

 

And then he saw it.

 

Blaise Zabini, tall and unreadable as ever, stooped down and plucked something off the grass. A flick of his wrist. Gold gleamed in the dying sunlight.

 

Harry’s heart stuttered.

 

Zabini turned—and handed it to Malfoy.

 

“Give it back,” Harry said immediately, already striding toward them, broom forgotten in his other hand. His voice came out low, almost desperate, and it cracked more than he’d intended.

 

Malfoy raised a brow, tilting his head like he hadn’t heard Harry quite right.

 

“No,” he said slowly, curling the pendant tighter into his palm, the chain slipping through his fingers like a noose. “Hm… I think I’ll keep it.”

 

It was flippant. Deliberate. And it hit Harry with the force of a slap.

 

“I’m not asking, Malfoy,” Harry bit out, fists clenched so tight they trembled.

 

For a fleeting second—just a breath—Harry saw something flicker behind Malfoy’s eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear. But it was buried quickly, smoothed over by the same old smug sneer that Harry had come to hate.

 

And then Malfoy did the one thing Harry couldn’t forgive.

 

He closed his fist around the pendant—his pendant—and smirked.

 

Something in Harry splintered.

 

The next few seconds passed in a blur.

 

His body moved before his mind could catch up. One heartbeat he was standing there, burning, and the next—he was on top of Malfoy, the impact of the tackle slamming them both into the grass hard. Malfoy let out a grunt, his elbow catching beneath him with a thud, but he didn’t let go. His hand was still curled tight, knuckles white around the pendant.

 

Harry didn’t think. He didn’t have the luxury.

 

He raised his arm and punched Malfoy square in the face.

 

The crack was dull, but satisfying in a way that made Harry sick a second later. Malfoy’s head jerked to the side, and he let out a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a growl—but the pendant was still there, buried in his fist like it was his to claim.

 

So Harry hit him again.

 

And this time, Malfoy’s grip loosened.

 

“Give. It. Back!” Harry shouted, the words raw in his throat. He reached for Malfoy’s hand, pried at his fingers, not caring now that his knee was pressing into Malfoy’s ribs or that the other Slytherins had started shouting—Blaise was already moving, grabbing for Harry’s shoulder, someone else yelling his name.

 

But it was all noise.

 

White, furious, meaningless noise.

 

The only thing that mattered was that small weight in Malfoy’s palm—warm from being held, sharp at the corners, his. The last thing Viktor had given him. The only thing that made him feel tethered lately.

 

Harry managed to wrench Malfoy’s fingers apart just enough to feel the cool press of gold against his own hand. He snatched the pendant away, fingers wrapping around it tight, like it might vanish again if he let go.

 

He didn’t see who pulled him off—Flint, maybe, or Montague—but suddenly Harry was hauled back, the heat of his rage still rising up his throat, his chest heaving. Malfoy was on the ground, red blooming beneath one eye, hair askew, breathing hard, and a bloody nose.

 

“What is the meaning of this!”

 

The voice rang out sharp across the pitch like a whipcrack, and all heads turned instinctively. The Slytherin team stiffened, the jeering stopped, and Harry’s chest heaved with the remnants of anger still lodged deep in his throat.

 

Snape stormed toward them, his black robes billowing behind him with dramatic precision. Professor McGonagall followed closely, her expression pinched, lips drawn into a thin, formidable line.

 

Harry barely had time to school his features when a Slytherin girl—Gemma Farley, he thought—stepped forward, pointing a perfectly manicured finger toward him.

 

“It was Potter’s fault, sir! He attacked Draco first!”

 

Lies. Filthy, pathetic lies.

 

Harry growled under his breath and straightened to full height. His knuckles were red from the fight, and his fingers curled tighter around the pendant in his hand, the metal digging into his skin as if anchoring him to the moment.

 

“I did not do such thing,” Harry said, sharp and steady, his voice echoing with just enough steel to draw McGonagall’s full attention. “Malfoy stole one of my belongings, and didn’t give it back when I asked—several times.”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I highly doubt Draco Malfoy would stoop to thievery, Potter.”

 

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because Malfoy’s halo is blinding.”

 

“Watch your tone,” Snape snapped, taking a step forward, his dark gaze like oil and venom.

 

Harry didn’t flinch. He was too angry, too tired, and too sure of what had just happened.

 

He turned and held out his hand. “Check it. It’s mine. The pendant. The chain. Even the snitch engraving on the back—Vik- a friend of mine gave it to me.”

 

 

Snape gave a long, exasperated sigh. One of those theatrical ones, like he was the one most wounded in all of this. His eyes flicked coldly over to Draco’s bloodied face—bruised jaw, swollen lip, a smear of dirt across his cheekbone—and with a tired flick of his wand, he muttered something under his breath.

 

Draco slumped where he stood, knees buckling as the spell took effect. He didn’t fall, though—Snape caught him mid-collapse with another flick, and Draco’s unconscious body lifted gently into the air.

 

“I’ll take him to Madam Pomfrey,” Snape said, almost bored now, as if it were all part of some grim routine. “Late night training is off for tonight.”

 

There was a collective noise behind them—half groans of disappointment from the more dedicated players, half cheers from those already halfway out of their kits.

 

Snape didn’t linger. He turned on his heel and glided away, Draco floating along beside him like some pale, ruined banner. The sight made something tighten in Harry’s chest. Not guilt, exactly. He hadn’t lied. He hadn’t started it. But there was still something deeply unpleasant about watching someone you hate bleed because of your own fists.

 

Especially when you know why you did it. Especially when it wasn’t really about the pendant.

 

McGonagall waited until Snape disappeared into the darkness, then turned to Harry with that same composed severity that always made him feel about eleven again.

 

“As I’ve told you more than once, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind, “getting physical with another student is not to be tolerated at Hogwarts.”

 

Harry stared at his shoes for a beat, then nodded. “Of course.”

 

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even sarcastic. Just tired. Tired and quiet and very much Harry.

 

McGonagall’s expression softened, just slightly. Her eyes dropped to the pendant in his hand—scuffed now, but still intact. Still warm from being pressed into his palm like something living. Something important.

 

“I imagine,” she said after a pause, “that whatever it is you were defending… must have meant quite a lot.”

 

Harry looked up then. Met her gaze. His hand closed tighter around the pendant, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

 

“It did.”

 

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and gestured toward the changing rooms.

 

“Clean yourself up. Then go to the Hospital Wing. If Madam Pomfrey finds out you’ve been walking around with bruised knuckles, she’ll have my head.”

 

Harry exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh, and offered her a nod.

 

“Thanks, Professor.”

 

And with that, he turned and walked toward the dimly lit pitch, the grass cold beneath his feet, the night quiet except for the soft chime of the pendant swaying at his neck—his heartbeat slowing with each step, though something inside him still simmered, low and unresolved.

 

By the time Harry reached the hospital wing, he was half-convinced he’d died somewhere around the second spiral staircase and was now dragging his own ghost up the final corridor.

 

His limbs felt like they were made of wet sand. Every step up from the Quidditch pitch to the castle had chipped away at what little energy he had left, and by the time he was pushing the doors open, his robes clung damply to his back and his lungs burned in protest. Not the worst condition he’d been in entering the infirmary, he thought vaguely—but close. Definitely close.

 

Every breath he took felt like it came with a price, and his legs—his legs, Merlin—felt like they’d been turned to rubber and then asked to climb the entirety of the Hogwarts architecture’s ego. Seriously, who made these stairs? Who thought endless stone steps between towers was a good idea? Probably someone who could apparate.

 

The door creaked open with a heavy groan, and the light inside—soft, golden, always tinged with the scent of herbs and antiseptic potions—washed over him like a sigh.

 

Madam Pomfrey didn’t even look surprised.

 

Her gaze snapped to him the way it always did: part irritation, part concern, part deeply maternal exasperation as she registered who had come knocking at her ward again. She didn’t even need to ask. Her expression alone said it all:

 

You again?

 

“Well, Mr. Potter,” she said, hands already on her hips as she moved toward him, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to win an award.”

 

Harry gave her a sheepish sort of grin, the one he always reserved for this exact exchange.

 

“If there’s a prize, I think I deserve at least a plaque.”

 

“You deserve a reserved bed,” she muttered under her breath. “Honestly, I should just stitch your name onto the linens. Or have a brass plate installed. ‘Potter’s Cot.’ There’s a poetic ring to it.”

 

Harry gave her a tired, crooked smile—the one that lived somewhere between apology and habit. “Got in a bit of a disagreement.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” she muttered as she walked over, already reaching for her wand. “Let me guess—your face was the only thing available to argue with.”

 

“It wasn’t my face this time,” Harry said dryly, holding up his raw, reddened knuckles. “Though that might’ve come next.”

 

She glanced down at his hand, raised a single brow, and then leveled him with a look that could have stopped a charging Hippogriff. “You were brawling.”

 

Harry shrugged, suddenly feeling ten years younger under her disapproving stare. “He stole something.”

 

“And so you decided to settle it with a punch?” she asked, voice pitched somewhere between reprimand and weariness as she gestured him toward the nearest bed—his bed, really, the one in the far corner near the window. The one with the chipped frame and the curtain that never quite closed properly. It felt more like home than the Gryffindor common room on some days.

 

“I asked for it back,” Harry muttered as he lowered himself onto the mattress with a wince. “Twice. Maybe three times.”

 

Pomfrey didn’t say anything to that. She conjured a chair beside him, sat, and began inspecting his hands with the sort of precise care that made Harry feel both seen and impossibly small.

 

As she dabbed a cool salve over his knuckles, her touch gentle but efficient, Harry let his eyes drift around the ward. It was quiet now, almost eerily so. The soft clinking of potion vials, the low crackle of the hearth at the far end of the room, the occasional flutter of a curtain in the breeze from the enchanted window—this was the soundscape of his convalescence. It was strange how many nights he’d spent here, how familiar the ache of this bed had become beneath his spine.

 

He watched as Pomfrey worked in silence, her brows furrowed, her lips pressed in a line. She hadn’t asked what had been stolen. She didn’t need to.

 

Her eyes flicked up for a moment, and when they did, they lingered—just for a second—on the glint of gold peeking from beneath Harry’s collar.

 

“Sentimental?” she asked quietly.

 

Harry nodded. “Very.”

 

She didn’t pry. She never did.

 

After a pause, she said, “If you punched every boy who tried to take something dear to you, Mr. Potter, this wing wouldn’t have a spare bed.”

 

“Just the one,” Harry replied. “This one.”

 

Pomfrey gave him a look again, the kind that lived somewhere between affection and exhausted resignation. She finished with his hands, charmed the salve to finish healing beneath the skin, and stood with a sweep of her robes.

 

“Try not to fracture anything next time,” she said over her shoulder, returning her supplies to the cabinet.

 

“I’ll try,” Harry said. “But I can’t make any promises if Malfoy keeps acting like a kleptomaniac.”

 

“Do not make me write a letter to Professor McGonagall, Mr. Potter.”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

He leaned back into the pillows once she was out of earshot and finally let himself breathe. Not the shallow, careful breaths he took on his way up the castle. A real one. Full, aching, steady.

 

He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day press down on his chest like a hand.

 

Beneath his shirt, the pendant sat warm against his skin—no longer clenched in his fist, no longer under threat. It was safe now. And more than that, his again.

 

He should write back to Viktor.

 

About an hour passed, though it felt longer. Time always seemed to stretch in the hospital wing, like the beds carried a different kind of clock — one that ticked not in seconds, but in how often you shifted your weight against stiff white pillows or watched the light on the floor slowly bend with the sky.

 

Dinner arrived on a silver tray, carried by a soft-spoken elf with enormous eyes and trembling hands. Harry offered a small smile of thanks, though it felt odd — like receiving room service in a place meant for breaking. Madam Pomfrey had left for the Great Hall just before it arrived, grumbling something about "healing spells not working nearly as well on stubborn boys with guilty consciences." She had insisted he remain overnight for “observation.” As if bruised knuckles were enough of a medical emergency to warrant surveillance. He tried to argue — he’d made his case, even crossed his arms in that way he thought made him look resolute — but she had only waved a hand at him like he was being ridiculous.

 

So here he was.

 

Eating dinner in a quiet ward with no company but the occasional flicker of candlelight on the wall and the faint creak of the wooden beams above. The food was good — warm, comforting. Someone had even remembered to bring treacle tart, which made Harry pause for a moment and wonder if it had been Pomfrey, or someone else who thought of that. The elves maybe. Or maybe Dumbledore. Or maybe no one in particular. Maybe the castle simply knew.

 

When he finished, the tray vanished with a gentle pop, and Harry settled back into the pillows again, his body still aching from the flight, the fight, the stairs — Merlin, the stairs — and the low, bone-deep weariness that clung to him like smoke.

 

He was just beginning to close his eyes when the door gave a soft click.

 

Harry’s head turned quickly, and his hand instinctively brushed over the pendant at his chest.

 

There was no one there. But he could hear something. Footsteps. Light, hurried, and then the familiar, telltale rustle of fabric — and his heart warmed even before the reveal.

 

In one fluid motion, the invisibility cloak was pulled back.

 

Ron stood there, hair a mess, one hand still holding the shimmering fabric, while Hermione — who had apparently been crouched beside him — surged forward like she’d been waiting all evening for the chance.

 

She wrapped her arms tightly around Harry, nearly knocking him back into the pillows.

 

"Honestly, Harry," she breathed, half-scolding, half-relieved, “again? its only been a week”

 

Harry smiled, a little sheepish. “Not my fault this time.”

 

Ron rolled his eyes and set the cloak down carefully beside the bed, before flopping into the chair on Harry’s other side. “That’s what you said last time. And the time before that. At this point, mate, I reckon you’re cursed. Or jinxed. Or maybe you just have the worst luck in the country.”

 

“Probably all three,” Harry muttered.

 

Hermione finally released him and sat on the edge of the bed, folding her arms tightly. “Do you have any idea how worried we were when we heard there’d been a fight?”

 

“I didn’t start it.”

 

“But you finished it,” Ron said, looking far too pleased.

 

Harry gave a small shrug. “He had something of mine.”

 

“Still,” Hermione tutted, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve, “you shouldn’t go punching people.”

 

Harry grinned. “It was only once.”

 

Hermione gave him a look — the one that said I’m not angry, I’m disappointed — and Harry looked away, lips twitching.

 

There was a pause then. A quiet stretch where none of them spoke, and the room felt warmer for it. Harry leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the sounds of his best friends breathing beside him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this — not just their presence, but this moment of normal. The world felt tilted more and more these days, and yet, somehow, this grounded him.

 

Ron leaned forward after a while, eyes flicking toward the pendant peeking beneath Harry’s collar. “So… was it that he nicked?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

Harry let out a quiet laugh and looked down at his hands. His knuckles were no longer red, but the faint sting remained, like a ghost of the fight — or maybe a warning not to get that angry again. Still, when he looked back up at his friends, he didn’t feel guilty.

 

Only… grateful.

 

Grateful they were here. That someone always showed up, even after the worst days. Even after long flights and longer silences and endless stairs.

 

Grateful that, somehow, despite everything, he still had this.

 

Harry sat up with a wince, his arms sore and heavy from the bruises Madam Pomfrey had yet to fully heal. He squinted toward the bedside table, reaching out and fumbling blindly with his hand until his fingers brushed parchment.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, feeling around. “Where is—ah—got it.”

 

He grasped the folded letter at last and held it out toward Hermione.

 

“Could you take this to the owlery for me?” he asked, voice rough from disuse. “Hedwig’ll want to deliver it herself. She gets—fussy.”

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow but took the letter delicately. “Of course I will. Though I’d really like to know how Viktor keeps managing to get letters to you no matter where you are.”

 

Harry shrugged, leaning back into the pillows. “He said it’s a secret. One I have to earn, apparently.”

 

Ron snorted from the foot of the bed. “Sounds like something out of one of Lockhart’s books—‘Secrets of Owl Tracking Revealed!’” He grinned when Hermione shot him a look.

 

“Well, at least Viktor actually does what he says he’ll do,” Hermione replied primly, placing the letter carefully into her beaded bag. “Unlike Lockhart.”

 

Ron flopped into the chair beside Harry’s bed with a groan. “You’d think we’d get a break this year. Just one term without one of us ending up in the hospital wing.”

 

Harry gave him a tired grin. “Don’t look at me. This time it was Malfoy.”

 

“Still counts,” Ron said. “You punched him. Properly. In the face. I’ll be telling the grandkids about this.”

 

Hermione sighed, folding her arms. “That’s not the point of the story, Ronald.”

 

“Well, it’s the best part,” Ron said with a shrug.

 

Harry shook his head, amused in spite of himself. “He stole something. Something important. I didn’t really think. I just—acted.”

 

Hermione softened a bit. “I know. But next time, maybe don’t go straight to punching.”

 

“I didn’t go straight to punching,” Harry muttered, “there was at least a minute of me demanding it back first.”

 

“Can’t believe I missed it,” he said wistfully. “Malfoy’s face? Properly punched by you? What I wouldn’t give to have seen that.”

 

Hermione gave him a disapproving look. “That is not something to admire, Ronald.”

 

“Oh, come off it,” Ron said. “Malfoy’s been asking for it since first year. Honestly, Harry, I’m proud. I mean, I wish I’d been there. Front row. Maybe with popcorn.”

 

“Next time,” Hermione said firmly, but then she smiled, gently brushing some dust off Harry’s sleeve. “Honestly, though. You’re alright? Really?”

 

“I’ll live,” Harry said. “Thanks to Madam Pomfrey. Again.”

 

“Maybe we should ask McGonagall if they can just put your name on this bed,” Ron said, glancing around. “You’re here more than your dorm.”

 

Hermione shook her head but laughed quietly. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if they already had.”

 

Harry smiled, then glanced toward the door. The corridor was quiet again, the soft footsteps of other students long since faded. He looked back at his friends, and something warm settled in his chest.

 

“Thanks,” he said softly. “For coming.”

 

“Don’t be daft,” Ron said. “Like we’d leave you here on your own.”

 

Hermione gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “We’ll always come.”

 

Harry’s gaze flicked to the invisibility cloak folded at the foot of the bed. “You’re leaving that?”

 

“Thought you might need it,” Ron said. “In case you fancy sneaking out and punching another Slytherin.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not making it a habit.”

 

Hermione smirked. “We’ll leave the cloak, but we’re taking the Marauder’s Map. Just in case.”

 

“Right,” Harry said with a smirk. “Watch out for Mrs. Norris.”

 

Ron groaned. “Don’t remind me. Last time she nearly bit my ankle.”

 

“She doesn’t bite, Ron.”

 

“She looked ready to.”

 

Hermione sighed again and stood, brushing her robes smooth. “We should go before Pomfrey catches us and keeps us overnight for being a bad influence.”

 

Ron rose too, slinging the map under his arm. “Right. Goodnight, mate.”

 

Harry nodded, already leaning back into the pillow, eyelids heavy again. “’Night. And—Hermione?”

 

She paused, looking back.

 

“Thanks. Really.”

 

She smiled. “Always.”

 

They slipped out quietly, the hospital wing door creaking softly closed behind them, leaving Harry with the faint scent of antiseptic and candlewax and the gentle rustle of the curtains in the breeze. He glanced at the now-empty space on his bedside table, where the letter had been, and closed his eyes.

 

Sleep came easily that night.

Chapter 7: Switch Wands

Everyone around them was bouncing on their feet — practically vibrating with anticipation. Whispers darted like spells from one student to the next, each of them craning their necks toward the edge of the lake as if they could summon the ships faster with their excitement alone.

 

But none of them were as restless as Harry.

 

He stood just behind the crowd, his eyes fixed toward the horizon like it owed him something — or someone. There was a fidgetiness to him today that wasn’t born of nerves, but of something quieter. Warmer.

 

Hermione let out a sharp sigh, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Honestly, Harry,” she muttered, reaching over to yank him a bit closer by his sleeve. Without warning, she began tugging at his scarf, adjusting it with determined fingers. “You could’ve at least tried not to look like you just rolled out of bed.”

 

Harry blinked down at her. “I did not—”

 

“You did,” she said, tying the last loop of his scarf with a satisfied hum. “You’re going to catch your death.”

 

Harry said nothing. His gaze wandered right back to the lake.

 

Hermione sighed again, this time with a soft shake of her head, but she didn’t press further. She knew the signs by now.

 

Ron, on the other hand, wasn’t as subtle.

 

He leaned in just enough for Harry to hear and muttered under his breath, “You know, if you start levitating off the ground like one of those Muggle cartoon characters, I’m not catching you.”

 

Harry didn’t even look at him.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron said louder, clearly aiming for Hermione now. “Look at him. Eyes glazed over, twitchy hands, scarf strangled by your obsessive fussing — he’s in love, Hermione.”

 

Hermione shot him a look. “He is not.”

 

Ron waggled his eyebrows. “He’s excited to see his boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Harry said flatly, finally glancing at Ron with a warning look.

 

“Yet,” Ron added under his breath, grinning to himself.

 

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Viktor said he wants to get to know me first.”

 

“And what a tragic slow burn that’ll be,” Ron drawled dramatically. “Honestly, it’s like living in one of Ginny’s romance books.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Would you stop? Harry’s allowed to be excited. They’ve been writing each other for weeks. At least Viktor has the decency to wait and be respectful.”

 

Ron raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying — if this ends with a surprise kiss on the dock, I will throw myself into the lake.”

 

Harry tried not to smile. He really did. But the way Ron’s voice dipped into theatrical despair — paired with the ridiculous image of Ron flinging himself off the ledge like a lovesick banshee — made the corner of his mouth twitch.

 

The scarf itched slightly at his neck, Hermione’s knot snug and neat, and somewhere beneath his jumper he could feel the faint weight of the pendant resting over his chest. The one Viktor had enchanted — still cold sometimes, still humming with memory.

 

And as the wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of water and smoke, and as the lake began to ripple with more than just wind — Harry let his heartbeat race a little faster.

 

Because he didn’t know exactly when the ship would arrive.

 

But he knew who would be on it.

 

A sound cracked through the air — not thunder, not spellfire, but something sharper, more alive. It was the sound of hooves cutting through clouds.

 

Everyone turned.

 

Above the lake, the sky shifted. Clouds pulled back like stage curtains, and from behind them came the glint of movement — enormous white horses with vast, beating wings, their manes flowing like wind-stirred silk. They soared in formation, elegant despite their monstrous size, and carried behind them something almost ethereal in contrast — a carriage, no, many carriages, all pale blue and gilded with silver that caught the last light of day like a spell waiting to burst.

 

Gasps rose from the students. Even the more cynical seventh years seemed caught off guard.

 

The carriages descended slowly, wheels turning in midair with effortless grace, and as they landed, the soft thud of hooves echoed across the grounds. Dust and autumn leaves curled from the grass, but the carriages landed so precisely they barely disturbed the earth.

 

The horses — twelve of them at the lead, each the size of a small elephant — pawed at the ground and snorted, their breath misting in the air.

 

“Hagrid’s got them,” Hermione murmured, nodding toward the familiar figure emerging from the forest edge, already making his way toward the team of flying steeds. His large hands reached for the bridle of the lead horse with surprising gentleness, cooing something in a language that might’ve been English if it weren’t drowned in his thick accent and pure affection.

 

Then came the moment they’d all been waiting for.

 

The main carriage, the largest of them, unfolded at its side. A door swung open with a mechanical purr, elegant as the carriages themselves, and out stepped a boy in bright sapphire robes, trimmed with ivory. He moved with sharp, rehearsed grace — not haughty, but precise. With one gloved hand, he turned and extended it to the door, waiting.

 

A long shadow fell across the ground.

 

And then she appeared.

 

Madame Maxime.

 

Tall — nearly Hagrid’s height — and dressed in long, sweeping robes of embroidered silk, her presence alone seemed to hush the whispering crowd. She took the boy’s hand lightly and stepped down with the kind of grace that made her size seem impossible. Her hair was twisted into a crown-like knot, her lips painted in the deepest plum.

 

There was a pause, a brief one — then Dumbledore stepped forward, Professor McGonagall in stride beside him, both wearing their best formal expressions.

 

“Headmistress Maxime,” Dumbledore said, voice carrying without needing to be loud, “a pleasure, as always.”

 

“Albus,” she said, her accent fluid, thick, and unmistakably French, “it is a pleasure for us to be 'ere.”

 

The two clasped hands, a show of unity and mutual respect. Professor McGonagall nodded politely, her gaze flicking briefly to the younger Beauxbatons students now beginning to emerge in perfect formation from the other carriages.

 

They were dazzling, every one of them. Boys and girls alike, elegant and well-composed, moving like dancers across the grass in uniform rows.

 

“Merlin,” Ron whispered behind Harry. “Do they all look like that?”

 

Hermione shot him a look.

 

Harry didn’t respond.

 

Instead, Harry kept his gaze trained on the lake. Everyone else had turned back toward the front, attention glued to the sky after the Beauxbatons carriages had arrived, but something in him — something quiet, certain, and strange — told him to wait.

 

The lake shimmered faintly in the dying light, silver-gold in places, the ripples soft as breath. He didn’t know what he was expecting exactly — not really — but his heart had been inching up into his throat for the last ten minutes, and no amount of scarf-fixing from Hermione or muttered teasing from Ron could push it back down.

 

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione huffed under her breath, yanking his scarf back into place with the practiced impatience of someone who’d done this too many times. “You’ll freeze to death before you even see him.”

 

“I’m fine,” he muttered, not looking at her.

 

She squinted at him, suspicious. “You haven’t said two words since the carriages landed.”

 

Ron leaned in then, smirking, and said just loud enough for Harry to hear, “Probably saving all his words for Viktor. His boyfriend.”

 

Harry didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t even roll his eyes. He just kept looking at the lake, hand tightening briefly around the edge of his cloak, fingers brushing against the spot where the pendant — Viktor’s pendant — usually rested. It wasn’t there. He hadn’t worn it today. Quidditch practice had been too long, too exhausting, and he hadn’t wanted to sweat on something that precious. Something that had once been a snitch and now wasn’t — or maybe it still was. Harry wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both.

 

“LOOK! THE LAKE!” Lee Jordan’s voice rang out, sharp and electric, cutting through the silence like a flare.

 

There was a rush of movement as students surged toward the edge of the courtyard, pressing against one another for a view.

 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

 

The surface bubbled, slowly at first, then all at once — frothing like something alive, like something angry. A low rumble echoed through the stone beneath their feet, and then, as if summoned from the dark itself, a shape began to rise.

 

Harry leaned forward.

 

There was something surreal about it — watching a ship emerge from a lake, water cascading down its sides like the shedding of a second skin. It rose high and deliberate, masts slowly pushing skyward, the sails billowing with magic instead of wind. The ship was enormous, old, and imposing — carved with symbols Harry didn’t recognize, patched with iron, layered with frost.

 

It didn’t just look foreign. It looked like it came from a place where people didn't smile unless they meant it, and survival was more important than ceremony.

 

“It came out of the lake,” someone whispered behind him, awe-struck.

 

“Was it under there the whole time?” another muttered.

 

Harry wasn’t listening.

 

He was watching the gangplank extend — a long sheet of wood and iron that unfurled without so much as a creak — and the students began to descend.

 

They were a striking sight. Their robes were thick and heavy, lined with fur at the collar and sleeves, a deep shade of garnet that bordered on black. They moved in tight formation, not stiff like soldiers, but purposeful like people who had long ago learned to walk in step — not because they had to, but because the world made more sense when they did.

 

No one laughed. No one stumbled. They looked older. Sharper. As if whatever school they came from carved its students with chisel and frostbite.

 

They wore thick, fur-lined robes in deep blood-red and charcoal grey, cut sharply and fastened with silver clasps. Each one of them looked like they’d been carved from ice — pale, serious, and silent, their boots hitting the stone with measured weight.

 

Their movements were synchronized, perfectly disciplined. Not a smile in sight.

 

At their head walked a man who could only be their headmaster: Igor Karkaroff.

 

Tall and thin, he moved with a theatrical kind of elegance, robes sweeping dramatically behind him. His goatee was sharply trimmed, his expression unreadable — somewhere between polite disdain and smug anticipation. His pale eyes swept over the Hogwarts students like one inspecting stock.

 

Harry recognized him at once from a photo he’d once seen in the Prophet, though Karkaroff looked even more imposing in person.

 

Dumbledore stepped forward again, arms open in welcome. “Igor,” he said with a warm smile. “It’s been far too long.”

 

“Albus,” Karkaroff replied, with a voice like cold silk, extending one hand — just one — as though to keep the other behind his back in reserve.

 

Their handshake was brief, their smiles forced.

 

Behind Karkaroff, the Durmstrang students halted in formation, eyes forward, unblinking. They looked like they’d been raised on harsh winters and harder truths. Like warriors more than students.

 

And then — finally — Harry saw him.

 

Stepping forward, just a beat behind the others.

 

Viktor Krum.

 

His walk was the same — slightly hunched at the shoulders, like someone who’d long ago grown tired of being watched. His brows were knit together, his mouth unreadable. His eyes, however — dark, sharp, familiar — scanned the crowd. Calm. Searching. Expectant.

 

Harry’s heart skipped.

 

And then — their eyes met.

 

It only lasted a second. Maybe less. But it was enough.

 

The noise of the courtyard faded. The breath in Harry’s lungs caught and held, and all he could think — all at once — was:

 

He’s here.

 

Here, in the same school. On the same ground. Viktor — who had sent him letters sealed in wax and folded in corners; who had turned a snitch into a pendant, and a game into something gentler; who had called him mine once, even if only in jest.

 

He hadn’t realized how much he missed him until now.

 

Next to him, Ron let out a low whistle. “Merlin’s beard,” he muttered. “Now that’s an entrance.”

 

Hermione nudged him. “Try not to sound so impressed.”

 

“I’m not,” Ron said quickly, though his tone betrayed him. “Just saying — that’s a bloody warship.”

 

“It’s just a ship,” Hermione replied.

 

“It came from under the lake.”

 

Harry didn’t hear the rest of the argument.

 

He was still watching Viktor.

 

Viktor’s body turned, deliberate and unhurried, until he was facing Harry completely.

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sheer focus of it. The noise around him seemed to melt — the laughter, the murmurs, the rustle of cloaks in the wind — all softening into something distant. Dull. As if Viktor’s gaze had created a kind of quiet between them, the kind that didn’t need permission.

 

He wasn’t supposed to look back, not here, not like this — not in front of everyone. But Harry couldn’t not.

 

And Viktor was already moving.

 

The crowd, thick with students still staring across the lake toward the newly arrived Durmstrang ship, parted effortlessly as he walked. No shoves, no protest — only space being made, as though they instinctively understood that whatever was happening wasn’t theirs to interrupt. Eyes followed his every step, every shift of his shoulders, every fold of deep crimson and black robes. A hush fell over the courtyard, and in it, Harry could feel his own pulse thrum in his throat.

 

He straightened, not fully sure what his hands were supposed to do — hold something? Brace himself? — but the moment overtook him before he could think it through. Viktor stopped right in front of him.

 

That close, it was almost absurd to think that just weeks ago they had stood across firelit fields with dust on their skin and ash in their hair. That they’d written to each other nearly every day since, and yet this — this nearness, this gravity — made it all feel new again.

 

Harry smiled, hesitant but helpless.

 

Viktor didn’t smile, not really, but his eyes changed. The hard Durmstrang edge fell from them, softened by something else entirely — something warmer, something known. It was the same expression he wore that night in the tent after the chaos, when his words came quieter than the crackle of fire: “I’ll take it. All of it. Just to be near you.”

 

Now, without a word, Harry reached into his cloak pocket.

 

He pulled out the wand — Viktor’s wand — the one he’d carried with him since the night of the attack. The one Viktor had handed over like a secret. It was cool in his palm, as if it had absorbed Viktor’s restraint, his precision, the silence of his presence. Harry pressed it into Viktor’s hand.

 

“I believe,” he said softly, “you purposefully forgot to take this.”

 

Viktor looked down.

 

His fingers closed around it slowly, like he needed to remember the shape of it. He didn’t move to pocket it. Just held it between them, the dark wood catching a thin gleam of autumn light.

 

“What makes you say that?” Viktor asked. His tone was easy, but Harry could hear the smile behind it — the one Viktor rarely showed, the one that was never careless.

 

Harry raised a brow. “Honestly. Have you been using your backup wand this whole time?”

 

There was the faintest quirk at the corner of Viktor’s mouth. “It has been… tolerable.”

 

Harry scoffed. “Tolerable? That’s what you’re going with?”

 

Viktor merely smirked and let the wand settle gently back into Harry’s palm. He didn’t say keep it, but he didn’t need to. The motion alone said enough.

 

Harry looked down at it, confused. “Where’s yours?”

 

Viktor nodded at Harry’s hip. “Where’s yours?”

 

“Right here—” Harry said, Harry reached for it — the wand holstered snugly against his side, tucked securely thanks to Hermione, who had insisted (read: threatened) that he never be without it again after the night of the attack . “Thanks to Hermione.”

 

“She’s very committed to your survival,” Viktor said.

 

“Yeah, well, someone has to be.”

 

Harry handed his wand over.

 

Viktor held it differently than Harry ever had — his fingers resting slightly off center, more cautious. But his grip was practiced, reverent. Like he understood it wasn’t just a tool, but a kind of extension of the person who owned it.

 

He tilted his head, examining it. “It feels… warm.”

 

Harry gave a soft snort. “It’s used to me.”

 

Viktor glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “We should try something.”

 

“What kind of something?” Harry asked, wary but intrigued.

 

“Let’s switch,” Viktor said.

 

Harry blinked. “What, wands?”

 

Viktor nodded. “Just for now.”

 

Harry hesitated. “Why?”

 

“To see,” Viktor said, quiet and simple. “To see how it works for us. How they respond. How compatible we really are… not just together, but magic-wise.”

 

Harry stared.

 

It was the way he said it — not boastful, not teasing, just… direct. Sincere. As though magic had always been the most honest language Viktor knew how to speak.

 

Harry’s stomach fluttered — not from nerves, but from that feeling of falling into something he didn’t yet have words for.

 

And maybe he was being stupid. Maybe it was reckless. But it felt right.

 

“Alright,” Harry said, almost whispering. “Let’s try it.”

 

Viktor nodded once.

 

The two of them stood, facing one another, each holding the other’s wand — and around them, students who had been pretending not to stare, now forgot how to pretend. A ripple of hushed gasps spread through the courtyard like wind through long grass.

 

Harry Potter and Viktor Krum, exchanging wands.

 

Not as enemies. Not even as friends.

 

As something else entirely.

 

Viktor tucked Harry’s wand into the holster hidden beneath his sleeve, the motion practiced, seamless, almost ceremonial. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary, and Harry felt the strange weight of it—like he’d just handed over more than a wand.

 

Harry mirrored the gesture, slipping Viktor’s wand—still slightly too long for his grip—into the leather loop at his side. His fingers felt clumsy, too aware of themselves. The moment didn’t feel small.

 

Then Viktor stepped closer. The world didn’t narrow—it had already been small, already been quiet. But something shifted. Slowed.

 

Without saying anything, Viktor reached for Harry’s hand.

 

Not in the way people held hands when they meant to comfort or claim, but gently—an inspection, not a gesture. Viktor’s thumb traced across Harry’s knuckles, the skin still red-raw and slightly swollen from where he’d punched Malfoy. A fading ring of bruised skin curled under his fingers, the kind that whispered you went too far, and you didn’t regret it.

 

“It’s healing,” Viktor murmured, more to himself than to Harry.

 

Harry gave a soft huff, half embarrassed. “Mhm. All thanks to Madam Pomfrey.”

 

Viktor glanced up, confused by the name.

 

“School nurse,” Harry added quickly.

 

A beat passed. Viktor nodded, then his mouth curled—slowly, the way one might warm their hands near a fire before leaning into it.

 

He took Harry’s other hand then, both of them now in his grasp.

 

And before Harry could make sense of it—before he could even wonder what Viktor might do next—Viktor brought Harry’s hands to his lips.

 

The kiss was light, not performative. Almost reverent. He kissed one palm, then the other, as if Harry had cast something sacred with his fists rather than violence. Then he turned Harry’s hands gently, guiding them to his own face, placing them against his cheeks.

 

Harry blinked.

 

The warmth of Viktor’s skin there was unexpected—the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw beneath Harry’s trembling fingers. Harry didn’t know if it was his own heartbeat he felt or Viktor’s.

 

Then, just as gently, Viktor let go.

 

But not fully.

 

His hands slid down, firm, and found Harry’s waist. His fingers pressed lightly at the dip of Harry’s back, just enough to steady. To tether.

 

Then he leaned in.

 

Close enough that Harry could feel the shape of Viktor’s breath at the edge of his ear.

 

“Ten o’clock,” Viktor whispered, voice low. “Meet me at the lake.”

 

Harry barely had time to exhale before Viktor’s lips brushed his cheek—soft, barely there, but real.

 

And then he stepped back.

 

He turned without another word and walked calmly, unhurriedly, back toward the Durmstrang students who had watched the entire thing in taut, unreadable silence.

 

It wasn’t until the space between them widened that Harry became aware of everything else.

 

The world came rushing back in a flood of noise and color.

 

Except—no one was speaking.

 

Everyone was staring.

 

All of them.

 

From the students at the front, to the Beauxbatons still descending from their carriage, to the Gryffindors behind him and the Slytherins flanking the courtyard—every head was turned. Every mouth was slightly ajar. The silence was deafening.

 

Even McGonagall looked frozen mid-sentence. Even Hagrid had stopped adjusting one of the winged horses’ harnesses.

And at the front, Dumbledore. Smiling faintly, almost like he knew something no one else did.

 

Harry’s face flushed hot. It moved from the tips of his ears down to his neck and flushed all the way through his spine. His skin felt too tight. His heart thudded like a snitch trying to break free.

 

He reached up, fingers brushing the spot where Viktor had kissed him, then — nervously — tucked a strand of hair behind his ear that hadn’t needed tucking at all.

 

Everyone knew.

 

Harry groaned — a low, mortified sound — and turned blindly toward Hermione. Without hesitation, he buried his face into the crook of her shoulder, into the folds of her robe and the chaos of her bushy hair, as if it could shield him from the hundred pairs of eyes still watching him like he’d just sprouted wings.

 

“Kill me now,” he muttered into her shoulder.

 

Hermione didn’t flinch. She simply placed a hand gently on his back, patting it like one might soothe a frightened animal. There was no judgment in it. No teasing. Just quiet reassurance.

 

Ron, standing a step behind her, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and tried to look anywhere but at the crowd. “Well,” he mumbled, “at least he didn’t kiss you on the mouth.”

 

Harry let out something between a groan and a wheeze. Hermione gave Ron a sharp look over Harry’s shoulder but didn’t say anything. Instead, she kept patting, one palm moving in slow, grounding circles, as if to say: We’re here. Breathe.

 

Neither of them spoke another word. They didn’t have to.

 

Across the courtyard, Viktor stood still amid the sharp, militaristic lines of the Durmstrang students. Their uniforms were pristine. Their expressions unreadable. Yet Viktor’s attention was elsewhere, fixed not on his schoolmates, not even on his headmaster, but across the courtyard — toward the huddle of red and gold where Harry was trying desperately to vanish into the folds of a Gryffindor scarf.

