The Fourth Flame

by cwm31s

Summary:

When the Triwizard Tournament comes to Hogwarts, its magic binds more than champions to peril — it kindles rivalries, temptations, and dangerous alliances.

Hermione Granger finds herself unwillingly drawn into a triangle of wit and fire between Draco Malfoy’s sharp arrogance and Fleur Delacour’s disarming confidence, while Harry Potter navigates unexpected entanglements with Slytherin’s most unlikely hearts.

As the Goblet burns, so too do secrets, ambitions, and desires. Some bonds will be forged in loyalty. Others in deceit. And some in the kind of fire that cannot be extinguished, no matter the cost.

Notes:

Hi All
—-
I’ve posted a work on AO3 before. But it came up to writers block on that one.

I’ve decided to try again.

This adaptation begins the 4th year of Harry and Co’s increment at Hogwarts. And it involves my take on what might have happened with a certain witch and a sniveling Slytherin and French beauty.

As an aside. Harry won’t be left alone either. As he will feature heavily in this multi chapter work.

This will be a large work. I will most likely divide it as a series based on year lengths.

All credit for the characters goes to Mrs. Rowling for the talented work she has shown over the years.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The Great Hall was unusually restless that evening, its long tables crowded with chattering students who kept glancing up at the enchanted ceiling. Outside, twilight pressed low and heavy, clouds tinged with the bruised purple of early autumn. The candles hovering above them guttered in drafts from the open doors, their wax dripping lazily into the enchanted air.

Hermione Granger sat stiffly on the Gryffindor bench, one hand smoothing the page of a thick book she had propped against a jug of pumpkin juice. She was trying — valiantly, determinedly — to read.

“Honestly, you’d think no one had ever seen foreigners before,” she muttered as Seamus and Dean craned their necks toward the doors for the hundredth time.

Ron, sitting opposite her, was already half-standing. “They could be here any minute. You know what Hagrid said, don’t you? They’ll be arriving in style. Maybe on dragons—”

“They’re not arriving on dragons, Ron,” Hermione snapped, flipping her page too hard. “The logistics alone would be absurd. Do you have any idea the kind of permits required for—”

“Permits?” Harry said weakly, grinning. His glasses reflected the candlelight as he tried not to laugh.

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Yes. Permits. The Ministry would never allow—”

“Of course you’d bring up the Ministry,” came a smooth drawl from behind them.

Draco Malfoy slid onto the Slytherin bench as if he owned the whole hall. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, already snickering. Draco rested one elbow on the table, his pale hair catching the light like spun frost.

“Granger,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth, “only you could make the most exciting night Hogwarts has had in years sound like… paperwork.”

Hermione stiffened but didn’t turn. “At least some of us think about more than spectacle, Malfoy. The Triwizard Tournament was banned for centuries because of deaths. Did you even bother to read the history?”

Draco leaned forward, his voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding Gryffindors to hear. “Oh, I know the history. Champions, glory, eternal honor for their school. And plenty of chances for Hogwarts to show that Beauxbatons and Durmstrang don’t belong in the same league.”

“Because you’re so certain Hogwarts will win,” Hermione said, snapping her book shut.

“I’m certain Durmstrang won’t,” Draco replied smoothly. “And as for Beauxbatons—” His eyes glinted, a mischievous calculation already there. “Well. Let’s see what they send us, shall we?”

Ron muttered something about git under his breath, but Hermione ignored him. Her gaze had locked with Draco’s for just a heartbeat, irritation sparking against his self-satisfaction. She hated that his smirk seemed carved in place, as if every word out of her mouth only fed his amusement.

Above them, the candles guttered again, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. A sudden hush fell across the hall, rolling like a wave from the front doors to the farthest corners. The sound of hooves clattering against stone echoed faintly outside.

“They’re here,” Harry breathed.

Hermione turned, her book forgotten, and felt her chest tighten as the heavy oak doors swung wide.

The massive oak doors groaned open, spilling cold night air into the Great Hall. Students twisted on benches, craning their necks to see. The sound of hooves on flagstones rang sharper now, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Then they appeared.

A line of pale-blue silk swept into the hall, shimmering like water under candlelight. Beauxbatons had arrived in formation, their robes billowing with each graceful step. It was less an entrance than a procession, as though they were born for stages such as this.

At their head walked a girl who seemed to draw the very air toward her. Tall, with hair the color of sunlight refracted on glass, she carried herself with a serene, almost untouchable confidence. Even from across the hall, her presence tugged at every gaze.

“Bloody hell,” Seamus whispered.

Ron’s fork clattered to the table. “Blimey…”

Hermione felt it too — the shift, the heat rushing through the room as though a spell had been cast over the entire student body. Boys leaned forward, slack-jawed; even a few of the girls straightened as if caught by invisible strings. It was disorienting, like walking into a fog that glowed.

Hermione forced herself to blink. Veela. Of course. Fleur Delacour’s half-Veela blood was no secret at Beauxbatons. The effect radiated from her like perfume, intoxicating and insidious.

Beside the Gryffindor table, Draco let out a low whistle. “Now that,” he murmured, eyes locked on Fleur, “is competition worth watching.”

Hermione snapped her head toward him. “Oh, please.”

Draco didn’t look at her. His smirk was lazy, hungry, as though he were enjoying not just Fleur’s entrance, but Hermione’s reaction to it. “Don’t tell me you’re immune, Granger. Even you look—flushed.”

“I am not,” Hermione hissed, though she could feel the heat prickling her cheeks.

Fleur’s gaze swept the room like a queen surveying her court, and for the briefest instant, her eyes caught Hermione’s. Pale blue, crystalline, assessing. Hermione’s breath snagged. Fleur looked at her not as though she were another star-struck student, but as though she’d noticed something different—perhaps even interesting.

Then Fleur’s attention drifted past her, to Draco.

Draco’s smirk deepened as their eyes met across the hall. He leaned back casually, as though welcoming her admiration.

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Honestly, you’re pathetic,” she muttered.

“And you’re jealous,” Draco shot back without missing a beat, turning his attention to her at last.

Her jaw dropped. “Jealous? Of that?” She gestured at Fleur, who was now gliding forward with the rest of Beauxbatons, their headmistress towering behind them like a mountain of silk. “She’s manipulating everyone in this hall with her bloodline! It’s not even real.”

Draco tilted his head, amused. “Real enough to make half of Gryffindor drool into their pudding.”

“I am not drooling!” Ron said indignantly, though a smear of treacle tart clung to his lower lip.

Harry coughed into his napkin, trying to disguise his grin.

Hermione folded her arms, nails digging into her sleeves. She would not — absolutely would not — let Malfoy’s smugness get the better of her.

And yet, as Fleur passed closer, the sweep of her hair catching the candlelight, Hermione found her own heartbeat stumbling. Fleur didn’t just radiate allure; she radiated certainty, as though she were untouchable and knew it.

When the Beauxbatons girls took their seats at the Ravenclaw table, Fleur’s hair brushed her shoulder as she bent to sit — and Hermione caught the faintest scent of something like wildflowers after rain.

Draco inhaled deeply, smirking sideways at Hermione. “Still not jealous?”

Hermione’s book thumped back onto the table, harder than she meant. “I’d sooner be jealous of a perfume bottle.”

But she couldn’t help glancing once more at Fleur, whose poise made the Great Hall itself seem clumsy around her. Fleur smiled faintly, as if she knew Hermione was watching.

Hermione’s stomach lurched.

Draco chuckled low under his breath.

The last echo of Beauxbatons’ silken entrance hadn’t even faded before a new sound rose in the distance — a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the flagstones beneath their feet. The hall fell silent once more, breaths held in collective anticipation.

Then, from the direction of the lake, a thunderous splash. Water sloshed audibly against the cliff walls. Students surged against one another for a glimpse as the enormous oak doors opened again.

Through the gap rolled a mist of cold, damp air, carrying with it the scent of salt and iron. Out of the haze, torchlight glimmered on something vast and wet. And then, with a lurch that seemed to make the floor tilt, the prow of a ship pushed into view — a ship that had risen, impossibly, from the depths of the lake itself.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron whispered.

Figures disembarked in a disciplined line, cloaks heavy and fur-lined, boots leaving puddles across the flagstones. At their head was a boy who didn’t so much walk as stalk, each step radiating the same brutal focus he carried on the Quidditch pitch. His square jaw was set, his dark eyes scanning the hall with no flicker of warmth.

“Viktor Krum!” someone squealed from the Ravenclaw table.

The cheer that went up was deafening. Students stamped their feet, clapped, shouted his name. A cluster of girls by the Hufflepuff table leaned forward as if the mere force of their adoration could bridge the space between them.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at the shrillness, but her gaze was locked nonetheless. She had only ever seen Krum at a distance, broom slicing through sky, face blurred by speed. To see him here, grounded, human, was strangely compelling.

Draco noticed, of course. He leaned just close enough to murmur in her ear, “Careful, Granger. You’re staring.”

“I am not,” Hermione said crisply, though her eyes flicked guiltily back to her book, which still sat unopened on the table.

Draco’s smirk sharpened. “First the French girl, now the Bulgarian brute. Going to make a habit of swooning over foreign competition?”

Her glare could have curdled milk.

Before she could answer, Dumbledore rose from the staff table. His height, his silvery beard, and the faint twinkle in his eyes commanded instant silence. Even the foreign delegations paused in their settling.

“Welcome,” Dumbledore began, voice carrying warmly to every corner of the hall. “Welcome to Hogwarts, to our friends from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and from Durmstrang Institute. Tonight marks the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament — an event older than most of our traditions, and one which, I daresay, has not lost its shine.”

Polite applause rippled through the room.

Dumbledore lifted a hand, and at once the clatter of cutlery stilled. With a flick of his wand, a new object appeared near the staff table: a plain wooden cup, tall as a man, flames flickering faintly within.

Gasps echoed across the benches.

“The Goblet of Fire,” Dumbledore announced. “Tomorrow night, it shall be lit, and from it shall issue the names of the chosen champions. Three schools, three champions, one task at a time. And one ultimate victor.”

The flames inside the Goblet flared higher, casting long shadows on the walls.

“Those who wish to compete,” Dumbledore continued, “must write their name upon a slip of parchment and place it within the Goblet. It is a binding contract. Once chosen, you are compelled to compete. There is no turning back.”

A murmur swept the hall.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore said, and here his gaze sharpened, “to protect those too young to face the perils of this tournament, an Age Line shall be drawn around the Goblet. No witch or wizard under seventeen will cross it.”

At once, the mutters grew louder, half disbelief, half indignation.

Fred Weasley’s voice carried clearly over the din: “Seventeen? That’s barely older than us! Piece of cake.”

George added, “There’s got to be a way around it.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling as if he had heard them perfectly. “And no doubt many will try. But I warn you: the Age Line is not a suggestion. It will not merely stop you, but humiliate you. I daresay any who test it will find themselves—ah—reminded of their limits.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the staff, though Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed tightly enough to blanch.

Hermione raised her hand before she could stop herself. “Professor—sir—”

Dumbledore inclined his head toward her.

“Is it true,” Hermione asked loudly, “that historically, champions often… didn’t survive?”

The hall went uncomfortably still.