 

And then his gaze shifted — just slightly, but with precision — to the left.

 

To Malfoy.

 

Draco stood a little apart from the rest of the Slytherins, his platinum hair catching the light like something dipped in frost. He had been smirking — smug and unrepentant — but the expression faltered the moment he caught Viktor looking at him.

 

Not just looking.

 

Watching.

 

There was something in Viktor’s stare — quiet, calculating, unwavering — that made Malfoy still. Like a creature suddenly aware of its place on the food chain.

 

Malfoy blinked. His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. He stepped back. Subtle, but not subtle enough. Then, in a movement just shy of a retreat, he ducked behind Blaise Zabini, who turned with a slight frown and glanced down at him, clearly confused.

 

Viktor didn’t follow with his eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t react at all.

 

But he had seen.

 

And Malfoy knew he had seen.

 

That was enough.

 

Notes:

PS: Sorry for the delayed update! Exams coming up so I'm kinda clutching it at this point

Chapter 8: I open at the close

Branches whipped against his face. The ground was uneven, pulling at his ankles like it wanted him to fall. His lungs burned, his throat dry from too much breathing and not enough air. His legs—gods, his legs were giving out. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t even allow himself to think about it.

 

The collar was still there. Pressed against his skin. Heavy. Its iron dug into the space between his neck and shoulder, and the faint pulse of the runes etched along its rim kept thrumming like a second heartbeat. A false one. Bound magic was a strange kind of silence. It didn’t just disappear—it screamed inside you, clawing to be let out.

 

He hated it. Hated feeling this vulnerable.

 

Keep going.

 

That was the only thought looping in his head. Just keep moving. He couldn’t let them catch him. Not now. Not when he was this close to slipping through.

 

His bare feet slapped against the dirt, the cold ground numbing everything from the sole up. He was bleeding somewhere—he couldn’t tell where. His ribs ached, a bruise probably blooming across the left side of his chest from when he’d slammed into that tree trunk earlier, too fast to dodge. His shoulder throbbed. He might’ve dislocated something. Didn't matter.

 

What mattered was that they didn’t find him.

 

Or the thing he carried.

 

A glint of gold pulsed inside the folds of his torn shirt, bouncing with every step. The charm he had worked months on—years, if he was honest. A prototype at first. Then an obsession. Now, a secret. One that pulsed with intent. And if they got it—if they figured out what it could do—it was over.

 

A sound.

 

Pop.

 

Apparition. Behind him.

 

He didn’t stop. But his ears tuned in sharply, catching the faint rustle of someone else landing on the forest floor not far back. His legs pushed harder, even as the muscles screamed.

 

Left, bank left, his mind ordered. And he obeyed.

 

The trees closed in tighter here. The kind of path only someone desperate would dare take at full speed. He ducked under a low branch. Hopped over a root. Slid slightly in the loose earth, righted himself, kept going.

 

Another sound. Closer. Footsteps now.

 

They weren’t just following.

 

They were catching up.

 

His breath hitched. Not from fear. But from the crash of it all—the realisation that he was running out of space, of time, of options.

 

He swallowed it down. Focused on the weight of the charm. Its pulse was quickening. Reacting. Magic recognized intent—even bound magic. And right now, his intent was survival.

 

He skidded to the side and ducked behind a tree, waited just long enough to hear the footsteps shift course behind him, then sprinted again. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

 

The wind was cold in his teeth. Sweat clung to his back, his arms, the hollows of his knees. He could barely feel his fingers.

 

Another pop. Different spot. They were flanking him now.

 

He hissed. Angled right. His mind spun fast, even if his body was slowing. He had to find cover. Somewhere narrow. He could lose them in the old tunnels if he made it far enough.

 

The collar pinched at his throat.

 

His magic buzzed wildly behind it.

 

He needed to remove it—but there was no time.

 

A sharp snap behind him. Someone caught a branch or a root. Close. Very close.

 

His breath stuttered.

 

Don’t think. Just move.

 

He surged forward again, breath rasping, chest caving inward. His ribs ached like they were grinding against themselves, but he pushed harder. The trees opened slightly ahead—old stones. An arch. A remnant of something ancient, a ruin he had hidden in before.

 

He aimed for it.

 

Another step. Another breath.

 

Then—

 

A voice. Low. Cold.

 

“You can’t outrun it.”

 

His stomach dropped. That voice.

 

He didn’t turn. Not yet. His hand went to his shirt instead, brushing the snitch-like charm beneath the fabric. Gold. Warm. Still alive.

 

One more breath.

 

One more second.

 

A whisper in his head, like the object knew.

 

You’re close.

 

But so were they.

 

He turned his head slowly, eyes wild, body trembling from effort, and locked eyes with the shadow moving through the trees.

 

Then, an idea struck him—sudden, sharp, desperate. He didn’t know if it would work. It wasn’t something he’d ever done, only theorized, only whispered to himself in the dead of night when the world was too quiet to lie to.

 

But it was the only way. He dropped to his knees. The ground squelched beneath him, soaked through from the rain hours before. 

 

One hand gripped the golden sphere—small, delicate, alive with hidden pulses. The snitch. The final snitch. He clutched it to his chest, thumb brushing the etched grooves, whispering to it—not in language, but in magic. In meaning. His intent sank into the metal like rain into soil.

 

Then his other hand pushed deep into the ground, fingers disappearing into wet earth, mud creeping up his sleeves like vines. The cold didn’t bother him. The forest had always been cold. It had always been watching.

 

The pendant glowed faintly now, its wings twitching as if sensing something. As if ready to run. Or ready to wait.

 

He closed his eyes. Breathed once.

 

And whispered:

 

 "Aperio in fine."

 

The words sank into the ground. The magic curled outward.

 

Not fast. Not like a burst of flame or a surge of light. No, this was different. It was slow. It wound itself through the roots beneath him, folding into the very memory of the place. A small tremor ran beneath his palms. The pendant in his hand cooled, heavy now with purpose.

 

He didn’t look up.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

He could hear them—one by one, the soft pop of Apparition, the crackle of leaves under polished boots. He imagined them surrounding him, wands drawn, expressions bored. Another traitor. Another loose thread. Another name to strike from the ledger.

 

Let them watch.

 

Let them think he’d been cornered.

 

He opened his eyes. The light from the pendant had gone, but its warmth had not. It thrummed through him, dull and steady, like a second heartbeat.

 

He stood slowly, knees stiff, the collar tugging at his magic like a leash. His hands were empty now. The snitch was gone. Buried. Hidden in the earth with a whisper of prophecy and a memory of hope. He had given it everything he had left.

 

He looked across the clearing until his gaze found the one leading them.

 

He did not know the man’s name. But he knew the look.

 

Smug. Certain. Eager to claim the last word.

 

He didn’t offer him one.

 

Just a soft, tired smile.

 

“It is done.”

 

The words landed like dust.

 

And then, before he could even brace—

 

A flicker of red behind his ribs.

A sudden, searing heat.

Then nothing.

 

He collapsed forward, eyes still open. Mouth slightly parted. The earth that had taken his gift now took his weight.

 

But somewhere beneath him, the ground kept pulsing.

 

Waiting.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

Harry gave a soft sigh as he leaned back against the willow tree, its long silver limbs swaying softly in the night air above him like fingers running through the wind. The lake before him lay still, reflecting the moonlight in fractured glimmers, like broken glass stitched back together by light.

 

His hands hovered slightly in the air, palms open, fingers relaxed. And there, circling just above them, the Snitch spun in slow, lazy spirals —  its delicate wings beat against the quiet like a memory that refused to fade. Harry watched it drift, weightless in the stillness, golden and almost glowing.

 

It was nearly ten. The hour Viktor had asked him to meet. And though Harry would never admit it aloud, he’d been here since nine.

 

Not because he was anxious.

 

Not because he was impatient.

 

But because this — the quiet, the lake, the soft hush of night — made the waiting feel less like waiting and more like... something sacred.

 

Ever since the scene before the feast — their scene, really — things had shifted.

 

It hadn’t been subtle.

 

When Viktor had walked straight through the crowd of Durmstrang students and Hogwarts spectators alike, directly to Harry, all eyes had followed him. The whispers had started even before Viktor pressed Harry’s wand into his hand, before they switched wands in an exchange that felt oddly intimate, oddly binding — like two puzzle pieces testing how they might fit.

 

The kiss to his hands, the brush of Viktor’s lips against his cheek, and that whispered "10 p.m., meet me at the lake" — all of it had done more than raise eyebrows. It had cast a ripple through the entire hall.

 

And Harry, gods help him, hadn’t even tried to play it down.

 

Not when Viktor had sat beside him at the Gryffindor table as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not when the other Durmstrang students had followed suit — all of them seated stiffly but politely between wide-eyed Gryffindors.

 

It had made dinner... interesting, to say the least.

 

Ron, true to form, had alternated between gaping and stammering. Hermione, bless her, had taken it all in stride, though Harry could tell from the way she kept glaring at Seamus and Dean that she was very much on guard. And Ginny — well, Ginny had tried asking about the pendant, then about the wand, then something about Viktor’s jawline, at which point Hermione nearly hexed her.

 

By the time they’d returned to the dorms, Harry had practically collapsed onto his bed — not from exhaustion, but from sheer secondhand embarrassment. Everyone had questions. Questions he didn’t know how to answer because... what was he supposed to say?

 

That he liked Viktor?

 

That Viktor liked him back?

 

That this whole thing — whatever it was — made him feel both seen and terrified at once?

 

Now, beneath the willow, alone but not lonely, Harry exhaled again and let the snitch drift up to hover near his temple. It hummed faintly. He reached for the chain that still hung loosely around his neck — hadn’t put the pendant on yet — and gently guided the snitch back down, pressing it once against the runes on the chain until it clicked and shrank, soft and familiar, against his palm.

 

He held it there a moment, closed in his fingers, as he watched the water.

 

Then, footsteps — slow and deliberate — crunched over the grass behind him.

 

Harry didn’t have to turn.

 

A shadow cut across the silver sheen of moonlight.

 

Harry looked up just as a figure stepped into the soft glow beneath the willow tree. His breath caught in his throat—not from fear or surprise, but from the way Viktor always seemed to carry silence with him, as though he’d been stitched together with it. It draped over him like his cloak, heavy and certain, and yet he never felt like an intrusion.

 

The Snitch, now hovering lazily around Harry's fingers, lifted in a graceful arc as if sensing the change in atmosphere. Its wings shimmered gold in the moonlight before it landed gently in Viktor's open palm, perfectly timed, perfectly still.

 

Viktor’s fingers closed around it like it was the most natural thing in the world, and when he looked down at Harry, there was that half-smile again—the one Harry had only seen a few times, the kind that always looked like it had fought its way past some private sorrow just to reach him.

 

"Hello," Viktor said, voice low, warm, and rough like worn velvet.

 

"Hi," Harry breathed.

 

Viktor crouched in front of him, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. His gaze had the same weight it always carried—not forceful, but full, deliberate. Like he was seeing Harry and nothing else. Not the lake, not the tree, not the stars overhead.

 

Harry gave a soft puff of air, unsure if it was from the cold or from Viktor being this close again.

 

With quiet resolve, Viktor sat beside him. The grass bent under his weight, and the dark cloak spilled behind him like spilled ink across parchment. The crisp edges of his Durmstrang uniform were still visible underneath, the deep burgundy and black a stark contrast to the silver-blue of the night.

 

A chill wind passed through them, lifting Harry’s hair from his forehead. He shivered. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until Viktor moved.

 

The older boy loosened the heavy cloak from his shoulders and without a word, wrapped it around Harry. The weight of it settled over him like a heartbeat, warm, steady, unyielding.

 

Harry froze. “Viktor—” he started, already reaching to give it back.

 

But Viktor’s hand gently caught his wrist. “No,” he said simply.

 

Harry blinked. “But you’ll freeze.”

 

Viktor gave the smallest tilt of his head, amused. “I have survived winters colder than this, trust me.”

 

"Viktor, you don’t have to—"

 

"I know," Viktor interrupted gently, voice low near his ear. "But I want you warm."

 

Harry opened his mouth to argue again, then stopped. It was the way Viktor said it—quiet, steady, not out of obligation but something else. Something heavier, and more honest.

 

The silence stretched again, soft and alive. The lake murmured beside them, and somewhere in the distance, the castle loomed like a sleeping beast.

 

Harry let the cloak settle around him, burying his hands into the wool, his fingers brushing the lining that smelled faintly of pine, wind, and something sharply Viktor.

 

His hands were resting on his knees, still scratched from travel, wand holster barely visible under the sleeves. His profile was serious but calm, eyes fixed ahead, though Harry knew — knew — he was fully aware of him.

 

“You were early,” Viktor said after a beat, his voice carrying just enough amusement.

 

Harry shrugged, curling his knees to his chest. “You were late.”

 

Viktor smiled, eyes glinting. “I was watching you. From the trees. I did not want to startle you.”

 

“You didn’t,” Harry lied, and Viktor knew it too. They both laughed, just a little.

 

They both laughed, just a little. Quiet enough that it stayed between them and the willow leaves.

 

Then Viktor leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing Harry’s. “Thank you,” he said.

 

Harry looked at him, brow creasing. “For what?”

 

“For keeping the Snitch,” Viktor said, tilting his head to where it still danced lazily above them. “And for not giving up on me.”

 

Harry looked down at his hands. The bruises were nearly gone now, just shadows under the skin. “You gave me something that mattered to you. I wasn’t going to let Malfoy keep it.”

 

Viktor’s voice dropped. “If he had broken it—”

 

“He didn’t,” Harry cut in, sharper than he meant. Then more softly, “He didn’t.”

 

Viktor nodded. “Still. I would have hexed him into the lake.”

 

Harry chuckled. “You’d have to get in line.”

 

Silence again — but not awkward.

 

Not anymore.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry said, voice uncertain.

 

Viktor turned to him. “Always.”

 

“Back there… when we switched wands. You said it was to test how compatible we were. Did you mean it?”

 

Viktor’s smile dimmed into something softer. “I meant it.”

 

Harry swallowed. “And?”

 

Viktor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, gently brushing his fingers over Harry’s knuckles — the same ones he’d kissed earlier.

 

“Let us see,” he murmured finally. “How we work with each other. Not just you and I—but our magic.”

 

Harry stared at him, heartbeat loud in his ears. “You think that matters?”

 

“I do.” Viktor's voice dropped. "Wands choose the wizard. But sometimes... wizards choose each other, too."

 

The Snitch floated lower, circling them once more before settling between them.

 

They stayed silent.

 

Not the kind of silence that begged to be filled, but the kind that felt soft and whole—like a breath exhaled after holding it too long. Above them, the night stretched endlessly, stars scattered like spilled salt across the sky, and the moon was pale and high, its reflection trembling on the lake’s dark surface. The trees swayed in rhythm with the water’s hush, and something about the stillness made the moment feel suspended—like it belonged outside of time.

 

Harry shifted slightly, boots brushing the grass. His hand lifted almost unconsciously, palm open. The snitch—faithful, familiar—fluttered once and landed with a delicate thump against his skin, its tiny wings folding in.

 

He stared at it, then fastened the chain around his neck with quiet fingers.

 

Another silence.

 

This one lingered longer.

 

He leaned forward just enough that his shoulder met Viktor’s. Then, after a heartbeat, his head followed—resting lightly against Viktor’s arm. It wasn’t planned. It just… fit. Viktor didn’t move away. Instead, his head tilted as well, forehead brushing the top of Harry’s hair, like a bow to a violin string—silent, but singing all the same.

 

Then something began to shift.

 

At first, Harry thought it was the moonlight playing tricks. But no—the glow was coming from the snitch itself.

 

It pulsed faintly, a golden warmth blooming against the hollow of Harry’s throat, so soft it might’ve been imagined. Harry blinked, sat up slowly, the air catching a little in his lungs. Viktor didn’t speak, but his gaze followed Harry’s.

 

The snitch shimmered again—just once—and then thin, curling letters began to form across its surface. Not etched. Not burned. More like they were rising from within.

 

Harry brought the pendant closer, squinting, adjusting to the gentle light. The words were strange, and yet—

 

“Aperio in fine,” he murmured aloud, the Latin unfamiliar on his tongue but beautiful in the way old things always were.

 

Viktor didn’t look away. “I open at the close,” he translated, voice low and even.

 

Before Harry could ask what it meant—what any of it meant—the glow began to pulse again.

 

Only this time, it didn’t stop.

 

The light from the snitch grew gradually, then all at once, like the slow inhale before a blinding exhale. It expanded outward in soft, radiant waves—first the size of a coin, then a fist, then more. It wasn’t harsh, not at first, just warm, golden, steady. But then it surged, bright enough that Harry hissed and winced, instinctively unclasping the chain and letting the snitch fall with a muted clink onto the grass below.

 

The second it left his hand, the light bloomed even more, and Harry had to bring his arm up to shield his face.

 

It burned through the dark like a spell unraveling in silence.

 

“Harry—” Viktor’s voice was close, breath warm against his temple as he reached out, pulling Harry instinctively toward him. Harry felt Viktor’s arm come around his shoulders, protective but unsure, as if trying to shield him from something neither of them could name.

 

But it was too late.

 

The light had already overtaken everything.

 

It spilled through the trees, casting long, trembling shadows on the lake’s surface. It painted their skin in flickers of gold and silver. The grass at their feet shimmered as if kissed by frost, the leaves above their heads rustled but made no sound.

 

And then it began to shift—not just in brightness, but in weight. In gravity. In presence.

 

Harry blinked, tried to focus, but his vision was blurring—edges softening, colors bleeding. It was like being underwater, without the wetness. Like slipping through a dream where the air was too thick to breathe properly. Where time was unspooling thread by thread.

 

Viktor’s hand found his, rough, warm, grounding.

 

And then—

 

The world folded in on itself.

 

The stars dissolved, pulled back like distant lanterns being snuffed out. The trees swayed in strange directions, like shadows writhing behind glass. The moon fractured in the lake’s reflection. The sound of the water grew distant, then muffled, as if the night had dipped them in silence.

 

And then… nothing.

 

Not darkness, not light.

 

Just a moment suspended between the two—like being caught in the breath the world takes before it decides to exhale.

 

No pain. No noise.

 

Only warmth. And weightlessness.

 

And Viktor’s hand, still holding on.

 

Then it all went still.

 

And the night…

forgot itself.

Notes:

PS: Next update will be on Friday or Saturday, and I also apologize for the short chapter.

Chapter 9: Hersuil Carrowen

 

"What really happened?"

"No one knows—it was just light and—"

"And… they… unconscious…"

"Why… after curfew…?"

 

The voices filtered through like threads of wind pushing at a closed window—distant, unsure, drifting somewhere above him. They came and went in pieces. Words arriving incomplete, like leaves floating half-lost on a river. Each voice felt both far away and too close, speaking around him, not to him.

 

Harry couldn’t make sense of any of it.

 

His mind drifted. Heavy. Quiet. Like he’d been sleeping for too long under too many blankets, thick, disoriented, fog laced with static. Each breath felt both too deep and too shallow, and his limbs lay heavy, unresponsive, as if they belonged to someone else.

 

And then… nothing.

 

A hush. Dense and breathing. Not silence exactly, but something stiller than that—like the castle itself had drawn in a breath.

 

Then sound again, sharper this time.

 

Footsteps, uneven and moving back. Someone’s chair scraped softly. Glass clicked against wood. A breath caught, and another voice—quieter now, lower.

 

Harry groaned. It rose from his throat without warning, thick and rough, as if he hadn't used his voice in days. He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too much. He blinked once, then squeezed them shut again—and instantly regretted it. A sharp, pulsing pressure bloomed behind his eyes, sudden and unkind, like something had turned in his skull the wrong way.

 

The second groan was louder. Sharper.

 

Someone moved closer. More footsteps. Quick now. An assertive voice rose above the murmurs—clipped, firm, familiar.

 

“Give him air. Step back, all of you.”

 

He knew that voice.

 

Madam Pomfrey.

 

Something about the way she said it—efficient, no-nonsense, but laced with something steadier than concern. Care, perhaps. Worn into her like old wool robes.

 

Harry inhaled, slow. The air smelled like it always did in the hospital wing—cool and a little stale, tinged with iron, lavender, and boiled sage. And potions. Always potions. The scent clung to everything—linen, stone, breath.

 

A faint chill settled along his spine.

 

“Mr. Potter,” she said again, softer now. “Try sitting up. Slowly, now.”

 

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The motion was already happening.

 

He moved—or rather, allowed himself to be moved.

 

Hands, steady and patient, slipped under his shoulders. They guided him without a word. There was no rush, no push—just a quiet certainty that he was being held, just enough to move, just enough to not fall back down.

 

The pillow behind him gave slightly as his back met it. Warm, firm, and oddly reassuring.

 

The hands lingered for a second longer. And then, gently, they were gone.

 

A bottle was uncorked. The scent reached him before he saw it—strong, earthy, bitter at the edges.

 

He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t care.

 

He parted his lips without being told.

 

The potion tasted vile—thick and bitter, clinging to the back of his throat like spoiled herbs steeped in ash. He almost gagged, his body lurching instinctively to push it away, but Madam Pomfrey was quicker.

 

“No, you don’t,” she muttered, covering his mouth with one firm hand, the other steadying the bottle against his lower lip. “You ought to be used to this by now, Potter, with the way you make a home out of my hospital wing. Wasn’t even a fortnight ago you were last in here.”

 

Harry gave a strangled sound of protest through his nose, more out of habit than rebellion, then managed to swallow. The potion slid down with a slow burn, settling somewhere cold in his stomach. He exhaled sharply the moment she let go, the taste still lingering, metallic and wrong.

 

A glass was pressed to his lips before he could complain. Water. Cool, blessedly plain water. He drank it slowly, holding it in his mouth for a moment just to rinse out the taste. It helped. A little.

 

When he opened his eyes again, they stung slightly from the shift in brightness.

 

Light.

 

Too much of it.

 

He blinked once, twice, squinting as the haze cleared and shapes began to form. The stone ceiling. The sterile white glow of enchanted sconces. The faint green curtain pulled back at the edge of his vision. Something was wrong.

 

It was too bright.

 

Wasn’t it supposed to be night?

 

The last thing he remembered… Viktor—

 

His eyes flew open fully now, breath caught in the net of his throat.

 

The snitch. The light. The hand in his.

 

His gaze scanned the room with urgency sharpened by confusion. There were faces around him. Familiar, worried, still. The twins—Fred and George, arms crossed and eyes unusually serious. Ron, his brows drawn tight in concern. Hermione biting at her thumb. Neville sat nearest to his bed, worry written plainly across his face.

 

But Viktor—

 

Harry tried to sit up again, a flicker of anxiety jolting through his chest.

 

His voice cracked as it escaped.

 

“Viktor…?” he asked, throat still parched despite the water, the name barely more than a breath.

 

They all turned to Madam Pomfrey at once, as if Harry’s question had cracked the surface tension in the room. She let out a long-suffering sigh, more fond than annoyed, and rolled her eyes before stepping closer to his bedside.

 

Her expression softened when she looked at him—less healer, more guardian in that moment.

 

 

“Mr. Krum will be just fine, my dear,” she said at last, stepping forward and gently tugging the blanket a little higher over Harry’s legs. Her hands were brisk and cool, but not unkind—like the wind off the lake before dawn. “He’s resting back at the Durmstrang ship. Their healer is attending to him. He was conscious when they brought him back, and there was no visible harm.”

 

She paused, letting that sink in before continuing in a quieter voice. “And I’ll be sending word along through their nurse the moment I receive a message. If Viktor asks after you—and I expect he will—he’ll know you’re awake and in good hands.”

 

Harry gave a small nod, his movements sluggish, his muscles oddly heavy and sore, as though he’d been through something immense without quite remembering what. The worry didn’t leave him, though. He tried not to let it show, but it clung to him like mist—quiet, persistent, and impossible to shake.

 

He hated how familiar this was becoming.

 

Something strange happening. Something no one could explain. Someone getting hurt—usually him, but sometimes someone close enough to matter. And now Viktor. Why had the Snitch reacted that way? What was the light? Where had they gone, even for a moment? He remembered trees warping, stars dissolving, the lake folding in on itself like a dream being forgotten.

 

It was never over, was it?

 

He gave a sigh, deeper this time, as if trying to push the thoughts away with his breath alone. But they stayed.

 

Pomfrey’s eyes lingered on him a second longer, then turned to the others gathered tightly around the bed. “Fifteen minutes,” she declared, voice sharp enough to make Ron straighten. “No more. He needs rest. I want all of you out after that.”

 

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” they chorused automatically, as if they’d rehearsed it.

 

She raised an eyebrow—half amusement, half warning—then turned back to Harry, laying a warm hand over his for just a moment. “You’ve always had a way of keeping me busy, Mr. Potter,” she muttered affectionately. “Try not to add more grey to my hair before the week is through.”

 

He managed the ghost of a smile, and then she was gone, her soft footsteps retreating across the ward and into the comfort of her office. A quiet click of the door told them she was still listening, even if unseen.

 

For a while, no one spoke. The ward was lit by the same steady, low glow it always had, the kind of lamplight that softened edges and made everything feel wrapped in cotton. The smell of antiseptic potions hung in the air—clove, nettle, crushed peppermint leaf—and somewhere behind the curtain, someone shifted in their sleep.

 

Harry leaned back against the pillow again, the motion slower than he expected, and found the indent where Madam Pomfrey had fluffed it. His eyes drifted to the window near the far end of the ward, the one that overlooked the lake. Night still cloaked the grounds, but a silver thread of moonlight stretched across the surface like a path waiting to be followed.

 

He stared at it, wondering if Viktor was looking at the same moon from his bunk.

 

He hoped so. Somehow it made the distance feel smaller.

 

His body ached, his thoughts spun slow and muddled. But the worst part was not knowing. Not knowing what had happened. Not knowing what came next.

 

And still—he was glad Viktor had held his hand before the world folded.

 

Hermione was the first to break the silence.

 

She moved with the kind of care that suggested she'd been holding her breath far too long, and only now dared to exhale. She eased herself onto the edge of Harry's bed, her hand brushing lightly against the blanket before settling on her lap. Ron followed closely behind, placing a steady hand on her shoulder as if to anchor her, or maybe himself.

 

 

“Harry?” she said. “Are you alright now?”

 

Harry turned his head toward her slowly, as though moving through a thick layer of water. Everything still felt hazy around the edges—like the world hadn’t quite remembered how to sharpen itself yet. But her face, familiar and freckled with soft candlelight, slowly came into focus. He met her eyes. Then nodded.

 

“A bit,” he said.

 

His voice cracked slightly, unused and parched, and he regretted speaking immediately. Still, it was honest. That’s all he had.

 

Hermione nodded in return and let out a breath she’d clearly been holding for a while. There was a tremble to it, like she’d rehearsed this moment in her head while waiting outside and had finally reached it. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, and the corners of her mouth lifted, just enough to look like a smile.

 

Then, with her usual unfailing attempt at lightness, she added, “Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to spend more nights in the hospital wing than in your own bed. That’s twice this term already.”

 

Harry exhaled through a faint smile. “Beats Divination,” he muttered.

 

Ron, standing just behind her, gave a chuckle and ruffled Harry’s already-messy hair with a hand that was surprisingly gentle. “We were beginning to wonder if you just liked the beds here better.”

 

Harry let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, they’re very... firm.”

 

The mood shifted just slightly then—nothing grand, nothing loud—just enough to let the silence breathe easier between them.

 

On the other side of the bed, the twins and Neville approached more fully, stepping into the golden wash of lamplight. They had lingered near the wall, respectful, like visitors at the edge of a chapel. But now, drawn by Harry’s alertness and voice, they moved closer. Each step soft. Cautious.

 

“I didn’t expect you guys would visit,” Harry said quietly, his eyes flicking toward the twins first, then lingering on Neville.

 

Neville flushed at that. The color spread up his cheeks like he hadn’t been prepared to speak, like he'd been waiting only to watch, to listen. But Harry’s eyes were kind, expectant in that quiet way of his—never demanding, just open.

 

Neville took a breath. Then spoke.

 

“Well… when everyone said they found you and Krum by the Black Lake—unconscious, not moving—I couldn’t just... not come. I mean...” He rubbed his hands against the sides of his trousers, his voice wobbling but sincere. “You’re my friend. And you’ve helped me. A lot. More than you know, I think. With standing up for myself. With... not being so afraid of everything all the time.”

 

His gaze dropped for a second, then came back up. Steady now.

 

“Of course I’d care,” Neville finished simply.

 

Harry blinked. His chest ached in the quietest, gentlest way. Not from pain. Not from potions. But from the sheer weight of someone saying something true to him.

 

Fred and George stepped in, flanking Neville like two halves of the same thought. Their tones were light, but their eyes were soft.

 

“Yeah,” said Fred, nodding as if it were obvious. “And plus, you’re basically an honorary brother to us.”

 

George elbowed Fred lightly. “We’ve got a whole running list. You’re right up there. Near the top.”

 

Fred nodded again. “Third, maybe. Fourth, if Bill visits more often.”

 

Harry gave a tired laugh, and the tension in his body eased, if only slightly. The sound was thin, but it was real.

 

“Thanks,” he said softly, looking at each of them. “Really.”

 

The bed creaked as they settled in closer, not too close, not crowding—just near enough that Harry could feel them there, a warmth at either side, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone in the strange fog he’d awoken to.

 

For a moment, no one said anything. The lamplight flickered gently across the tile floor. The soft sounds of the hospital wing filled the space—the rustle of bedding, the distant scrape of quill on parchment from Pomfrey’s office, the slow hush of night just outside the tall windows.

 

 

“What… what really happened back there?” Ron asked, his voice hesitant, as if afraid that saying it aloud might somehow make it worse.

 

Harry blinked slowly, then turned his gaze toward the ceiling as though the answer might be hidden in the cracked plaster or the drifting dust motes. His mind felt oddly distant, like something left soaking in water too long—fragile, swollen, not quite itself. He thought. Paused.

 

“I don’t know…” he murmured at last, his voice nearly lost beneath the hush of the hospital wing. “We were talking, then the sn—”

 

His breath caught.

 

Eyes widening, Harry’s hand flew instinctively to his collar. His fingers scrambled for the chain, frantic in a quiet way—like a heartbeat speeding up but still silent. Relief unfurled from his lungs the moment he felt it: the warm, familiar weight of the pendant.

 

With a sharp exhale, almost a laugh, Harry pulled it free and let it rest in his open palm. The chain slipped through his fingers like silk, the small snitch-shaped pendant catching the light with a delicate glint.

 

“We were talking,” he said again, steadier this time. “Me and Viktor. When this—this pendant began to warm up. At first I thought it was just the sun, but then…”

 

He trailed off, eyes narrowing.

 

“There were words. Engraved. Right here.” He turned the pendant gently, holding it toward the lamplight, inspecting every curve of the tiny golden surface. But there was nothing. Not even a trace. His brow furrowed, confusion rising like mist.

 

“I swear there was,” he said softly.

 

Hermione, who had leaned in without realizing it, nodded at once. “That doesn’t mean there weren’t. Maybe it was some kind of magical trigger—like a one-time message.” Her tone was calm, analytical, but not dismissive. She believed him. That mattered more than her explanation.

 

Harry looked around at the others, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

 

“You believe me, right?” he asked.

 

Neville nodded first, his expression earnest. “Of course. I mean, at this point, anything is possible whenever you’re involved.”

 

His voice was light, almost teasing, but not mocking. There was warmth in it. Trust. It made Harry smile.

 

Fred and George exchanged glances and nodded in sync.

 

“Yeah,” Fred said, leaning forward, “If you say a snitch whispered to you in Parseltongue and floated off into the Forbidden Forest, we’d probably believe you.”

 

“Especially if it somehow exploded,” George added. “Because that would definitely be your kind of luck.”

 

Harry let out a soft laugh, the kind that stayed close to his chest, quiet but real.

 

He looked back down at the pendant, the gold catching between his fingers like sunlight on water. For a second, he swore he could feel something—not heat exactly, but memory. Like it still remembered what it had done, even if he couldn’t prove it.

 

 

“Well… what did it say?” Ron asked once more, this time more gently, almost tentatively.

 

His voice didn’t push — it was careful, like he was afraid of disturbing whatever delicate thread Harry was trying to pull from memory.

 

Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the pendant resting in his palm, the gold glinting dully against his skin. For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at it. The edges of the world felt a little blurry again, not with fear this time, but with thought — the kind that clouds the edges of your sight when you’re trying to remember something half-dreamt, half-real.

 

“The engraving on the snitch, I mean,” Ron added quietly, drawing Harry’s attention back.

 

Harry pursed his lips, his brow furrowing as he let the memory unspool slowly in his head. The words had come so suddenly — sharp and glowing — and yet, even now, they felt like something that had always been there, waiting.

 

“I open at the close,” he said at last, the words falling from his mouth in a hush. “But it was in… Latin? I think.”

 

He paused, glancing toward the bed beside his.

 

“Viktor was the one who translated it.”

 

At that, everyone fell still again. The phrase hung in the air like a whisper — not ominous, exactly, but weighty. Like the kind of sentence you don’t fully understand, yet feel is meant for you.

 

Hermione tilted her head ever so slightly, her fingers twitching like they were itching for a book, or a library, or a scroll tucked deep in Hogwarts’ forbidden section. Neville looked puzzled, thoughtful. Ron scratched the back of his neck, squinting like the words were somehow just out of reach in the back of his mind.

 

Fred and George, though—they went eerily quiet.

 

Not the mischievous sort of quiet they wore when they were about to prank someone. This was different. Slower. Sharper. Their expressions had drawn inward, thoughtful.

 

“I’ve heard of that before…” Fred murmured, half to himself.

 

George leaned forward, eyes narrowing in sync with his brother’s. “Now where’ve I…”

 

They both trailed off, brows drawn, heads tilted in near-perfect symmetry — like two halves of the same thought. Then, all at once, recognition struck.

 

Their eyes widened.

 

Fred snapped his fingers. “Of course!”

 

George looked at him, mirroring the same expression of sudden clarity. “It was from—”

 

Ron looked between them, brow creased. “What are you two on about?”

 

“It’s Divination,” Fred said, with a half-shrug, as if he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned.

 

Hermione blinked. “Divination?”

 

George shot her a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, we know. Rubbish class, floating orbs, grim predictions, Trelawney hiding behind curtains pretending she didn’t see us sneaking out. But not everything she says is completely bonkers.”

 

“She has her moments,” Fred added, eyes twinkling. “Very rare. Like a lunar eclipse.”

 

“Or Mum skipping dessert.”

 

“She doesn’t, Fred.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Ron looked even more lost. “So what’s this got to do with the Snitch?”

 

Fred leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. “Well, there was this one Divination lesson. Back in fifth year, I think. Or maybe fourth. Doesn’t matter. Point is, most of us were late. On purpose.”

 

George nodded with mock solemnity. “All part of a grand escape plan involving Peeves, a dungbomb, and a staircase that moved at just the right moment.”

 

“But just as we were sneaking up behind the trapdoor,” Fred continued, “we stopped. Because Trelawney—she just… froze.”

 

“Not like one of her usual spaced-out moments,” George said quickly. “This was proper weird. Eyes went all white. Voice dropped. She looked like she’d swallowed a whole bottle of firewhisky and seen the meaning of life.”

 

“Or death. Hard to tell with her,” Fred muttered.

 

Harry leaned forward. “What did she say?”

 

Fred and George exchanged a glance, the kind that meant they remembered it exactly but were still deciding how to phrase it.

 

“She said,” Fred began, adopting a mock-mystical tone, “‘Hersuil Carrowen, a man descended from Merlin, carries a key.’”

 

George picked it up from there, dropping the silly tone. “‘It shall be passed to its chosen. It can take many forms, but it will always bear the mark of truth—Aperio in fine.’”

 

“Aperio in fine,” Hermione repeated, softly.

 

Harry looked down at the Snitch again, thumb brushing over the tiny etched words. “I open at the close…”

 

Fred gave a half-smile. “See? It's not just dramatic nonsense. We thought she was off her rocker, but when Viktor translated what it meant, it matched up.”

 

“And she kept going,” George added. “Said something like, ‘The one who receives it, and their partner’—not clear what kind of partner, mind you, could be anything—‘will restore what’s broken. Bring peace. Stand together.’”

 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Bit lofty, isn’t it? Sounds like one of those bedtime stories Mum used to read Ginny when she was small. The princess and the goblin king sort of thing.”

 

“True,” George said. “But then again, a lot of the old stories turned out to be real, didn’t they? I mean—giant snakes, soul-splitting madmen, Ministry cover-ups…”

 

“And Merlin was real,” Hermione added, more thoughtful now. “He’s not just legend. He’s part of actual magical history.”

 

Fred nodded. “And apparently Hersuil Carrowen’s descended from him. We’d never heard the name before that lesson, but it stuck. Mostly because it sounded cool.”

 

“That and the fact she looked straight through the wall at us like she knew we were there,” George muttered. “I still don’t like thinking about it.”

 

“So you’re saying,” Harry said slowly, “that this Snitch was sent to me because of that?”

 

“We’re saying,” Fred replied, pointing at the Snitch, “that this thing might be more than a keepsake. And Trelawney, as loopy as she is, might have actually seen something.”

 

“It’s a bit mental,” Ron muttered, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced of his own skepticism.

 

Harry looked back down at the golden ball in his hand, the words glinting faintly along the seam.

 

But Hermione, of course, wasn’t satisfied with vague prophecy-speak and mysterious riddles. Her brows had drawn together in the way that meant she was already cataloging, filing, cross-referencing a mental library’s worth of information. And when she looked at Harry, her expression softened — because she wasn’t doing this just to prove a point or out of curiosity.

 

She wanted answers for him.

 

“For the record,” she said, pulling her knees up on the couch slightly, “I’m not dismissing what you heard. It’s just—Hersuil Carrowen? I’ve never come across that name. Not in A History of Magic, not even in The Rise and Fall of Dark Arts.”

 

George leaned back against the wall behind the sofa, folding his arms. “Yeah, well, neither have we. Apart from that weird lesson.”

 

Hermione gave them a look. “But you remembered the name so precisely.”

 

Fred nodded. “We wrote it down after the lesson. It was too odd not to. Thought we might use it later for a product name or something—Carrowen’s Cursed Crackers—”

 

“—Unwrap Your Doom, very festive,” George added helpfully.

 

“But out of curiosity, we did look it up,” Fred said, tone shifting slightly. “Well. As much as we could.”

 

“And?” Hermione asked, eyes sharp now.

 

“Not much,” George said. “Just one thing, really. The name Hersuil Carrowen popped up in this old journal McGonagall had us reading for extra credit — she didn’t mean to assign it, but Fred accidentally borrowed it from her shelf.”

 

“Without asking,” Fred clarified, not at all repentant.

 

George grinned. “Naturally.”

 

“Anyway,” Fred continued, “all it said was that Hersuil was the last heir of the House of Carrowen. Bit of an odd family, apparently. Went quiet after the 1600s, then reappeared for a short while in the mid-1800s. Hersuil was the last known one. Lived alone. Did strange things with runes and magical metalwork. People thought he was eccentric—maybe brilliant, maybe off his rocker.”