Dumbledore’s expression sobered. “It is true. Which is why the Tournament was banned for centuries. We have taken every precaution to ensure the safety of our competitors this time. Nonetheless…” His gaze swept the room, grave and steady. “The tasks are dangerous. And that danger is part of what binds the contract.”

Hermione nodded, cheeks warm but chin lifted.

Draco leaned sideways, voice pitched for her alone. “Afraid you’ll lose points if you don’t enter?”

Hermione whipped toward him. “You can’t possibly think I’d want to—”

Before she could finish, a rustle beside her announced a shift. Beauxbatons students were sliding onto the benches nearby, making room as the hall adjusted for its guests. Fleur herself moved gracefully between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, her robes brushing Hermione’s sleeve as she sat.

“Pardon,” Fleur said in her low, lilting accent, though her eyes lingered on Hermione a moment too long. Then she turned away, hair catching the candlelight.

Hermione froze, every nerve alight from the brief contact.

Draco, watching, raised an eyebrow. “Well, well.”

And Hermione realized with a jolt of irritation that for the first time that evening, she couldn’t tell whether he was mocking her — or jealous.

Plates filled themselves with roasted pheasant, glazed carrots, and thick hunks of bread, but Hermione hardly noticed. Fleur’s presence at her elbow disrupted her concentration as surely as if someone had taken her book and dropped it into the pumpkin juice.

She tried to focus on her plate. Tried. But the subtle fragrance of Fleur’s perfume — fresh, like rain on roses — drifted with every movement.

Across the hall, whispers spread like wildfire.

“Did you see her hair—”
“Veela, definitely, my cousin told me—”
“Krum’s even taller in person—”

Hermione stabbed a potato with unnecessary force.

Fleur, oblivious — or pretending to be — delicately unfolded her napkin. Her eyes, that sharp glacial blue, swept the hall before settling on Hermione again. “You asked about ze deaths, non?”

Hermione blinked. “I—well—yes. The tournament’s history—”

“Many died because they were… reckless,” Fleur said smoothly, her accent curling around the word like smoke. “Or unskilled. It is not ze tournament’s fault.” She lifted her chin. “It is an honor.”

Hermione bristled. “That’s an awfully cavalier attitude for something so dangerous.”

Fleur’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Cavalier… or confident?”

Before Hermione could answer, Draco leaned in, smirk in full force. “She’s right, Granger. It’s about skill. Maybe if you’re worried, you should knit little socks for the champions instead.”

Crabbe and Goyle snorted, though they hadn’t followed half of it.

Hermione spun toward him, cheeks pink. “Better to knit socks than sit on the sidelines sneering, Malfoy. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a real task.”

Draco’s pale eyebrows rose. “Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a fact,” Hermione shot back.

“Mm,” Draco drawled. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m chosen.”

“You’re underage,” Hermione reminded him crisply. “You can’t even put your name in.”

For the first time that night, Draco’s smirk faltered just slightly. “There are… ways.”

Fleur gave a soft, amused laugh, as though at children squabbling. “You are both wrong.”

Both Hermione and Draco turned toward her, indignant.

Fleur leaned her elbow on the table, gaze gliding lazily between them. “It will not be ze loud one who boasts, nor ze one who recites rules, who is chosen. Ze Goblet does not care for speeches. It cares for power.”

Her tone was not bragging — simply matter-of-fact.

The words settled like a spark dropped on kindling. Hermione felt something hot coil in her stomach, half irritation, half… something else.

Draco tilted his head, studying Fleur with an intensity he usually reserved for Quidditch strategies. “And you believe you’ll be chosen?”

Fleur’s smile was slight, enigmatic. “I do not ‘believe.’ I know.”

Draco chuckled softly, intrigued.

Hermione rolled her eyes — but the sound of Fleur’s confidence clung to her thoughts long after.

Around them, the feast clattered on. Fred and George whispered furiously at the Gryffindor table, sketching diagrams on napkins and muttering about “aging potions” and “beards.” First-years giggled over pumpkin pasties. Foreign students compared spells under their breath.

But Hermione barely registered any of it. She was caught between two magnetic pulls: the infuriating smirk of Draco Malfoy, and the unnerving certainty of Fleur Delacour.

She told herself it was annoyance, nothing more. Yet when Fleur’s hand brushed hers reaching for the jug of water, Hermione’s pulse skipped.

Draco noticed. His smirk returned.

The promise of something — rivalry, attraction, disaster — lingered like the aftertaste of firewhisky.

And the night was only just beginning.

—

The enchanted plates cleared themselves with a final shimmer, leaving only the faint scent of roasted meat and sugared plums hanging in the air. Students began to rise, voices climbing in a sudden burst of chatter as benches scraped against the stone floor.

Dumbledore raised his goblet, his voice cutting cleanly through the din. “Champions will be chosen in three days’ time. Until then — rest well, and treat our guests with courtesy.”

A few Gryffindors snickered at that, but the reminder set the hall in motion. Professors guided students toward the doors, foreign delegations gathering in clusters.

Hermione stacked her book under her arm, jaw still set from the back-and-forth with Draco. She needed the quiet of the library, needed parchment and ink to untangle her thoughts about the Goblet, about fairness, about…

Her eyes flicked sideways. Fleur was rising from the bench, every movement precise, hair glimmering like liquid metal in the torchlight. She spoke in a low murmur to another Beauxbatons girl, but her gaze swept across Hermione for just a breath too long before she turned away.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She clutched her book harder.

“Careful, Granger,” Draco’s voice drawled behind her. He slipped past, brushing her shoulder just enough to make it seem intentional. His smirk was back in place, but his eyes flicked toward Fleur before returning to Hermione. “You’ll give yourself away if you stare much longer.”