 

George nodded. “Hailed as mad, eventually. One of those tragic magical types. They said he’d wander the alleys of Knockturn and disappear for weeks, then show up with strange carvings, or magical trinkets no one understood.”

 

“Then one day,” Fred added, “he just vanished.”

 

Hermione frowned. “Vanished?”

 

“Chased,” George corrected. “That’s what the record said. ‘Chased from his home by unknown assailants. Presumed dead.’”

 

“No bodies. No trial. No explanation,” Fred said. “No names. Just... ‘They said they’d killed Carrowen.’ Like the villagers had all agreed it had happened, but no one ever saw it.”

 

“Very ominous,” George said, waggling his eyebrows.

 

Ron looked a bit unnerved now. “That’s it?”

 

“That’s it,” Fred confirmed. “House of Carrowen vanished with him. No known heirs. No vaults in Gringotts, no portraits in the Ministry. Like he took the whole line down with him.”

 

Neville, who’d been quiet in the armchair near the fire, looked up slowly.

 

He shifted forward, rubbing his palms together like he did when he was thinking hard. “Carrowen…” he repeated, almost to himself. “It sounds familiar. Not the name, really. But the way it’s talked about.”

 

Hermione glanced over. “You’ve heard of him?”

 

Neville shook his head. “Not exactly. But Gran used to tell me stories when I was little — old wizarding families that faded into legend. Ones that were meant to hold great power, but were wiped out before they could pass it on.”

 

He looked at the Snitch in Harry’s hand. “They were always marked by something unusual. A sigil or a phrase. Sometimes… objects that seemed cursed to everyone else, but weren’t.”

 

Hermione tilted her head. “You mean like… misinterpreted?”

 

“Yeah,” Neville said quietly. “Misunderstood, maybe. If Hersuil was doing magic no one else understood, people would’ve feared him for it. They might’ve thought he was dangerous.”

 

Harry glanced up, meeting Neville’s eyes. There was something in his tone that reminded him of Luna — gentle, but sure in its strangeness.

 

Neville added, more softly now, “Gran always said the ones who scared people most were usually the ones trying to protect something.”

 

A silence settled between them.

 

Harry looked back at the Snitch, turning it slowly in his fingers. The etched words shimmered faintly.

 

Aperio in fine.

 

 

Notes:

PS: bit of rushed, and sorry for the long update!

Chapter 10: Truth

Harry exhaled as his eyes drifted toward the Durmstrang ship, the scarf around his neck drawn tighter by instinct more than thought. The ship sat in the lake like a brooding creature — old, silent, and vaguely menacing — its black hull mottled with watermarks, its masts stretching toward the gray sky like forgotten monuments.

 

Durmstrang students dotted the bank and the deck, some clustered in groups near the trees, others moving leisurely about the grounds. A few were accompanied by Hogwarts students — some Ravenclaws, a handful of Slytherins, even a couple of Hufflepuffs who looked awkwardly excited as they gestured toward bits of the castle. It was clear enough what was happening: unofficial tours, shared curiosity, an attempt to bridge schools in the quiet way teenagers do — with glances, muttered jokes, and curious half-smiles.

 

Harry watched them from the slope, just far enough to be apart but close enough to be seen.

 

His hand drifted to the scarf again. Thick, foreign wool. Viktor’s. He hadn't gone a single hour without it since waking in the hospital wing. There was something comforting about the way it held onto warmth. The way it smelled faintly of pine and something smoky, something wild. The way it settled around his throat like a promise.

 

It had been one day — one day in the sterile quiet of the infirmary.

 

Twenty-four hours of pressing his palms to his eyes, waiting for news. Of scanning the door every time it creaked open, only for it to be Madam Pomfrey or a house-elf with another potion. No letter. No word.

 

Not from Viktor. Not even from the Durmstrang staff.

 

The nurse — or whatever passed for one aboard that ship — had kept silent, and that silence had clawed at Harry’s chest like guilt. Like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d imagined the entire thing: Viktor’s arms around him, the warmth of his breath, the way his hand had lingered against Harry’s cheek like he hadn’t wanted to let go.

 

The not-knowing had made Harry frantic. He’d been short with Madam Pomfrey. Pacing like he’d forgotten how to sit. He knew he wasn’t easy to be around — the way Ron had huffed and exchanged glances with Hermione whenever Harry brought it up again made that perfectly clear.

 

But in the end, it had worked.

 

Hermione had done most of the talking, weaving together logic and compassion in that way only she could — a firm insistence that it would do Harry more good to be outside than stewing beneath white sheets.

 

And Ron… Ron had backed her up, albeit grumpily, like he wasn’t thrilled but knew it was the right thing.

 

Now, as Harry stood with both of them behind him, he turned and gave them a smile — thin, maybe, but real.

 

“You sure you’re alright?” Hermione asked, brows knitting. Her arms were folded, like she was holding something in.

 

Harry nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Ron gave a little grunt and shoved his hands into his pockets.

 

Harry could see it — the hesitation, the guilt of leaving him alone.

 

But he also saw the way Hermione’s shoulder brushed against Ron’s — a flicker, an unintentional touch that neither of them corrected.

 

“You two go on,” Harry said quietly, a small tilt to his voice. “I’ll meet you at lunch.”

 

They hesitated.

 

Harry tilted his head and added, “Really.”

 

That broke the tension. Hermione gave a small smile, and Ron looked vaguely relieved.

 

As they turned to leave, walking up toward the castle, Harry watched them in the way he’d once watched other people from the window of Privet Drive. Not with envy. Not exactly. But with a distant ache — the feeling of witnessing something you couldn’t quite touch.

 

They weren’t exactly discreet, and Harry wasn’t exactly blind.

 

He wasn’t stupid.

 

He could see it — in the way they moved near each other now, not like friends who had spent years bickering and laughing and saving the world together, but like people holding a new kind of tenderness between them and pretending not to.

 

And maybe it was good for them to have this moment. To walk without him. To test whatever it was they were becoming.

 

So Harry let them go.

 

He turned back toward the ship, scarf still knotted close.

 

He gave one last puff of breath — not for warmth, but for courage. That quiet, solitary kind of courage no one else could give you. The kind that pooled in the chest, fragile and fluttering, like the wings of a moth pressed between glass.

 

Then he stepped forward.

 

The wood of the ship groaned softly beneath his feet, aged and living, like a thing that remembered every footstep it had ever held. The Durmstrang vessel smelled of oiled timber, melted snow, and something older—dust and parchment and sea salt. A scent that didn’t belong in this century, nor in his world.

 

The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt out of place. The air was colder here, not just from the lack of hearth but from the way silence clung to the walls like damp. He walked slowly, scarf still wrapped tightly around his neck, one hand still clutching it like a tether. The scent of Viktor still lingered faintly on the fabric — Harry didn't know if it was imagined, but it felt like something real, something grounding, something that let him breathe.

 

Students turned as he passed. They didn’t speak. Not really. Some nodded, a few whispered, their eyes flicking toward the scar on his forehead, then to the scarf he was wearing, then away. One boy stared openly, mouth parted, eyes wide as if Harry had just walked out of a ghost story.

 

But none of that mattered. Not today.

 

He kept moving. It had taken a full day to convince Madam Pomfrey to release him — with Ron and Hermione backing him, looking as if they half-expected him to collapse halfway down the corridor. He hadn't, of course. He could stand on his own two feet now, even if every step felt heavier than it should.

 

The Durmstrang nurse hadn’t sent any word. Not a single scroll, not even a message relayed by staff. And it worried Harry more than he cared to admit. That silence had gnawed at him, hour after hour. Had Viktor gotten worse? Was he even conscious? Why hadn’t he sent anything? Didn’t he want to see him?

 

A day was long when you were waiting without answers. A day in a hospital wing, with nothing but your thoughts and worry and what-ifs, felt like a century.

 

And now he was here, searching through the gloom of unfamiliar corridors, hoping the ship didn’t swallow him whole.

 

He stopped at a long corridor lined with porthole windows that cast watery light onto the creaky floors. The ship swayed gently beneath him, a rhythmic, nauseating lull that made everything feel a bit unreal.

 

To his right, near an open window, stood a tall boy — maybe seventeen or eighteen — with thick dirty blond hair, windblown and uncombed, and warm brown eyes that didn’t quite match the icy air around them. He wore a thick black sweater, one sleeve pushed up, the other drooping over his wrist like a forgotten habit.

 

Harry cleared his throat, and the boy turned, his eyes softening immediately.

 

“Hi, sorry —” Harry started, voice hoarse despite the scarf. “I’m looking for Viktor. Viktor Krum.”

 

The boy studied him for a moment, then smiled. Not the sort of smile people gave Harry Potter — not reverent or dazzled or nervous. Just… kind. Familiar. As if he recognized something in Harry that had nothing to do with fame.

 

He pointed up the narrow staircase just behind him. “Up there,” he said in slow, deliberate English, accented but clear. “Last door to the left.”

 

Harry nodded and turned to go, but the boy added, almost like an afterthought, “You won’t miss it.”

 

Harry paused. “What do you mean?”

 

The boy’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it softened. “You’ll know,” he said. “When you see it.”

 

There was no malice in it. Just… certainty.

 

Harry blinked at him. Part of him wanted to ask more, but something about the moment felt finished, as if asking would only break it.

 

So he gave a quiet thank you and stepped toward the stairs.

 

They were steep and narrow, worn smooth by years of climbing. He moved slowly, dragging one hand along the banister for balance. The stairwell was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring with every heartbeat.

 

And then he reached the top.

 

There were four doors. Three of them stood in near-total darkness. The last one — to the left — had a faint light glowing beneath it, warm and flickering, like candlelight waiting patiently for company.

 

Harry stood still.

 

He could hear faint sounds behind the door. A chair scraping. A muffled cough. Maybe footsteps. Or maybe he was imagining them. He couldn't tell.

 

He lifted a hand to knock… and then stopped. His fingers hovered mid-air, unsure.

 

What if Viktor didn’t want to see him?

 

That question had circled Harry’s mind like a crow for hours now — perching, scratching, waiting to be acknowledged.

 

What if Viktor had changed his mind?

 

And maybe now, in the quiet aftermath, Viktor had realized what everyone else eventually did: that it was easier to stay away from Harry Potter. Safer. Simpler. Less prone to tragedy.

 

But even as his doubt whispered, the memory of Viktor’s hand — steadying him in the water, fingers splayed over Harry’s chest like a claim — burned just beneath his skin.

 

So Harry took a deep breath. That rational part of him — Hermione’s voice, maybe, or something gentler, something like Sirius or Lupin might’ve said — told him he wouldn’t know if he didn’t knock. That he had to find out. That he couldn’t keep living in the not-knowing.

 

So he knocked.

 

The pause was brief — a sound of movement, a slosh of water, the scrape of a chair — and then the door opened.

 

And Harry forgot how to breathe.

 

Viktor stood there, wet and bare and not remotely prepared for guests. Hair dripping and darkened into thick strands that clung to his jaw, his shoulders. His skin glistened, flushed from the shower — or maybe the cold — or maybe Harry’s sudden, stunned presence. Water trailed down the slope of his chest, across sharp collarbones, over his stomach, and then disappeared into the thick black towel slung low around his hips.

 

Just a towel. That was it.

 

Harry stared. Stupidly. Helplessly.

 

His mouth opened, but no words came out. His brain was somewhere at sea.

 

Viktor blinked, just once, like he was trying to understand if what he was seeing was real — Harry standing in his doorway, scarf still bunched at his throat like a noose, cheeks pink with cold, or nerves, or both.

 

“Harry,” Viktor said, voice rough. Sleep-rough, shower-rough. Something between a whisper and a sigh.

 

Harry’s voice failed him. All he managed was a small, strangled sound that might’ve been a greeting or a hiccup or possibly the soul leaving his body.

 

“I—I just—”

 

He gestured vaguely at the hallway behind him as if that explained everything.

 

“I wanted to see if you were alright,” Harry said finally, the words tumbling too quickly. “You didn’t write. I didn’t know if you—if you were avoiding me or—if you were alright or…”

 

But Harry was cut off.

 

Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-heartbeat—

Warmth engulfed him.

 

A solid, steady warmth. Pressed to his chest. Against his arms. Around his back.

 

For one disoriented moment, he thought maybe he was imagining it. The sudden weight of something soft and human and real folding into him like a blanket. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he wasn’t. Until the contrast of this made his whole body go still.

 

Then it registered.

 

Arms. Skin. Damp heat.

 

And that smell—soap and pine and something darker, sharper—close now, close enough to breathe.

 

That’s when Harry realized: Viktor was hugging him.

 

Topless.

 

Warm.

 

And very clearly—dripping wet.

 

Harry froze. His mind short-circuited.

 

Omg omg omg omg omg—

 

His face went red. 

 

He could feel the droplets soaking through his jumper, trailing down the back of his neck like tiny jolts of lightning. Viktor’s bare chest was against him. Viktor’s skin. And he could feel every line of it, every breath, every slow movement of muscle. The ridges of his ribs. The press of his heartbeat.

 

Harry’s hands stayed awkwardly suspended in the air. He didn’t know where to put them. On Viktor’s back? That was too intimate. On his waist? Worse. Push him away? God, no.

 

“I—uh—” he croaked. “You’re—um—wet—”

 

“I am,” Viktor murmured, voice low near his ear, like that wasn’t the least bit strange.

 

The hug tightened, just slightly. Not possessively. Not even intentionally, Harry suspected. Just—naturally. As if Viktor didn’t realize he was doing it. As if Viktor hadn’t noticed that he was shirtless, or that Harry might combust.

 

As if this was normal. As if hugging Harry was normal.

 

Harry swallowed. His eyes stared at a crack in the wall above Viktor’s shoulder like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

 

He could feel his glasses fogging.

 

Viktor pulled back only a little. Enough to look at him.

 

And Harry—idiot that he was—glanced down. Just for a second. A stupid, traitorous second.

 

He caught the slope of Viktor’s collarbone. The sheen of water still clinging to his skin. The shadow that traced down his chest to where the towel still sat low on his hips.

 

Merlin’s left toe.

 

He jerked his eyes back up, mortified.

 

Viktor looked amused. Not smug, not teasing—just faintly amused in that soft, unreadable way of his. His hand came up slowly, as if to brush something from Harry’s shoulder. A drop of water, maybe. Or maybe nothing at all.

 

Harry still hadn’t taken a full breath.

 

Viktor’s thumb lingered. Not touching. Just there. Like he was about to say something. Like he was waiting for permission to.

 

Harry swore, if Viktor got any closer, he might pass out.

 

Or lean in.

 

He wasn’t sure which scared him more.

 

A while later—

 

After Harry's heart had finally slowed into something livable, after Viktor hadn’t let go and Harry hadn’t asked him to—

 

Viktor shifted, just slightly. Still holding him, but now with his chin tucked gently over the crown of Harry’s head.

 

“Are you alright?” Viktor asked, voice soft, almost inaudible—muffled by Harry’s hair.

 

Harry breathed out slowly. The heat of Viktor’s chest against his cheek, the faint tickle of water trailing down the side of his temple—it should’ve overwhelmed him. But it didn’t.

 

It felt like—

 

Like standing still after too long running. Like the part of a dream right before you wake.

 

He hummed in response, a small, nonverbal yes. He felt Viktor’s hand flex lightly at his back, like that confirmation meant something. Like it mattered.

 

And it did. More than Harry had words for.

 

Then—

 

A sound. A sharp, polite clearing of a throat.

 

They both startled slightly.

 

Harry turned his head over Viktor’s shoulder—too fast. His glasses slipped. His heart leapt into his throat.

 

And there, standing by the open door with one brow raised and arms crossed loosely over his sweater, was the same Durmstrang boy who’d given him directions earlier.

 

Shit.

 

Harry’s blood turned to static. His face flushed violently, a rush of crimson that started behind his ears and bloomed up like a firework. His limbs went stiff.

 

He didn’t know what to do. Or say. Or even be. His mouth opened helplessly, like it was waiting for a script he didn’t have.

 

His eyes went wide—wild—with panic, and his hand moved up to gesture something—he didn’t know what. Maybe a wave. Maybe an apology. Maybe just hide me.

 

But nothing came out. No words. No air. Just him and Viktor and the boy in the doorway, witnessing all of it.

 

The boy blinked once. His expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

Not cruel. Not teasing. Just—

 

Knowing.

 

And for some reason, that made it worse.

 

Much, much worse.

 

Harry made a small, strangled noise—somewhere between a cough and a dying plant. He tried to step back from Viktor but only succeeded in bumping against the doorframe with his elbow.

 

“Er—I didn’t—he was—I mean we weren’t—” he fumbled, every word sticking like molasses in his mouth. “I just came to—to see if he was alright and then he—and now I—uh—sorry?”

 

The boy tilted his head, amused. “You found the room, then.”

 

Harry nearly tripped on his own feet.

 

Viktor, to his credit, looked entirely unbothered. His only movement was a slow blink and the faintest press of his hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, steadying him.

 

“Thank you, Nikolas,” Viktor said simply.

 

Nikolas gave a small, half-hearted salute and stepped back into the hallway. “Anytime. Enjoy.”

 

The door shut.

 

Harry buried his face in his hands.

 

“Merlin,” he groaned. “I’m going to die.”

 

“You are alive,” Viktor said, matter-of-fact. “And you came to see me.”

 

Harry peeked at him between his fingers. “Not while half-naked, I didn’t.”

 

Viktor smiled—not smug. Not cocky. Just quietly pleased.

 

“I will get dressed, then,” he said. 

 

Harry didn’t trust his legs. Or his face. Or his entire existence at this point.

 

But he nodded anyway.

 

Viktor chuckled—a low, soft sound, rich like melted honey and far too comfortable for Harry’s rapidly deteriorating emotional stability. Before Harry could stammer out a single word of protest or excuse, Viktor’s large, calloused hand gently wrapped around his elbow.

 

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even particularly firm.

 

But it was deliberate.

 

And intimate.

 

Too intimate.

 

Harry’s thoughts short-circuited as Viktor, still bare from the waist up and very much damp, guided him gently over the threshold and into his cabin.

 

The door clicked shut behind them.

 

And just like that, they were alone. Really alone. Not just in a tucked-away corridor or some moment stolen between glances—but here, in a space that smelled like Viktor, sounded like Viktor, was Viktor.

 

The air inside clung to Harry’s skin, humid and dense with the steam of a recent shower. The faint scent of something sharp and earthy hung in the air—soap, maybe. Or cologne. Or something he couldn’t name, because it wasn’t bottled or manufactured but something innately Viktor. Like the scent of cedar or leather, or the inside of a well-worn book. It made Harry’s throat catch.

 

“Sit,” Viktor said simply, motioning toward the bed with a quiet nod.

 

Harry obeyed like a man under Imperius. His legs moved before his brain caught up. The mattress gave slightly beneath him, still warm. He felt it even through the fabric of his trousers—heat, weight, presence.

 

He could feel his face burning.

 

No, flaming.

 

If this kept up, he was going to match the Weasleys in complexion permanently.

 

Viktor turned away, sifting through a small wardrobe near the foot of the bed. He moved without self-consciousness, tugging open the drawer with one hand, still holding his towel in place with the other. There was a kind of comfortable discipline to his movements, like he’d grown up in silence and cold and learned to make space speak for him.

 

Harry let himself look—really look.

 

The room was small. Spartan, almost, but not lifeless. It wasn’t sterile the way Harry had imagined a Durmstrang cabin would be. There were touches—subtle ones—that made it Viktor’s. A broomstick resting beside the door. A framed photograph of what looked like a seaside cliff, worn at the edges. A thick book open on the desk, its pages weighted down by a wand. A kettle, still puffing little wisps of steam from its spout like it, too, was just trying to settle down.

 

It was clearly meant for one person.

 

Harry’s gaze must’ve lingered too long because Viktor, as he pulled a plain grey shirt from the wardrobe, glanced at him and spoke—voice low and unbothered.

 

“Karkaroff gave me own room,” he said, threading his arms through the sleeves with mechanical ease. “He—how do you say—plays favorite.”

 

Harry nodded, still stuck somewhere between his heartbeat and his breath.

 

“Other boys share rooms. Three, sometimes four. This one—” Viktor tugged the shirt down over his chest “—is mine.”

 

But Harry was barely listening. Not really.

 

Because he wasn’t looking at the room anymore. Or the photograph. Or the broom.

 

He was watching Viktor.

 

Watching the shirt stretch over damp skin. Watching the soft trail of water from his collarbone disappear into cotton. Watching the towel cling stubbornly to his hips, defying gravity with a looseness that made Harry’s entire body tense.

 

Viktor’s neck was still damp. His hair—wet and slightly curling from the shower—stuck to the back of it. One drop, a single shimmering bead, slid down the line of his jaw and curved along the hollow of his throat.

 

Harry followed it with his eyes like it was under a spell.

 

Don’t stare. Stop staring. Breathe.

 

He swallowed, hard.

 

Merlin.

 

He was going to combust.

 

Right here. Right now. On Viktor Krum’s bed, no less.

 

He blinked rapidly and tore his gaze toward the floor, cheeks burning with a kind of heat that had nothing to do with steam or proximity.

 

Viktor turned then, shirt now clinging to his skin in places where the fabric caught on damp muscle. But the towel was still very much… there.

 

“You are quiet,” Viktor said again. This time, gentler.

 

Harry dragged his eyes to the wall across the room. “M’just—taking it in.”

 

Taking you in, he thought but didn’t say. Every inch of you. Every drop of water still clinging to your skin. Every unspoken thing that hangs in this room like a second silence.

 

The air between them shifted, a pulse of stillness.

 

Harry didn’t look up.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Not when he knew Viktor was still watching him like that—like he wasn’t strange or awkward or out of place, but something Viktor had been expecting. Waiting for, even.

 

Not when he knew he’d blush all over again just from meeting those dark, calm eyes.

 

Not when he knew what would happen if he let himself want, even for a moment.

 

He would fall.

 

Not the way you trip and catch yourself—he’d fall.

 

And Viktor would catch him, wouldn’t he?

 

That was the most terrifying thought of all.

 

Viktor hesitated for a moment, then wordlessly took a pair of black trousers from the small chest near the foot of the bed and retreated to the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than it should have in Harry’s ears.

 

And just like that—he was alone.

 

Harry exhaled shakily, the breath leaving him in a way that suggested he’d been holding it in without realizing. The heat in his cheeks remained, pulsing faintly beneath the surface like some slow, simmering ember that refused to cool. His heart was still thudding, too—less like panic now and more like embarrassment laced with something else he didn’t want to name.

 

He hadn't meant to think it.

 

But the thought had passed—quick, ridiculous, mortifying—like a whisper in a cathedral: He didn’t have to leave. I wouldn’t have minded.

 

The moment the thought fully formed in his mind, Harry wanted to crawl under the bed. Or out the window. Or back into the lake where things were simple and cold and he wasn’t thinking about how Viktor’s towel had clung so low or how droplets had slid down the arch of his spine or how the room still smelled faintly of heat and skin and soap.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, face in his hands, as if hiding it could make the blush go away.

 

What was wrong with him?

 

He wasn’t like this. Not usually. Not ever.

 

He didn’t get flustered by people. Not like this. Not by Viktor Krum, of all people. And yet here he was—burning at the edges like parchment held too close to a flame, scolding himself for having thoughts that weren’t entirely innocent.

 

You’re being ridiculous, he told himself. He’s just being polite. Just offered you a place to sit. Just changed shirts. You’re overthinking it—like always.

 

He sighed again, this time slower, and glanced around the room in a half-hearted attempt to distract himself. Now that he was alone, he let himself actually look, properly, without the awkward pressure of being watched or trying not to stare too long at things he shouldn’t.

 

The room was compact but not cramped—functional, a little austere, but lived-in in quiet, subtle ways. It wasn’t the kind of place someone like Gilderoy Lockhart would stay in, nor the kind of place Ron or Seamus would keep either. No clutter. No mess. No loud colors or exploding posters.

 

Instead, there were items that gave it texture.

 

A heavy tome rested on the nightstand—a literal tome, thick and weathered and worn at the spine. Harry leaned closer, curiosity piqued. It looked like the sort of thing Hermione would be utterly charmed by. He thumbed the edge of the cover, lifting it gently to peer at the title etched in faded gold along the top: The Complete and Unabridged History of Quidditch: Continental Volumes.

 

He blinked, impressed despite himself.

 

It wasn’t some fan biography or magazine puff piece. It was serious. Academic, even. He flipped it open slightly to a page somewhere near the middle—dense text lined in narrow columns, interspersed with black-and-white etchings of ancient brooms and foreign stadiums. No dog-eared corners. No spilled ink. No scribbled notes in the margins. It had clearly been read with care.

 

Harry shut the book again softly and turned his attention to the desk just across from the bed.

 

Papers were scattered there—not in the chaotic way Ron’s notes would be, but in a way that felt… methodical. As if they'd once been arranged in perfect order and had been just recently disturbed. Harry stepped closer, gaze flicking over the neat handwriting, the accented curves of Viktor’s pen strokes. They were assignments, it seemed. Essays, questions, outlines. One was half-finished, an answer trailed off mid-sentence, and beside it sat a worn quill, its feather frayed at the tip.

 

He caught a glimpse of the topic—the sociopolitical implications of the 1711 Quidditch reforms in Eastern Europe—and blinked again.

 

So Viktor wasn’t just brute force on a broomstick.

 

The thought unsettled him a bit. Not in a bad way. Just… in the way it shifted something.

 

Magazines lay off to the side of the desk—most of them Muggle sports ones translated into Cyrillic, a few familiar wizarding publications stacked beneath. Quidditch Weekly, The Daily Quaffle, and something called Balkan Broomcrafts Monthly that featured what looked like an experimental racing broom half-made from ironwood.

 

He almost smiled.

 

This was Viktor Krum’s world. Quiet. Focused. Stubbornly his own. No noise, no glamour, none of the theatrics people seemed to associate with his fame. It felt... honest.

 

It made Harry feel strange all over again. Like he was standing somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be—not unwelcome, but certainly unexpected. Like he'd stepped through a hidden door and found a person no one else had really seen.

 

From behind the closed bathroom door came the soft sound of water droplets hitting tile—probably Viktor shaking out his hair or toweling it dry. The noise was gentle. Familiar. Domestic in a way Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever had growing up.

 

He sat back down slowly on the bed, feeling the warmth still trapped in the blankets beneath him.

 

The room smelled like him.

 

And Viktor was still just a few steps away, separated by a thin wooden door.

 

Harry looked at the towel hanging on the corner hook, then back at the shut door, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

 

“I need to get a grip,” he whispered into the silence.

 

The door creaked open again.

 

Harry turned instinctively, heart already racing before he even saw who stood there.

 

Viktor stepped out, towel ruffled over his head as he scrubbed absentmindedly at his wet hair, eyes half-lidded with the softness of post-shower ease. The light caught the droplets still clinging to his neck, making them glisten like they had no business doing on human skin.

 

And then Harry saw it.

 

The shirt.

 

Not a regular one. Not loose, comfortable cotton like he expected. No. It clung.

 

A compression shirt—sleek and black, molded to every line of Viktor’s chest and torso, as though someone had painted it on. It emphasized everything it was meant to support—the broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his arms, the way his waist narrowed just slightly before disappearing into—

 

Oh no.

 

Grey sweatpants.

 

Of all the colors. Of all the textures. Grey—treacherous, form-revealing grey that hugged Viktor's hips and dipped just low enough to show the faintest suggestion of that damned V-line Harry had glimpsed earlier. His breath stuttered in his throat, caught somewhere between prayer and panic.

 

He snapped his gaze away so fast it was a miracle he didn’t strain a muscle.

 

Get it together. Get it together.

 

Harry stared at the opposite wall as though it held the secrets to the universe, trying to focus on literally anything else. The grain of the wooden paneling. The chipped corner of Viktor’s desk. The slight squeak the bed made when Harry shifted his weight.

 

But it was hopeless.

 

Because in the silence that followed, Harry could feel it—that heavy, molten awareness. The kind that made the air shimmer. That told him, without looking, that Viktor had stopped moving. Was watching him.

 

And when Harry dared glance up—just briefly, just to prove to himself he was imagining it—he saw it.

 

Viktor stood by the wardrobe now, one arm crossed lazily over his chest, the other resting against his bicep, eyes dark and unreadable.

 

Smirking.

 

Not cockily. Not cruelly. Just knowingly.

 

Like he could hear every frantic thought Harry was trying to silence.

 

And the towel?

 

Gone.

 

Vanished.

 

Possibly thrown aside with the same quiet, efficient ease that Viktor did everything.

 

Harry blinked, heat crawling up his neck again like ivy—relentless, spreading.

 

He couldn’t breathe.

 

Because how was someone allowed to look like that and lean like that and smirk like that and be real?

 

How had Harry stumbled into this room, into this moment, with this version of Viktor Krum—off the Quidditch pitch and entirely human, but no less devastating?

 

He inhaled shakily, pressing his palms to his jumper on either side of him like it might keep him grounded.

 

The space felt small now. Too small. As if it were no longer a room, but a matchbox—and Viktor the flint sparking it into flame.

 

Harry could swear he heard his own heartbeat in his ears.

 

“Comfortable?” Viktor asked, voice low and husky from behind that damn smirk.

 

Harry almost choked.

 

He nodded, far too quickly, and looked down at his shoes, as if they could rescue him from this utter collapse of sanity.

 

But they couldn’t.

 

Because the only thing he could think—over and over like a drumbeat—was Merlin help me if I don’t pounce on this man right now.

 

And worse still—somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet, treacherous voice whispered:

 

He probably wouldn’t stop you.

 

Harry cleared his throat, but the sound barely made it past the tightness in his chest.

 

It was meant to break the tension—what little of it he thought might still be unspoken—but it only seemed to deepen the air between them. His throat burned, dry and aching, like he’d swallowed too much light, too fast.

 

Viktor took a step forward.

 

And then another.

 

Harry’s breath hitched, his gaze instinctively lifting—not down to the shirt clinging to Viktor’s body now, not to the sweatpants still doing far too much damage, but higher.

 

To his eyes.

 

They were different up close.

 

Harry had seen them before, yes—on the Quidditch field, narrowed with focus, scanned across newspapers in photos, too dark to read. But here, under the dim gold wash of the lanterns by Viktor’s bedside, they were nothing like Harry had remembered.

 

They weren’t sharp or hard or brooding.

 

They were… open. Unafraid.

 

Searching.

 

Like they were reaching into Harry, trying to memorize something behind his skin.

 

Harry wanted to look away—but couldn’t. His own heart betrayed him. It stayed rooted in the space between their bodies, in the quiet that vibrated with the hum of something inevitable.

 

Then Viktor lifted his hands.

 

Large, calloused palms—rough from broom handles and winters and maybe a thousand battles Harry couldn’t name—rose slowly, deliberately, until they cradled either side of Harry’s face.

 

Not grabbing.

 

Not pulling.

 

Just holding.

 

And it was this—this gentleness—that undid Harry entirely.

 

He hadn’t realized how much of his life had been spent not being held. Not like this.

 

Not reverently.

 

Not carefully.

 

Viktor’s thumbs didn’t even move. They just hovered near his cheekbones, like they were waiting for permission that Harry hadn’t thought he could give. And maybe he didn’t need to. Because when Viktor leaned in, he didn’t aim for Harry’s mouth, or his hands, or even his neck.

 

He pressed his forehead to Harry’s.

 

Quiet.

 

Soft.

 

Certain.

 

Harry didn’t dare breathe.

 

There was nothing performative about it. No demand. No hurry.

 

Just the intimate press of skin to skin, the kind that made time feel like a body that curled around them and folded in.

 

“Whatever happened back there,” Viktor said, voice low and quiet, more breath than sound, “at the lake… the light… everything. I do not mind.”

 

His voice carried the softness of a vow. The weight of someone who had already thought this through.

 

“As I said,” Viktor continued, “I will take everything astride. The weirdness—as you call it. All of it. If it means I can be with you.”

 

Harry closed his eyes.

 

His whole body felt like it was holding something in—some storm, some sob, some pulse of gratitude that had nowhere to go.

 

He hadn’t been expecting this. Any of this. Least of all from Viktor Krum.

 

And yet, here he was—solid, warm, forehead to forehead in a room that felt suspended in its own universe.

 

“For now,” Viktor murmured, “see me as your confidant.”

 

Harry couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. His chest was too tight with emotion—an ache that wasn’t pain, not exactly. Just fullness. Fear, maybe. Longing. Relief.

 

He nodded instead, eyes fluttering open.

 

And Viktor pulled back.

 

But only slightly.

 

Their foreheads no longer touched, but his hands remained—still holding Harry’s face as though it were a map he didn’t want to lose. His fingers traced the faint curve of Harry’s jaw, hovered near the edge of his ear, dipped softly below his cheekbones as if etching the memory of his face into muscle.

 

Their eyes locked again.

 

Then Harry spoke.

 

Or at least, tried to.

 

“I—” he started, but the word caught in his throat, fell flat and incomplete.

 

It was as if the room thickened with it, that silence. Not awkward. Just full. Full of all the things he hadn’t had the courage to name until now—things still trembling somewhere between his ribs.

 

He took a breath. Swallowed.

 

Then slowly, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Viktor’s wrists—not to pull away, but to move with intention. He guided Viktor’s hands away from his face, gently, as though the moment required its own kind of ceremony.

 

But Harry didn’t let go.

 

Instead, he brought those hands down into his own, letting their palms press together. His hands looked absurdly small in comparison—his fingers barely reaching the breadth of Viktor’s knuckles. The difference made Harry laugh under his breath.

 

It wasn’t really funny. But it escaped him anyway—half nervous, half awestruck.

 

He looked down at them—his own hands cradling Viktor’s like a bird holding onto the sky.

 

Viktor snorted quietly, shaking his head with the hint of a smile that made Harry feel like the earth might tilt a little beneath them.

 

Still, Harry didn’t release him.

 

“What happened back at the lake,” he began again, voice more certain this time, “I think I might know what it means.”

 

He glanced up and caught the flicker of confusion in Viktor’s brow—concern, not doubt.

 

“I mean—I’m not completely sure, not exactly. But the twins—Fred and George,” Harry explained, watching as Viktor seemed to nod in vague recognition, “they’ve got a theory. It’s still a bit mad, but honestly, most things in my life usually are.”

 

He tried to smile. It didn't quite reach all the way to his eyes, but it was there—tired and raw and real.

 

“It’s a solid one though,” Harry added. “But before I get into all that…”

 

His gaze lifted again, settled back onto Viktor’s face—this time steadier, more grounded, as if something in him had decided not to run anymore.

 

“…What happened? To you I mean as I...”

 

The question felt suddenly heavier than expected.

 

His voice dropped. “They said I was taken to the hospital wing… and that you stayed on the ship. I kept wondering… Did you pass out too?”

 

For a moment, the room held its breath with him.

 

He wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe he just wanted to know he hadn’t been alone in it. Maybe he wanted to understand why Viktor hadn’t come to see him sooner—or maybe he just wanted reassurance that Viktor hadn’t suffered quietly while he was unconscious in the castle.

 

Maybe it was all of those things.

 

Or maybe it was just the strange vulnerability of being awake again after so much unknowing, and needing someone to fill in the blank spaces between memory and meaning.

 

“Yes. I fainted,” Viktor said at last, voice quieter than expected—like he’d been turning the words over and over inside his mouth before deciding they were safe enough to give away.

 

Harry blinked, heart stuttering at the confirmation. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear it. That Viktor had felt it too—that they’d both fallen into something strange and unexplainable, together.

 

“The same as you,” Viktor added, then glanced downward for a moment, brows tightening as if combing through memory. “But I had this… vision, as you call it.”

 

The way he said it—vision—was hesitant, like it tasted foreign on his tongue.

 

Before Harry could ask, Viktor moved rather abruptly and dragged the chair beside the table closer, the legs scraping softly against the floor. He sat, knees spread, posture slightly slouched like he was grounding himself. Harry lowered himself into the chair across from him, gaze expectant. But Viktor didn’t speak right away.

 

Instead, he reached out.

 

Not for Harry’s hands this time—but for his waist.

 

His fingers found purchase at the curve of Harry’s sides, resting lightly through the fabric of his shirt. Not possessive. Not pressing. Just… there. Like his hands belonged nowhere else.

 

It was such a simple gesture—quiet, unannounced—and yet it undid something in Harry.

 

He could feel the warmth of Viktor’s hands even through the cotton, the slight pressure of fingers, how they curved around the hollow just above his hips. It was grounding and electrifying all at once, and Harry had to remind himself to breathe, to sit still, to not let his brain implode with the absurdity of how deeply he wanted to melt into the touch and forget the world entirely.

 

Focus, he told himself sternly. Focus.

 

“It was weird,” Viktor began again, his voice more distant now—less present, as though speaking pulled him back into the memory. “It wasn’t me… I am sure of that.”

 

Harry tilted his head, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

 

Viktor’s thumbs moved slightly, idly tracing the hem of Harry’s jumper where it had bunched near his trousers. “It was… dark,” he said, his accent thicker now, words slowing as he searched. “And this person—whoever it was—they were running. Fast. Through trees. Forest, maybe. But it wasn’t just running.”

 

He paused again, this time narrowing his eyes as though seeing the flicker of the vision behind them.

 

“It felt like they were being chased. Not just scared. Hunted.”

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

Viktor leaned back a little, expression tightening with effort. “I couldn’t see their face, only the way the trees blurred past. The sound of their breathing. But… it was loud. The fear. Loud enough that I felt it.”

 

He shook his head slightly, clearly frustrated. “And then—” He stopped again. Brow creased. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

 

Viktor’s gaze snapped to Harry’s so suddenly it startled him.

 

“Do you have the Snitch?” he asked, his voice urgent but low, almost reverent.

 

Harry blinked, startled by the change in tone, but nodded slowly. “Yeah, I—why?”

 

Viktor didn’t answer immediately.

 

Still frowning, Harry reached beneath the collar of his jumper and pulled the thin chain out from under it. The Snitch, now dulled with time and wear, hung like a forgotten secret against his chest. He unclasped it and handed it over.

 

Viktor took it with both hands.

 

He stared at it for a long moment, thumbs gently brushing along the small golden wings. Then, without looking up, he lifted it to his mouth—his lips brushing the cool metal—and whispered, this time in careful, accented English:

 

“I open at the close.”

 

For a breathless second, nothing happened.

 

Then the engraving shimmered into view. Faint but undeniable. The same words—etched now in gold—rippled softly across the Snitch's curve like a memory long buried.

 

Both of them stared at it, eyes wide.

 

“That’s what the person did,” Viktor whispered. “In my vision. I thought I was dreaming it. The Snitch. The forest. Those words.”

 

Harry’s heart thudded against his ribs. “You saw someone say it?”

 

Viktor nodded once, sharply. “Not their face. Just… the shape of them. They held the Snitch. Whispered the words. And then there was this… this light.” His voice grew faint again. 

 

Harry watched Viktor’s fingers tighten around the Snitch, his jaw clenched as if straining to hold back more than words.

 

He could feel it—the frustration building in Viktor, quiet and slow, like water creeping up the edges of a shore. His posture was tense, like he didn’t know what to do with the information, didn’t know where to place it. And worse, Harry could feel that creeping guilt rise up in himself again like a ghost pressing cold fingers to his chest.

 

“You’re not a Seer,” Harry said gently, almost as if he were apologizing.