“I wasn’t—” Hermione began hotly, but he was already moving toward the doors, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him like shadows.

She seethed, cheeks burning, but the retort died on her tongue.

Because Fleur had paused by the doorway. She half-turned, as though sensing the weight of Hermione’s eyes. A faint smile — unreadable, almost mocking — touched her lips before she followed her headmistress into the corridor.

Hermione stood rooted for a moment, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with potatoes or parchment.

Then Ron tugged her sleeve, muttering about how they’d better not lose the common room password again, and the spell broke.

As the students spilled into the torchlit corridors, their laughter echoing against the stone, the Great Hall emptied.

Three figures left with unspoken thoughts heavy in their minds. Hermione, telling herself it was only irritation. Draco, savoring the entertainment of two worthy adversaries. Fleur, smiling faintly to herself, as if the game had already begun.

And high above them, the Goblet of Fire flickered in its stand, flames leaping higher for just a moment, as though it sensed the tension kindling below.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

I bring chapter 2 now.

I hope you all like the premise of the plot from the 1st chapter.

The goal here is to explore arcs of these characters and see where it leads.

One might find it funny, that I even have Draco showing interest in the Veela.

I don’t use Patreon or other sites of that nature. So this is where you will get the updates as they are posted. I intend in the near term to post as frequently as I can.

As usual. I credit JKR with this awesome universe.

Harry woke to the muffled thunder of footsteps in the common room below and the sharp rasp of curtains being yanked aside. He squinted against the pale morning light flooding through the tower windows.

“Up, Harry. Come on, you don’t want to be late,” Ron’s voice urged.

Harry groaned, rolling over. Ron was already dressed, tie crooked, jumper half-tucked, and hair sticking up worse than usual. He was pacing between his bed and the door, muttering to himself.

“What time is it?” Harry mumbled.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s breakfast, and we’ve got to get our timetables. And—” Ron hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. “Krum might be there.”

Harry sat up, rubbing his eyes. “So?”

Ron gave him a look as though he’d just blasphemed. “So? He’s Viktor flaming Krum, Harry. Best Seeker in the world. I mean, imagine sitting across from him at breakfast. I could ask him about his training schedule, or how he practices dives. Not just for an autograph, right? Proper questions. Professional questions.”

Harry smirked faintly, pulling on his robes. “You’re going to interview him, are you?”

“Why not?” Ron said defensively, but his ears reddened. “It’s not like I’d go all… squealy, like some of those girls last night. Krum deserves respect. He’s an athlete, not a collectible card.”

Harry buttoned his shirt slowly, watching Ron’s restless energy fill the dorm. It was strange — Ron spoke with the same excitement most boys used for Quidditch gossip, but there was a steadiness to it too. Like he was already imagining himself learning, comparing, measuring.

“Just don’t forget to eat while you’re interviewing him,” Harry said.

“Ha ha.” Ron tossed him a clean sock from the pile on his bed. “You’re just jealous you don’t get to talk to him first.”

Harry pulled the sock on, shaking his head. His mind wasn’t really on Krum. Instead, fragments of last night replayed: Fleur Delacour’s entrance, Hermione bristling beside her, Malfoy’s smirk lurking behind every word. And in the swirl of it all, fleeting glimpses of other faces too — cool, sharp eyes from the Slytherin table that seemed to notice him.

Breakfast might be ordinary for most. For Harry, it felt like walking into a web already spinning.

-

The staircases were crowded, morning sunlight slanting through the high windows in pale gold. Robes swished, voices echoed, and owls swooped overhead with the first mail of the day. Harry and Ron pushed through the throng, Ron craning his neck as though he might spot Viktor Krum striding among them like some heroic giant.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the buzz was louder than ever. Platters of toast, sausages, and steaming porridge appeared on the tables, but students were far more interested in gossip than food. Beauxbatons’ silk-clad figures were easy to spot among the Ravenclaws; Durmstrang’s heavy furs and sharp accents stood out even more at the Slytherin table.

“There he is,” Ron hissed, tugging Harry’s sleeve so hard he nearly dropped his pumpkin juice. “Krum. Merlin’s beard, look at him—doesn’t even blink. That’s focus, that is.”

Harry followed Ron’s gaze. Sure enough, Viktor Krum sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, back straight, movements precise even as he buttered a roll. Students all around him leaned in with questions, but he hardly reacted, only nodding curtly now and then.

Ron’s expression was somewhere between awe and determination. “I’m telling you, Harry, one day I’ll fly with that kind of control. He must train every hour of the day. I bet he doesn’t waste time with—” He stopped, ears reddening. “Well, with silly things.”

Harry smirked into his cup. “Like homework?”

“Exactly,” Ron said with conviction. Then, after a pause: “D’you think he’d mind if I asked for a tip or two? Not an autograph. Just… you know. Proper advice.”

Harry shrugged. “You could try.”

Ron’s courage flickered. “Not yet. Later. Don’t want to look like an idiot first thing in the morning.” He busied himself piling eggs onto his plate, though his eyes strayed back to Krum every other second.

Harry turned to reach for the jam—and froze.

Across the hall, a pair of cool gray-blue eyes met his. Daphne Greengrass sat at the Slytherin table, posture impeccable, her expression calm but watchful. For the briefest instant, she seemed to study him — not with the sneer he expected from most Slytherins, but with a quiet curiosity that unsettled him more than outright hostility ever did.

Before he could look away, a sharp laugh cut across the table.

Pansy Parkinson, sitting beside Daphne, leaned close to whisper something. Her dark eyes flicked toward Harry with open amusement, as though she’d already decided on the joke he would become. Yet Daphne didn’t laugh. She only tilted her head slightly, considering.