 

“No,” Viktor murmured. “None of my family is. Not even distant blood.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I have always known what I see. I trust my eyes, my instincts. But this…” His lips tightened. “This is not mine to understand. Not something I chose.”

 

His voice didn’t hold accusation. But Harry still flinched.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, quietly.

 

Viktor’s gaze rose again to meet his, sharp and steady. “Do not be.”

 

“But I—”

 

“You did not make the vision happen,” Viktor said, firm now. “And even if you did, I would have still chosen to be here. With you.”

 

Harry stilled. The room felt impossibly small all of a sudden.

 

The Snitch rested between them, glowing faintly under the lamplight. A thing from another time. Another life. Maybe even another Harry. And Viktor, who should’ve had nothing to do with it, sat across from him looking like someone who had stepped too close to a line he didn’t even know existed.

 

Harry didn’t know what to do with the weight of it all.

 

So he reached for Viktor’s hand—still warm from clutching the Snitch—and held it in both of his.

 

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

 

But something passed between them then. A quiet understanding. A tether. A thread pulling one life into the orbit of another, without reason, without map, without explanation.

 

Only truth.

 

“What about you?” Viktor asked softly, after a pause. “The theory you and your friends discovered?”

 

Harry’s eyes dropped to their joined hands, thumbs brushing lightly over the ridge of Viktor’s knuckles. He hesitated.

 

The air felt denser now, thick with the things left unsaid. And truth—once spoken—had a way of taking shape, of becoming too solid to ignore. Harry knew that. Knew that if he said it aloud, if he gave the theory voice, it would stop being some far-off idea Fred and George tossed out like a joke, and instead become something… real.

 

Something terrifying.

 

His breath caught.

 

“I…” he started, then stopped. His throat tightened. He hadn’t realized how afraid he was—of being wrong, of being right, of dragging Viktor even deeper into something he never asked for.

 

But Viktor was there. Still here.

 

Still holding his hand like it was something worth anchoring to.

 

Harry nodded to himself, a quiet, subtle gesture, as if convincing not just Viktor—but himself—that it was alright. That he could do this.

 

So he looked up.

 

And he told Viktor.

Notes:

PS:English is NOT my first language so I apologize if I write something that's not aligned with the scene, do comment so I can fix it right away thankyou!

Chapter 11: Hexed

 

"Are you going to participate?" Harry asked suddenly.

 

Viktor looked up, quill pausing mid-line, his expression unreadable for a moment.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Harry didn’t look at him right away. He pressed the nib of his quill against the parchment, leaving a faint dot of ink. “The Tournament,” he said finally. “I meant the Triwizard Tournament.”

 

They were seated at the far end of the library, tucked into one of the quieter corners near the arched window. The table was worn with age, marked with deep scratches and fading ink stains. Outside, the sun had dipped behind a bank of clouds, casting a pale light through the stained glass, painting muted colors across the wooden floor.

 

Viktor set his quill down, carefully, then closed his book with a quiet snap. He leaned back in his chair, the motion slow, thoughtful. The afternoon light caught in his hair, touched the curve of his cheekbone. His expression was calm, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — hesitation, maybe, or the weight of too many expectations.

 

“Karkaroff has been hinting that I should,” he said after a pause. His voice was low, steady. “He hasn’t said it directly, but he doesn’t need to.”

 

Harry nodded faintly, chewing the inside of his cheek. He could imagine it — the pressure, the assumptions that Viktor would step forward, would compete, would win. Because he was Viktor Krum. Because he was already known.

 

"Do you want to?" Harry asked.

 

Viktor shook his head once, but the gesture wasn’t final. It didn’t carry the weight of a true no.

 

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Not yet.”

 

His gaze dropped briefly to the open scroll beside Harry’s elbow. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the soft rustle of turning pages, distant footsteps, and the occasional scrape of a chair being pushed back. It was quiet here — a kind of stillness that made space for thoughts to form properly.

 

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He didn’t know why he had asked. Maybe part of him didn’t want Viktor to say yes. Maybe he didn’t want to watch him get thrown into something dangerous just because others expected it.

 

“You don’t have to,” Harry said quietly, though he wasn’t sure Viktor needed his reassurance.

 

Viktor looked at him then, eyes steady. “I know.”

 

Harry smiled at that — a small, fleeting thing. It didn’t linger on his face for long, but it was genuine, and Viktor caught it.

 

But their peace didn’t last.

 

A voice echoed lightly through the aisle — smug, drawling — followed by the low snickers of boys who never knew when to stop.

 

Both Harry and Viktor looked up, their heads turning toward the far end of the long table, where the hallway of high shelves opened into another row of study desks.

 

Malfoy.

 

Flanked, as always, by Crabbe and Goyle, who seemed to be laughing at something that hadn’t warranted it.

 

Harry groaned inwardly. Not him again.

 

He didn’t say anything, didn’t roll his eyes — he just watched them approach, hoping they’d turn off toward the Charms section and disappear. But they didn’t. And for a moment, Malfoy’s gaze settled — not on Harry, but beyond him.

 

There was a pause. Just the quiet stretch of a breath between them.

 

Harry felt the shift in the air and glanced sideways.

 

Viktor was glaring — not simply annoyed or inconvenienced, but with a sharp, cold edge that Harry had rarely seen in him. His jaw had tensed, and his fingers stilled against the table, no longer flicking absently at the page of his book.

 

 

“Well, well,” Malfoy drawled, lingering near the corner where the shelves met the main table. “Didn’t realize they let just anyone into the library these days. What’s the matter, Potter — finally realized you’ll never pass your exams without foreign assistance?”

 

Harry felt Viktor stiffen beside him. The shift was subtle — a pause in his breathing, the faintest tightening of his jaw — but it was there. Harry didn’t look at him. He was too focused on Malfoy’s voice, every word carefully shaped, practiced, and poisonous.

 

“You always did have a thing for strays,” Malfoy continued. “First the blood traitor, then the Mudblood, now—what is he? Bulgarian? Or just another poor soul you’ve dragged into your mess?”

 

Crabbe gave a low chuckle. Goyle guffawed a second too late.

 

Harry said nothing. He knew that tone too well — the lazy smirk behind every word, the way Malfoy pretended it was all in good fun when it was anything but. His fingers curled slightly beneath the table, nails pressing into his palm.

 

Malfoy’s eyes drifted over Viktor now, not even trying to hide his scrutiny. “Though I suppose you’ve upgraded. Must be nice to have someone do the heavy lifting for you. Tell me, Krum — is that part of the deal? Do Potter’s essays come free with the… company?”

 

Viktor stood.

 

Slow, deliberate. The scrape of his chair wasn’t loud, but it was final.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

 

Malfoy’s smirk twitched. Briefly.

 

“Easy,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “You’d think I insulted your boyfriend.”

 

His eyes dropped — flicking briefly to Harry’s chest, to the outline of the pendant beneath his shirt. His smile sharpened.

 

“Oh. Right,” he murmured. “Still wearing that thing, are you? Must be sentimental. Though I can’t imagine why. Stolen goods don’t usually suit you.”

 

Harry’s hand moved, almost involuntarily, to where the pendant rested beneath the fabric — warm from his skin, solid beneath his fingers. The memory of Malfoy trying to rip it from him not so long ago flashed behind his eyes. Harry’s jaw tightened.

 

Viktor took a step forward.

 

And Malfoy stepped back.

 

It was small, almost imperceptible. But Harry saw it. Malfoy’s heel brushed the edge of the carpet runner, his shoulders tensing just slightly.

 

“You’re touchier than I thought,” Malfoy muttered, voice quieter now. “All that muscle — for what? A necklace?”

 

Harry’s hand moved instinctively to his collar, brushing the chain.

 

That was when Viktor raised his wand.

 

There was no warning. No spell uttered aloud. Just a flick of his wrist — clean, controlled — and a pulse of invisible force struck Malfoy square in the chest.

 

Malfoy was flung backward as if jerked by strings, his body hitting the edge of a bookshelf with a thud that echoed through the aisle. Several books toppled from the shelf above him, spilling across the floor in a slow, dusty cascade.

 

Crabbe and Goyle froze. So did Harry.

 

Malfoy slid down against the shelf, landing in an unceremonious sprawl. He looked stunned. Not hurt — not badly — but rattled.

 

He stared at Viktor, wide-eyed.

 

“You lunatic—” Malfoy started, pushing himself upright, brushing dust from his robes with jerky hands. “You absolute—”

 

“Leave,” Viktor said quietly.

 

Malfoy didn’t answer. His face burned with a furious pink — half outrage, half humiliation. He looked toward Harry once, eyes flashing with something unreadable. Then he turned, muttering under his breath as he stalked away.

 

Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after him.

 

Silence fell again. Madam Pince, though clearly alerted by the noise, didn’t approach. Perhaps even she had learned to let certain things go.

 

But that did not mean the other students didn’t notice.

 

The silence didn’t last. Not in a room full of watchful eyes.

 

Chairs scraped faintly across the stone floor. Books were no longer being read. Eyes lifted from pages and peered past the shelves, toward the far end where it had happened — where the bookshelf stood crooked, tilted back as if recoiling from the impact, half a dozen hardbound volumes lying open on the floor like the stunned aftermath of a fall.

 

They whispered. Not all at once, and not loudly, but enough that the air changed. Words slid between rows of study tables. “Did you see that?” “Was that—?” “That was Malfoy, wasn’t it?” “He flew—no, I swear, he actually—”

 

Their voices didn’t rise above a murmur. But it was the kind that travelled anyway.

 

Some were still frozen in place, their quills suspended in the air mid-sentence. Others had turned fully in their seats, no longer pretending to read. A fourth-year Hufflepuff stood near the end of a row, hand clenched around a History of Magic textbook she hadn’t realized she was holding tight to her chest.

 

Her eyes were locked on Viktor.

 

They all were.

 

He hadn’t moved.

 

His arm was back at his side, wand lowered, but the way he sat was almost statuesque — unmoved by the hush that had followed, unbothered by the eyes trained on him. The only thing that betrayed him was the tension along his jaw, the sharpness of his gaze still fixed on the dark hallway of shelves Malfoy had vanished into. It hadn’t softened, hadn’t blinked.

 

 

Notes:

PS: sorry for th short chapter! I've been busy this week

Chapter 12: We found him

Notes:

Sorry for the long update!

“Just what were you thinking!” Karkaroff roared, his voice reverberating off the paneled walls like a clap of thunder. The sound seemed too large for the narrow room, shaking the glass of the oil lamp on his desk and startling a raven perched outside the round porthole window.

 

Viktor stood still — impassive, unreadable — in the center of the room. He did not flinch, did not rise to match the headmaster’s fury. He simply kept his hands at his sides, posture rigid but unthreatening, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Karkaroff’s shoulder. As though weathering a storm he had already anticipated.

 

The door slammed shut behind him earlier, but it hadn’t stayed shut for long.

 

“Mr. Potter, I said leave!” Karkaroff barked again, his voice pitching higher as Harry strode into the room with a look that didn’t belong to a fourteen-year-old — too sharp, too storm-dark, his jaw set with the kind of stubbornness that once made McGonagall go quiet and Dumbledore arch an eyebrow in interest.

 

Harry didn’t pause at the threshold. He didn’t ask to enter. He didn’t knock. He marched in — shoulders squared, feet steady, anger burning quietly beneath his skin like a fuse that hadn’t yet reached the dynamite. His eyes locked onto Karkaroff the moment he saw him, not with fear, but with defiance.

 

It caught Karkaroff off guard. That much was clear.

 

The man straightened behind his desk, visibly thrown by Harry’s presence — by the sheer audacity of it — as if he’d expected the boy to wait obediently outside like some stray dog Viktor had left behind. But Harry wasn’t waiting. And he wasn’t obedient.

 

“I said leave, Potter!” Karkaroff repeated, louder this time, jabbing a finger toward the door, his pale hand trembling with outrage.

 

But Harry didn’t move.

 

He didn’t even blink.

 

Instead, he shifted his stance just slightly, his fingers curling at his side as though testing the air — twitching once against his thigh before drifting toward the hem of his jumper. Not reaching for his wand yet—correction, Viktors wand, not fully. But close. Just close enough.

 

And Karkaroff saw it.

 

The way Harry flexed his hand — slow, deliberate, like a warning, like he was one breath away from drawing that wand and cursing the man through every wall of this cursed ship and out into the Black Lake. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The threat hung in the air like static, humming between the floorboards.

 

It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

 

Viktor said nothing. He didn’t stop him. He didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed set in their soldier-straight line, but something in his posture had changed. The muscles beneath his robes coiled slightly, his jaw tightening in quiet restraint.

 

He had told Harry to stay. Had looked him in the eye outside the cabin door and said, “Let me handle it.” And Harry had promised nothing. Not because he wanted to disobey, but because he knew himself.

 

Viktor should have known too.

 

“I am not here to hear you yell at him,” Harry said, finally — low, even, but sharp as splinters. His voice cut across the space with a calm that startled even himself. “You weren't there. You don’t know what happened.”

 

Karkaroff opened his mouth again, but Harry beat him to it, his tone rising now — just a notch, just enough to make the windows rattle behind them. “He didn’t start it. And if anyone else had stepped in sooner, Malfoy wouldn’t have left with teeth still in his mouth.”

 

Viktor exhaled quietly through his nose. Not amusement. Not approval. Just the trace of a breath he'd been holding in case things turned worse.

 

Harry took one more step forward. “So unless you want me to start yelling back, you’re going to calm down, and you’re going to listen to his side of the story before jumping into conclusions!"

 

Karkaroff glared at Harry. And Harry — with the kind of calm only fury could bring — glared right back.

 

Neither of them blinked. Neither of them flinched.

 

There was something stubborn in the way Harry held himself, chin tilted ever so slightly upward, the green of his eyes sharpened by the tension simmering beneath his skin. He wasn’t just standing his ground. He was making it clear that he belonged here, whether Karkaroff liked it or not.

 

Viktor sighed — long, drawn out, as if the very air in his lungs had turned heavy with the weight of it all. Then, wordlessly, he lifted Harry’s wand. His movements were practiced, quiet. A slow flick, a swirl — and a chair materialized at his side, legs scraping gently against the wooden floor.

 

Harry took the seat without a word, his hand brushing the fabric of his trousers as he settled in, legs planted firm, back straight. Then Viktor followed, his posture more tired than tense — but no less unwavering.

 

Together, they turned toward Karkaroff, a silent wall of defiance and steel, one forged from whatever passed between them when no one was looking. Karkaroff huffed, his nose flaring, his shoulders stiff with barely contained irritation. For a long moment, he simply stood there, as if hoping his glare alone could undo the moment.

 

It didn’t.

 

With a sneer curling faintly at the edge of his lips, he dropped into his chair like the weight of sitting was a concession in itself. “Very well,” he said, voice strained through gritted teeth. “Explain.”

 

And so, Viktor did.

 

His words were measured — not cold, but clipped, like he was forcing himself to recount something he already knew would be twisted or dismissed. He told him how they had been at the library. That they hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Just two boys — or whatever they were — simply existing in a sliver of peace neither of them got very often. There had been nothing suspicious. No rule-breaking. No provocation.

 

Until Malfoy.

 

Viktor's voice tightened almost imperceptibly as he recounted it: how Malfoy had stormed in with his usual entourage, all smirks and spit-polished shoes, his mouth full of poison and a name — Harry's name — like it was something filthy he needed to scrub out of the air. Slurs dressed up as sarcasm. Sneers masked as schoolboy arrogance.

 

Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly as he continued. He didn’t need to say how fast his blood had started boiling. He didn’t need to explain the feeling — that rising pressure in his chest when someone like Malfoy thought they could speak to Harry like that and walk away untouched.

 

“I hexed him,” Viktor finished simply, his tone unrepentant.

 

The words settled into the room like lead.

 

No embellishment. No apology.

 

Just the truth, laid bare between them.

 

“So you’re confessing to assaulting a fellow student, then,” Karkaroff said, voice clipped, more triumphant than disappointed, as if he'd been waiting for Viktor to slip, just once, to give him the satisfaction of confirmation.

 

A heavy silence followed, the kind that seems to press against the ribs. Viktor didn’t look ashamed. He didn’t even blink. He just looked ahead, his expression unreadable—but there was something in the way he sat now, straighter, jaw slightly tensed, as if the effort to stay calm had worn thin.

 

Karkaroff exhaled—a long, theatrical sigh—and leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning faintly under his weight. “Viktor,” he began, almost sorrowfully, “you are one of the most brilliant students Durmstrang has ever produced. A prodigy. Controlled. Consistent. Until—”

 

He let the word dangle in the air like a knife suspended above them, then turned his head deliberately, gaze falling squarely on Harry.

 

Harry’s glare was immediate, fierce and unrelenting. His magic prickled under his skin, responding instinctively to the insult not even fully spoken. His hands tightened against his thighs, and for the briefest second, he flexed his fingers—not toward his own wand, which rested out of reach, but toward Viktor’s. The one Viktor still held, casually twirling between his knuckles like it belonged to him. And it had, for a moment. They had exchanged wands. Trusted each other. Magic passed hands.

 

And now, Harry would’ve given anything to snatch it back and set fire to Karkaroff’s perfectly groomed hair.

 

He imagined the flame curling at the roots, the way the man might scream, might try to extinguish it with his pompous hands. He didn’t even care if it was overkill. He was tired. Of being a name on everyone’s lips. Of being the excuse. Of being the boy everyone pointed at when things started going wrong.

 

“I see your.." Karkaroff continued, a condescending drawl in his voice, “associations have begun to tarnish your judgment"

 

Viktor said nothing for a heartbeat.

 

Then, slowly, he tilted his head and raised a brow. It was a subtle movement, but it spoke volumes. He let out a dry, incredulous scoff that seemed to rattle in the air like a warning bell before a storm.

 

“Really, Headmaster?” he said, his voice sharp now. Sharper than Harry had ever heard it. “If you're saying that me being with Harry is ruining my image—or yours—then I do not care.”

 

And just like that, the dam broke.

 

He shifted into Bulgarian without hesitation, the words bursting out of him with a speed and clarity that startled even Harry. The sounds were different than the English Viktor usually spoke—rounder, quicker, less careful. This was him unfiltered. His voice rose, not in pitch but in intensity, each word hammering the desk between them with increasing ferocity.

 

Karkaroff replied in the same language, his own voice suddenly harsh and brittle, like cracked glass. The two of them were now locked in a heated exchange, loud and fast, voices overlapping, hands slicing the air. It didn’t sound like a conversation anymore—in syllables he couldn’t understand.

 

Harry didn’t try to follow.

 

He didn’t even pretend. He let their voices fade into background noise and stared instead at the carved edge of the headmaster’s desk, at the way Viktor’s grip on his wand had tightened without realizing—Harrys wand.

 

Karkaroff’s voice cracked over Viktor’s like a whip.

 

But Viktor didn’t flinch.

 

Harry leaned back slightly in his conjured chair, letting the anger settle inside him like embers under his skin. He didn’t need to scream. Viktor was doing enough of that for the both of them. He just had to sit here. And be seen. And not vanish under someone else’s shame.

 

He could feel Viktor’s heat beside him—radiating off him like a living flame.

 

And he thought, Let them talk. I’m not going anywhere.

 

←----------<[•]>------------→

 

 

By the time the conversation—if one could even call it that—had ended, they’d left the tension of the room behind and walked in silence, side by side, through the soft hush of the lakefront. The afternoon sun had mellowed into something golden and warm, spilling over the surface of the water in slow-moving ribbons. A quiet breeze drifted in from across the Black Lake, and it carried with it the distant sounds of laughter, the rustling of cloaks, footsteps that never came too close. A few students lingered, from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang alike, their voices muffled by distance and the wind. None of them mattered.

 

Harry and Viktor walked until they reached the willow tree—their tree now, in the way that something becomes yours once it holds a memory. Without a word, they settled into the grass beneath it. The branches swayed gently above them, curtain-like, shielding them from the rest of the world.

 

Harry leaned his head against Viktor’s shoulder, not for the first time, but with the same quiet urgency as always. As if his bones didn’t quite know how to rest unless they were pressed against someone who wouldn’t flinch. Viktor didn’t move. He simply shifted just enough to let Harry settle into the space between his neck and shoulder, and that was enough.

 

Harry reached for the snitch pendant that still hung from his neck—still cool from the wind, still glinting in the light—and let it swing between his fingers. The golden surface shimmered like water, soft and warm and strange. The words etched onto it had never faded: I open at the close.

 

He let it rest on his palm and stared at it, his voice soft and uncertain when he finally spoke.

“What do you think it means?”

 

Viktor was quiet for a while. He tilted his head slightly, feeling Harry breathe beside him, and hummed low in his throat

 

“Maybe it means the Snitch only opens when you’re ready to die,” Viktor said, voice low. “Like… when you stop fighting and accept the end, that’s when you understand what really matters — not winning, not power, but the people you love and the things you leave behind.”

 

Harry turned his head slightly, eyebrows raised as he looked at Viktor like he’d just uttered poetry instead of a theory about death. “Where in bloody hell did that come from?” he asked, a chuckle breaking through the tension like sunlight through mist.

 

Viktor gave a short laugh too — one that didn’t quite reach his eyes — before sighing and dipping forward, pressing his face into the untamed thicket of Harry’s hair. He breathed in like he needed the scent of it to anchor himself, like the world beyond this conversation had suddenly shifted beneath him.

 

“My mother is…” he began, but the words came out half-formed, brittle. His voice faltered at the edges.

 

Harry caught the hesitation. He shifted fully, folding his legs beneath him and scooting closer on the ground, until he was kneeling in front of Viktor. Without a word, he took Viktor’s hands — gently, reverently — as if to say you can tell me. “Yes?” he asked, brows lifted, gaze locked.

 

Viktor let out a breath, slow and resigned. “A necromancer.”

 

Harry tilted his head, confused. “What’s that?”

 

Viktor blinked at him, surprised. “Right… you don’t know?” No judgment, just curiosity. A sort of stunned pause, like someone realizing for the first time just how far removed Harry had been kept from certain parts of their world.

 

Harry shook his head, wide-eyed and waiting. He looked… soft. Like someone who wanted to understand, not because he had to, but because you mattered.

 

Something in Viktor shifted. His voice, when he spoke again, was calmer. Lower. More deliberate. He slipped into something like lecture-mode — the way someone speaks when they've rehearsed the truth in private for so long they’ve forgotten what it’s like to say it out loud to someone who listens.

 

“It’s ancient magic,” Viktor began, fingers still wrapped in Harry’s. “Older than most schools will admit. Necromancy is the practice of communicating with the dead. But it doesn’t stop there — not always. In its truest form, it’s about the thin places. The places where life and death blur. Where souls don’t fully leave, or aren’t allowed to.”

 

He paused.

 

“Most people think it’s about power over death,” he continued. “But that’s not entirely true. Real necromancy isn’t about control — it’s about communion. Listening. Remembering. It’s about never letting go of the past, no matter how loud the world tells you to move on.”

 

Harry didn’t speak, but something in his face changed. Something pained. Familiar.

 

Viktor noticed. Still, he kept going.

 

“It’s passed down, usually. Blood magic. Quietly taught, generation after generation. In secret. Because officially, it’s forbidden. Outlawed. The Ministry calls it Dark. And sometimes it is — it can be. When twisted, when used for greed or vengeance, it becomes monstrous. But in its original form…”

 

He looked at Harry then, really looked.

 

“In its original form, it’s a kind of grief. Refined into ritual. It’s not about raising armies of the dead like in stories. It’s about sitting in a room and asking for answers from someone who’s gone. It’s about not letting death be the final word.”

 

Harry’s grip tightened, fingers threading more securely into Viktor’s. His voice was soft now. “And your family?”

 

Viktor gave a quiet nod. “My mother comes from a long line of necromancers in the north. Bulgaria, Romania, bits of the old empires. She taught me everything she knew, but told me never to speak of it. Not unless I was certain the person I told wouldn’t turn me in. Wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t call me a monster.”

 

Harry stared at him, heart pounding. “Why are you telling me?”

 

Viktor blinked slowly, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “Because you didn’t flinch when I said it. You didn’t look away.”

 

Harry’s face burned. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

 

"My mother..." Viktor began, slowly, as if each word were something he had to coax from the back of his throat, gently, without scaring it away. “She used to read to me when I couldn’t sleep. Not fairytales with happy endings, but the old stories, the ones that left your chest aching long after the words had ended. The Tales of Beedle the Bard was her favorite. She used to say there was truth in those pages, if you knew how to look for it.”

 

He paused, glancing down at his hands as he turned one over like it might contain the right phrasing. Then, with a quiet steadiness, he spoke again. “There’s this line... it stayed with me. ‘And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.’” He recited it slowly, reverently, like a hymn. The air seemed to still around them.

 

"I thought about it when I saw the Snitch in your hand. What it said—‘I open at the close.’ And I thought… maybe it means the Snitch doesn’t open when you want it to. Not when you demand it or try to force it. But when you stop fighting. When you’re no longer afraid. When you’ve made peace with the end, whatever that looks like for you. Maybe that’s when it opens—not because you’re ready to die, exactly, but because you understand that death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you."

 

Viktor glanced sideways at Harry, as if checking to see whether he was following, whether he should stop. But Harry only listened, eyes wide, quiet, thoughtful in a way that made Viktor feel braver.

 

“It’s not really about the end,” Viktor continued softly, “not entirely. It’s about knowing what matters when everything else has fallen away. Not glory. Not power. Not victory. Just the people you love. And the things you leave behind for them. The memories, the kindness, the ways you were there when it counted. Maybe the Snitch only opens when you finally see that. When you accept the truth of it, without bitterness or fear.”

 

He drew a slow breath, and something about it seemed older than he was, like the weight of a hundred quiet nights had settled in his lungs. “My mother used to say some magics only respond to honesty. Not the kind you tell others, but the kind you tell yourself when you’re finally done lying to survive.”

 

Then, almost apologetically, as if embarrassed by his own vulnerability, he added with a faint smile, “I could be wrong. Maybe I’m just sentimental.”

 

Harry didn’t speak for a while. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of understanding, full of the fragile tenderness that comes when someone lets you hold a piece of their truth, and trusts you not to drop it.

 

He let the silence hang. Then, almost sheepishly, with a breath of quiet laughter Viktor said: “But maybe I read too much into things.”

 

But Harry shook his head.

 

“Don’t dwell on dreams so much that you forget to live,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet like a skipped stone on still water.

 

Viktor turned toward him with a low hum, not quite questioning, just… inviting.

 

Harry smiled faintly, a little sheepish, a little unsure of himself. “I think… Dumbledore told me that once. First year, maybe? I don’t remember exactly when, but the words just stuck.”

 

He paused, his gaze dropping to the grass beneath them, eyes tracking some invisible thought. The light had begun to shift—early twilight drawing shadows on the edge of everything.

 

“I guess I relate too much,” he added with a quiet laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “It’s easy, isn’t it? To lose yourself in the what-ifs. What you could’ve done differently. Who you could’ve saved. Who you might’ve been if things were just a little less... heavy.” His voice faltered but didn’t break.

 

He looked back at Viktor, his expression a mixture of tired fondness and the kind of honesty that only comes when the sky is too dim to lie beneath.

 

“But maybe… maybe that’s why the Snitch doesn’t open until the close. Because it’s not about longing for what could’ve been. It’s about choosing to live with what is.”

 

They stayed silent for a little while.

 

Then Viktor shifted slightly beneath him, tightening his arms around Harry's waist in a soft, absentminded kind of hold. “You know one of the things I really like about being with you?” he asked, voice low, almost playful.

 

Harry turned his head slightly against Viktor’s chest. “Hmm?” he mumbled, already blushing, already suspicious of whatever Viktor might say next.

 

Viktor chuckled under his breath, warm and close to his ear. “I mean it,” he said. He placed his hands gently at Harry’s hips and pulled him closer, settling Harry more comfortably into his lap before resting his chin on top of that wild, unruly hair. “You don’t make me feel strange for the things I say. Or the things I carry.”

 

Harry blinked up at him, the flush still there on his cheeks. Viktor’s hands were warm where they held him—firm, but not possessive, like he was holding something delicate he didn’t want to let slip away.

 

“I can talk about things with you… things that might make someone else uncomfortable. And you don’t try to fix it. You just listen.” Viktor’s voice was softer now, thoughtful. “Like when I told you about my mother. You didn’t ask me to stop. You didn’t look at me like it was something horrible. You just nodded. Like it made sense.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything, not right away. He tucked his fingers into the edge of Viktor’s sleeve and toyed with the fabric.

 

“My mother used to tell me,” Viktor went on, slower now, “that someday I’d meet someone who wouldn’t flinch. Someone who wouldn’t see her as dangerous. Just… someone who’d understand.”

 

Harry glanced up, and Viktor smiled faintly at him. Not the charming, Quidditch-star kind of smile, but a quieter one, the kind that reached his eyes.

 

“She told me love would feel like that. Safe. Familiar. Like being known without having to explain yourself all the time.” His thumb rubbed slow circles against Harry’s hip. “That’s what it feels like with you.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say. Not because he didn’t feel anything—but because he felt everything, all at once. It curled up in his chest and sat there quietly, like it belonged.

 

He rested his forehead against Viktor’s collarbone, hiding the way his lips turned up. “You’re really sappy, you know that?”

 

Viktor let out a soft laugh. “Only for you.”

 

Harry didn’t pull away. He liked the way Viktor held him—like he’d been doing it for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be sitting here, legs folded across Viktor’s lap, his heartbeat pressed against someone else’s chest.

 

“You don’t have to say anything back,” Viktor murmured. “I just wanted you to know.”

 

Harry tilted his head just enough to look up at him. “But I want to,” he said. Then, quieter, “I like being with you too. I don’t feel like I have to pretend around you.”

 

Viktor’s eyes softened. He leaned down and kissed Harry’s temple—light and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

 

They didn’t say much after that. They didn’t need to.

 

Viktor’s thumb traced idle patterns on Harry’s side. They didn’t need to talk. Not really. But still, Viktor spoke.

 

“And… thank you,” he murmured, voice so quiet it almost blended into the crackle of the fire. “For earlier. For staying with me. When Karkaroff—”

 

Harry looked up at him before he could finish. “And leave you alone with that swine?” he said with a teasing scoff. “Never.”

 

Viktor chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Harry smiled at the sound. It felt good to make him laugh, even if just a little. The world always seemed too heavy on Viktor’s back, and moments like this—just this softness between them—felt like borrowed light.

 

“Also,” Harry added, wrinkling his nose, “does he ever brush his teeth? Because I swear, I thought I was going to pass out.”

 

Viktor laughed again, properly this time, head tipping back slightly. “He drinks a lot of clove liquor,” he said, amused. “But yes, you’re not the first to mention it.”

 

Harry grinned. “No wonder you wanted me to stay.”

 

“I always want you to stay,” Viktor said quietly, the smile still lingering on his lips but his eyes more serious now.

 

That stole Harry’s breath for a second

 

Then, without thinking—without needing to think—Viktor leaned in. And so did Harry.

 

It was natural, the way they drew toward each other. Like the hush of the lake had wrapped around them, sealing them in a moment so delicate it felt half-dreamt. The leaves of the willow swayed gently above their heads, filtering sunlight in threads of gold and green. Somewhere, far off, the cries and laughter from the castle grounds blurred into quiet, like the world had receded to give them this one breath of stillness.

 

Harry’s breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat, eyes flickering to Viktor’s lips, then back to his eyes. Viktor’s hand brushed his cheek—featherlight, uncertain—as if he too wasn’t sure whether this nearness was real or imagined.

 

And just as their noses nearly brushed—just as the warmth of something fragile, almost tender, began to bloom—

 

A voice cracked through the calm.

 

“Well, well, well,” said one.

 

“Look who’s gotten cozy under the foliage,” said the other.

 

Harry jolted, heart slamming against his ribs, his fingers instinctively clutching Viktor’s forearm like a startled cat. Viktor, reacting in a heartbeat, shifted protectively, one arm circling Harry’s waist, his body half-shielding him as he scanned the shadows around them with the quiet precision of someone who’d learned long ago not to trust peace.

 

And then they saw them.

 

Two unmistakable silhouettes beyond the veil of hanging willow branches, twin shadows backlit by sun and mischief, standing just at the edge of the lake’s slope.

 

Fred and George Weasley.

 

Their arms were crossed. Their grins stretched wide—far too wide. The kind of expression that made Viktor feel, instinctively, that this was not the sort of enemy one could outfly or out-duel. This was chaos in stereo. Mischief incarnate. The devils Harry had warned him about.

 

Harry groaned, dropping his forehead briefly against Viktor’s shoulder. “Of course it’s you.”

 

Fred tilted his head as he pushed a branch aside, stepping into the dappled light beneath the willow. “This the bloke then? Viktor Krum himself?”

 

George followed, a smug tilt to his mouth. “Blimey, he’s taller in person. Must make broomsticks cry under all that muscle.”

 

Harry didn’t lift his head. “I hate both of you.”

 

“No, you don’t,” they chorused, perfectly in sync.

 

Viktor, still half-tensed like they might launch a dungbomb at any moment, blinked at them both. His gaze flicked down to Harry, then up at the identical grinning faces. Slowly, and with an effort toward politeness that seemed to cost him something, he nodded once. “You must be… the twins.”

 

“Twins, legends, devils—depends who you ask,” Fred said with a mock bow.

 

“But we’ll settle for Fred and George,” George added, tossing Harry a wink.

 

Viktor remained silent for a beat too long, debating whether to laugh or lift Harry up and fly off. Instead, he did neither. He gently wrapped an arm a little more snugly around Harry’s waist.

 

The twins then rolled their eyes in unison, as if the romance had physically pained them.

 

Fred raised a hand. “Sorry to break it to you lovebirds, but we’ve got actual news.”

 

Harry lifted his head from Viktor’s shoulder, blinking, still half-lost in the haze of the moment they were almost having. His heartbeat hadn’t yet steadied, and now the twins’ expressions had shifted into something more serious—still grinning, but less playful. Alert.

 

Fred glanced at George, then back at them. “It’s about Carrowen.”

 

Harry sat up straighter, brows furrowing. “What?”

 

The twins looked at each other, and this time, the joke left their faces completely. George’s voice was quieter, lower. “We just found where Hersuil Carrowen was being kept.”

 

For a second, everything went still. The branches of the willow swayed softly in the lake breeze, dappling sunlight over Viktor’s arm where it remained curled around Harry’s waist. But Harry was no longer paying attention to the light or the breeze or even the twins’ presence.

 

His breath hitched.

 

Under his shirt, just against his sternum, something warmed.

 

The Snitch.

 

Subtle at first—like a trick of heat or a sunspot through the cotton. But then, unmistakably, it began to glow. A soft, pulsing gold, like it had been stirred by the very name spoken aloud.

 

Harry looked down instinctively, pressing a hand over his chest. It glowed faintly through the thin fabric. He felt it. Not just the warmth, but the pull. Like a string had been tugged taut inside him, drawn toward something he couldn’t yet name.

He swallowed. “Where?”

Notes:

I am bad at making history background or idk what it's called but anyway, I hope this is not too difficult to understand, if you do have questions then please comment down below!

Chapter 13: Follow the snitch

Notes:

Sorry for the long update, been busy this coming weeks. I'll probably update weekly,MAYBE, it depends on my schedule really so yeah hope you enjoy this chapter

As they began walking toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the air grew heavier with each step. Questionable as it was, Harry forced himself to trust the twins. Their jokes had faded—something about them felt different now. Sharper. Like they understood what they were walking toward.

 

Viktor didn’t stray from Harry’s side, not even by a hand’s width. His presence was solid, silent, like a shield that moved when Harry moved. His eyes kept scanning the treeline, even though it was only just past noon and the sun still shone. But the Forbidden Forest didn’t need the dark to be dangerous. The trees themselves carried their own kind of dusk.

 

The moment they stepped past the grassy slope where the sunlight still touched the hill, the shadows thickened. The line between the known and the forbidden blurred at the forest’s edge.

 

Just then, against Harry’s chest, the Snitch began to glow again.

 

Subtle at first.

 

Like a heartbeat.

 

Harry slowed.

 

Fred and George were already a few steps ahead but turned back when they noticed.

 

Harry frowned, feeling the warmth increase. It wasn’t just reacting to his skin. It wanted something.

 

His fingers reached beneath his shirt, curling around the golden sphere that had once opened to reveal the Resurrection Stone. But this time, it didn’t click open. It pulsed.

 

“Harry?” Viktor murmured, stepping closer, instinctively protective.

 

But Harry didn’t answer. He brought the Snitch out, holding it gently.

 

The moment it hit the open air, the Snitch began to vibrate in his palm—then in a sudden flash of motion, it tore free and flew.

 

A streak of gold darting ahead of them, past the gnarled roots of the trees.

 

“Bloody hell,” Fred breathed.

 

George stepped beside him, his eyes following the glowing trail with something between awe and fear. “It’s… lighting the way.”

 

And it was.

 

The Snitch didn’t vanish into the trees like a normal Snitch would’ve—it hovered, a little ahead of them, bright and pulsing. Its glow cast long shadows on the forest floor, painting streaks of light across bark and bramble, illuminating the place like a lantern drawn from some other world.

 

Harry stared after it, breath shallow.

 

It reminded him back at the Black Lake when it lit up between him and Viktor rendering them unconscious 

 

He exchanged a glance with Viktor, who gave a small nod, lips pressed thin.

 

Then he looked back at Fred and George, who had gone still. Their usual glibness nowhere to be found.

 

“Lead the way, Chosen One,” Fred whispered, half in jest, half in reverence.

 

Harry took a step forward.

 

And the Snitch moved again, leading them into the woods.

 

Then the Snitch darted.

 

A sudden flicker—quicker than before—like it remembered what it was.

 

It moved with the swiftness only a true Snitch could, zigzagging low through the air, golden wings blurring in the dappled forest light. It caught Harry off guard, but his body reacted before his mind could catch up.

 

Years of instinct surged forward.

 

His feet pounded against the soft, uneven ground. Reflexes honed on a broomstick kicked in, and without thinking, he sprinted.

 

Behind him, he heard Viktor curse softly in Bulgarian and give chase—catching up with the ease of someone who had once been the pride of Durmstrang’s Quidditch team. Viktor moved like a shadow, fast, steady, practiced.

 

And then there was that memory again—odd, almost comforting: the wand in Viktor’s hand.

 

His wand.

 

Harry allowed himself the ghost of a smile, even as his lungs began to sting. The image of Viktor holding his wand, back at the lake, standing beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world—it meant something. It meant something.

 

But there wasn’t time to dwell on it now.

 

He pushed harder.

 

Branches snapped underfoot, the forest thickening around them, but the Snitch was glowing like a comet ahead. It danced around trunks and soared over low thickets, never too far out of reach, always just a little ahead.

 

Viktor was still right behind him—footsteps heavy but unrelenting.

 

And then came another set of hurried footfalls, followed by grumbling.

 

Fred and George.

 

“Merlin, I thought we were done chasing things,” Fred panted, dodging a low branch.

 

“You were done, I was semi-retired,” George muttered, breathless but keeping pace. “But I didn’t sign up for a bloody seeker bootcamp!”

 

They were fast, no question, but not Quidditch-fast—not Harry-fast.

 

And not Viktor-fast.

 

Still, they kept up, even if their breaths were now coming in laboured wheezes.

 

Harry’s legs burned. His trainers slid slightly on damp leaves, and once he narrowly missed a root that jutted out of the earth like a trap. But he didn’t stop.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Because even as the Snitch raced ahead, there was something in him that told him it wasn’t running away—it was leading him.

 

And somewhere deep inside, Harry Potter—the boy who had once survived on scraps of food and adrenaline, the boy who had learned to run from Dudley before he ever learned to fly—was suddenly grateful.

 

Grateful for the thud of feet behind him.

 

Grateful for the ache in his legs and the wind in his hair.

 

And strangely, grateful to Dudley Dursley.

 

To every cruel game. Every chase. Every version of "Harry Hunting."

 

Because it had made this easier.

 

It had made him faster.

 

And right now, fast was the only way forward.

 

 

They finally broke through the last line of trees and into a clearing.

 

Sunlight streamed down in columns between the gaps in the canopy, dappling the ground in gold. But the Snitch—nowhere. Not a single gleam of gold, not a trace of its wingbeats. It had vanished.

 

Harry stopped in his tracks, scanning the air, brows furrowed. He turned in a slow circle, wand already out, half expecting something—anything—to leap from the trees. But the clearing was still. Eerily still.

 

Behind him, Fred and George stumbled in, both flushed and breathless, and promptly collapsed against the trunk of a thick old tree, panting like dogs on a summer day.

 

"You said you knew where Hersuil was," Harry said, breath still sharp, turning toward them. “Why take us to the Forbidden Forest?”

 

Fred gave a weak, derisive snort. “Idiot.”

 

George groaned, rubbing his temple, clearly not in the mood for another of Fred’s dramatics. He straightened slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve been asking around.”

 

“Discreetly, I might add,” Fred chipped in, one finger lazily raised like he was marking a footnote.

 

George didn’t miss a beat. “And Luna Lovegood—third year, Ravenclaw, always barefoot—she overheard us asking Hannah Abbott if she knew anything about Carroween.”

 

Fred nodded solemnly, as if this were a matter of grave intelligence. “And then—bam. Luna appears out of thin air, like some sort of pastel spectre.”

 

George rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness there. “She grabs us both by the wrist and drags us aside. Tells us she might know something. Said to meet her here at the edge of the forest.”

 

Fred coughed. “Didn’t expect the Snitch to go all guide-dog on us and lead us deeper in, though.”

 

George let out a breath. “Far deeper than we planned. And that was before it started glowing like it’d swallowed a Patronus.”

 

Harry's jaw tightened. His heart was still racing—not just from the sprint, but from something heavier, less definable. Hersuil. Carroween. Luna Lovegood. A glowing Snitch acting like it had a mind of its own.

 

None of this made sense.

 

He turned slightly, eyes sweeping the tree line once more.

 

Viktor stood off to the side, wand in hand, breathing steady. He hadn’t said a word since they entered the clearing. Just watched. Waited. Silent and composed in the way only Durmstrang taught its sons to be.

 

But Viktor’s gaze wasn’t on Harry. Nor was it on Fred or George.

 

His eyes were fixed far off—just past the edge of the trees, beyond the clearing, where the dense green gave way to a pale flicker of movement. Harry followed his line of sight, his breath catching.

 

A girl stood there, quiet as the light, half-shrouded in shadows. She looked about third year—slim frame, dirty trainers, and hair like moonlight. Long, loose, and almost too bright for the forest around her. Her eyes, wide and distant, seemed unfocused, like she was staring at something only she could see. But even from here, Harry recognized that look. Dreamy. As if she had drifted out of a storybook by mistake.

 

“Luna!” the twins shouted in unison, the pent-up energy in them exploding all at once. Fred shot upright like he’d been hit with a Reviving Charm, while George nearly tripped over a root as they both tore across the clearing, arms flailing, voices bright with a kind of relieved amusement.

 

“Oi! You lunatic!” Fred barked fondly, reaching her first.

 

“We thought you’d ghosted us!” George added, slightly breathless.

 

Luna blinked as they approached, completely unbothered. Her expression didn’t change—only the faintest hint of a smile appeared, like a ripple in still water.

 

“I didn’t ghost you,” she said serenely, brushing a leaf from her shoulder. “I was waiting. The trees don’t like to be rushed.”

 

Harry watched them, momentarily stunned. It was like Luna had simply appeared—one moment there had been nothing but green and sun-speckled silence, and the next, she was standing like she’d always belonged to the forest.

 

As Fred and George launched into rapid, half-joking complaints—something about nearly being eaten by a thestral and possibly cursed by moss—Harry stepped forward slowly, uneasy.

 

Something about the air had shifted again. It wasn’t just Luna’s sudden arrival.

 

It was her eyes.

 

Though they were as misty as ever, she wasn’t staring off into the clouds like she usually did. This time, she was looking directly at him. Like she knew something. Like she saw something.

 

And that made Harry’s stomach twist.

 

Luna took a step forward.

 

It was slow, almost hesitant—like she was walking on a surface only she could see. But it was enough to make Viktor shift beside Harry, his wand hand twitching slightly as he stepped in line with him. Not aggressively. Just… ready.

 

Protective.

 

Harry glanced sideways at him and couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at his mouth. Really? She’s a third-year girl. What could Luna possibly do? Viktor, however, didn’t seem to share that logic. His sharp, unreadable eyes never left her.

 

Luna, for her part, didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, she looked vaguely delighted by Viktor’s suspicion—like it confirmed something for her.

 

“Well then,” said Fred, his voice full of mischief.

 

“Meet our friend Luna,” said George.

 

They exchanged a look and grinned wider, clearly proud of the introduction.

 

Harry nodded, still feeling the slight weight of tension in the air. “Hello,” he said softly.

 

Luna didn’t respond right away.

 

She simply stared at him. Not the usual unfocused, far-off stare she was known for. No, this was something else. It wasn’t passive or distracted—it was sharp, searching, her blue-grey eyes drilling into his like she was reading lines beneath his skin.

 

Harry’s smile faltered just slightly under the intensity of it.

 

Then Luna tilted her head.

 

“He looks for you,” she said, in a whisper so soft it might have been mistaken for wind. Her voice floated around them, strange and faint like it didn’t belong entirely to the moment.

 

Everything paused.

 

Fred and George went still.

 

Even Viktor blinked.

 

Harry felt something in his chest go cold. Not fear—just a kind of knowing that curled in the pit of his stomach and didn’t have a name.

 

“What do you mean, Moon?” Fred asked gently, his voice softer now as he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

 

Luna didn’t move. Didn’t look at Fred. Her gaze remained on Harry.

 

Her smile had vanished.

 

“He looks for you,” Luna said again.

 

There wasn’t a change in her tone. No shift in her posture. She simply repeated herself like she hadn’t really spoken the first time. As if her words weren’t for everyone—just for Harry. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stayed on him. She didn’t blink once. She didn’t flinch when Viktor instinctively took a small step forward, closer to Harry’s side, as though Luna might do something more than speak.

 

Harry let out a breath and shook his head once, almost fondly. “It’s alright,” he murmured to Viktor. “She’s harmless.”

 

Viktor didn’t move. His eyes stayed on Luna, like he didn’t entirely believe him.

 

Luna smiled faintly. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it wasn’t empty, either. It was like she’d smiled out of habit, the way one might smile at a quiet thought that no one else would understand.

 

“She’s harmless,” Harry repeated under his breath, this time more for himself.

 

Fred and George were still behind her, each leaning slightly around her shoulder, watching the interaction unfold. They didn’t seem too concerned. If anything, they looked amused. Maybe they were used to Luna saying things like this—cryptic, half-sensical things that no one really knew how to respond to.

 

Fred finally placed a hand gently on Luna’s shoulder. “What do you mean, Moon?” he asked, his voice careful, but not mocking.

 

Luna didn’t move her gaze from Harry. “Waiting,” she said. Then, with that same distant tone: “The Snitch will show you where.”

 

Harry blinked.

 

“The Snitch?” he echoed, but Luna had already turned.

 

She reached for the twins like it had all been rehearsed, like she hadn’t just said something strange and heavy. Her fingers curled around their arms. “Why don’t you two show me those pranks you promised?” she said. “The Nargles are rather annoying.”

 

Neither twin asked what Nargles had to do with anything. George raised an eyebrow at Harry, but there was no message behind it, just quiet curiosity. Fred shrugged, and they let themselves be pulled along without protest. She dragged them toward the edge of the trees and they followed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just left them all in stunned silence.

 

Within a few seconds, they were gone—disappeared through the trees, not a single footstep echoing back.

 

Harry stared after them.

 

He felt like he’d just stepped out of a room mid-conversation and forgotten what they were even talking about.

 

“What the hell was that?” he said, finally.

 

Viktor shook his head slowly. “You know her?”

 

“Sort of. Not really.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s in Ginny’s year. Ravenclaw. She says odd things sometimes.”

 

Viktor didn’t respond.

 

Harry could feel his pulse in his throat. The words Luna said clung to the back of his mind—not urgent, not loud, but there, like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong but also couldn’t be thrown away.

 

“She said the Snitch would show me where,” he said after a beat. “I don’t even know what that means.”

 

He glanced at Viktor, expecting some skeptical comment, but Viktor was staring just past him. His eyes narrowed.

 

Harry turned.

 

At first, he didn’t see anything.

 

Then, right between two slender trees, something shimmered.

 

It looked like a trick of light—like the sun had caught a bit of spider silk. But it moved. Slowly, steadily. Floating. Its wings stirred the air so softly Harry didn’t hear it. It wasn’t darting or weaving, just hovering.

A soft glow surrounded it, pale and warm.

 

The Snitch.

 

The snitch hovered above their heads, its wings glinting faintly even in the muted light under the forest canopy. It circled once, as if recalibrating its course, then began to float forward — not with the speed it had earlier, but slower, more deliberate, like it wanted to be followed.

 

Harry exchanged a glance with Viktor, whose grip on his wand tightened slightly. Together, they moved, trailing the flickering golden orb as it darted gently between the trunks. The deeper they walked, the cooler the air became. Sunlight filtered only in shards now, fragmented by branches that laced over them like skeletal fingers. Leaves crunched under their feet, and the further in they went, the quieter the world grew — the kind of quiet that made Harry’s skin prickle.

 

He wasn’t sure how long they walked. Five minutes? Ten? The snitch glided like it knew exactly where it was going, weaving between tree limbs, dipping low only to rise again, staying just within reach but never quite letting them catch it. They kept pace without speaking, their eyes alert. Harry’s heart beat with a steady, low thrum in his ears — not out of fear, not exactly. Something about this felt intended.

 

Then — a snap.

 

A sharp crack of wood underfoot, not far behind.

 

Harry froze. His spine straightened. He turned instinctively, just as something collided with his back. A jolt of fear punched through his ribs — until he saw Viktor behind him, hand firm on his arm, wand already drawn and aimed somewhere over Harry’s shoulder.

 

Harry’s own wand was in his hand before he realized he’d reached for it.

 

A pause. Breathless. Nothing moved.

 

Then — another sound, closer this time. A shuffle, low to the ground, deliberate. A branch parted.

 

They turned, back to back now, both of them tense and scanning. The snitch had stopped just ahead, hovering like a sentinel. Its glow reflected faintly in Viktor’s eyes.

 

A second later, a spell hissed through the air — a flash of red. Viktor reacted instantly, shielding with a quick slash of his wand. The spell struck his charm and shattered against a tree to their left, searing bark and spitting sparks. Smoke curled upward.

 

They held position, scanning the trees. The air smelled faintly of burned wood. No more spells came — but now there were definite footsteps. Measured. Close. Someone was coming.

 

Harry’s breath came quiet, shallow. There was something calculated in the way whoever it was moved — not attacking, not hiding, but approaching. Like this had all been intentional. Like the snitch hadn’t just led them through the forest — it had delivered them here.

 

Viktor adjusted his stance slightly, angling his body to shield Harry. “If I say run,” he muttered, “you run.”

 

“I’m not running.”

 

Footsteps again.

 

Then — a shadow detached itself from the trees.

 

One figure. A hood over the head, robes long and dark, brushing the ground. They stepped slowly into the light cast by the snitch, who now hovered motionless between them — not alarmed, not escaping. Just watching.

 

Harry gripped his wand tighter, the tip beginning to glow. Viktor’s breath was steady beside him.

 

The figure stopped three paces away. Not attacking. Just standing.

 

And then, quietly — it spoke.

 

“You came.”

Chapter 14: Amulet

“You came,” the man said, his voice so soft it seemed to pulse in the air, reverberating between the trees as if they were holding their breath too.

 

Harry’s throat went dry. The words felt too familiar, like something forgotten, slipping from the corners of his mind, just out of reach. The man’s hood cast a shadow over his face, but the few slivers of light that escaped the dying sunlight caught on his lips — full, curved, and stretching into a smirk that didn't belong to a person.

 

A shape that shouldn't have been in the forest.

 

The air around them seemed to still, the rustle of leaves suddenly silent, the world narrowing to just the three of them — the man, Viktor, and Harry. Time itself seemed to slow, dragging its feet as though unwilling to go any further.

 

Viktor’s stance shifted imperceptibly — a slight movement of his feet, the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. He was on edge, but his eyes never left the figure, calculating, always assessing.

 

“Who are you?” Viktor’s voice cut through the tension, firm, clear, a demand. Harry stood silent beside him, trying to make sense of the unsettling presence.

 

The man tilted his head slightly, and for a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw the barest glimmer of a shadow dart across his face. Perhaps it was just the low sun catching the curve of the hood, or maybe it was something else, but it made Harry’s skin prickle in a way that he couldn’t explain.

 

He opened his mouth to answer, but there was something about the way he did it that sent a chill down Harry’s spine. The voice that followed wasn’t loud — it was too smooth for that, too calculated.

 

“Is it not I you were looking for?” he asked, his words slow, deliberate. They weren’t directed at Viktor — they were aimed squarely at Harry.

 

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood at attention, a shiver running down his spine. It was almost as if the man had known they were coming — as though he’d been waiting, anticipating their arrival.

 

The figure took a slow step forward, the movement predatory, languid, the way a wolf might circle its prey. He didn’t just look at Harry; he studied him, appraising him in a way that was far too intimate for comfort.

 

Viktor didn’t move at first, but Harry could feel him tense beside him, every muscle coiled, every instinct sharpened. And before Harry could react, Viktor’s hand was already on his arm, gently pulling him back, positioning himself between Harry and the stranger.

 

Harry’s mind raced. This was too much. Too wrong. Everything about the situation made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

 

But Harry didn’t want Viktor to shield him. Not now. Not when he needed answers.

 

He gripped Viktor’s hand, squeezing it, grounding himself. The pressure was barely there, a silent plea.

 

Viktor’s gaze flickered down, meeting Harry’s. For a moment, there was something almost unreadable in his eyes. Then, wordlessly, Viktor let go of his arm, stepping back just enough to allow Harry the space to move forward, to face the stranger head-on.

 

Harry’s pulse raced in his chest, but he forced himself to take a step forward. He raised his chin, meeting the figure’s invisible gaze, trying to steady his nerves.

 

“Are you Hersuil?” Harry asked, his voice quieter than he’d intended, but still firm. The words left his mouth, and even he could tell they hung heavier than any question he’d asked before. There was a weight to them, something that felt irrevocable.

 

The man didn’t answer immediately.

 

For a moment, everything was still. The forest, the air, the world around them — everything seemed to hold its breath as the figure regarded Harry with that slow, knowing smile. It was a smile that didn’t belong on a person’s face, something too sharp, too predatory, too cold. The teeth that peeked from behind his lips gleamed like the edge of a blade.

 

And then, just like that, the smile grew.

 

He didn’t need to speak.

 

His smirk was all the answer Harry needed.

 

Harry’s stomach dropped. It felt like the world had tilted off balance, like the ground beneath him was suddenly shifting. The man’s presence had already been unnerving, but this confirmation — this recognition — made everything feel wrong.

 

Viktor tensed beside him, the air around them thick with the sudden crackle of tension. Harry could feel Viktor’s muscles wound tight, like a spring ready to snap, but Viktor didn’t move, didn’t draw his wand. He didn’t even speak.

 

Harry didn’t take his eyes off the man. The figure’s lips parted slightly, as if to say something more, but nothing came.

 

A low rustling broke the silence. Viktor’s grip tightened on his wand, ready for anything.

 

The man was silent for another moment. Then, just as Harry felt the heat of Viktor’s arm beside him, the stranger spoke again, but this time, the words weren’t for them. They were for the wind.

 

“Well, well,” the man said, his voice a soft murmur that seemed to echo back intothe forest. “It seems we’ve finally found each other.”

 

“Are you?” Harry asked again, his voice quieter this time.

 

He wasn’t sure why he needed the man to say it aloud. Something about hearing it — spoken plainly — mattered more than it should have. The truth was already there in the man’s posture, in his presence, in the way he appeared like he'd been expecting them. But still, Harry waited.

 

The man tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the need for confirmation. The hood still concealed most of his face, but the smirk was visible — a faint curl of his lip that exposed sharp, too-perfect teeth.

 

“I am,” the man said.

 

There was no ceremony in it. No flourish or ominous inflection. Just two words said plainly, almost offhandedly, like he was confirming the time of day.

 

Then, without elaboration, he shifted to the side, gesturing toward a narrow path behind him. “Follow me. Both of you.”

 

He turned and started walking before either of them could respond.

 

Harry hesitated. Viktor, too. They exchanged a look, not dramatic or tense, but questioning — one of those shared glances that passed between people who didn’t have the answers but still trusted each other enough to move forward.

 

They followed.

 

The trees grew denser as they walked, taller too, their trunks narrow and grey with bark that flaked like old paint. The sun hadn’t quite set yet, but the forest here dimmed everything — as if the branches overhead filtered out more than just light. They weren’t far from the edge of the task arena, but it felt like they had stepped out of the boundaries entirely, into something older, quieter.

 

There were no trails. Only faint signs of passage — leaves slightly flattened, moss disturbed, branches that seemed to bend just enough to let the man through, as if the forest had made room for him.

 

Harry kept a few steps behind, his boots crunching lightly on the ground. He hadn’t spoken again. The man’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, repeating those two simple words. I am.

 

Something didn’t sit right.

 

Not anything obvious, but little things — the way the man moved, the way he held his arms like he wasn’t used to his own limbs. The voice especially. It didn’t sound like someone who had lived through centuries. There was no rasp to it, no weight. It was youthful, almost casual. Hersuil was supposed to be nearing two hundred — older, even, depending on what books you believed. But the man ahead of them couldn’t have been more than thirty from the way he carried himself.

 

Harry didn't like making assumptions, but he couldn't help noting these things as they walked.

 

He glanced sideways at Viktor, who kept pace easily, his eyes always moving — not nervously, but alert. He hadn’t drawn his wand either, but Harry knew his hand could be there in a second if he needed it.

 

“I think you should go back,” Harry said, low enough not to carry. “Just in case.”

 

Viktor didn’t answer immediately.

 

They stepped over a shallow dip in the ground, where rainwater had collected and dried in uneven patches. The man ahead didn’t pause, but slowed enough to let them keep up.

 

“I won’t leave you,” Viktor said eventually. His voice wasn’t defiant — just matter-of-fact.

 

Harry didn’t look at him right away. He just kept walking, matching the man’s pace, listening to the slight shift in Viktor’s breathing beside him.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Harry said after a moment, though the words felt weaker than before.

 

“I know,” Viktor replied. “I’m still not leaving.”

 

A few more minutes passed in silence. The light continued to fade behind them, the trees ahead pressing closer. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, sharp and sudden, then stopped. The sound was swallowed quickly by the undergrowth.

 

Harry breathed out slowly. The air here smelled different — old and a little damp, with the faint scent of bark and leaves turned to mulch

 

The man came to a stop, holding up a hand to signal them. Harry stopped right behind him, and Viktor did the same. It wasn’t clear at first what they were waiting for, but the man was staring straight ahead, as if he saw something they couldn’t.

 

For a moment, there was only stillness.

 

The air in the clearing had changed. It was heavier here, somehow — denser. Not with fear, exactly, but with something unspoken, something that ran beneath the forest floor like a current Harry couldn’t name.

 

The man—Hersuil, if that was truly him—kept his eyes forward. His posture had shifted, not tense, but alert. He reached into his robes and retrieved a wand. It was long and dark, polished to a dull sheen, and looked carved from some old wood Harry couldn’t identify — neither holly nor yew, and not quite ash either. Something unfamiliar.

 

Harry watched as he raised it slowly and traced a slow arc in the space ahead. He whispered something, but it didn’t carry — the words swallowed by the thick forest air before they could reach Harry’s ears.

 

Then, a shimmer.

 

It began as a ripple — subtle at first, like the air above hot stone. But it grew, widened, spread outward in all directions, like the surface of a pond disturbed by an invisible pebble. Within seconds, it became a translucent veil, hovering just ahead of them, vertical and faintly luminous.

 

Then, it took shape.

 

It wasn’t an actual door, not really. More like an opening outlined by faint light. Through it, Harry could still see the forest, but it looked different—slightly warped, as though seen through a window in the rain.

 

The man turned his head, not quite looking at them, but gesturing once — a simple motion of the hand, the invitation silent.

 

Then he stepped through.

 

The veil accepted him like mist. One second he was there; the next he was gone — the shimmer absorbing him soundlessly.

 

Harry blinked.

 

His mouth had fallen open slightly. He hadn’t realized until Viktor let out a low breath beside him, something between a hum and a huff of disbelief.

 

“Merlin,” Harry muttered under his breath, almost involuntarily. “I love magic.”

 

It wasn’t awe in the way he’d felt it as a child — no breathless excitement or wide-eyed wonder. This was different. Older. More quiet. Like the kind of reverence one felt toward the sea or a cathedral — something massive and incomprehensible that simply was.

 

Viktor didn’t speak, but nodded once in agreement, his expression unreadable in the fading light. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and crossed the threshold.

 

Harry stepped through.

 

There was a moment—brief but disorienting—where everything around him vanished into bright, pale light. It wasn’t hot, not even particularly intense, just a blank whiteness that swallowed sound and sight alike. Then, as quickly as it had come, it faded. He blinked once, maybe twice, and the world returned in shape and color.

 

A room. Stone walls. A ceiling low enough to make him blink in slight surprise.

 

They were inside a small cottage.

 

The air inside was different from the outside air. Warmer, drier, carrying the faint smell of soot, aged wood, and something like old parchment. Lanterns fixed to the corners gave off a quiet amber glow, enough to soften the walls and outline the furniture—bare essentials, a table, two mismatched chairs, a shelf with jars and papers stacked without much order.

 

Viktor stood a few steps ahead of him, shoulders squared, attention sharp and fixed. His gaze tracked the man—Hersuil—without blinking.

 

Harry caught his breath quietly. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

 

The door they’d entered through—the glowing threshold that had shimmered with unnatural light—was gone. Not just closed or hidden, but completely vanished. Behind him was just solid wall. Smooth and old, with a small framed painting nailed crookedly into the stone.

 

Hersuil didn’t say anything. He was already undoing the clasp of his cloak, fingers tugging it loose without looking at either of them.

 

He moved toward the center of the room and leaned forward against the table, bracing both arms on the wood. For a moment he stayed like that, hunched slightly, as though weighing something or trying to calm whatever was storming in his head.

 

Then he spoke—but not clearly.

 

At first, Harry thought he was talking to them, but the voice was too quiet, too inward-facing.

 

“Take the boy…” Hersuil muttered, the words slipping out one at a time, each one barely above a whisper. “Bring—”

 

Harry frowned.

 

He glanced at Viktor, but the other boy didn’t move. His posture had tensed slightly, but his face remained unreadable. Waiting.

 

More words came, scattered and strange. Harry could only catch pieces. The man’s tone changed, like someone speaking in two halves—one voice grounded, the other uncertain, cracking at the edges.

 

“…important…”

“…no…”

“…stop—this…”

 

And then—suddenly—Hersuil’s body jerked.

 

His breath hitched once, and he clutched the edge of the table as if trying to keep himself upright.

 

It didn’t work.

 

His knees gave way slowly. He sagged forward, the edge of his shoulder bumping the table as he sank to the floor. A dull thud followed, one that echoed strangely in the otherwise silent room.

 

Harry took a single step forward, then stopped.

 

Viktor moved faster, crouching low beside the man, reaching out but not quite touching him yet. His expression stayed calm, but Harry could tell he was assessing—looking for breath, a pulse, some sign of what had happened.

 

The cottage stayed silent, save for the low creak of Viktor’s boots shifting against the stone floor.

 

Harry didn’t speak. There was a sudden weight to the air—an almost physical stillness. He found his eyes wandering around the room, unsure of what to look at. The walls, the shelves, the man on the floor.

 

“Is he breathing?” Harry asked, quietly

 

Viktor didn’t answer immediately.

 

Then, after a few seconds, he nodded. “Yes. Just fainted.”

 

"Okay..." Harry breathed out, unsure what else to say.

 

His voice felt too quiet in the room, like sound itself didn’t know how to carry here. Everything had happened so quickly—so many pieces moving all at once—and now they were just here, standing over an unconscious man who, moments ago, had been muttering to himself like he was split in two.

 

Harry hesitated for a second, then slowly lowered himself to a crouch beside the man. Up close, he noticed something he hadn’t before. The man’s hair, now loose from the hood, was long and white—not grey with age, but stark, like bleached silk. It fell in strands across his face, slightly tangled from the fall.

 

Without thinking much, Harry reached out and brushed some of it back.

 

The man’s face was pale. Not sickly exactly, just... cold-looking. White lashes fanned over shut eyes, and his features were sharp, almost unnaturally so. High cheekbones, a narrow nose, a mouth drawn tight in unconsciousness. He looked as though he could be a relative of the Malfoys, if Harry didn’t know any better. There was that same almost inhuman paleness, the same aristocratic stillness.

 

“What do we do?” Harry asked, looking over his shoulder.

 

Viktor had already stepped closer, scanning the man’s condition with a steady, practiced look.

 

“Let’s move him to the couch,” Viktor said shortly. “Take his arms—I’ll carry his feet. He shouldn’t be levitated.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask why.

 

Viktor clarified anyway, already crouching. “In case his magic’s unstable. If it’s what drained him, levitating him could make it worse.”

 

“Right,” Harry said, nodding. He reached forward and gently took hold of the man’s wrists. They were cold. Lighter than expected. He adjusted his grip so his hands were under the man’s forearms for better support.

 

Viktor lifted his legs carefully, one arm under the knees and the other bracing at the ankles.

 

“Ready?” Viktor asked.

 

Harry nodded. Together, they hoisted him up, moving with slow, careful steps.

 

The sofa was only a few feet away, set near the fireplace where the flames flickered quietly, casting a faint orange glow across the room. It wasn’t large, but it was soft and low, with a blanket draped over the side. They lowered him onto it as gently as they could, adjusting the angle so his head rested against the cushion and his arms weren’t folded awkwardly.

 

Harry let out a breath and sat back on his heels, rubbing the palm of his hand over his jeans without really realizing it.

 

The man still hadn’t moved.

 

Viktor straightened and looked down at him with a slight crease between his brows. “He’s breathing normally. That’s something.”

 

 

Harry nodded slowly, but his mind was already turning over too many things at once.

 

“Why would he bring us here?” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Why did Luna tell us to follow him?”

 

He didn’t expect an answer. It was more of a reaction than a question, a way to let the confusion escape his chest before it got too heavy. He let out a quiet, frustrated sound and turned his attention away from the man on the sofa, letting his eyes wander the cottage.

 

The space wasn’t very large, but it felt lived-in. 

 

Harry couldn’t tell what unnerved him more: that it was familiar in a strange way, or that he still didn’t know why they were here.

 

He looked back at the man on the couch. His chest rose and fell steadily now, his face calm, but pale. Too pale. He looked far too young to be anyone important—if he really was Hersuil, something wasn’t adding up. Hersuil, according to what little Fred and George had said, was supposed to be someone older.

 

And yet this man had looked exhausted just from casting a single spell.

 

Harry frowned. His head was starting to ache.

 

Who is he? Why did he faint? Why here, of all places?

 

His thoughts jumped again.

 

Ron and Hermione.

 

He sat up straighter at the realization, the weight of it pressing down all at once. They must be going mad by now. They had no idea where he was, or who he was with. They probably thought he’d been kidnapped—again. He knew Hermione would be scouring every possible map and magical trace in the castle, and Ron—well, Ron would’ve probably tried to hex half the portraits by now.

 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, breathing out slowly.

 

“I should’ve left a note,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

 

He didn’t hear Viktor approach until he felt the quiet pull of movement beside him. Then, without a word, Viktor sat down next to him and gently pulled him into an embrace.

 

Harry didn’t resist.

 

He leaned into it, almost automatically, as if the gesture had been waiting for him to notice it. Viktor’s arm came around his back, steady and warm, not forceful, just present. He didn’t say anything, and Harry didn’t either. There wasn’t much to say that could fix anything right now.

 

After a while, they broke apart.

 

Neither of them said anything at first. There wasn’t a need to. The silence didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. It was the kind that settled between people who didn’t have to explain themselves.

 

Harry exhaled, slow and quiet. He looked at Viktor, his brow furrowing slightly like he was trying to find the right words. Then, softly, almost as if he wasn’t sure he should say it at all, he murmured, “Thank you.”

 

Viktor tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “For what?”

 

Harry gave a slight shrug, feeling a little self-conscious now. Viktor's hand came up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw until he cupped Harry’s chin to make him look up. The contact was soft but deliberate. Harry flushed under his gaze.

 

“For being here,” Harry said, voice low. “I know it’s… all a mess. None of it makes sense yet, and I’ve got no idea what’s waiting for us next. But you’re still here. And that means a lot more than I know how to say.”

 

He gave a small, sheepish huff of a laugh.

 

“I mean, this is probably just the beginning of whatever this is, and I’m already overwhelmed—so yeah. Thank you.”

 

Viktor didn’t respond right away. He just smiled, something small and quiet, like he understood more than he let on. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, soft and steady, the way someone would press a seal into warm wax. Reassuring. Solid.

 

“I may not be brave as you are, Harry,” Viktor said in a low voice, “but I will follow you to the ends of the earth—as the Muggles would say it.”

 

Harry’s throat felt tight in that way that wasn’t sadness, exactly, but something quieter. Grateful. Warm.

 

Viktor pulled him into another hug, this one shorter, just enough to press Harry close for a heartbeat.

 

“I’m always here,” he said quietly into his ear, then stepped back.

 

And just like that, the moment passed—but something had settled in it. A kind of quiet understanding between them that didn’t need to be explained or broken apart. They weren’t sure where they were, or what was coming—but they had each other, and for now, that was enough.

 

 

“Why don’t we scour this place? Maybe we can find answers,” Viktor said, his voice low but steady.

 

Harry gave a nod. “Yeah. Good idea.”

 

“I’ll start upstairs, yes?” Viktor added, already stepping toward the narrow staircase along the wall. At the bottom, he paused, turned back slightly, and gave Harry a small wink before continuing up, his wand raised cautiously in front of him.

 

Harry watched him go with a soft smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head a little, amused in spite of himself, and let out a quiet sigh. Somehow, Viktor’s calm helped. Like no matter how strange this place was, Harry didn’t feel like he had to panic. Not yet.

 

He turned back to the room and took it in again—really took it in this time.

 

The cottage looked like someone had lived here for a long while, and had stopped caring halfway through. There were papers scattered across the far end of the room, loose parchment curling at the edges from time or heat. Books lined the walls—some upright, most not. A few were stacked on top of each other haphazardly, others half-open as if they’d been thrown down mid-read. A blanket was tossed over the back of a threadbare chair, and an empty mug sat cold beside the fireplace.

 

It didn’t feel abandoned. Not entirely. Just… neglected.

 

He began checking each room one by one, taking his time. There was a small kitchen with a sink full of dishes that looked like they hadn’t been touched in days. A cramped dining table with a single plate left out. A sitting room that seemed more like a storage area for broken furniture and boxes filled with Merlin-knows-what. Everything was dim, a little dusty, but not empty of life. Like someone had just walked out without bothering to clean up after themselves.

 

Then he reached the door near the back—different from the others. It was shut tight, and when he tried the handle, it didn’t budge.

 

Locked.

 

He narrowed his eyes, stepped back, and raised his wand.

 

“Alohomora,” he said clearly.

 

The lock clicked with a reluctant sound, and the door creaked open. The air inside felt different—stale, heavy, like whatever was in this room hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.

 

It was an office, or what used to be one.

 

Shelves lined the walls but many were broken, hanging at odd angles, their contents spilled everywhere. Books lay in torn heaps across the floor. Pages had been ripped out, some folded, others burnt at the edges as if someone had tried to destroy them in a hurry. A wooden desk sat near the center, cracked along one side, with drawers forced open and left that way. More papers littered the surface—some torn in half, others crumpled into loose balls.

 

Harry stepped inside carefully, avoiding the larger pieces of debris. It felt like walking into someone else’s chaos, a moment frozen in time when everything had been lost or abandoned in the middle of something important.

 

Something glimmered faintly in the far end of the room, barely catching the light through the cracked window. At first, Harry thought it might have been a bit of broken glass or a polished corner of a book spine, but then it shimmered again—distinctly gold. His eyes narrowed. The glow wasn’t bright, not in a way that demanded attention, but it was there, subtle and steady. Like it had been waiting.

 

He stepped over the litter of broken shelves and torn pages, moving slowly so he didn’t trip on a loose board or something sharp beneath the mess. The closer he got, the more he noticed how the glow seemed to pulse gently from beneath a large, overturned book. The book’s spine was cracked and its pages yellowed with age, but Harry crouched beside it anyway, brushing dust off the cover with the sleeve of his jumper.

 

With a quiet grunt, he lifted the book carefully, letting it fall open on its side—and there it was.

 

A small amulet, nestled directly where the book had lain. Golden, flat, and warm-looking, as if it had been resting there for a long time but never grown cold. He reached for it slowly, almost out of instinct, and the moment his fingers closed around the metal, he felt something. Not a spark exactly—

 

but a kind of quiet weight, like the object carried something with it. History, maybe. Memory.

 

He turned it over in his palm, studying the details more closely. The front was embossed with a dragon curled protectively around a smooth circle at the center, its wings folded in with a strange kind of grace. It didn’t look dangerous—more like it was guarding something. The craftsmanship was fine, finer than anything he’d seen in Diagon Alley, even finer than what he remembered from goblin-made objects at Gringotts.

 

As he examined the back, he noticed the amulet wasn’t whole. A small, circular recess had been carved into the metal, as if something belonged there—a missing stone, a gem, or maybe some sort of magical component that had once completed it. Without it, the object felt dormant, but not dead. Like it was waiting to be whole again.

 

Along the edge of the amulet, almost too fine to see without tilting it just right, were lines of runes etched around the outer rim. Harry recognized a few—the kind he’d seen in Ancient Runes texts or scribbled in the margins of spellbooks—but many of them were unfamiliar. Between the runes, thin inscriptions in Latin had been engraved, tight and looping in a script that made them difficult to read. He furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of a few scattered words, but most of it blurred together. Whatever it said, it wasn’t meant to be read easily.

 

Harry looked around the ruined office again. The wreckage made more sense now. Someone had been searching for something. Maybe even this.

 

But the question was—why?

 

And what had they found before they gave up?

 

 

A noise—sharp, like something slammed or fell—rippled through the quiet.

 

Harry stilled.

 

He turned instinctively toward the doorframe.

 

Hersuil stood there.

 

Or—someone wearing his face did.

 

But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

 

The man was soaked in sweat. His shirt clung to him, darkened in patches from the moisture. His chest rose and fell in short, rapid bursts like he’d run from something—or toward it. Hair stuck to his temples, wild and damp, and his arms hung limply at his sides as if even that much control over his limbs was a struggle.

 

But none of that mattered. Not really.

 

Because his eyes—

 

They were gone.

 

No whites, no irises, no pupils. Just void. Solid, pitch black. As though something had erased the human from him and poured ink into the spaces where light used to live.

 

Harry felt a chill slide down his spine. The kind of dread that doesn’t hit like thunder—it creeps. Crawls into your bones, settles behind your ribcage.

 

"Hersuil?" he tried, the name sounding foreign on his tongue now. "Are you—are you alright, mate?"

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Then the man’s gaze flicked—fast, sharp—to Harry’s hand.

 

The amulet.

 

Still clutched in his fingers.

 

A terrible stillness entered the room. Like the air had thickened. Even the dust seemed to still midair.

 

"Give me it," Hersuil said, voice ragged and low.

 

Harry blinked. "What?"

 

"Give it to me." This time louder. More guttural. Like the voice came from somewhere deep in his chest, or something deeper still—something wearing him.

 

A beat passed.

 

Harry shoved the amulet into his pocket.

 

That was enough.

 

Hersuil lunged.

 

Harry barely had time to react—he stepped back, tripped over the edge of an overturned chair, and fell. His arms flailed, trying to catch himself, but the weight of Hersuil’s body drove him down harder.

 

Then—

 

A snap.

 

A searing pain. Unmistakable.

 

Harry screamed.

 

Not a yelp, not a cry. A full, instinctual scream that ripped through his throat as something tore into his back. The pain was blinding. All-consuming. It bloomed along his spine in white-hot waves, radiating outward like wildfire.

 

He clawed at the floor, trying to move, to push himself up, but his limbs refused. His fingers scraped splinters. The world swam in and out of clarity.

 

There was something wet.

 

Warm.

 

Spreading.

 

Harry blinked down.

 

Blood.

 

His blood.

 

It was soaking through the back of his jumper, seeping into the wood beneath him. His entire body pulsed with it. The sharp edge of something—glass, he realized distantly—had pierced him.

 

The broken window. He hadn’t even seen it.

 

A jagged shard of glass, still wedged in the frame, pointed outward like a knife.

 

And he had landed on it.

 

His breath came in gasps now—shallow and panicked. He felt dizzy, like the room was tilting, like his thoughts were no longer linear but fragmented and slipping through his fingers.

 

He barely registered the next sound—wood splintering. A crash. Then a body colliding with shelves and falling limp.

 

Hersuil was down.

 

Thrown across the room by some spell.

 

Viktor stood in the doorway now, wand drawn, chest heaving. His face was thunder. But his eyes—

 

His eyes were only on Harry.

 

He dropped to his knees in seconds, voice trembling even as he tried to steady it.

 

"Harry—" he breathed. Then, in Bulgarian, a stream of spells—soft and urgent.

 

"Don’t move," he added quickly. His hands hovered near Harry’s back, not daring to touch him yet. "You fell on glass. You—" his voice caught, just for a moment. Then steadied. "I’m going to get you out. I need you to breathe, alright?"

 

Harry tried.

 

But it hurt.

 

Even the smallest movement sent pain screaming up his spine. He could feel the glass still embedded. And the blood—he could feel it in his clothes, sticky and warm and wrong.

 

"Viktor..." he murmured, voice barely audible. "What... what was that?"

 

"I don’t know," Viktor whispered. "But you’re safe now. I promise."

 

Harry’s eyes drifted toward the wreckage of the office. Broken bookshelves, splinters, tattered papers fluttering in the wind from the shattered window. And amidst it all—Hersuil, unconscious, sprawled like a broken puppet.