Harry felt his stomach tighten. He forced himself to butter his toast, but the butter knife scraped too loud against the bread.

“Alright?” Ron asked, distracted only briefly from Krum.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. He risked one more glance toward the Slytherin table. Pansy had turned away, but Daphne still watched him, calm as a chess player waiting for her opponent’s next move.

Something told him that breakfast would not be the simple, ordinary affair he’d hoped for.

Hermione slid onto the bench beside Harry with a stack of books already under her arm, her eyes darting between his untouched toast and the Slytherin table.

“You’re staring,” she said crisply, pouring herself pumpkin juice.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play innocent.” She angled her head just enough to catch his line of sight. Daphne was still watching, calm as ever, while Pansy leaned in close to whisper something that made the surrounding Slytherins snicker. “Honestly, Harry. Of all the people in this school to be curious about, you pick them?”

Ron frowned around a mouthful of sausage. “Pick who?” He craned his neck and followed Hermione’s gaze. “Oh. Them. Well, Pansy looks like she’s planning somebody’s execution.”

“Someone’s, or Harry’s specifically,” Hermione muttered.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but another voice slid into the conversation, smooth as poisoned honey.

“Careful, Potter,” drawled Draco Malfoy, who had glided over with Crabbe and Goyle in tow. “Keep staring at Greengrass like that, and people might think you actually fancy her.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And if I did?”

Draco’s smirk widened. “Then I’d have to inform her she can do better. Which, to be fair, includes everyone in this room.”

Crabbe and Goyle snorted with delayed amusement. Pansy, hearing the commotion, looked over and laughed outright, her voice carrying across the tables. Daphne, however, didn’t laugh. She only lowered her gaze to her plate, as though considering whether to play along with Draco’s game.

Hermione’s voice cut in, sharp as a quill. “Honestly, Malfoy, don’t you have anything better to do than insert yourself into conversations you weren’t invited to?”

“Invited?” Draco arched a pale brow. “Granger, no one invites you either. You just… arrive. Bit like a fungus.”

Ron slammed down his fork. “Watch it, Malfoy.”

But before it could escalate, Fred and George slid into the space across the table, grinning broadly and carrying a hush of anticipation with them.

“Speaking of watching,” Fred said in a low conspiratorial tone, “keep your eyes peeled tonight, won’t you, Harry?”

George added, “Because some clever gentlemen may or may not be about to test Dumbledore’s little Age Line.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to them. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, dead serious,” Fred said cheerfully.

“Suicidally serious,” George corrected. “But don’t worry, Hermione. If we end up bald or sprouting beards, we’ll make it look stylish.”

“Or both,” Fred suggested.

“Definitely both,” George agreed.

Laughter rippled down the table, easing the tension — but only for a moment. Draco gave Harry one last slow, deliberate smirk before sauntering back to the Slytherin table, where Pansy greeted him with a triumphant grin. Daphne, Harry noticed, did not look up.

Hermione leaned close, her voice low and urgent. “Harry, whatever they’re doing — and whatever you think you’re doing — don’t get caught up in it. This Tournament isn’t a joke.”

Harry stabbed his toast with unnecessary force, wishing the conversation would end, but knowing deep down it was only just beginning.

——

The Gryffindors spilled out of the Great Hall with the usual morning buzz, but slowed as they reached the oak doors. A crowd had gathered around the notice board. Ron shoved his way through, muttering, “What’s it say—? Move over—ah!” His ears went pink. “Quidditch is on this year!”

Harry leaned over his shoulder, scanning the neat black script.

House matches will proceed as scheduled. Visiting students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons may serve as substitutes for practice scrimmages and emergencies only. They are not eligible to play in official House matches.

Ron let out a delighted whoop. “Brilliant! I thought the Tournament would cancel everything — but this! Imagine! Training with foreigners! Krum might even—” He cut himself off quickly, his grin a little sheepish, but the light in his eyes betrayed him.

Hermione folded her arms, lips tight. “You’ve barely managed to cast Accio properly. Do you really think McGonagall will let you anywhere near Viktor Krum before you’ve caught up on your work?”

Ron ignored her, muttering under his breath, “I’ll prove it. Just wait.”

The first bell echoed through the corridors, and the tide of students broke apart, Gryffindors climbing the staircases toward the Charms corridor.

⸻

Professor Flitwick was already perched atop his pile of cushions when they entered, squeaking with enthusiasm as he waved them toward their seats.

“Today, fourth-years, we revisit the Summoning Charm! A deceptively simple spell, but one of the most useful you’ll ever learn. And a timely one, too —” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “— for certain sporting events that may or may not require broom-handling finesse.”

A ripple of laughter went around the room, and even Harry cracked a smile.

“Wands ready! Concentration, intent, and proper enunciation. Now—Accio!”

The room filled with the sounds of incantations, swishes, and thuds. Hermione’s book zipped neatly across the desk on her first attempt, pages fluttering as it landed with a satisfying smack.

Harry tried for a cushion. His first attempt dragged it a foot, then dropped it halfway. He frowned, adjusted his grip, and tried again — this time it zipped into his waiting hand.

Flitwick clapped his tiny hands together. “Excellent, Mr. Potter! Very strong intent.”

Ron, meanwhile, had managed only to summon Neville’s shoe from two rows away, nearly toppling him out of his chair. The class erupted in laughter as Neville wrestled his shoe back on.

“Oi, not bad!” Ron insisted, though his ears were scarlet. “At least it came when I called.”

Flitwick beamed. “Practice makes perfect, Mr. Weasley. And do keep at it, all of you. You’ll need these skills sooner than you think.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice how intently Ron tried again, jaw set with determination.

⸻

By the afternoon they were stiff-backed in Transfiguration, McGonagall pacing with her usual sharp precision. She tapped the board with her wand, where the word Switching Spells gleamed in chalk.

“Pair up,” she instructed crisply. “Today we advance last term’s work. A button into a beetle. A beetle into a button. I expect accuracy, not approximations. Begin.”

The classroom filled with the scratch of quills, the hum of incantations, and the occasional startled yelp. Hermione’s wandwork was sharp and decisive; within minutes, her beetle had vanished into a gleaming silver button that caught the light. She switched it back with a flick, the beetle skittering across her parchment.

“Perfect, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, moving on with the faintest curve of her mouth.

Harry’s attempt was less tidy. His beetle transformed halfway, leaving its twitching legs sticking grotesquely from the sides of a brass button. He grimaced and tried to correct it, but the thing only buzzed angrily on the desk. Hermione leaned over, muttered the incantation, and with a precise twist of her wand, finished the job.

“Pay attention,” she whispered sharply. “You keep twisting too early.”

Harry muttered thanks, though his ears burned.

Ron, at the next table, had turned his button into a beetle that seemed to enjoy scuttling across his notes, leaving tiny blotches of ink in its wake. He swatted at it, nearly knocking over his ink bottle.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed as she approached Harry’s desk. She surveyed the half-transformed beetle-button hybrid with visible disdain.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” she said curtly. “Mr. Potter, I expect more focus from you. Precision is not optional.”

Harry ducked his head, muttering an apology, while Ron grumbled, “Bit harsh, don’t you think? At least yours wasn’t trying to bite your nose off.”

The rest of the lesson was spent in tense silence, broken only by Hermione’s occasional hissed reminders.

⸻

By the time they descended into the dungeons for double Potions, the laughter from breakfast had worn thin. The air was cold and damp, thick with the bitter tang of past brews.

Snape glided into the room, his robes snapping behind him. His eyes swept over the students, pausing on Harry with a familiar sneer.

“Today, we brew a Draught of Peace. A delicate potion, requiring patience and precision. One mistake, and the result will be… volatile. Perhaps some of you will find restraint for once.”

Pairs were assigned, Gryffindors and Slytherins together, of course. Groans rose from the room as cauldrons hissed to life.

Harry found himself at a bench between Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson. Both girls regarded him coolly, as though he were an unwelcome stain on the table.

Pansy was the first to speak, her voice honeyed with disdain. “Try not to explode anything, Potter. I only just had my hair trimmed.” She delicately dropped a measure of valerian root into her mortar.

Harry set his jaw. “Not planning to. But if you’d like to take over—”

Daphne’s hand paused over a jar of powdered moonstone. Her eyes flicked to him, calm and assessing. “Delegation is not the same as competence. If you lack the skill, you should admit it.”

Her words were sharp, but not mocking. Harry met her gaze, steady. “I’ll manage.”

Something unreadable passed over her face — not a smile, but the faintest acknowledgment. She tipped the moonstone into the cauldron with steady hands, her expression unreadable.

Pansy sniffed, clearly unimpressed, and focused on her stirring. “We’ll see.”

The three of them worked in taut silence, interrupted only by the occasional instruction barked from Snape. Yet beneath it, Harry felt something shift. The air wasn’t as hostile as it had been at the start. If anything, it was watchful — the first crack in the ice.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing when they pushed through the portrait hole. Fires crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the crowded armchairs and tables. Students hunched in groups, trading theories about the Tournament or boasting about how they’d outwit Dumbledore’s age line to sneak their names into the Goblet.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sank into the worn red armchairs nearest the fire. Ron kicked off his shoes with a groan. “I swear, Snape makes his potions deliberately impossible. Draught of Peace? More like Draught of Panic.”

Hermione gave him a withering look. “Only if you don’t follow the instructions.”

“I was following the instructions,” Ron protested. “It’s just that he expects us to stir exactly counter-clockwise, three-quarter turns, while humming a lullaby or whatever nonsense. One slip and suddenly I’m the idiot.”

Harry smirked. “That’s about right.”

Before Ron could retaliate, a familiar pair of voices drifted over from behind them.

“Age Line,” Fred was whispering, low but intense. “Powerful spellwork, sure, but not impossible.”

George leaned closer, his grin visible in the firelight. “What if we—oh, hello, Harry!” He and Fred swooped in, dragging spare chairs toward the hearth. “Perfect timing. Fancy being our test subject?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

Fred pouted. “We didn’t even say what it was!”

“You didn’t have to,” Hermione shot back. “If it’s to do with the Goblet, I already know you’re plotting something idiotic. Honestly, haven’t you two grown out of this yet?”

George leaned back, feigning innocence. “Out of ambition? Never.”

“Weasley ambition,” Fred corrected, “which means brilliance in the making.” He turned to Harry and Ron. “Picture it. Our names, glowing in blue fire, chosen as Champions—”

“You’re underage,” Hermione cut in sharply. “And it’s not just Dumbledore’s spell. The Goblet itself will know. You heard him say as much!”

George gave a careless shrug. “Dumbledore says a lot of things. Half of it’s just to scare us off.”

Ron perked up, eyes gleaming. “What if it’s not, though? What if it really does blast you across the Hall?”

Fred’s grin widened. “Then we’ll make history twice over — first Weasleys to enter, and first Weasleys to be spectacularly launched into orbit.”

George clutched his chest dramatically. “And you’ll be proud to say you knew us before we were legends.”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You two are hopeless.”

The twins only winked at her, already muttering between themselves about Aging Potions and concealment charms.

Ron chuckled, but Hermione rounded on him before he could enjoy it.