 

He winced.

 

Then gasped sharply as another spike of pain tore through him.

 

Viktor pressed his hand gently, firmly, against Harry’s shoulder. "Stay still. Just for a moment. I need to lift the charm to free the glass without it cutting deeper."

 

Harry gave the faintest nod, jaw clenched. Everything inside him felt heavy. Liquid. Wrong.

 

He shut his eyes.

 

Darkness started to creep in.

 

But before it took him completely, he felt it again.

 

The heat.

 

Not from the wound—but from his pocket.

 

The amulet.

 

It was burning.

 

Not enough to scald. But enough to make itself known. Like it was alive.

 

Or aware.

 

Notes:

PS: I'm getting lazy here, anyway thankyou for reading my story and I hope that it was to your expectations bc I have a small ounce of imagination left in me to think of what to write next, next chapter will be posted shortly!

Chapter 15: Stay

 

Harry stirred with a low groan, as if the sound alone could coax his body out of its aching slumber. A sharp cramp coiled in his side the moment he tried to shift.

 

He stilled, forcing himself to breathe, to relax every fiber of tension until the ache receded just enough to move. The ceiling came into focus first. It was uneven, old timber framed in dark lines above his head, shadows cast by flickering candlelight danced along its edges. There was light, barely. Just enough to feel like dawn hadn't quite broken yet—or maybe the world outside was overcast, grey and listless.

 

He blinked again, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, and then turned his head with care. The air smelt faintly of lavender and old books, and something iron-slick beneath it all. Blood, perhaps—his? Probably.

 

The room was unfamiliar, but not threatening. Cozy, if one squinted past the disorder. A jacket slung over the back of a worn armchair. A stack of half-burnt parchment curled in an ashtray. A chipped mug of tea long gone cold, resting precariously on a rickety nightstand.

 

Then he saw Viktor.

 

Curled in the chair beside the bed like he’d never intended to sleep, his head resting against his fist, eyes half-lidded in vigilance even in his weariness. He looked like he hadn't moved in hours. Hair disheveled, mouth set in that stubborn line Harry was slowly growing used to.

 

Harry’s breath caught, a different sort of ache tugging at his chest.

 

What had happened?

 

Everything came back in slow, half-lit fragments. Hersuil’s black eyes—those weren’t eyes at all anymore. The glint of the amulet. The sudden burst of violence. The scream that had torn from his throat when the glass bit into his back. The way Viktor had appeared—like magic, like salvation.

 

He shifted again, and the rustle of sheets must have woken Viktor from his half-sleep. His eyes snapped open, then softened when he saw Harry.

 

“You’re awake,” Viktor said, voice low with relief.

 

“Barely,” Harry mumbled.

 

Viktor was up in an instant, his movements quiet but urgent as he reached for a pillow and gently placed it behind Harry’s back, helping him lean into the headboard without strain. His hands were careful, fingers pressing just enough to support but not startle. He smelt like firewood and worn leather.

 

“You were out for a while,” Viktor murmured, brushing the fringe from Harry’s forehead with the back of his hand. “You gave me a fright.”

 

Harry blinked slowly. “How long?”

 

“Almost a day.”

 

A pause. Then Viktor added, quieter, “There was so much blood.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He looked down, expecting to see red staining the blankets or himself, but everything had been changed, cleaned. Someone had done all of that for him.

 

“What happened?” Viktor asked, his tone low but steady as he reached for Harry’s hand. His large hand completely enveloped Harry’s, warm and grounding. Harry gave it a small squeeze, almost unconsciously, and for a moment he found himself staring at the contrast between them—how fragile his own hand looked beneath Viktor’s, yet how well they seemed to fit together. It was strangely reassuring.

 

Harry let out a long sigh before answering. His voice was tired, rough around the edges. “There was a door. Locked. I thought—maybe there’d be something useful inside. Anything that could explain where we are, who that man was, and what in Merlin’s name is going on.” He paused, his brow furrowing as the memories slowly returned in bits and pieces. “Every clue we’ve found so far has only given us more questions, never answers. But I thought—just maybe…”

 

He shifted slightly against the pillow Viktor had set behind his back and reached carefully into his pocket. Pulling out the amulet, he turned it over in his hands before holding it up between them. Its dull golden surface caught what little light filtered through the curtains, the engraved runes faintly visible. Harry stared at it for a few moments longer, as if weighing whether to even show it, then finally held it out so Viktor could see.

 

“I found this,” Harry explained. “It was hidden under a book. At first I thought it was just another trinket, but…” His thumb brushed over the dragon symbol pressed into the front. “If you look closely, there are runes etched all around it. I couldn’t read them. And here—” he turned the amulet over so Viktor could see the small circular hole carved into the back. “Something’s supposed to fit here. Whatever it is, it’s missing.”

 

Viktor leaned forward, studying it with narrowed eyes. His hand hovered just above Harry’s, not quite touching the amulet yet, as though wary of its weight or meaning. Harry noticed the way Viktor’s expression darkened slightly, thoughtful, but he couldn’t tell whether it was concern or recognition.

 

“The runes…” Viktor said after a moment, his eyes narrowing at the faint carvings. “I am familiar with them.”

 

Harry nodded, though he didn’t fully understand. His mind went back to the time Viktor had shrunk the pendant snitch for him. He remembered the way it shimmered faintly, as though a hidden layer of magic had been folded into it. There must have been a rune then too, though Harry hadn’t noticed much at the time.

 

“Do you want me to tell you what it is?” Viktor asked, still studying the markings.

 

Harry gave a short nod. “Yeah.”

 

“The runes are written in a way so that anyone might be able to find the object,” Viktor explained carefully, almost like he was recalling an old lesson. “But only the one it was truly meant for can keep it. If it ends up in the hands of someone else, they can hold onto it for a while, but not forever. After some time, it disappears from their sight. They would not even know where it went.”

 

Harry glanced down at the object in his palm, turning it slightly. The runes caught the light, faint but clear enough now that Viktor had pointed them out. “That’s clever,” he admitted after a pause.

 

“It is,” Viktor murmured, nodding once. “The magic is layered. Complicated. Not something you see every day.”

 

Harry tilted his head, thinking it over. “But if I could see the rune, and you could too—doesn’t that mean it’s meant for us? I mean, anyone could’ve stumbled across it, but not everyone would have been able to read it. So maybe that means…” He trailed off, trying to piece it together aloud.

 

Viktor finished the thought for him, his voice steady. “Unless others could not. And it was truly meant for us.”

 

There was a silence between them then. Harry shifted the object in his hand again, weighing it not just by its weight but by the possibility Viktor had just spoken aloud. He thought of how often things seemed to find their way to him—parcels, warnings, visions, tasks he never asked for but somehow had to face. But this felt different. This wasn’t just about him. It included Viktor too.

 

Harry gave a slow nod. “Still… we can’t be sure.”

 

“No,” Viktor agreed. “We cannot.”

 

Yet both of them sat there, neither letting go of the thought.

 

“Anything else?” Harry asked quietly.

 

Viktor hummed under his breath before finally reaching out, his large hand brushing the amulet. He turned it over with care, his thumb tracing the faint lines of magic. “It has protection spells on it,” he said after a moment, his voice low but certain. “Complicated ones. Some I do not even recognize. But… there are fire protection charms, yes. And a portkey—though it is not yet set. No destination. No name tied to it.” He paused, eyes narrowing at the runes. “That is all I can see.”

 

Harry gave a small nod, curling his fingers around the amulet as though to shield it from sight. His brow furrowed, lost in thought. “Maybe Hersuil found it. Kept it. And when his time ran out… maybe that was why the office was in shambles. He must have gone searching for it again.”

 

Viktor considered this, then inclined his head slowly. “Yes. That is a possibility.”

 

Harry tilted his head, his eyes distant. “Could that be why he wanted me? To find it, I mean.”

 

Viktor let out a low hum, his gaze never leaving Harry. “It may be. Or perhaps something more. But I cannot say for sure.” His voice tightened, quiet but edged with something sharper. “What I do know… is that we must be careful around him.”

 

Harry looked up, surprised by the weight in Viktor’s tone. The Bulgarian’s expression, usually composed, had shifted—shadowed now, darkened. A faint growl escaped him, almost instinctive, as though pulled out by memory. His jaw clenched, eyes hardening at the thought of Harry harmed.

 

Harry shifted slightly, fingers tightening around the amulet. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say—only that Viktor’s anger wasn’t directed at him but at the thought of someone else laying hands on him.

 

“What happened?” Harry asked, his voice edged with weariness as he pushed himself up a little straighter. 

 

“To Hersuil?” Viktor repeated, Harry nodded then said. “Last I recall, it was you who blasted him off that already broken shelf.”

 

Viktor gave a dismissive huff, his broad shoulders shifting as if to shrug the whole matter away. “He deserved it,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harry, before adding with a little more clarity, “I didn’t move him. He’s still there, sprawled out on the floor.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened at that, and before Viktor could look away, Harry’s hand smacked against his arm—not hard, but sharp enough to make the point. The sound was as quick as the reprimand that followed. “Viktor Krum!” Harry’s voice took on a tone that was startlingly stern, the kind that sounded far too much like someone’s mother, his mother to be exact. “You take that man to the sofa right now!”

 

Viktor actually froze, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and wounded pride. He rubbed at the spot where Harry had hit him, though Harry hadn’t put much force behind it. The look Viktor gave him was so comically sulky—like a scolded boy who thought he’d been entirely justified—that Harry almost laughed despite himself. “But he hurt you,” Viktor grumbled, the words low, reluctant, almost defensive.

 

Harry folded his arms across his chest, exhaling sharply through his nose. “And he’s not in his right mind,” he shot back. “We don’t know anything about what’s going on with him. For all I know, he could be hurt himself.”

 

Viktor’s jaw tensed, and he rolled his eyes with a frustrated huff, his whole posture radiating stubbornness. “He hurt you, Harry,” he repeated, firmer this time, like he thought repeating the fact might somehow override Harry’s reasoning.

 

Harry’s expression softened at that, his irritation ebbing as quickly as it had flared. “I know,” he said quietly, his arms falling back to his sides, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Just—take him back to the sofa. We’ll sort him out when he wakes up. I don’t know why, but… it feels like the right thing to do. Just… please, Viktor.”

 

Viktor looked at him for a long moment, caught between the instinct to protect Harry and the reluctant understanding that Harry’s compassion wouldn’t let him leave someone helpless on the floor. Finally, he sighed, heavy and reluctant, before pushing himself up to his feet.

 

“And thank you… and sorry for hitting your arm, also,” Harry added, his voice trailing off into something sheepish. The realization that he’d actually smacked Viktor, and with such authority, seemed to sink in only now. He glanced down, fiddling with the edge of his blanket, cheeks warming in quiet embarrassment.

 

Viktor’s answer wasn’t annoyance, nor was it the stubborn sulk he’d shown before. Instead, his lips curved into a smile so radiant and unguarded it caught Harry completely off guard. For someone usually so stoic and reserved, it was almost disarming, as though sunlight had broken through the thick cloud of tension that had hung between them.

 

He turned toward the door, his heavy boots sounding softly against the floor, but not before he threw a glance over his shoulder. His deep voice carried that distinct, deliberate cadence of his, the words slow enough to sink into Harry like stones dropped into water. “You could have hit me, little lion,” he said, his dark eyes gleaming with a teasing warmth. “You could have thrown the Cruciartus curse at me, or even Avada, and it still would not make me hate you. I would still think you are the hottest person I have ever met.”

 

Harry’s face went crimson instantly. His jaw dropped, words catching somewhere in his throat, too tangled and flustered to form a proper reply. Before he could muster so much as a retort, Viktor had already slipped past the doorway, his broad figure retreating down the corridor.

 

“VIKTOR!” Harry shouted, mortification dripping from every syllable. His voice chased after the Bulgarian champion like a spell hurled down the hall.

 

A low, rolling laugh echoed back to him, bouncing off the walls until it lingered long after Viktor had vanished from sight. It was warm, teasing, and maddeningly self-assured, leaving Harry clutching at his burning face, wondering how on earth he was supposed to deal with Viktor Krum of all people.

 

---

 

Harry shifted slightly in the one-armed chair, trying to find a comfortable spot as the dull ache in his side reminded him he hadn’t fully healed yet. The chair itself was worn, its fabric a little frayed at the edges, but it was steady enough to hold him. Across from him, stretched on the sofa, Hersuil lay unmoving, his chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm that reassured Harry he was at least alive. The room had gone quiet save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace and the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall.

 

Viktor, who had been pacing by the window a moment earlier, turned his attention back to Harry. “You should rest,” he said firmly, stepping closer until he stood right at Harry’s side. “Bed is waiting for you. I will watch him.”

 

Harry shook his head, stifling a yawn that escaped anyway. “I’m fine.”

 

Viktor gave him a look that said plainly he didn’t believe a word of it. His eyes flicked from Harry’s pale face to the protective way Harry sat, angled slightly toward the sofa even as he tried to play down how exhausted he was. The amulet hung around Harry’s neck, its faint gleam catching the firelight every time he moved. Viktor had noticed the way Harry hadn’t taken it off since earlier. To Viktor, it was strange, maybe even foolish to attach meaning to an object so quickly—but when he saw it against Harry’s skin, he couldn’t help thinking it suited him.

 

“It looks good on you,” Viktor said simply.

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard, and flushed at the comment. He tried to mask it with a small huff. “You think everything looks good on me.”

 

Viktor didn’t deny it, only raised a brow at him in that stubborn way of his. Harry rolled his eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “No, really, I’m fine,” he added, softer this time.

 

“Mm.” Viktor crossed his arms, unconvinced, though he let the matter drop. Instead, he reached for the mug he had set on the small side table earlier. Steam curled faintly from the top, carrying with it the faint scent of chamomile and mint. He held it out toward Harry. “Then at least drink this.”

 

Harry frowned. “That was yours.”

 

“And now it is yours.” Viktor’s tone left little room for argument.

 

Harry shook his head in mild exasperation, though there was fondness written all over his face. He knew Viktor well enough by now to realize refusing would only end with Viktor hovering over him until he gave in. “You really don’t give people much of a choice, do you?” he muttered, though he accepted the mug, curling his hands around its warmth.

 

Viktor’s lips quirked faintly, almost a smile. “No. Not with you.”

 

The fire popped softly in the hearth, shadows shifting across the walls. Hersuil stirred faintly on the sofa but did not wake, leaving the two of them in a fragile sort of calm, one that Harry found himself reluctant to break. He took a sip of the tea, letting it settle against the lingering chill in his body. For a moment, he allowed himself to lean back in the chair, and the tension in his shoulders eased ever so slightly.

“No… please…”

 

The quiet murmur broke Harry out of his haze. He blinked, setting his empty mug down on the small table beside him. Across from him, on the sofa, Hersuil shifted restlessly, his face twisted in fear.

 

Viktor, who had been perched casually on the arm of Harry’s chair, immediately straightened. He moved quickly, half-leaning forward as though to shield Harry with his frame, his body tense and ready.

 

But Harry wasn’t having it. He pushed himself up from the chair and stepped forward to stand beside Viktor, eyes fixed on Hersuil. “He’s having a nightmare,” Harry said quietly. His tone carried no panic—just a kind of tired observation, as if nightmares were something he knew too well.

 

Viktor gave a low hum of agreement, though his stance didn’t relax. He stood tall and watchful, shoulders squared, still ready to react at the slightest shift. Harry, however, seemed more curious than threatened, his gaze softening slightly as he watched the man twitch under the grip of whatever dream held him.

 

It was quiet again. Hersuil had settled back into uneasy stillness, though his breathing remained shallow and uneven. Harry let out a long sigh and lowered himself back into the one-armed chair, sinking into its worn cushion. He rubbed at his eyes, the heaviness of exhaustion creeping back into him.

 

With a flick of his wrist and a murmured incantation, faint green-gold numbers appeared in the air. Tempus.

 

Harry blinked at the floating digits, his stomach sinking a little. “Seven already,” he muttered. The glowing numbers confirmed it—seven in the morning, the start of a new day. They had been gone long enough to lose their sense of time, but the clock did not lie. By this point, the world outside had already carried on without them, and their absence would not have gone unnoticed.

 

He sat up straighter, almost startled by the thought, and turned toward Viktor. “The Choosing Ceremony!” Harry exclaimed, his voice sharper now, laced with urgency. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Isn’t it the last day before the entry closes?”

 

Viktor finally gave a nod, heavy and deliberate, before exhaling a huff that sounded more like reluctant resolve than true agreement. “We should go back,” he said at last, his deep voice breaking the silence.

 

Harry nodded quickly, almost eagerly, though his brows furrowed right after. “But how? We’re basically nowhere,” he argued, gesturing vaguely toward the shuttered window as if it could show him an answer. “And what about him?” His gaze flickered to Hersuil, still unconscious on the sofa, pale and restless. The thought of leaving him behind unsettled Harry more than he wanted to admit.

 

Viktor hummed low in his throat, the sound thoughtful rather than dismissive. He turned to face Harry fully, his expression steady, weighing. “Still have that Invisibility Cloak?”

 

Harry blinked at him, thrown off by the sudden question. For a second, confusion shadowed his face. Then the realization clicked, and his features shifted into something between relief and determination. “You mean—” he started, then cut himself short, already rummaging through the pockets of his robes.

 

Fabric rustled, and Harry’s shoulders relaxed the moment his fingers closed around something soft and familiar. With a small, almost boyish sound of triumph, he drew out the silvery material, its surface glimmering faintly in the dull morning light. He held it up, letting it spill over his hands like liquid moonlight. “Always,” he said, a touch of pride in his tone, though quieter than usual.

 

The cloak shimmered in the dimness, a reminder of safety, of escape—one of the few things that had always been wholly his. He folded it back carefully, a quiet certainty in his movements.

 

Viktor gave another short nod. He didn’t have to say it outright—yes, it would be risky, yes, it could go wrong in a dozen ways—but it was worth a shot.

 

And for the first time that long night, Harry let himself believe they might actually make it back.

Notes:

Spoilers on the next chap:

"Are you sure no one’s going to notice?" Viktor hissed, half-panicked, half-impressed, as they struggled to maneuver the limp body into the trunk. Harry, flushed and irritable, huffed, "Yes! I told you, it’ll fit!"

The sound of scraping shoes echoed in the corridor. Viktor glanced nervously toward the door. "Are you really sure, Harry?" he whispered urgently, pushing one last time.

"I am sure, I—" Harry began, but the words died on his lips as the door swung open with a sharp creak.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Neville Longbottom. His eyes widened, his jaw practically hit the floor, as he took in the sight before him: Harry Potter and Viktor Krum, shoving an unconscious man into a trunk in a dusty, abandoned classroom.

Silence stretched. Neville blinked once. Twice.

"…What the bloody hell are you two doing?"

 

PS: I am SO SORRY it took me WEEKS to update T^T I was so busy that I did not have time to write or the motivation, but worry not, it's back now! And I hope this chap makes up for it. Comment down below on what you think!

Chapter 16: Murder Husband's

"Are you sure no one’s going to notice?" Viktor hissed, half-panicked, half-impressed, as they struggled to maneuver the limp body into the trunk. Harry, flushed and irritable, huffed, "Yes! I told you, it’ll fit!"

 

The sound of scraping shoes echoed in the corridor. Viktor glanced nervously toward the door. "Are you really sure, Harry?" he whispered urgently, pushing one last time.

 

"I am sure, I—" Harry began, but the words died on his lips as the door swung open with a sharp creak.

 

There, framed in the doorway, stood Neville Longbottom. His eyes widened, his jaw practically hit the floor, as he took in the sight before him: Harry Potter and Viktor Krum, shoving an unconscious man into a trunk in a dusty, abandoned classroom.

 

Silence stretched. Neville blinked once. Twice.

 

"…What the bloody hell are you two doing?

 

 

"We— we were just, uhm… Nev—" Harry stammered, his tongue tripping over itself. He could see the words he wanted in his mind, scattered, blurry, as though someone had scrambled the dictionary. He lifted his hands helplessly, trying to gesture an explanation into existence, but the sight in front of them—the trunk, the limp man, Viktor kneeling coolly beside it—spoke far louder than anything Harry might say.

 

Neville’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he finally croaked, “Harry… Harry James Potter… what in Merlin’s name am I looking at?”

 

Harry swallowed. “I— it’s not what it looks like.”

 

“Oh, that line always works,” Neville muttered, pushing the door closed with a soft click, as if shutting out the rest of the world would contain the madness brewing inside the room. His face had gone pink, and his voice—usually steady and unassuming—pitched into a near shriek. “Har— I know I’m not Ron, I know I’m not Hermione, but I am your friend, right? And as your friend I’ll… I’ll stand by you, but THIS—” he flung his arms dramatically at the trunk, at the lifeless arm sticking out— “is madness! Absolute madness!”

 

Harry scrambled up, flustered. “It’s not what you think!”

 

“Not what I think?” Neville barked a half-hysterical laugh. “You’ve stuffed a man into a trunk! With Viktor Krum! Who, by the way, looks like he’s done this before!”

 

Viktor, unbothered, gave Neville a slow, unimpressed look. “You exaggerate. Ve are only… concealing for now.” He nudged the man’s arm fully inside with one fluid shove, then dusted his hands off as though he’d just repotted a plant.

 

“Concealing?” Neville’s voice cracked. “That’s what you call this? You don’t conceal people, Krum! You conceal broomsticks, you conceal chocolate frog wrappers from Filch— not bodies! Do you have any idea what Skeeter’s going to do with this?!” He pressed both hands to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “I can see it already: Harry Potter and Viktor Krum—Murder Husband's has been caught red handed! That vile woman will have an entire trilogy ready by breakfast!”

 

Harry’s ears burned. “Were not husband's!" 

 

“We’re not murderers either!” Viktor added dryly, as if that detail was secondary. "And we're not yet husband's" he murmured under his breath which Harry heard, giving Viktor a look that said 'Not helping'

 

Neville gaped at both of them. “Merlin’s beard, Harry… I thought detentions with Snape were bad. But this? This is—you don’t just find yourself in this sort of situation unless you’ve—unless you’ve completely—” He broke off, shaking his head furiously. “No. No, I’m not asking. I don’t want to know.”

 

Harry, desperate now, stepped toward him. “Nev, you have to trust me. We didn’t kill him. He’s… unconscious.” He glanced nervously at Viktor for confirmation. Viktor only shrugged.

 

“Unconscious,” Neville repeated flatly. He tilted his head, watching Harry with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant sympathy. “You’re telling me you just happened to come across an unconscious man, decided to… stuff him in a trunk, and figured that was the best course of action? Do you hear how mad that sounds?”

 

“It vas practical,” Viktor said, folding his arms. “Better than dragging him through corridors like sack of potatoes.”

 

Neville let out a strangled laugh. “Oh, practical. Of course. That makes it all better.” He turned back to Harry, lowering his voice. “You’re dragging me into this, aren’t you?”

 

Harry grimaced. “Only if you promise not to panic.”

 

“Not to panic?!” Neville gestured wildly again, eyes wide and nearly wild. “Harry, you’re hiding a man in a trunk! With an international Quidditch star as your accomplice! I’m already panicking!”

 

The trunk gave a faint creak, making all three of them freeze. Neville’s face drained of color. “Oh no. Oh, this is it. This is how it happens. I’m going to Azkaban before NEWTs. Gran always said I’d get into trouble with the wrong crowd— and look! They were right!”

 

Harry buried his face in his hands with a groan. Viktor muttered something in Bulgarian that sounded suspiciously like coward, don't ask how he knows that but Neville was too busy clutching his chest dramatically to notice.

 

Harry groaned, loudly this time, dragging both hands down his face until his glasses nearly slipped off. “We’ll explain properly once you help us hide him,” he muttered through gritted teeth, glaring at Neville like this was somehow his fault.

 

Neville, still frozen in the doorway, glanced from Harry to Viktor, then to the very obvious body half-sticking out of the trunk like an abandoned scarecrow. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He blinked once, twice, then muttered, “...Am I dreaming? This feels like a dream. A bad one. No—a nightmare.”

 

“Nightmares usually have more screaming,” Harry said flatly.

 

“I could scream if you’d like,” Neville shot back, voice high and squeaky.

 

“Please don’t,” Harry groaned again, throwing his head back toward the ceiling.

 

Viktor, who had gone from panicked pacing to standing perfectly still like some kind of guard statue, finally exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. “This is not efficient,” he said in his thick accent, frowning at the trunk like it had personally offended him.

 

Neville squinted at him. “Efficient? You’re smuggling a corpse into a trunk and you’re worried about efficiency?”

 

“It is not corpse!” Viktor snapped defensively, before realizing how absurd that sounded. His ears went a little red, though his face stayed otherwise composed. “Is... mostly unconscious man.”

 

“Mostly unconscious?” Neville repeated in disbelief. “Oh, that’s very comforting, thank you.”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Merlin’s sake, will you just help us? Please? Before someone else walks in?”

 

Neville hesitated, still staring, still trying to make sense of the scene before him. Then he sighed, long and deep, the sound of a boy whose soul had been aged by too many years of being Harry Potter’s classmate. “Is this what you, Ron, and Hermione do on a daily basis?”

 

Harry threw his arms out like that should’ve been obvious. “Yes! Well—no! I mean—sometimes—look, it’s not my fault!”

 

Neville tilted his head, unimpressed. “Harry, you’re basically a walking lightning rod for disaster. If chaos so much as sneezes, you’re there to catch the cold.”

 

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, then settled for an indignant, “It’s not my fault trouble always finds me!”

 

Neville gave him the most deadpan look humanly possible. “Harry. You wrestled a troll in first year.”

 

“That was an accident!”

 

“You went into the Chamber of Secrets in second year.”

 

Harry flailed his arms. “That was—different!”

 

“You fought Dementors in third year.”

 

“I was defending myself!”

 

Neville stared at him for a long beat, then said, dry as dust, “Face it. You’re cursed.”

 

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, “I hate you.”

 

Neville smirked faintly. “We still love you, though.”

 

Harry blinked, thrown off by that, and felt a flicker of warmth in his chest—just before Neville tacked on, “—NOT in an intimate way,” quickly, very loudly, and very pointedly, his eyes darting toward Viktor.

 

Viktor, who up until then had been doing a decent job of looking like a very stoic, very serious Quidditch player, suddenly bristled like a territorial Kneazle. His eyes narrowed, his shoulders stiffened, and his jaw clenched so hard you could probably hear the grind of his teeth.

 

Neville stared at him, momentarily alarmed, before realizing with dawning horror what he was witnessing. Oh, sweet Merlin’s pants—this man was jealous. Jealous over Harry.

 

“...Oh,” Neville whispered, eyes widening slightly as he studied Viktor’s expression, which could only be described as simmering death glare with a dash of lovesick fool.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Neville muttered under his breath. “You’re actually smitten with him.”

 

Viktor’s head whipped toward him so fast Neville flinched back against the door.

 

Harry, meanwhile, looked between them with wide eyes, color creeping up his neck. “What—no—Neville—don’t—”

 

Neville held up both hands, shaking his head quickly, but his mouth still betrayed him. “Poor Harry,” he muttered.

 

“NEVILLE!” Harry yelped, his face now flaming red.

 

Viktor took a menacing step forward, his glare promising immediate violence, and Neville instantly backpedaled toward the trunk. “Alright, alright, fine! I’ll help you hide the bloody body, just don’t let your Bulgarian husband murder me!”

 

Harry sputtered so hard he nearly choked. “He’s not my—! Neville!”

 

Neville, grinning now despite the situation, crouched by the trunk and muttered under his breath, “Yeah, no, you’re doomed, mate.”

 

Viktor shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut steel.

 

Harry dropped his face into his ha

nds and groaned louder than he had all night. “Why. Is. It. Always. Me.” he muttered as they tossed back his invisibility cloak over hersuil.

 

“Why isn’t it not you?” Neville muttered, his face flushed from exertion as he grabbed the man by the arms.

 

Harry shifted beside him, bracing his hands awkwardly under Hersuil’s shoulders, while Viktor clutched the man’s ankles with all the dignity of someone carrying a rolled-up carpet.

 

“We need to transfer him. Not here, though.” Neville grunted, jerking his head toward the door.

 

Harry let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah, no kidding. He’s bloody heavy, Nev. For someone who looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over, he’s built like Hagrid.”

 

From the outside, the three of them must have looked mad: Harry, Neville, and Viktor wrestling with nothing at all, muttering curses and huffs as they staggered along the corridor. A passing Ravenclaw slowed, brows furrowed, clearly torn between asking what was happening or pretending not to see. Luckily, she decided on the latter.

 

Viktor, red in the face but managing to keep some composure, grunted, “If anyone vatches too long, they vill think Harry has finally lost his mind, dragging invisible… thing down corridor.”

 

Neville gave a half-snort, half-groan, the sound of a man at the end of his rope. “They already think that, Viktor. At this point, they’ll just assume it’s Tuesday.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead as the three of them rounded another corner. “Less talking, more carrying.”

 

Neville huffed but obeyed, muttering under his breath. “Bet Ron and Hermione never had to help you smuggle unconscious bodies around Hogwarts. No, no—Neville Longbottom gets stuck with that honor. Wonderful. Brilliant. Just the kind of story you want to tell your gran over tea.”

 

“We’re not smuggling, we’re hiding him,” Harry corrected, as though that sounded any better.

 

“Oh yes, much better,” Neville said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because hiding invisible men in abandoned classroom is completely normal behaviour for Hogwarts students.”

 

Viktor’s lips twitched, almost a smile but not quite, as if even he couldn’t decide if the whole thing was horrifying or just absurd. “I still do not understand how this… Neville, vas it?—how he knows place better than you”

 

Neville, puffing out his chest despite the weight, gave a smug little smirk. “Because unlike Harry, I pay attention. Some of us actually walk around the castle instead of nearly dying in it.”

 

Harry scowled at him. “Oh, shut it, Nev.”

 

They carried Hersuil through the nearly empty halls, passing a handful of stragglers headed for breakfast in the Great Hall. Each time, Harry felt sweat bead at the back of his neck as he plastered on the world’s worst fake smile. He swore one of the portraits was taking notes.

 

Finally, they arrived at the seventh floor, stopping before what was unmistakably a dead end.

 

Harry squinted at the blank stretch of stone. “Seriously, Nev? It’s just a wall. A dead end. We’ve hauled this guy halfway across the castle for a—”

 

Before he could finish, Neville dropped Hersuil’s arms without warning. Harry staggered, nearly toppling forward under the weight.

 

“Merlin’s beard, Neville!” Harry gasped. “A little warning would be nice before you abandon ship!”

 

Neville only smirked and began pacing in front of a faded portrait Harry didn’t even recognize. With each pass, his expression grew more satisfied.

 

Harry adjusted his grip on Hersuil, shooting Viktor a look that clearly said, is he serious? Viktor only raised an unimpressed brow.

 

Then, as Neville turned for the third time, a door materialized out of the stone wall. Solid oak, gleaming handles, the works.

 

Harry’s mouth fell open. “...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

Neville crossed his arms, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Told you. The Room of Requirement. Shows up when you need it.”

 

Neville smirked at him with infuriating pride. “Of course I did. I don’t spend all my time chasing Dark wizards or dodging curses, Harry. Some of us actually explore. Now, stop whining and get him inside before someone thinks we’ve lost the plot entirely.”

 

Harry groaned but tightened his grip on the invisible Hersuil, muttering as he helped Viktor drag him toward the newly-appeared door. “Lost the plot? Nev, the plot was never here to begin with.”

 

---

 

 

 

Notes:

Spoiler:
“Harry, is that—”

“A DEAD BODY?!” Hermione’s shriek could have shattered glass as she stumbled back, clutching the nearest book within reach—a monstrous leather-bound volume that looked like it weighed as much as a cauldron. Without thinking, she swung it like a bludgeon at Harry’s arm.

“OW! Hermione—stop it!” Harry yelped, narrowly ducking behind Viktor, who had the unfortunate role of human shield.

Viktor scowled, his heavy brows lowering as he growled at Hermione

Hermione froze mid-swat, her hair frazzled, chest heaving. “Don’t you glare at me like that, Viktor Krum! Do you realize what this looks like?” She jabbed her finger toward the sofa, her voice rising higher. “Harry James Potter, you— you— you dragged a body in here and thought—what?! That nobody would notice? AND you dragged poor Neville into this!”

Harry raised his hands defensively from behind Viktor’s shoulder. “Okay, first off—he’s not dead! He’s just… unconscious! And second, it’s not what it looks like!”

“Not what it looks like?” Hermione screeched, sounding alarmingly like Mrs. Weasley. Ron flinched just from the memory of his mother’s voice.

Neville, who was crouched by the sofa, calmly wiping Hersuil’s face with a damp towel, piped up at the worst possible moment. “I’m not complaining. This is just… you know… another day of being friends with Harry. Honestly, I’m getting used to it.”

“Not helping, Neville!” Harry snapped, while Viktor muttered something sharp in Bulgarian under his breath.

Hermione whirled on Neville, scandalized. “Getting used to it?! Neville, he smuggled an unconscious man under an Invisibility Cloak! Do you hear yourself?”

Neville shrugged, wringing the towel. “Well, it’s not the strangest thing he’s done. Remember first year? Troll in the bathroom. And second year? Basilisk in the pipes. Third year? Hippogriff jailbreak. Honestly, I’d be more shocked if Harry wasn’t hiding a suspiciously heavy unconscious bloke on a sofa in the Room of Requirement.”

Ron, who had been unusually quiet, muttered, “Reckon Skeeter’s gonna have a field day if she hears about this. Harry Potter and Viktor Krum: Hogwarts’ Newest Crime Duo.”

“RON!” Hermione snapped, horrified. “Do not encourage this!”

Ron held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying—it’s got a ring to it.”

Meanwhile, Viktor, still shielding Harry, gave Ron a glare so dark it could curdle pumpkin juice. “You vill not put Harry’s name in scandal.”

Harry groaned and covered his face with both hands. “Merlin’s beard, kill me now…”

 

Sorry if it's short:p I have to study tomorrow for our exam that takes up to two days I think so Friday and Saturday. So yeah, not good in writing comedy scenes tho and I had to search up HP phrases cz I SUCK at it ngl.

Chapter 17: Poor Neville

“So?” Ron asked, tone far too casual for Hermione’s liking.

 

She stopped walking, turned sharply, and glared at him.

 

Ron lifted his hands defensively. “What? I’m just saying—”

 

“No, Ron.” Hermione’s voice was sharp, clipped. “Don’t you what me. He’s been gone more than twenty-four hours now. That is not normal. Not for Harry.”

 

Ron muttered under his breath, “Depends what you mean by normal.”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

 

“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione snapped. She pushed past a gaggle of third-years loitering in the hallway, ignoring their startled expressions. Her eyes darted across the corridor, scanning the constant stream of students. The air hummed with anticipation—everywhere she turned, someone was whispering about the Triwizard Tournament.

 

Tomorrow, the Goblet would spit out names. Tomorrow, champions would be chosen. Tomorrow, Hogwarts would be thrust into the kind of history people wrote about in textbooks.

 

And Harry Potter, of all people, had vanished.

 

Hermione pressed her lips together. She’d told herself all afternoon that he was fine. That he’d gotten himself caught up in some little adventure, or perhaps holed himself up in the library (though, realistically, that would only happen if he’d been hexed into it). But as hours passed, her stomach coiled tighter and tighter with unease.

 

Harry always attracted chaos, yes, but going missing entirely? Without a single word? That wasn’t like him.

 

Ron jogged a few steps to keep up with her. “Last we saw,” he began, “Viktor got dragged into Karkaroff’s office and then Harry stormed after him. Wouldn’t leave, remember? He had that—” Ron screwed up his face into a furious glare, fists clenched dramatically—“that look. You know. The one where you can tell he’s this close to setting someone’s robes on fire.”

 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Ronald. I was there.”

 

Ron grinned faintly. “Still. Would’ve paid to see him actually do it. Set Karkaroff’s greasy hair ablaze. Might even improve it.”

 

Hermione fought a laugh, her lips twitching before she caught herself. “That man is insufferable. Honestly, the arrogance—walking around the castle as if he owns the place, sneering at everyone who isn’t Durmstrang…” She wrinkled her nose. “And don’t even get me started on his breath.”

 

Ron’s head whipped toward her. “His what?”

 

“His breath,” she repeated, nose wrinkling further. “You didn’t notice?”

 

Ron looked horrified. “Merlin, no. Is it bad?”

 

“Bad? It’s practically a weapon. Like… rotten cabbage left in a cauldron all summer.”

 

Ron gagged. “Ugh, that explains why Harry always looks like he’s about to faint when Karkaroff leans in. Poor bloke probably needs a Bubble-Head Charm just to survive a conversation.”

 

Hermione let out a small, reluctant laugh, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the gnawing weight of worry. “This isn’t funny, Ron. What if something’s happened?”

 

Ron’s grin faded. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged. “I know.” His voice softened. “It’s just… with Harry, I never know whether I should be worried, or just… expect chaos. It’s kind of his thing.”

 

Hermione sighed, scanning the corridor again. A group of Ravenclaws passed by, giggling, "Maybe he got lost in the library again. Poor thing. Bet he’s still stuck between shelves.”

 

Hermione bristled. “Harry would not get lost in the library.”

 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “He’d get bored enough to try to escape, though.”

 

Hermione smacked his arm.

 

They walked in silence for a moment, only the distant chatter of students filling the halls. Tomorrow loomed closer and closer, heavy with uncertainty.

 

Ron finally said, “So. What’s the plan? Do we wait, or do we start tearing apart every broom cupboard in the castle until we find him?”

 

Hermione’s expression hardened. “Both.”

 

Ron groaned. “Brilliant. I’ll take the broom cupboards then.”

 

Hermione gave him a look that could have felled a troll.

 

 

“We just need to keep looking,” Hermione said, more to herself than to Ron. “What about the map?”

 

Ron blinked, as though he’d been smacked on the head with a broom handle. His eyes went wide, his jaw slack. “The map!” he repeated, digging frantically into his pockets like a starving man after the last Chocolate Frog. “Blimey—why didn’t I think of that?”

 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because you never think of anything useful until I mention it,” she muttered under her breath.

 

Ron didn’t even hear her; he was elbow-deep in his robes, muttering curses as he pulled out lint, a sickle, and something disturbingly squishy that looked like it might once have been a Bertie Bott’s bean. “I know it’s in here somewhere—”

 

“Excuse me,” came a calm, measured voice that could make even the most hardened troublemaker freeze in place.

 

Both Ron and Hermione spun around so fast Ron nearly dropped the questionable bean. Standing before them was none other than Albus Dumbledore, his hands folded neatly over his robes, eyes twinkling like he had just caught them sneaking biscuits at midnight.

 

“Headmaster,” Hermione said quickly, plastering on a smile that was far too brittle to be convincing. She elbowed Ron sharply in the ribs.

 

“Headmaster,” Ron echoed, his voice cracking, his entire posture snapping into rigid attention like a soldier in front of a general.

 

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore said lightly, though there was a weight behind the words that Hermione didn’t miss, “but I wondered if you have seen Mr. Potter. I require a word with him.”