“And you,” she said, voice sharp as a whip. “Don’t you dare get involved.”

Ron looked affronted. “I wasn’t going to! …Well, not yet.”

“Ron!”

He threw up his hands. “I was joking!”

Hermione’s glare lingered, but she turned her sights on Harry next. “And you. Don’t even think about it. You’ve got enough trouble in Potions without adding international tournaments to the list.”

Harry spread his hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “What you should be saying is that you’ll actually revise this year. Both of you.”

Ron groaned. “Here we go.”

“Yes, here we go!” Hermione snapped. “Because if you two spent half the effort on homework that you do on Quidditch or pranks, you’d be top of the class. OWLs are only two years away, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Ron slumped lower in his chair. “It’s two years, Hermione. That’s practically forever.”

“Forever?” Hermione’s voice rose. “It’s no time at all! Do you have any idea how much you’re expected to know by then? How many spells, how many theories—”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, wishing for once that someone would interrupt. But Hermione was in full stride, jabbing her finger for emphasis.

“You can’t just scrape by forever, Harry. And you, Ron, you’ll regret it if you don’t start now. You’re not going to charm your way through with broomsticks and luck.”

Ron muttered something under his breath about Viktor Krum that made Hermione bristle even more.

Harry, desperate to steer the conversation away from OWLs and scoldings, blurted, “Hermione, you don’t have to worry so much. It’s only the first week.”

“Exactly when habits are set!” she retorted. “If you don’t start right, you’ll end the same way — distracted and behind.”

Ron rolled his eyes and whispered, just loud enough for Harry to hear, “Distracted by Quidditch, behind because of Snape — the story of our lives.”

Harry smothered a laugh, but Hermione caught it and glared at them both.

“You think this is funny?” she said, voice low but heated. “Fine. Laugh. But when everyone else is prepared and you’re still floundering—don’t expect me to save you.”

She grabbed her bag in a huff, pulled out a mountain of parchment and ink, and began writing furiously at the nearest table. The scratch of her quill carried above the fire’s crackle.

Ron leaned toward Harry, whispering, “You know, one day she’s going to lecture herself into an early grave.”

But Harry’s mind was only half on Ron’s words. The memory of Potions lingered: Daphne’s cool gaze, the way her words had cut but not mocked. It was different. Strange. And it had left him unsettled in a way Snape’s insults never did.

He shifted in his chair, staring into the fire, and wondered — not for the first time — what the year ahead would truly bring.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Let’s continue!

More pre written to post.

Credit to the universe to the lady of hour. JKR.

The dormitory was still half-shadowed, the faintest gray light leaking through the tall windows. The other boys were sprawled in tangled heaps across their beds, muffled snores rising and falling in rhythm. Harry had been dozing in a warm haze when a sharp whisper pulled him back to wakefulness.

“Harry. Oi — Harry. You awake?”

He pried one eye open to find Ron leaning over from the next bed, his hair sticking up in about twelve different directions.

“Wasn’t,” Harry muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Well, you are now.” Ron swung his legs off the bed, reaching for his socks. “Come on, we should get down early. I heard from Seamus they’re posting Quidditch notices today. If they’re really letting the visitors sign up as subs—” His words tumbled over each other, faster than Harry could keep up with.

Harry groaned and pushed his glasses on. “It’s not even breakfast yet.”

“Exactly!” Ron’s grin flashed, wide and eager. “We’ll get a look before everyone else crowds around. You reckon it’s true about subs? If they’re letting in Beauxbatons or Durmstrang players, imagine if one of them filled in during practice. Krum, Harry. Krum could actually—well—” He broke off, his ears turning red.

Harry sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “You want him to play for Gryffindor?”

“No, of course not—well, not exactly,” Ron admitted, tugging his jumper over his head. “But just—think about it. He’s here, in the castle, probably walking around like it’s nothing. If I could just—” He stopped, fumbling with his shoelaces, then blurted, “If I could just get him to show me a few tricks, that’d be brilliant. Just one practice with him, and—Merlin, Harry, can you imagine?”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt, reaching for his own clothes. He was listening, sort of, but his mind wandered in between Ron’s words. He remembered the Slytherin table yesterday: Daphne’s calm, unreadable gaze, Pansy’s sly smile, Malfoy’s gloating smirk. He hadn’t liked the attention, but something about it lingered, threading into his thoughts when he least expected it.

“Oi, you even listening?” Ron asked suddenly.

Harry blinked. “Yeah. You want Krum to give you lessons.”

Ron grinned, a little sheepish. “It’s not stupid, is it?”

Harry shook his head. “Not stupid.” He tugged his jumper over his head, muffling the rest of his words. “Just ambitious.”

Ron snorted. “Better than not ambitious at all.”

They both laughed under their breath, careful not to wake Neville, who had rolled over and was drooling on his pillow. The room smelled of smoke from last night’s fire and the faint must of old stone. Harry laced his shoes in silence, Ron still muttering excitedly about Krum and practice formations.

When they finally clattered down the spiral staircase toward the common room, the first real streaks of sunrise spilled across the carpet, painting everything in gold. Ron bounded two steps at a time, and Harry followed, wondering whether the day ahead would be as simple as Ron’s dream of Quidditch — or as complicated as the look Daphne had given him yesterday.

By the time Harry and Ron slipped into the Great Hall, breakfast was already underway. Platters of eggs and bacon steamed on the tables, pitchers of pumpkin juice floated lazily above waiting goblets. The ceiling shimmered faintly with the soft blush of dawn, clouds rolling in threads of silver and peach.

Hermione was already seated, her hair pulled back with a ribbon, a stack of toast balanced on her plate beside a book she’d propped open against a jug of milk. She looked up only briefly when the boys sat down.