 

Hermione’s smile tightened another fraction. She could practically feel the sweat sliding down her back. She did not like that twinkle in the Headmaster’s eyes—too knowing, far too knowing. “Oh—yes,” she said, her tone falsely bright. “Harry… he just went to the tower to grab—uhm—his books. Yes, his books.”

 

Ron gawked at her, horrified, as though she had just announced Harry was off dancing with mermaids in the Black Lake.

 

“Books?” Ron mouthed, disbelieving.

 

Hermione shot him a warning glare sharp enough to slit parchment.

 

“Oh—yes!” Ron said hastily, catching on, though his voice squeaked. “Books. You know how forgetful Harry is. Always leaving them behind.” He laughed, a laugh so awkward and forced that it sounded like a dying owl. “Terrible habit, really.”

 

Dumbledore regarded them both for a long, piercing moment. His gaze lingered on Hermione, then Ron, as if peeling back the layers of their nervous lies like so much wrapping paper. For one horrible second, Hermione thought he might press further, ask which books, or worse, insist on waiting for Harry right there.

 

Instead, the Headmaster simply nodded. “I see. In that case, I shall leave the message in your capable hands. Please do tell him I am looking for him.”

 

And with that, he turned and drifted away, robes sweeping the stone floor in his wake, leaving behind an aura of suspicion that clung to the air like smoke.

 

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was far too close,” she whispered.

 

Ron stuffed his hand back into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment at last. “Found it!” he announced, triumph shining in his eyes.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn’t fall out of her head.

 

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered under her breath as she snatched the parchment from Ron’s hands. She gave him her sharpest glare, the kind that usually made him shrink a bit, then hooked her arm through his and dragged him down the corridor.

 

“Oi—Hermione! I can walk, you know!” Ron hissed, stumbling after her, his trainers squeaking against the stone floor.

 

“Not quickly enough, Ronald. And not quietly enough either.” She kept her voice low, careful of the scattering of students drifting toward their first classes of the morning. Every passing face made her stiffen; she could see the question buzzing behind their curious stares: Where’s Potter? Why isn’t he with you two?

 

It was strange, wasn’t it? Harry had always been with them, like their trio had been stitched together. And now—now the sight of her and Ron without Harry clinging at their side felt exposed, almost incomplete. People noticed. Of course they did.

 

She didn’t stop until she found an empty classroom—a forgotten, dusty little corner that smelled faintly of chalk and old wood polish. The door slammed shut behind them, and Ron coughed as a cloud of dust billowed up from the floor. Hermione ignored him, already spreading the worn parchment across a desk, smoothing it flat with the determination of a general unrolling a battle map.

 

“Right,” she said briskly, drawing her wand. “Let’s not waste time.”

 

She tapped the map with her wand, muttered the incantation with a practiced flick, and slowly, the surface rippled as if ink were bleeding up through the fibers of the parchment. Lines began to crawl and twist into place, forming the labyrinth of Hogwarts’ corridors, towers, and secret passages. Names blinked to life, hundreds of them, dancing like fireflies across the page.

 

Ron leaned over her shoulder, eyes darting across the swarming dots. His face fell. “Oh, bloody hell—it’s going to take ages to find him. There’s loads of people on here!”

 

Hermione’s nostrils flared. “Of course there are, Ron, it’s Hogwarts, not a broom cupboard!” she snapped. She pressed closer to the map, scanning quickly, her eyes already flitting to the places Harry usually haunted: Gryffindor Tower, the library (though let’s be real, he never went there without her), the Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch. Nothing. Not even a trace.

 

Ron groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe he’s—er—on the loo?”

 

Hermione whipped her head around so fast that Ron flinched. “For twenty-four hours?” she hissed. “Do you ever think before you speak?”

 

Ron flushed, ears going red, and muttered, “Well, when you put it like that…”

 

Hermione sighed sharply and bent back over the parchment. She traced the twisting staircases with her fingertip, the little dots moving in real time like ants on a hill. “This isn’t like him,” she said, her voice quieter now, the edge softening. “Harry doesn’t just… vanish. Not without a reason.”

 

Ron glanced at her sideways, still hovering awkwardly. “He’s with Krum, isn’t he?” he muttered. “That bloke’s trouble, Hermione. Big trouble. I said it the second Harry started hanging about with him. You saw his face—like he’s got something to hide. Maybe he’s dragged Harry into it.”

 

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t like Krum either—not personally, anyway—but she couldn’t ignore the way Harry’s expression had changed around him, how stubbornly protective he’d been when Karkaroff tried to push Viktor around. If Harry was in trouble, she knew one thing for certain: it wouldn’t be because Viktor Krum had forced him. No—Harry would have chosen to stand beside him, whatever the cost.

 

And that was what worried her most.

 

Hermione’s eyes scanned faster now, her finger flicking across the map, muttering the names under her breath as though saying them aloud might make Harry’s appear. “Nothing in Gryffindor Tower, nothing in the library, nothing in—ugh, Ron, stop breathing down my neck!”

 

“I’m helping!” Ron protested, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

 

“Except one pair is practically useless,” Hermione shot back without looking up.

 

Ron scowled, then leaned down again despite her, squinting at the tiny letters that danced across the parchment. He jabbed a finger toward a cluster of names in the dungeons. “There’s Malfoy! Bet he knows where Harry is. Maybe he’s locked him in a broom cupboard or something.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain. “Yes, Ron, because Malfoy has absolutely nothing better to do with his time than personally abduct Harry Potter the night before the Triwizard Tournament begins.”

 

“Well,” Ron mumbled defensively, “it’s possible.”

 

She ignored him, biting her lip as her eyes darted across the parchment again. The names shifted constantly, students moving between classes, professors gliding from corridor to corridor. But no matter how many times she checked, how many times she whispered Harry’s name under her breath—

 

Nothing.

 

Not a single sign of Harry Potter.

 

And that, more than anything, made her stomach twist with unease.

 

“There!” Ron jabbed a finger at the map so hard Hermione thought he’d poke a hole through the parchment. His grin was triumphant, like he’d just solved the greatest mystery of their age instead of simply spotting Harry’s name on enchanted ink. “There he is—Harry! Seventh floor corridor. And he’s—wait—he’s not alone.”

 

Hermione leaned over, her hair tickling Ron’s cheek as her sharp eyes scanned the swirls of ink. “Viktor…” she muttered, voice clipped, then blinked twice. “And…Neville?”

 

Ron gawked at the map. “What in the name of Merlin’s saggy socks is he doing with Neville? No offense to the bloke—”

 

Hermione’s huff silenced him, but before she could scold, another name shimmered onto the parchment, bold and undeniable.

 

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Hold up—hold up! Is that—? No. It can’t be.” He leaned closer, practically smudging the names with his nose. His voice cracked like a broken violin string. “That’s Hersuil Carrowen! The Hersuil Carrowen. The one who’s supposed to be six feet under and rotting for the past—oh, I dunno—a hundred years?!”

 

The name pulsed faintly, trailing after the others. Harry, Neville, and Viktor seemed to be dragging him along like a trunk with broken wheels.

 

Ron gulped. “Dead men don’t walk on maps, ‘Mione. I don’t care how advanced your ink is.”

 

Hermione’s lips pressed thin, her mind already three steps ahead. “Which means he isn’t dead anymore. The map doesn’t fabricate. If it says he’s there—then he’s there. But there’s only one way to know for certain.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked, dread creeping into his voice.

 

Hermione snapped the parchment shut and stood with brisk determination. “It means we’re going to follow them.” She seized his arm and started tugging him toward the door.

 

Ron stumbled after her, his brain still rebooting after the sheer absurdity of what he’d just witnessed. “Wait—hang on. Did you just—did you just say—?”

 

Hermione didn’t even look back, already calculating the fastest path to the seventh floor. “Ron, as much as I love you and your stupid pea-brain, please do try to keep up.”

 

Ron’s legs locked. His ears went red. His heart leapt up into his throat and stayed there, flapping like a trapped snitch.

 

As much as I love you.

 

He heard it again. And again. And again. Like Peeves was shouting it on loop just to drive him mental.

 

She said it. Out loud. To him.

 

Not in his head. Not in some fever-dream where he was brilliant at Quidditch and rich enough to buy Honeydukes. Not whispered by accident when she was sleep-talking about homework. She’d said it—straight to his face—right before dragging him into certain death.

 

Hermione tugged harder. “Come on, Ron, we don’t have time for you to stand there gawping like a flobberworm!”

 

But Ron barely heard her. His mind had spun completely off course, like a broom with a broken handle.

 

Did she mean it? She must’ve meant it. You don’t just say ‘love’ by accident—unless you do. Oh, Merlin. Maybe she meant friend love. Like ‘I love my cat,’ or ‘I love treacle tart.’ What if I’m treacle tart to her? No, don’t be daft, Ron, you’re not treacle tart. Treacle tart doesn’t have freckles. Unless…what if treacle tart could have freckles? Would she still love it? Would she still—

 

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, yanking him so hard his shoulder nearly popped.

 

He stumbled after her, muttering under his breath. “Bloody hell, she loves me. She said it. Said it right there. In the middle of a murder-mystery chase, of course, because why not? Couldn’t have been during a nice quiet dinner. Or a chess game. No, it has to be when Harry’s off with Neville and Viktor and some zombie bloke.”

 

Hermione gave him a look sharp enough to kill a Basilisk. “Are you quite finished?”

 

Ron’s ears went from red to crimson. “Uh—yeah. Totally. Finished. Done. Not thinking about it at all.”

 

But as Hermione pulled him down the corridor with brisk, purposeful strides, Ron’s mind continued its ridiculous spiral:

Do I say it back? Should I? Right now? No—terrible timing. Imagine blurting ‘I love you too’ while chasing after a reanimated corpse. Smooth, Weasley. Very smooth. Unless…maybe that’s romantic in a twisted sort of way? Nah, she’d murder me. She definitely would. Still…she loves me. She said it. She actually said it.

 

And with that delirious thought, Ron marched after her—his heart hammering louder than his footsteps—utterly convinced that he was, for once, the luckiest pea-brain alive.

 

Once at the seventh floor, Hermione and Ron peeked over the corner, squinting like two very bad spies trying to look inconspicuous. Neville was pacing back and forth in front of a blank stretch of wall, muttering to himself, before a door suddenly materialized right before their eyes.

 

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “The Room of Requirement—” she whispered.

 

“—sounds like a dodgy pub,” Ron muttered, but Hermione shushed him so hard his ears rang.

 

They watched as Harry said something they couldn’t hear. Then, to both their horror and fascination, Harry, Viktor, and Neville began dragging the not-so-dead-or-maybe-dead body of Hersuil Carrowen inside like three schoolboys sneaking a troll in after curfew.

 

Ron’s mouth fell open. “Bloody hell, they are dragging a corpse—”

 

“Shh!” Hermione hissed, tugging on his sleeve, but it was too late. The door was about to close, and if there was one thing Hermione Granger couldn’t stand, it was being left out of the secrets Harry was clearly neck-deep in again. She grabbed Ron by the arm and bolted forward.

 

Unfortunately, she tripped over her own robes in her mad dash, and because Ron was right behind her, he toppled with her in a graceless heap. They both landed in a tangled mess on the floor with a thud just as the door sealed shut behind them.

 

Hermione groaned, her face smushed against Ron’s chest. Ron, flat on his back and staring dazedly at the ceiling, croaked, “Blimey, I think I’ve swallowed my tongue—”

 

Harry, Viktor, and Neville froze mid-motion. Viktor was holding Hersuil’s arm, Harry had his feet, and Neville had just carefully placed a pillow down on the sofa. All three turned simultaneously to stare at the intruders sprawled on the carpet like a badly written romantic comedy.

 

There was a pause.

 

“Hi,” Ron said, his voice muffled under Hermione’s elbow. He gave a weak wave with the one arm he could move.

 

Neville blinked. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Viktor muttered something in Bulgarian that very much sounded like a curse.

 

Hermione, mortified, scrambled off Ron so fast she practically kneed him in the stomach, causing him to wheeze like a broken kettle. She brushed imaginary dust off her robes and attempted to look dignified despite the fact that her hair was sticking out at alarming angles.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Hermione said far too brightly, as though she hadn’t just stormed into the room like an uninvited banshee.

 

Ron sat up, still gasping. “Yeah, just thought we’d, you know—check in—make sure you weren’t—” He waved vaguely at the unconscious Hersuil on the sofa. “—doing exactly this.”

 

Harry groaned audibly. “Of course.”

 

Neville offered helpfully, “We made him comfortable, though. See? Pillow.”

 

Ron blinked at Neville, then at the unconscious man, then back at Harry. “You’re all completely mental, you know that, right?”

 

Hermione, red-faced but defiant, sniffed. “Well, mental or not, we’re here now. So someone better start explaining."

 

---

 

 

“Harry, is that—”

 

“A DEAD BODY?!” Hermione’s shriek could have shattered glass as she stumbled back, clutching the nearest book within reach—a monstrous leather-bound volume that looked like it weighed as much as a cauldron. Without thinking, she swung it like a bludgeon at Harry’s arm.

 

“OW! Hermione—stop it!” Harry yelped, narrowly ducking behind Viktor, who had the unfortunate role of human shield.

 

Viktor scowled, his heavy brows lowering as he growled at Hermione

 

Hermione froze mid-swat, her hair frazzled, chest heaving. “Don’t you glare at me like that, Viktor Krum! Do you realize what this looks like?” She jabbed her finger toward the sofa, her voice rising higher. “Harry James Potter, you— you— you dragged a body in here and thought—what?! That nobody would notice? AND you dragged poor Neville into this!”

 

Harry raised his hands defensively from behind Viktor’s shoulder. “Okay, first off—he’s not dead! He’s just… unconscious! And second, it’s not what it looks like!”

 

“Not what it looks like?” Hermione screeched, sounding alarmingly like Mrs. Weasley. Ron flinched just from the memory of his mother’s voice.

 

Neville, who was crouched by the sofa, calmly wiping Hersuil’s face with a damp towel, piped up at the worst possible moment. “I’m not complaining. This is just… you know… another day of being friends with Harry. Honestly, I’m getting used to it.”

 

“Not helping, Neville!” Harry snapped, while Viktor muttered something sharp in Bulgarian under his breath.

 

Hermione whirled on Neville, scandalized. “Getting used to it?! Neville, he smuggled an unconscious man under an Invisibility Cloak! Do you hear yourself?”

 

Neville shrugged, wringing the towel. “Well, it’s not the strangest thing he’s done. Remember first year? Troll in the bathroom. And second year? Basilisk in the pipes. Third year? Hippogriff jailbreak. Honestly, I’d be more shocked if Harry wasn’t hiding a suspiciously heavy unconscious bloke on a sofa in the Room of Requirement.”

 

Ron, who had been unusually quiet, muttered, “Reckon Skeeter’s gonna have a field day if she hears about this. Harry Potter and Viktor Krum: Hogwarts’ Newest Crime Duo.”

 

“RON!” Hermione snapped, horrified. “Do not encourage this!”

 

Ron held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying—it’s got a ring to it.”

 

Meanwhile, Viktor, still shielding Harry, gave Ron a glare so dark it could curdle pumpkin juice. “You vill not put Harry’s name in scandal.”

 

Harry groaned and covered his face with both hands. “Merlin’s beard, kill me now…”

 

Hermione gave a long, world-weary sigh, the kind that suggested she’d aged at least twenty years just by stepping foot into the Room of Requirement. She pinched the bridge of her nose in that familiar way, the one Harry had come to recognize as her “you’re about three seconds away from being beaten to death with a textbook” pose.

 

“Okay,” she began, voice deceptively calm. “We will get right back to this—” she waved a sharp hand at Hersuil, still sprawled limply on the sofa like a discarded scarecrow—“later. But do not, do not, think for even a moment that you’re off the hook, Harry James Potter.”

 

Harry felt himself shrink an inch. She only ever used his full name when she was either about to murder him or draft a three-paragraph essay on his crimes. Neither option felt survivable.

 

Her glare could have melted steel. “Dumbledore’s looking for you.”

 

Harry blinked. “…Oh.” His voice cracked slightly. “Right.”

 

Hermione crossed her arms, clearly hating the thought. “Yes. Right. Because Merlin forbid you spend even a single moment alone with anyone who isn’t me, Ron, or—” she cast a scathing glance at Viktor, who stiffened—“him.”

 

Viktor, deciding the safest course of action was pretending not to understand English, studied the carpet with grave intensity.

 

“What did he want?” Harry asked, cautiously testing the air like someone unsure if a Bludger was about to fly at his head.

 

Ron, sprawled on the floor with all the dignity of a beached squid, shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t say. Just acted all…” He wiggled his fingers ominously in the air. “…creepy. His usual. I don’t like it.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron, everything about Dumbledore unsettles you.”

 

“Yeah, because everything about Dumbledore is unsettling,” Ron fired back. He sat up and pointed directly at Hersuil with one freckled finger. “Case in point—this. I don’t care how you dress it up, Harry's still hiding a corpse- or whatever you call it and having a famous quidditch star as your villain duo in the making is not what we really need now"

 

“Ron!” Hermione snapped, swatting his hand away. “Stop that!”

 

“What? I’m just saying—if I walked in on me dragging that thing around—” he jabbed a thumb toward the unconscious body—“I’d have a few questions too. Like, ‘why isn’t anyone else screaming right now?’”

 

Viktor muttered something under his breath in Bulgarian that sounded suspiciously like, Why do I put up with this nonsense.

 

Before Hermione could retort, an unmistakable grumble echoed through the room.

 

Everyone froze, then turned their heads in perfect unison.

 

Neville, standing stiffly with his hands clasped like he’d just been accused of murder, flushed bright red. “What?” he said defensively. “It’s nearly breakfast!”

 

Ron blinked at him, incredulous. “Mate, only you could interrupt a murder cover-up with your stomach and you’re thinking about toast?”

 

Neville frowned. “It’s not just toast. There’s porridge. And sausages. And pumpkin juice. And it’s almost time and if we’re late, Seamus always eats all the fried bread before I get there.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“Honestly, Neville,” Hermione groaned, dragging her hand down her face.

 

Ron, however, had already snorted so hard he nearly toppled over. “Of course. Of course this is what gets you worked up. Not the possible corpse. Not the fact that Harry’s about to get murdered by Hermione. But sausages.”

 

Neville muttered, “Well, you’d care too if you’d missed breakfast as often as I have.”

 

“Breakfast,” Ron repeated slowly, shaking his head. “This is unbelievable. We’re in the middle of some top-secret mission and you’re staging a one-man protest for eggs, even I'm surprised by just admitting it.”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his own nose now, realizing this was about to spiral out of control. “Could we not do this in front of—” He gestured vaguely to Hersuil, whose head had lolled off the cushion.

 

“—the corpse?” Ron supplied helpfully.

 

“He’s not a corpse!” Harry. snapped. “He’s unconscious!”

 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ron muttered. “Looks like a corpse. Smells like a corpse. Probably is a corpse.”

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Say ‘corpse’ one more time, Ronald.”

 

Ron opened his mouth. Thought better of it. Closed it again.

 

Viktor groaned quietly into his palms.

 

Neville’s stomach rumbled again.

 

Harry wondered—briefly, desperately—if letting Dumbledore find him might actually be the less stressful option, Hermione, meanwhile, looked very much like she was considering which book in her bag would make the most effective bludgeon.

 

Notes:

Spoilers: "You're hiding a dead body in there and then you—" Fred started, his eyes wide, his grin barely suppressed.

"—and you probably hate us for even getting you into this mess in the first place," George finished, smirking like it was the best joke he'd told all week.

Harry leveled a glare at them so sharp it could have been mistaken for a hex. "Yes. And yes."

The twins didn’t even flinch. If anything, they looked pleased that they were right.

Viktor, who had been unusually quiet up until now, finally spoke. "Bring that weird friend of yours… Loony?"

Harry turned on him so fast that Viktor actually blinked. His palm smacked hard against Viktor’s arm. "Luna," Harry corrected through clenched teeth.

Viktor gave a short grunt, rubbing the sore spot with a grimace that melted into a crooked, apologetic smile. "Luna, then. Sorry."

Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Luna. She might know what the best course of action is. She always does." He shot a look at Fred and George, who were still exchanging smug little looks like this was all one long prank. "AND," he snapped, his voice rising just enough to cut through the room, "you two owe me."

Both twins raised their brows in perfect unison, the picture of innocence—which, in their case, meant absolutely nothing.

"Owe you what, exactly?" George asked.

"You’ll find out," Harry said in a half-growl, half-hiss as he turned on his heel and grabbed Viktor by the sleeve, dragging him toward the door.

Viktor, for all his Quidditch strength, let himself be hauled away, his dark brows arched as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be concerned.

Behind them, Fred leaned toward George, his grin positively wolfish. "He’s terrifying when he’s bossy, isn’t he?"

"Terrifying and oddly impressive," George agreed.

Neville, still hovering awkwardly near the sofa where the unconscious Hersuil lay, mumbled under his breath, "You lot are all insane."

"Correction," Fred piped up, straightening. "We’re brilliant. Insanity is just a side effect."

 

YEAHHHH exams today, it's currently 4:44 am, haven't studied ANYTHING, so wish me luck, might updated tomorrow, so yeah, comment down below on what you think of this chapter!

Chapter 18: Pensieve

"FRED! GEORGE!"

 

Harry’s voice cracked across the seventh-floor corridor like a whip, startling even the Fat Lady in her portrait three doors down.

 

The twins stopped dead, both mid-step, as the shimmer of their Disillusionment Charm slid off them like water dripping down glass. One moment they were shadows blending perfectly into the stones, the next they were simply there—grinning, smug, and looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

 

Fred clapped his hands together with exaggerated delight. "Ah, the Boy Who Spots Us. We knew you wouldn’t disappoint."

 

George bowed deeply, his grin sharp as a blade. "Truly remarkable eyesight, Harry. You’d make an excellent Seeker someday."

 

Harry’s nostrils flared as he glared at them, his fists curling. "I am a Seeker."

 

Fred blinked, feigning shock. "Are you really? George, did you know?"

 

George tilted his head, pretending to think. "I might’ve heard something about it… once or twice. Small detail."

 

Harry’s glare sharpened until it could’ve rivaled Snape’s darkest scowl. He could still hear Ron and Hermione’s footsteps echoing faintly as they made their way to the Great Hall. They’d been very insistent about pretending they hadn’t seen him, Merlin knows why. Apparently, it was safer if they acted clueless, though Harry thought it made them look ridiculous. But now—now he had this problem: two redheaded disasters standing in front of him with no intention of leaving quietly.

 

"You two think this is funny?" Harry asked, his voice low, teeth clenched.

 

Fred gasped dramatically, throwing his hand to his chest as though Harry had struck him. "Funny? Us? My dear Harry, you wound us."

 

George matched him instantly, shaking his head with mock sorrow. "Utterly baseless accusation. We’re paragons of seriousness."

 

They turned to each other and, perfectly in sync, burst into smug grins.

 

Harry dragged his hand down his face, suppressing the strong urge to hex them both into next week.

 

"You’re supposed to be at breakfast," Harry muttered, voice low and dangerous, though the twins were far too thick-skinned—or perhaps too thick-headed—to take the hint.

 

"And miss this?" Fred asked, waving toward the still-open Room of Requirement door. "We couldn’t possibly. Smelled trouble a corridor away."

 

George leaned lazily against the wall. "And where there’s trouble, there’s Harry. Reliable as sunrise, really."

 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, summoning every ounce of patience he didn’t have. When he opened them again, he glared with the kind of look that would’ve sent Crabbe and Goyle running. But Fred and George? They only straightened their postures and smiled wider, like cats who’d cornered a very irritable mouse.

 

Harry finally snapped, his voice sharp as he barked, "You’re insufferable."

 

"Thank you," Fred said smoothly.

 

"Always a pleasure," George added, his bow theatrical enough to earn him a place on stage.

 

"now, what do we have here" Fred said as he took a peek behind Harry 

 

"You're hiding a dead body in there and then you—" Fred started, his eyes wide, his grin barely suppressed.

 

"—and you probably hate us for even getting you into this mess in the first place," George finished, smirking like it was the best joke he'd told all week.

 

Harry leveled a glare at them so sharp it could have been mistaken for a hex. "Yes. And yes."

 

The twins didn’t even flinch. If anything, they looked pleased that they were right.

 

Viktor, who had been unusually quiet up until now, finally spoke. "Bring that weird friend of yours… Loony?"

 

Harry turned on him so fast that Viktor actually blinked. His palm smacked hard against Viktor’s arm. "Luna," Harry corrected through clenched teeth.

 

Viktor gave a short grunt, rubbing the sore spot with a grimace that melted into a crooked, apologetic smile. "Luna, then. Sorry."

 

Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Luna. She might know what the best course of action is. She always does." He shot a look at Fred and George, who were still exchanging smug little looks like this was all one long prank. "AND," he snapped, his voice rising just enough to cut through the room, "you two owe me."

 

Both twins raised their brows in perfect unison, the picture of innocence—which, in their case, meant absolutely nothing.

 

"Owe you what, exactly?" George asked.

 

"You’ll find out," Harry said in a half-growl, half-hiss as he turned on his heel and grabbed Viktor by the sleeve, dragging him toward the door.

 

Viktor, for all his Quidditch strength, let himself be hauled away, his dark brows arched as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be concerned.

 

Behind them, Fred leaned toward George, his grin positively wolfish. "He’s terrifying when he’s bossy, isn’t he?"

 

"Terrifying and oddly impressive," George agreed.

 

Neville, still hovering awkwardly near the sofa where the unconscious Hersuil lay, mumbled under his breath, "You lot are all insane."

 

"Correction," Fred piped up, straightening. "We’re brilliant. Insanity is just a side effect."

 

Neville exhaled through his nose, long and weary, like a man who had been through far too much nonsense for one evening. Muttering something suspiciously like “honestly, what next?” under his breath, he rose and gave a quick flick of his wand toward the unconscious man sprawled on the sofa. With a flick of his wand, he cast a quick charm over the unconscious man, a pale shimmer of light settled over the figure — the kind of charm Professor Flitwick had once mentioned offhand, meant to rattle the caster awake if their patient so much as twitched.

 

That done, Neville dusted off his hands and turned on the twins. They had been watching him with identical smirks, as if daring him to say something, and that alone was enough to make his jaw tighten.

 

“Right then,” Neville announced, voice tight with forced patience. “We are going to leave this room. We are going to walk into the Great Hall. We are going to sit down. And we are going to pretend none of this ever happened. Clear?”

 

Fred blinked at him, the picture of innocence. “Crystal.”

 

“Like goblin-silver,” George added.

 

“Good,” Neville said, and before either of them could prepare another quip, he reached out, grabbed them both by their upper arms, and yanked them toward the door with surprising force.

 

“Oi!” Fred yelped, stumbling as Neville’s grip tightened. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Removing temptation before it explodes in our faces,” Neville said briskly, hauling them down the corridor with the determination of a man dragging a pair of overgrown children out of Zonko’s.

 

George, half-dragged, half-walking, twisted his head around to grin at his brother. “Fred, I think Longbottom’s manhandling us.”

 

“I noticed,” Fred muttered, trying to shake his arm free. “Merlin’s beard, Neville, where did you get this grip?”

 

Neville gave Fred’s arm a sharp tug. “Herbology. Try wrangling Devil’s Snare sometime — it teaches you a thing or two about holding on and not letting go.”

 

The twins exchanged a look of mingled amusement and mild horror.

 

As they reached the staircase, Fred groaned loudly, earning them a suspicious glance from a passing Ravenclaw. Neville ignored it and dragged them down the steps anyway. The twins continued their theatrics.

 

“Help!” George cried suddenly, grinning like a loon. “Oppressed! Brutalized! Attacked by our very own housemate!”

 

Neville hissed under his breath, “Keep your voice down!” and wrenched George by the arm so sharply that the boy nearly tripped on the last step.

 

By the time they reached the doors of the Great Hall, Neville was red-faced and grimly set on his mission. Fred and George, meanwhile, had gone limp like stubborn cats being carried by the scruffs of their necks, forcing Neville to drag their near-dead weight through the entrance.

 

The hum of chatter inside the Great Hall faltered. A few dozen pairs of eyes swiveled toward the odd procession: Neville Longbottom, jaw clenched, fists iron-locked on the arms of two lanky redheads who were clearly not walking of their own volition.

 

Neville cleared his throat, trying very hard to look casual. “Evening,” he said stiffly, steering the twins toward the Gryffindor table.

 

Fred, upside-down in Neville’s grip by now, flashed a broad smile at the nearest group of gawking Hufflepuffs. “Don’t mind us. Just a routine kidnapping. Happens all the time.”

 

George, his hair sticking up from Neville’s dragging, added solemnly, “He’s taking us to the Ministry. Trial at dawn.”

 

A ripple of laughter passed through the Hall. Neville, cheeks burning, gave the twins one last shove that plopped them unceremoniously onto the Gryffindor bench.

 

“Sit. Stay,” he said flatly, like he was addressing particularly unruly dogs.

 

And then, ignoring their cackles, Neville sank heavily into the seat beside them, wishing more than anything that he could vanish under the table and never come out again.

 

---

 

 

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Harry asked as he stepped into the office, his tone deliberately steady, though his fingers fussed with the cuff of his freshly pressed sleeve.

 

The change of clothes was a relief—yesterday’s had been soaked in smoke, blood, and the kind of filth he didn’t care to name. He felt clean now, though it was only skin-deep, a kind of false surface composure. Not that anyone knew the truth. Not really. Only Ron, Hermione, the twins, Neville, and Viktor had seen him at his worst yesterday, and Harry intended to keep it that way.

 

Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, his gaze slow, deliberate, as though Harry had walked straight into a scene the headmaster had been rehearsing. "Yes, my boy," he said in a tone at once heavy and theatrical, designed to impress the weight of the moment upon Harry. "I have some rather urgent information to share with you… for caution, I believe."

 

That damn twinkle again.

 

Harry felt his jaw tighten, his palm itch. The way those blue eyes glittered, always with some secret knowledge he was never allowed to hold, made his hand twitch toward his wand. Just once—just once—he imagined raising it, plunging it into that blasted twinkling eye, watching it go dark. The thought startled him with its violence, but not enough to stop him from savoring it for a fraction too long. He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched, giving only a sharp nod.

 

The old man stood, his robes billowing faintly as he moved, whispering against the floor with an elegance that felt out of place in the heavy silence. Harry tracked him, eyes narrowing, as he approached a tall glass cabinet that seemed older than the castle itself.

 

It was filled with vials. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Some were thick and heavy with liquid that shone like molten gold, others swirled with silver threads, like starlight trapped in glass. Some pulsed faintly, alive. Each bore a label in Dumbledore’s careful script. Names, dates, events. Prewett, 1979. Bones, 1981. The Fall of the Hollow Night. Black, 1959. Gaunt.

 

Harry stepped closer without meaning to, drawn by something magnetic and unsettling. He could almost hear them whispering, the vials, as though memories themselves wanted to be freed.

 

Dumbledore’s hand hovered over one, then another, before he finally selected a narrow vial whose contents seemed to coil like smoke against the glass. For a moment his fingers lingered, stroking the glass almost tenderly, before he pulled it out and held it to the light of the fire.

 

“These,” he said softly, “are memories. They are fragments of lives, bottled truths pulled from the mind, stored for study and for safekeeping. Some belong to people long dead. Some were given freely. Some…” He paused, his voice tightening, “…were taken, because they had to be.”

 

The light from the vial danced over Dumbledore’s lined face, glinting in the eyes Harry hated to look at. “They are dangerous things, memories. They tell what no living tongue dares to tell.”

 

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, suppressing a bitter laugh. Dangerous things. Truths. Warnings. Always riddles. Always crumbs. Never the whole loaf. "And you’re showing me because…?" he asked, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

 

Dumbledore turned, the weight of his gaze pressing Harry into the floor. “Because, my boy,” he said quietly, “the past is not finished with us. It has a way of rising—unbidden, unrelenting. If you are to survive what lies ahead, you must know which ghosts are yours… and which are hunting you.”

 

Harry swallowed, refusing to give Dumbledore the satisfaction of asking more. His eyes flickered back to the cabinet. Row upon row of bottled ghosts, each one a story, a lie, a truth. And every single one of them locked behind Dumbledore’s hand, his secrets, his timing.

 

The twinkle returned. Harry’s hand twitched again.

 

Harry shifted on his feet, impatient. “What’s that?” he asked, eyes narrowing at the small vial Dumbledore held.

 

The old wizard didn’t answer at once. Instead, he gave Harry a smile—gentle, infuriatingly patient—that seemed to say wait and see. Harry bristled. Patience had never been one of his talents, and certainly not when Dumbledore acted like he knew everything but refused to tell him until the very last possible moment. His hand twitched, wand itching in his palm, and for the briefest second he imagined jabbing the tip straight into the Headmaster’s twinkling eye. The thought startled him, and he quickly looked away.

 

Without a word, Dumbledore moved across the office, his robes whispering against the floor, and set the vial down beside a large stone basin resting on a high-legged table. Harry recognized it immediately, a shiver of memory running through him. A Pensieve. He’d heard Hermione drone on about them often enough to know what it was for, but seeing it gleam up close—its runes carved deep into the stone, its surface already shimmering faintly with quicksilver light—was another matter entirely.

 

Dumbledore uncorked the vial. At once, a thin, silvery substance—liquid or mist, Harry couldn’t decide—spilled smoothly into the basin. The light of it seemed alive, writhing faintly as if resisting being contained. Harry’s breath caught as Dumbledore swirled it with a delicate motion of his hand. The surface rippled, as though a memory had been disturbed.

 

The Headmaster glanced at him. “If you would,” he said softly, gesturing toward the Pensieve.

 

Harry’s stomach clenched. He remembered too vividly the odd, weightless plunge of sticking his face into the basin the last time. But Dumbledore gave the slightest encouraging nod, and Harry swallowed his reluctance, stepped closer, and bent down.

 

The familiar sensation rushed back—falling, spiraling, pulled by unseen force. He landed on his feet with a thud, though the stone floor beneath him was far colder than the warmth of Dumbledore’s office.

 

They were in some kind of courtroom. No—Harry realized almost immediately—it was more than a courtroom. The chamber loomed vast and cavernous, with high tiers of seats stretching up into the shadows. Cloaked figures sat in rows upon rows, their purple robes marked with the insignia of the Wizengamot, the crest catching the torchlight in quick flashes. The air was heavy, thick with anticipation.

 

In the very center of the chamber, chained to a chair bristling with iron spikes, sat a man. His pale, narrow face was drawn with exhaustion, eyes darting nervously around the room as the chains clinked at every shift of his body.

 

Harry leaned instinctively toward Dumbledore, lowering his voice. “Is that—?”

 

“Igor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore answered before Harry could finish, his tone unreadable, gaze fixed upon the prisoner.

 

Harry’s insides lurched. Karkaroff. The man he’d seen just yesterday striding so proudly into the Great Hall at the head of the Durmstrang students, cloak sweeping, eyes cold. Here, though—he looked smaller, cornered, caged like some dangerous animal. The sight of the shackles biting into his wrists, the sharp edges of the chair pressing against him, sent a ripple of unease through Harry.

 

A trial, then. He was standing inside a trial.

 

Harry stared, mouth slightly agape, as the echoing sound of heavy chains filled the chamber. His first instinct was to glance up at the ceiling—it arched high above like the cavernous insides of Gringotts, though darker, oppressive. The room smelled faintly of damp stone, but it was more than that; there was a feeling here, a weight of judgment and cold authority that made Harry’s chest feel tighter. The walls themselves seemed to press inward with every second.

 

And then there was the man in the chair.

 

Igor Karkaroff—Harry recognized him instantly, though he looked different here. The headmaster of Durmstrang had a permanent air of smugness when Harry had seen him at Hogwarts, like a man who thought his furs and titles made him untouchable. But here? He looked pale, gaunt, almost feverish, and Harry couldn’t ignore how the spiked chains rattled with every twitch of his arms. He was pinned like some dangerous beast, though his eyes were darting, frantic—less beast, more cornered rat.

 

Purple-robed witches and wizards sat high in raised seats, the symbol of the Wizengamot stitched in silver over their shoulders, gleaming even in the dim torchlight. They whispered, muttered, quills scratching furiously against parchment. It was like the courtroom Harry had been dragged to the previous summer, only larger, colder, and with none of the leniency Dumbledore had once fought for.

 

Harry’s stomach flipped. He had been here before, in spirit, in nightmare—watching people chained and humiliated while powerful men and women sat above them like vultures waiting for carrion. The injustice of it made his hand twitch toward his wand again.

 

“What—what is this for?” Harry asked, though his voice was steadier than he felt.

 

“Karkaroff’s trial,” Dumbledore answered simply. He was standing beside Harry, hands clasped loosely behind his back, as though this was nothing more than a lecture in class, not a memory of someone’s downfall. His tone was almost detached, but that damn twinkle in his eye was still there, like he thought Harry was about to learn a valuable life lesson. Harry wanted to smack it out of him.

 

Harry dragged his gaze back to the man in chains. Karkaroff was breathing fast now, his mouth forming soundless words until the chair jolted—Harry realized with a start that it wasn’t just holding him down, it was alive. The metal shifted and creaked as if savoring his struggle.

 

“They mean to sentence him to Azkaban,” Dumbledore went on, almost absently. His eyes weren’t on Karkaroff but on the figures seated higher up—Barty Crouch Sr. at the center, jaw clenched, every inch the stern, unyielding official. The sight of him made Harry’s insides squirm.

 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And you’re showing me this because…?” He trailed off, suspicion sharp in his voice. He hated this—being dragged into half-explained lessons, expected to connect dots without being given the whole damn picture.

 

Dumbledore didn’t answer right away. He watched the trial begin—the droning voices calling out Karkaroff’s name, the formal charges spilling like stones into the silence—and then said, very quietly, “Because sometimes, Harry, survival is bought at the cost of loyalty. And you must decide whether such men are worth your trust.”

 

Harry bit back a scoff. He had half a mind to tell the Headmaster he was already neck-deep in people he couldn’t trust, so what difference did it make?

 

Instead, his eyes lingered on Karkaroff, the man’s lips trembling as he finally blurted something out—and Harry had the sickening feeling he was about to watch him sell names like coin to escape the fate waiting just beyond those chains.

 

A murmur swept through the courtroom, low and restless, as though the assembled witches and wizards were a single living body reacting to the man bound in chains. Harry could feel the weight of their eyes all pressing down at once.

 

“Igor Karkaroff,” said a deep, official voice that rang through the chamber. Harry turned toward the front, where a high bench overlooked the entire court. Behind it sat stern-faced wizards and witches in plum-colored robes embroidered with silver. Their gazes cut into Karkaroff like blades.

 

The man squirmed in his seat, rattling the enchanted chains that bound him. “Please—please, you must listen!” His voice cracked with desperation. “I have given you names already! You must see—I am no Death Eater any longer!”

 

A few of the Wizengamot members scoffed; one or two even laughed outright. The sound echoed unpleasantly in the stone chamber.

 

“Silence,” came another commanding voice, older, sharper. Harry’s eyes darted upward to the bench again. This time, his stomach gave a lurch. Sitting stern and cold as ice was a man he recognized from photographs—Barty Crouch, his jaw stiff as stone, his eyes merciless. He looked younger than in Harry’s present time, but no less severe.

 

“You will have your chance to speak,” Crouch said, his tone brooking no argument. “You claim you are prepared to give further information.”

 

“Yes, yes!” Karkaroff said at once, lurching forward as far as the chains allowed. His greasy hair clung to his face with sweat. “I am ready to give names—valuable names—those still among us who serve the Dark Lord!”

 

A ripple of interest moved through the Wizengamot. Quills scratched against parchment. Harry’s insides twisted.

 

Crouch gave a curt nod. “Proceed.”

 

Karkaroff licked his lips nervously, eyes darting about the chamber. “Antonin Dolohov!” he blurted. “He was a close ally of the Dark Lord, one of his most dangerous servants! He—he tortured countless Muggles and wizards alike—”

 

“Captured shortly after your own arrest,” came Crouch’s cutting reply. His eyes narrowed in disdain. “Already in Azkaban.”

 

Karkaroff paled. His eyes flicked again across the courtroom, frantic. “Yes—yes, of course, but there are others! Travers! He helped murder the McKinnon family!”

 

The quills scratched again.

 

“He is also in Azkaban,” said Crouch coldly.

 

Karkaroff swallowed, his eyes flickering to the crowd of witches and wizards. "Evan Rosier!" he blurted.

 

There was a murmur. A witch in deep plum robes shook her head. "Rosier is dead. He was killed shortly before You-Know-Who’s fall. Took a piece of Mad-Eye Moody with him," she added grimly, her eyes flicking toward the Auror in question.

 

Moody, younger but already battle-worn, gave a harsh grunt. His wooden leg clunked as he shifted, the magical eye rolling menacingly in its socket.

 

Karkaroff’s words stumbled over themselves. “Mulciber! He specialized in the Imperius Curse! He—he was a master of it!”

 

“In Azkaban,” Crouch snapped, his voice like a whip.

 

Harry could feel Karkaroff shrinking smaller and smaller in the spiked chair, desperation leaking from him like sweat. His chains rattled as he gestured wildly, his hands trembling. “Rookwood! Augustus Rookwood! He is a spy—within the Ministry itself! He has access to all manner of secrets—he—he works in the Department of Mysteries!”

 

That caused a stir. The quills faltered for a moment, the Wizengamot whispering amongst themselves. Crouch’s eyes narrowed in consideration, and Harry thought, for just a fraction of a second, he saw a flicker of approval pass across the man’s face.

 

“Continue,” Crouch said.

 

Karkaroff swallowed hard, sensing he’d bought himself a little more time. His eyes darted, frantic, before he seemed to seize upon another name. “Severus Snape! Yes—Snape was a Death Eater—he—”

 

The atmosphere in the courtroom shifted violently, whispers rising like a tide. Harry’s stomach dropped. Snape?

 

But Dumbledore- memory Dumbledore that is standing tall, finally spoke for the first time, his voice calm but carrying. “Professor Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he turned spy at great personal risk before the fall of Voldemort. He is now fully trusted by me.”

 

The whispers faltered. Some still muttered disbelievingly, but many quills scratched the dismissal of the accusation.

 

Karkaroff, encouraged by the stir, pushed on eagerly. "There is more! More! He was not alone—"

 

Crouch Sr. cut him off, his voice hard. "This is valuable information, but it will not be enough on its own. Do you have any others?"

 

Karkaroff hesitated. He looked desperate, cornered, as though the next name he spoke might damn him even as it saved him. Then, with a trembling breath, he spat, "Barty Crouch… Junior!"

 

The chamber erupted. Shouts filled the room, the Wizengamot on their feet, gasps and denials bouncing from wall to wall. Even Harry flinched as though he had been struck. He turned to Dumbledore, who stood as still as a statue, his face unreadable.

 

Barty Crouch Sr. had gone utterly rigid, his knuckles white as they clenched the arms of his chair. His eyes burned with fury, but his jaw remained locked. "Take him," he said coldly, his voice carrying through the uproar, "take him out of my sight."

 

But Barty Crouch Jr. screamed. His voice broke with agony, his body jerking as Aurors seized him. “Father! Father, please, don’t do this! Don’t send me there, I didn’t—please—I’m your son!”

 

“Silence!” Crouch Sr. thundered, his hand slamming against the bench. His face was like iron, colder than the chains that bound his son. “You are no son of mine.”

 

Harry’s stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The boy was dragged, heels scraping against stone, his face streaked with tears, his cries echoing through the chamber until the great doors closed with a resounding boom.

 

Harry had lost all sense of time inside the Pensieve. Faces, names, accusations, betrayals—it was all a blur, like a fever dream that twisted and folded on itself. He had watched Karkaroff barter with lives like coin, had seen the young, desperate face of Barty Crouch Jr., screaming at his father, clawing at the air as though that alone might save him from the Dementors’ embrace.

 

The echo of his voice—I’m your son! I’m your son!—still lingered in Harry’s ears. It was a sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a cry of terror and anguish that was far too human to ignore, and yet it was swallowed, snuffed out like a candle in a storm when the chains rattled and the guards pulled him away.

 

And then silence.

 

The scene dissolved in a wash of silver mist. The chained figures, the watching eyes, the purple robes of the Wizengamot—all bled away like paint dripping off a canvas until nothing remained but a cold, blinding white. Harry staggered, blinking hard, his stomach turning as though he’d been jerked awake from a nightmare.

 

When his vision cleared, he was back in Dumbledore’s office, his feet unsteady on the carpet, breath coming too quickly. He blinked again, rubbing at his eyes, trying to convince himself that the cries he had just heard weren’t still echoing in the stone walls around him.

 

The Pensieve sat between him and Dumbledore, still swirling with faint, silvery threads, calm and serene, as though it had not just shown him moments of betrayal, terror, and death.

 

Harry lifted his head. Dumbledore was watching him with that familiar, piercing look—half gentle, half calculating, as though he had known all along what Harry would see, what Harry would feel.

 

Harry swallowed, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“What was all that for? Why—why show me?”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes, bright and grave, softened only slightly.

“Because, Harry, the truth—however painful—must be faced. You will understand in time why these memories matter.”

 

Harry clenched his fists, staring at the silvery surface of the basin. His insides twisted. He couldn’t shake the image of Barty Crouch Jr.’s wild, desperate eyes, or the way his father had looked at him—cold, unflinching, merciless.

 

“So they let Karkaroff off free?” Harry asked, the question coming out more bitterly than he intended.

 

Dumbledore inclined his head, slow, grave, his hand still lingering at the rim of the Pensieve as though it anchored him in the memory they had just left. The surface swirled faintly, the silvery depths restless, whispering.

 

“Not fair, now is it?” Harry pressed, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Dumbledore to argue, or to confirm what he already knew.

 

“The Ministry,” Dumbledore said, finally, “concerns itself less with fairness than with appearances. To admit to weakness, to admit that one’s systems of justice are flawed—that, Harry, is far more dangerous to them than releasing a guilty man who proves… useful.”

 

Harry gave a short laugh, if it could even be called that. It was a sound that held no mirth, only disbelief. “Figures.”

 

But his thoughts were not on Karkaroff. Not really. They kept returning—unwilling, unbidden—to another face in that courtroom. Pale, frantic, his eyes wide, his voice cracking into something raw and pleading. 

 

Harry’s fists clenched in his lap. He hated himself a little for it—for the flicker of sympathy that had wormed its way into him. Because he wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for Barty Crouch Jr., a Death Eater, someone who had chosen the Dark Lord’s side. And yet…

 

“I know it’s crazy,” he muttered, his voice rough, “but I don’t think Barty really wanted to be a Death Eater.”

 

Dumbledore did not immediately respond. His blue eyes, sharp yet softened by something Harry couldn’t read, fixed on him with quiet attention. The silence pressed on Harry like a weight, and in it his words sounded louder, more reckless, as though spoken in a room that carried echoes too well.

 

“I mean—” Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, restless. “He was terrified. You saw him. He wasn’t some fanatic shouting about the Dark Lord’s return. He was begging his father. Begging.” The word felt heavy on his tongue. “He looked like—like a kid who was just trying not to drown.”

 

Dumbledore’s brows lifted the faintest degree, as though acknowledging the thought without judgment, without agreement either. He stayed still, his silence a kind of restraint Harry found unbearable.

 

Harry stared down at his shoes. “Despite everything… despite the things you’ve kept from me, the things I can’t forgive—I can’t hate you for showing me this.” He hesitated, his throat thick. “Not yet, anyway.”

 

Dumbledore’s expression did not change, though the faintest flicker of something passed through his eyes. A shadow. Or perhaps a kind of sorrow.

 

Harry’s chest felt hollow. The echo of Barty Jr.’s voice wouldn’t leave him—it threaded through his mind, fraying his composure. 

 

“What happened to Barty Jr.?” he asked at last, his voice little more than a whisper.

 

Dumbledore’s answer came softly, but without hesitation. “Died in Azkaban.”

 

The words landed like stones.

 

Harry nodded, the motion slow, empty.

 

“Oh,” Harry said. Just that. A single syllable that did nothing to hold back the tide pressing at his ribs.

 

"Why are you really showing me this, Professor?" Harry asked, his voice harsher than he intended, but he didn’t pull it back. He couldn’t anymore. His throat felt tight, like every word was dragged up from somewhere raw. "I know it’s dangerous for Karkaroff to be in the same place as I am. I knew that even before I knew the man— I mean, just look at him." He laughed, a short, bitter sound, as though mocking himself for even saying it. He shook his head and lifted his eyes to Dumbledore, unwilling to look away this time. "I know there’s more. Spill it. Because I’m tired of… games, riddles, or whatever it is you’re on about."

 

For a moment, Dumbledore said nothing. He merely studied him. Harry hated that look—those damned twinkling eyes that could be read as kindness, or calculation, or both. The silence between them dragged, heavy, filling the room until Harry almost wanted to scream. Dumbledore’s hands folded together neatly on the desk, fingers long and motionless, his whole body radiating that same terrible calm that made Harry feel like a child caught in some elaborate trap.

 

"Harry—" Dumbledore began gently, too gently, as though speaking to someone fragile.

 

Harry bristled at the tone, at the unshakable patience in it. "No. No, I’m done with being strung along." His voice cracked but he didn’t care. He leaned forward, heat flaring in his face, in his chest, in every place where he’d been forced to swallow down answers he never got. "You can’t keep feeding me half-truths and expect me to just nod along like some obedient little Gryffindor you think I am."

 

The air grew taut. Harry’s breathing was loud, ragged, until it embarrassed him, but still he refused to lower his eyes. For once, let the old man see the anger.

 

Then Dumbledore spoke, and when he did, it was without hesitation. "I want you to stay away from Viktor Krum."

 

Harry jerked his head up so fast his neck ached. He stared at him, mouth open, too stunned to speak at first. The words didn’t seem real. They rang in his ears as though said by someone else, not the man in front of him.

 

Finally, his voice found him. "What?"

 

Dumbledore’s face remained unreadable, his eyes steady, like stones against the tide of Harry’s confusion. "He may be part of Karkaroff’s plan to hand you to the Dark Lord. He—"

 

"Enough!" Harry’s voice ricocheted across the walls before he even knew he had raised it. The portraits muttered indignantly, some shifting in their frames to get a better look. But Harry didn’t care. He couldn’t care. The word had burst from him like fire breaking through kindling. "Enough! Viktor is a good man! He would never do that to me. He and I—"

 

He stopped. His chest heaved. His throat closed around the words that almost tumbled out, the words that would undo him if he spoke them. He and I love each other. He and I are— Something. Something that neither of them had said out loud, but that Harry carried like a secret flame in his chest.

 

But to say it now, here, in front of Dumbledore—under those watchful, weighing eyes—would be to put it at risk. To let it be judged, dissected, doubted. And Harry couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

 

He forced the truth down, past his tongue, into his chest where it burned like swallowed glass. He gritted his teeth and said instead, "—he is important. Just how he is to Ron and Hermione."

 

The words sounded flat, unconvincing even to his own ears, but it was the best shield he had.

 

For the briefest moment, Dumbledore’s expression faltered. Not much—just a flicker, like a candle guttering in a draft—but Harry saw it. Disappointment? Calculation? Triumph? He couldn’t tell. He could never tell. And then the old man’s face smoothed over again into that maddening calm, as though Harry’s outburst was nothing but another move on a chessboard he had already anticipated.

 

He inclined his head, ever so slightly, like a teacher acknowledging a half-right answer.

 

And Harry felt his stomach turn. Because no matter what Dumbledore said—or didn’t say—he had seen it. He had seen the flicker. And it told him, more than words ever could, that Dumbledore knew.

 

Knew what Viktor meant. Knew that Harry had more to lose than anyone else could guess.

 

And for a moment—just a sliver of one—Harry hated him. Hated him for taking the memory of Barty Crouch’s trial and twisting it into this, for turning suspicion into a knife aimed at the only place Harry still found warmth.

 

He folded his arms across his chest, as if shielding something. The office, with its whirring silver instruments and restless portraits, felt suddenly colder, emptier. He wished more than anything to be far from Dumbledore’s gaze, to run back to the one person he still trusted to hold him without question, without riddles.

 

To Viktor.

 

“If that is all,” Harry said at last, his voice clipped, each word bitten off as though it were costing him something to keep his temper in check, “then I will be taking my leave.” He wanted to leave. Needed to leave. The heavy scent of candlewax, the ticking of those ridiculous little instruments on the shelves, and the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze pressing against the back of his neck—it was unbearable.

 

He turned toward the door, his hands trembling slightly though he willed them still. His foot had just brushed the edge of the rug when he stopped. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned back. His eyes met Dumbledore’s, and for the first time all evening, Harry didn’t look away.

 

“I will never give Viktor up,” he said, his voice steadier now, though every word carried the strain of someone who had been pushed too far. “No matter what you think, or what suspicions you have. I am grateful that you worry for me—but we both know it isn’t for the same reasons you claim. You guard me like a piece on a chessboard, and maybe you think that’s kindness. Maybe it even is, in your own way. But don’t mistake it for love.”

 

Something flickered in Dumbledore’s expression—sorrow, maybe, or guilt—but Harry pressed on before he could lose his nerve.

 

“Either way,” Harry continued, “I am grateful. I’ll give you that. But I am old enough now to make decisions of my own, and that includes who I trust. I chose Viktor. I believe in him. And if one day he betrays me—” Harry’s throat caught, but he forced the words through, “—then that’s on me. Not on you. Not on anyone else.”

 

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. Harry felt his own words hanging in the air, heavier than he’d intended them to be. He could see Dumbledore’s hands folded loosely on the desk, the glint of the candlelight on the old man’s half-moon glasses, and the stillness of his features—so unreadable, yet not untouched.

 

Harry exhaled, then added, with deliberate formality, “I would like it if you would cease calling me to your office unless it concerns school matters, Headmaster.”

 

He held Dumbledore’s gaze for a heartbeat longer—one last defiance, one last declaration that he was not a boy to be handled like a child—and then he turned. The door creaked softly as he pulled it open. The corridor outside was dark, cool, a relief against the suffocating weight of the office. Without another word, Harry stepped through and let the door shut behind him with a decisive click.

Notes:

Tysm for those wonderful comments! I think I passed most but like we still have another test tomorrow Saturday or today? Cz it's two in the morning and I have to get up at five, so yeah, exams later (again) for the remaining subjects I have and uh yeah, ty again for the kudos and support, I appreciate each and everyone of y'all! Next update will be on Monday or Tuesday:)

Chapter 19

Ron found his voice first, though it came out cracked and uneven. “Ma—"

The rest never left his lips.

A spell cut through the air with brutal speed, a blinding streak of red that seemed to split the violet haze in two. It struck Ron square in the chest, the impact echoing like a blow to stone.

"RON!” Hermione shrieked, but her cry was swallowed by the violent thud of his body slamming against the doorframe. He crumpled to the floor, motionless for a breathless moment, then groaned faintly.

Everything slowed.

Harry’s mind stuttered, disbelief tangling with rage, and then his gaze snapped toward the source.

Hersuil stood, wand raised -where in Merlin's saggy ball sack did he get a wand?!- his entire body taut with hunger and fury. His eyes—blazing with an unnatural light—were not on Ron, nor on the group bristling with defensive wands, but locked, unblinking, on the amulet that pulsed in Viktor’s hands.

“Mine.” The word tore from his throat, raw and venomous, echoing against the stone walls as though the castle itself recoiled from it.

The room erupted.

Fred and George moved in perfect unison, spreading apart to flank Hersuil, their wands already spitting sparks as they prepared hexes. Hermione’s shock hardened in an instant; she swung her wand up, her jaw set with iron resolve. Neville dropped to his knees beside Ron, one hand braced against his friend’s chest as the other shakily raised his wand to cast a shield.

Viktor clutched the amulet tighter, but his knuckles were white with strain—he could feel the magic pulsing against his palm, thrumming like it wanted to break free.

And Harry—Harry’s instincts screamed. He stepped forward, instinctively half-shielding Viktor with his own body, wand raised high. The violet light licked across his face, flickering in his eyes, making his green irises gleam like fire.

The hum of the amulet grew louder, building, as though it sensed the danger in the room and prepared to answer it.

Hersuil’s gaze never wavered. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he stepped into the violet glow, shadows clinging to his figure like smoke.

“Give it to me,” he hissed

"No," Viktor said firmly, stepping in front of Harry, his tall frame shielding him from Hersuil’s blazing eyes. In the motion of it, quick and subtle, Viktor slipped the amulet into Harry’s hand. His touch lingered for the briefest second—steady, grounding—as though to say trust me.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He clutched it and darted back, ignoring the chaos, ignoring Hermione’s sharp intake of breath and Neville’s hurried spell. His feet carried him straight to Ron, who was propped against the wall, coughing hard, crimson streaking the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, hey—take it easy,” Harry murmured, crouching low, slipping a hand behind Ron’s shoulders to steady him. Ron’s body shook against him, every cough sending a tremor through his chest, and for a moment Harry thought of the Dursleys—of weakness being punished rather than helped. He pushed it away.

Ron’s eyes blinked open, glassy, confused, but Harry forced his own gaze to steady him. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

With his other hand, he tugged the chain over his head, the amulet sliding down against his chest, pulsing once before its glow sputtered out, mercifully dimming. He exhaled sharply, tucking it beneath his shirt, pressing the cool metal against his skin as if by hiding it against himself, he could keep it safe—keep everyone safe.

By the time he looked up, the room was alight with spells. Fred and George flanked Neville, wands raised in perfect synchronization, while Hermione’s jaw was set tight, her voice sharp with incantations. Viktor hadn’t moved from his post in front of Hersuil, his stance unyielding.

“Give me the amulet!” Hersuil roared.

Harry froze. His stomach churned, his chest tight with recognition, though he didn’t know from where. That sound—the way something else spoke through the cracks of a human voice—it brought back shadows of the Chamber, the basilisk, Parseltongue in the walls. A wrongness that felt alive.

 

“He’s… he’s being possessed,” Harry whispered, hardly more than a breath, but it was enough. Viktor’s sharp eyes flicked toward him for a moment. Fred and George stiffened. Hermione’s mouth parted as if to speak, but her gaze was glued to Hersuil, her knuckles white where they clutched her wand.

 

you might be wondering how they got into this mess.. well, let me tell you..

 

“Are you still planning on joining?” Harry asked quietly. His voice carried the weight of hesitation, as though the very question pressed uneasily against his chest. They were back in the Room of Requirement, its familiar walls softened with a quiet warmth, but the still figure of Hersuil Carroween lying unconscious across the couch filled the space with a lingering tension.

 

“I am,” Viktor said after a pause. His voice was low, steady, but Harry caught the thin thread of resignation in it. “But not out of free will.”

 

Harry turned his head sharply, brow furrowed. “How come?”

 

Viktor did not answer immediately. Instead, he shifted, closing the distance between them until his thumb brushed lightly down Harry’s hand—the hand already entwined with his own. The gesture was absentminded, almost instinctive, but it carried something rawer beneath it.

 

“Aside from Karkaroff... My father,” Viktor murmured. His eyes, heavy with something Harry couldn’t quite name, stayed fixed on their joined hands. “He asked me to join.”

 

Harry’s brow arched higher. He searched Viktor’s face for a trace of irony, a glimmer of sarcasm, but found only the blunt truth of it. “I thought your mother would’ve opposed that.”

 

Viktor nodded, his expression softening at the mention of her. “She did. Fiercely. But he is still her mate. And there are times…” He hesitated, his voice trailing of “There are times their relationship can be… trying. Especially when it comes to me.”

 

Harry said nothing for a long moment. He nodded, slow and deliberate, not because he fully understood but because he wanted Viktor to feel that he was listening, that he was present in this painful space with him.

 

“Well…” Harry finally breathed, the word slipping out with a sigh. He shifted, leaning into Viktor’s solid warmth, letting his head rest lightly against him. The tension in his shoulders loosened at once, as though the mere act of pressing closer dissolved some invisible weight. Together they sat before the unconscious man sprawled on the sofa, shadows stretching across the walls around them.

 

“I hope we don’t…” Harry began, and his voice dropped lower, hesitant, almost childlike in its vulnerability. “You know. Turn out that way.”

 

The words hung between them, quiet but potent, laced with the fear of what love could sour into, of what devotion might cost when burdened with duty and expectations. Harry’s chest tightened even as he said it—because for the first time in his life, he found himself afraid of losing something he had only just begun to hold.

 

“Have you placed your name yet, then?” Harry asked, his voice low.

 

Viktor nodded. “Earlier.”

 

Harry hummed softly in response, not surprised, though something in his chest tightened all the same.

 

“What did he say?” Viktor asked after a pause, eyes flicking to Harry.

 

“Who?”

 

“Dumbledore,” Viktor clarified.

 

Harry stayed silent for a moment, weighing whether to answer at all. The firelight threw shadows across the Room, the faint crackle filling the quiet. At last, he spoke, almost reluctantly. “He showed me a memory… of Karkaroff’s trial.”

 

Viktor’s brows furrowed. “Why? What was it about?”

 

Harry hesitated, then gave a faint shrug. “Karkaroff named off Death Eaters. You know—your headmaster’s history better than most, I’d imagine.”

 

“Yes,” Viktor admitted, his expression thoughtful. “But why show you?”

 

Harry exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on their joined hands instead of Viktor’s face. “Honestly… I don’t know.”

 

It was a lie. It slipped out easily, too easily, as though he’d been practicing all along. He wasn’t sure why he said it—only that he couldn’t bring himself to tell Viktor the whole of it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, but his lips stayed pressed shut.

 

Viktor studied him for a long moment, but didn’t push. Instead, his thumb brushed against Harry’s knuckles, slow and steady, like he was reminding him he didn’t have to explain everything, not now.

 

Harry let the touch ground him, even as the echo of Karkaroff’s voice and the raw desperation of Barty Crouch Jr.’s cries still rang in his head.

 

“Oh—right,” Viktor said suddenly, sitting up a little straighter.

 

Harry shifted, giving him space as Viktor reached into his pocket.

 

“Show me the amulet for a second,” Viktor said.

 

Harry blinked, confused, but nodded. He unclasped the chain from around his neck, the amulet he always kept hidden—especially from Dumbledore’s prying eyes—and handed it over.

 

Viktor took it carefully, and then revealed something small in his other hand.

 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Where’d that come from? I thought it was lost.”

 

Viktor smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I found it… or, well,” he chuckled under his breath, “it found me.”

 

Harry tilted his head, caught between surprise and a sort of quiet awe, his gaze flicking between Viktor’s hand and his face.

 

“Funny, isn’t it?” Viktor murmured. “How things come back when you least expect them.”

 

“Guess so,” Harry murmured under his breath, his voice distant, almost carried away by the strange hum that seemed to linger in the air around them.

 

Viktor adjusted his grip on the snitch, his brows furrowed as if some half-formed idea had just taken shape in his mind. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the small golden ball and angled it toward the amulet. The hollow in its center seemed to call to the snitch, as though the two objects had been waiting for this very moment.

 

“Wait—” Harry started, but the sound of metal fitting into place silenced him.

 

Click.

 

The noise was small, almost fragile, yet it reverberated in the silence like the strike of a bell. Harry’s chest tightened, his lungs forgetting how to breathe. His thoughts came in sharp, broken fragments—that’s it, that’s what was missing, the piece that never made sense—

 

And then the amulet came alive.

 

A deep violet glow spread outward in slow pulses, as though the object had grown a heart that beat for the first time in centuries. The light wasn’t steady; it throbbed and shimmered, spilling across the room in rippling waves that made the air itself look distorted, as though they were standing beneath water. Dust motes floated lazily through the violet haze, catching and reflecting the glow like tiny stars.

 

It was beautiful, terrifying, and utterly impossible to look away from.

 

They didn’t notice the door opening.

 

Fred’s head appeared first, then George’s, both twin faces illuminated in purple light. Neville slipped in behind them, then Ron, and finally Hermione, who gasped so quietly that even she seemed startled by the sound.

 

The five of them stood rooted in place, mouths parted in shock, as though they had stumbled into something they were never meant to see.

 

Ron found his voice first, though it came out cracked and uneven. “Ma—”

 

The rest never left his lips.

 

A spell cut through the air with brutal speed, a blinding streak of red that seemed to split the violet haze in two. It struck Ron square in the chest, the impact echoing like a blow to stone.

 

“RON!” Hermione shrieked, but her cry was swallowed by the violent thud of his body slamming against the doorframe. He crumpled to the floor, motionless for a breathless moment, then groaned faintly.

 

Everything slowed.

 

Harry’s mind stuttered, disbelief tangling with rage, and then his gaze snapped toward the source.

 

Hersuil stood, wand raised -where in Merlin's saggy ball sack did he get a wand?!- his entire body taut with hunger and fury. His eyes—blazing with an unnatural light—were not on Ron, nor on the group bristling with defensive wands, but locked, unblinking, on the amulet that pulsed in Viktor’s hands.

 

“Mine.” The word tore from his throat, raw and venomous, echoing against the stone walls as though the castle itself recoiled from it.

 

The room erupted.

 

Fred and George moved in perfect unison, spreading apart to flank Hersuil, their wands already spitting sparks as they prepared hexes. Hermione’s shock hardened in an instant; she swung her wand up, her jaw set with iron resolve. Neville dropped to his knees beside Ron, one hand braced against his friend’s chest as the other shakily raised his wand to cast a shield.

 

Viktor clutched the amulet tighter, but his knuckles were white with strain—he could feel the magic pulsing against his palm, thrumming like it wanted to break free.

 

And Harry—Harry’s instincts screamed. He stepped forward, instinctively half-shielding Viktor with his own body, wand raised high. The violet light licked across his face, flickering in his eyes, making his green irises gleam like fire.

 

The hum of the amulet grew louder, building, as though it sensed the danger in the room and prepared to answer it.

 

Hersuil’s gaze never wavered. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he stepped into the violet glow, shadows clinging to his figure like smoke.

 

“Give it to me,” he hissed.

 

"No," Viktor said firmly, stepping in front of Harry, his tall frame shielding him from Hersuil’s blazing eyes. In the motion of it, quick and subtle, Viktor slipped the amulet into Harry’s hand. His touch lingered for the briefest second—steady, grounding—as though to say trust me.

 

Harry didn’t hesitate. He clutched it and darted back, ignoring the chaos, ignoring Hermione’s sharp intake of breath and Neville’s hurried spell. His feet carried him straight to Ron, who was propped against the wall, coughing hard, crimson streaking the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hey, hey—take it easy,” Harry murmured, crouching low, slipping a hand behind Ron’s shoulders to steady him. Ron’s body shook against him, every cough sending a tremor through his chest, and for a moment Harry thought of the Dursleys—of weakness being punished rather than helped. He pushed it away.

 

Ron’s eyes blinked open, glassy, confused, but Harry forced his own gaze to steady him. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

 

With his other hand, he tugged the chain over his head, the amulet sliding down against his chest, pulsing once before its glow sputtered out, mercifully dimming. He exhaled sharply, tucking it beneath his shirt, pressing the cool metal against his skin as if by hiding it against himself, he could keep it safe—keep everyone safe.

 

By the time he looked up, the room was alight with spells. Fred and George flanked Neville, wands raised in perfect synchronization, while Hermione’s jaw was set tight, her voice sharp with incantations. Viktor hadn’t moved from his post in front of Hersuil, his stance unyielding.

 

“Give me the amulet!” Hersuil roared.

 

But the sound of his voice turned Harry cold. It wasn’t right. The words carried a weight that didn’t belong to him, layered with other voices that slipped between the syllables—deep, guttural tones, high-pitched echoes, a dozen strange registers battling to be heard. It was as though a whole chorus of unseen beings were speaking through him at once, tearing his voice apart from the inside.

 

Harry froze. His stomach churned, his chest tight with recognition, though he didn’t know from where. That sound—the way something else spoke through the cracks of a human voice—it brought back shadows of the Chamber, the basilisk, Parseltongue in the walls. A wrongness that felt alive.

 

“He’s… he’s being possessed,” Harry whispered, hardly more than a breath, but it was enough. Viktor’s sharp eyes flicked toward him for a moment. Fred and George stiffened. Hermione’s mouth parted as if to speak, but her gaze was glued to Hersuil, her knuckles white where they clutched her wand.

 

Hersuil’s body jerked unnaturally, his movements too fast and then too slow, like a puppet caught in tangled strings. His eyes rolled, pupils darting back and forth as if searching for something only he could see. Veins stood out stark against his skin, pulsing in ways that didn’t look human.

 

And then spells flew.

 

It was chaos in a blink—light flashing, sparks bursting, curses cutting across the room so quickly Harry couldn’t follow them all. He shielded Ron with his arm, his own wand trembling in his hand, but Viktor moved like he had been waiting for this exact moment. His voice rang out, low and commanding, words of magic slicing clean through the noise. Every curse Hersuil hurled was blocked, deflected, or absorbed, Viktor’s stance never faltering, his dark eyes hard and focused.

 

The final spell burst from Viktor’s wand with a snap like thunder. Ropes shot forward, thick and unyielding, coiling around Hersuil’s limbs and chest before he could strike again. The man was yanked off balance, crashing to the ground, his body twisting in violent spasms.

 

“No you don’t!” Fred snarled, his wand jerking upward. George mirrored him perfectly, the twins casting in sync as though they shared a single thought. The ropes tightened, dragging Hersuil into the air and across the room. His mouth opened, releasing a shriek that wasn’t his own—a sound so layered, so wrong, it made Harry’s blood run cold.

 

The twins slammed him down against the sofa. Wood creaked under the weight as the bindings cinched tighter, wrapping him like a net, pinning every thrashing limb.

 

The room went still. The only sounds left were Hersuil’s strangled, inhuman growls and Ron’s rasping coughs as Harry steadied him.

 

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on Hersuil, unable to look away. The man’s face twisted, his skin stretched too tightly, eyes rolling as though something inside was trying to crawl out. The sound of those voices—the way they wove over and under one another—still clung to Harry’s ears, haunting, like they’d etched themselves into the walls.

 

Ron was lifted carefully from the floor, his body floating as though caught in an invisible current. The twins guided him with precise, determined flicks of their wands, their expressions uncharacteristically grim. The room itself seemed to respond, stretching, shifting, and molding to their intent. By the time they reached the far end, another chamber had opened—walls folding outward, doors appearing where none had been before. The Room of Requirement had heard the unspoken plea for safety, offering a space where the twins could tend to their brother without interruption.

 

Hermione, however, did not follow. Her steps drew her closer to Hersuil, who still thrashed violently against the ropes binding him. Every movement was jerky, grotesque, as if his body belonged to something else entirely. Hermione’s eyes narrowed in concentration, her lips pressed tight. She crouched beside him, wand in one hand, the other steadying her balance on the sofa’s edge.

 

Up close, the difference was undeniable. His skin, once ruddy and ordinary, now bore faint lines that shimmered like cracks in porcelain. His eyes bulged unnaturally, the whites shot through with dark veins, and his voice—those overlapping, inhuman tones—still scraped against the walls of the room. Hermione leaned nearer, examining every detail, her sharp mind whirring with possibilities. It was not illness. It was not madness. It was possession—just as Harry had said.

 

Then a presence at his side steadied him.

 

Viktor moved quietly, as though the act itself was meant not to disturb Harry’s fragile stillness. Without a word, he drew Harry into him, his arm firm and certain around Harry’s shoulders. Harry stiffened at first, unused to such a gesture, but Viktor only held tighter, grounding him. His broad chest rose and fell against Harry’s temple, each deep breath coaxing Harry to breathe as well.

 

Harry let himself sag into the warmth. The sharp scent of Viktor’s robes, the press of strong fingers against his arm, the burrow of a face into his unruly hair—it was all startlingly human, startlingly present against the chaos thrashing only feet away.

 

“Hermione,” Harry called softly, his voice tight, as though even speaking the name took effort.

 

She turned at once, strands of hair falling loose from her braid, her expression still sharp from studying Hersuil. The thrashing man seemed to fade from her attention when she caught sight of Harry.

 

His hand went to his chest, fingers brushing the chain hidden beneath his clothes. For a moment, he hesitated, his thumb grazing the cool metal of the amulet, as though it might burn him again if he lingered too long. Then, with a small, almost reluctant tug, he drew it free and held it out to her.

 

“There’s… things on it,” he said, faltering, the weight of his words heavier than the object itself. “Neither I nor Viktor can decipher it. Could you…?”

 

Hermione’s gaze fell to the amulet, then back to Harry’s face. She nodded, her movements calm, deliberate. But before she took it, she stepped closer, her free hand rising to clasp his shoulder. Her grip was firm, steadying, the kind of touch that kept him tethered when the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet.

 

“Of course,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost maternal in its gentleness. She looked at him as if she could see all the guilt brewing behind his green eyes before he had even voiced it. “And remember—” she gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “in case you start blaming yourself for what happened to Ron—don’t. It was an accident, Harry. One you did not cause.”

 

Her words sank into him like warmth into frost, uncomfortable at first, then slowly soothing. He opened his mouth to protest, to insist he should have seen it, should have done more—but she cut through the thought before it could take shape.

 

Then, in a gesture that startled him more than her words, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. The touch was brief, but it carried a weight that left Harry frozen in place. A kiss meant not for affection in the ordinary sense, but for comfort, for absolution.

 

When she pulled back, she gave him a small, resolute nod, the kind that said she would bear what he could not. Without waiting for his reply, she turned and carried the amulet with her, following the twins into the adjoining room where Ron was being tended.

 

“Well,” Neville said at last, his voice steady though his eyes flicked uneasily toward the thrashing figure bound to the sofa. He stood with his arms crossed, shoulders tense, as if keeping himself from fidgeting. “It could’ve turned out worse.” The words slipped out in a mutter, almost as though he wasn’t sure if he meant them for himself or for Harry.

 

Then, after a pause, Neville turned, his expression softening when his gaze landed on Harry. “Oh, by the way,” he added, the abrupt shift almost jarring in its casualness. From the sack slung across his shoulder—a bottomless thing that seemed to swallow and produce whatever he needed—he rummaged for a moment before pulling free a worn, heavy volume. Its cover was scuffed with age, its spine a little crooked, as though it had passed through too many hands to still be pristine.

 

He held it out, the weight balanced carefully in both palms, and offered it to Harry. “Here’s the book on the history of Merlin. Luna wanted me to give it to you. She said she’ll be here tomorrow.”

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard, the severity of the evening’s chaos colliding with the quiet, ordinary simplicity of Neville handing him a book. He took it with both hands, the leather cool beneath his fingers, and nodded. “Thanks, Neville.” His voice was hoarse, but genuine.

 

Neville’s mouth curled into a small, almost shy smile, the kind of smile that seemed to carry a reassurance of its own. He nodded once, firmly, as if to say anytime without needing to add more. But he did, softly: “Anytime.”

 

Then he glanced back at the closed door where Ron had been taken. The concern shadowing his face deepened, and he shifted his sack higher on his shoulder. “I’ll go check and see if Ron’s all right,” he said quietly, before stepping away, his boots making the faintest echo as he disappeared down the corridor.

 

Harry remained where he was, the old book heavy in his hands, wondering how something as simple as Neville’s quiet loyalty could feel so grounding amid the whirlwind.

 

“Well… that was… an interesting way to get the day started, then,” Viktor said at last, his voice carrying that dry heaviness of someone trying to defuse the air, though his eyes betrayed something softer. He was staring at Harry in that quiet, lingering way he always did—fond, almost reverent—even after everything that had just erupted around them.

 

“’Course,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes in an attempt at humor, though his voice lacked conviction. His body was still trembling with the aftershock of it all, as though his nerves hadn’t quite caught up to the present.

 

The silence that followed pressed in like a weight. Hersuil—who, moments ago, had been thrashing and bellowing, was suddenly still. Too still. The absence of his voice, of his resistance, felt wrong, unsettling.

 

Harry and Viktor turned at the same time.

 

There he was: Hersuil, bound yet unmoving, his chest rising in shallow, deliberate breaths. His eyes—blackened, or whatever force had made them so—were fixed with unnerving precision. Pinned on Harry.

 

Viktor noticed. Without hesitation, he moved, stepping forward and angling himself so his broad frame shielded Harry completely from view. His hand hovered near his wand, but more than that—it was the way he stood, planted firmly, as though daring whatever dark presence lingered in Hersuil’s body to try and reach Harry again.

 

 

“We should go,” Viktor muttered after a long silence, his accent heavier than usual, as though he were forcing his voice to remain steady. His eyes did not leave Hersuil’s prone form, that unsettling stillness lingering in the man’s blackened gaze. “The choosing ceremony will start in a few minutes.” He turned his head just enough to glance at Harry, his tone shifting from stern to almost tender. “Call your friends.”

 

Harry hesitated, torn between the urge to stay—to keep watching Hersuil, to demand answers he wasn’t sure he wanted—and the reminder of the ceremony pressing at the back of his mind. He nodded eventually, though his reluctance showed in the stiffness of the movement.

 

“Right,” he whispered, more to himself than Viktor, before turning on his heel and heading toward the room where Ron and the others were. 

 

Behind him, unseen, Viktor’s wand was already in hand. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied Hersuil. With a subtle flick of Viktor’s wrist, the almost casual precision with which he cast a mild Stinging Hex—not enough to leave lasting harm, but enough to make the man’s body jolt once, a sharp reminder of pain.

 

“Sleep,” Viktor murmured in a low growl, following it with a controlled Somnus charm. The thrashing quieted into unnatural stillness, Hersuil’s chest rising and falling in a heavy, enchanted rhythm.

 

But Viktor wasn’t finished. His gaze hardened, and with another sharp motion, he drew his wand across the air, muttering the incantation of a cutting charm. A thin, deliberate gash split across Hersuil’s abdomen, blood welling instantly. It wasn’t wild, it wasn’t sloppy—it was precise, calculated, an answer for what Hersuil had tried to do.

 

“For his friend,” Viktor whispered under his breath, his voice colder than ice, though Harry would never know he had spoken. He stood for a moment longer, watching the blood seep, watching the sleeping form lie helpless. A part of him relished the quiet justice. Another part hated that Harry had been put in this position at all. Then he uttered a cleaning spell, to rid of evidence before following Harry 

Notes:

Okay i noticed that this chapter seems to escalate quick or idk, but like I am unsatisfied w it, so I'll try to make it up to the next chapter.