“You’re late,” she said crisply.

“We’re early,” Ron countered, pouring himself a tall glass of pumpkin juice. “Barely anyone’s even—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

The doors to the Hall had opened, and a ripple ran through the room. Heads turned in waves. The hush was palpable.

Fleur Delacour entered with a few of her Beauxbatons companions. She moved like the air bent around her, light catching in her silvery hair so that it gleamed almost unnaturally in the morning glow. The blue silk of her uniform swayed with every step. She didn’t seem to notice the stares, or perhaps she was long accustomed to them; her chin was lifted, her eyes clear and unreadable.

Ron forgot to blink. His juice nearly overflowed the goblet he was still holding.

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Honestly,” she muttered, snapping her book shut with more force than necessary. “You’d think no one in this school has ever seen a girl before.”

Harry smirked into his toast.

“She’s not just a girl,” Ron whispered, as though confessing something sacred. “She’s—she’s—”

“Walking,” Hermione snapped. “Like the rest of us.”

Fleur passed by the Gryffindor table without glancing their way, taking her place among the other Beauxbatons students at the end of the Hall. Even there, the air seemed to tilt toward her, as though the light itself wanted to linger.

Hermione forced her eyes back to her plate. She would not join the gaping. She would not.

But she did glance up when a drawling voice rose from the Slytherin table.

“Well, that explains it,” Draco Malfoy announced loudly to his cluster of friends. “No wonder Dumbledore wants a fair Tournament. If she put her name in, no one would stand a chance — half the judges would swoon before she even picked up a wand.”

The Slytherins chuckled. Crabbe and Goyle snorted loudly. Pansy Parkinson giggled behind her hand, though her eyes were sharp as she glanced toward Harry.

Hermione’s head snapped up before she could stop herself. “Not everyone loses their wits over a pretty face, Malfoy.”

Draco turned, slow and deliberate, his pale brows lifting. “Granger. Didn’t realize you were an expert on resisting temptation.”

“I’m an expert,” Hermione retorted, “on knowing the difference between actual talent and cheap distraction.”

A smirk curved Draco’s mouth. “Funny, coming from you. All that studying, all those late nights in the library — still second best when someone walks in and actually looks the part.”

Hermione bristled, her cheeks heating. “You wouldn’t know real ability if it hexed you between the eyes.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Careful, Granger. People might think you’re jealous.”

The words hit sharper than she expected, enough that she blinked before firing back. “Jealous? Of someone who thinks hair shine counts as intelligence? Don’t flatter yourself — or her.”

Fleur, at the far end of the Hall, glanced up then — perhaps catching Hermione’s tone, or perhaps simply feeling the shift of attention like a breeze. Her eyes, impossibly blue, lingered on Hermione for half a second too long before she looked away again.

Hermione realized her fork was clenched tight in her hand. She set it down carefully.

Draco’s smirk hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened, as though he’d noticed Fleur’s glance too.

Breakfast chatter swelled again around them, but something unspoken had already been set in motion.
-

The library was blissfully quiet after breakfast, its vaulted ceiling echoing only the faint scratch of quills and the occasional creak of leather bindings. Hermione relished the hush; it felt like drawing a curtain between herself and the buzzing distraction of the Hall.

She strode along the shelves with purpose, fingers brushing across the spines until she found the book she wanted: An Overview of Advanced Conjuring for Academic Competitions. She tugged it free, dusted the top with her sleeve, and turned

Only to nearly collide with a swish of silken blue fabric.

“Pardon.” Fleur’s voice was cool, laced with a trace of an accent that rolled certain syllables like water over stones.

Hermione blinked, clutching her book tighter. “It’s fine. I didn’t see you there.”

Fleur tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. She had an armful of heavy tomes, some clearly translated, others not. She shifted them gracefully against her hip. “I was looking for books on ze Tournament. Your language is…” She paused delicately, searching for the word. “…slippery.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Slippery?”

“Oui.” Fleur held out one book, opening it to a page marked with ribbon. The text was thick with idioms about “falling head over heels” in dueling maneuvers. “I do not think ze writer means to tumble on ze floor, but—how do you say—it is… flowery, no?”

Despite herself, Hermione let out a small laugh. “It’s an expression. Not literal. I suppose it can be confusing.”

“Confusing, yes. And frustrating.” Fleur’s eyes narrowed slightly at the page before she snapped the book shut and handed it back. “It is difficult enough to study without words playing tricks.”

Hermione hesitated, then said, “I could help. If you want.”

Fleur’s smile flickered again, slower this time. “How kind. Though I would not want to keep you from your own studying. You are always… how is it… diligent, no?”

Hermione stiffened at the implication, though she couldn’t tell if it was meant as a compliment or a barb. “I believe in doing the work properly.”

“Of course.” Fleur glided past her toward a nearby table, setting down her stack of books. Hermione followed reluctantly, telling herself it was simply the right thing to do — to help another student, even if that student happened to turn heads wherever she went.

They sat across from one another, the thick oak table between them. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence stretching. Then Fleur leaned forward slightly, her eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem almost too bright.

“You wonder why they stare, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

Hermione’s quill froze over her parchment. “Excuse me?”

“The boys,” Fleur said, her tone even, not mocking. “Even some of ze girls. They look at me like… how do you say… they are drowning, and I am air.” She gave a little shrug. “It is not something I choose.”

Hermione found her throat unexpectedly dry. “Well. Yes. People notice you.”

“Notice,” Fleur repeated softly, as though tasting the word. Then she shook her head. “It is not always flattering. It is not real. They look, but they do not see. Do you understand?”

Hermione forced herself to meet those too-bright eyes. “I think so. You mean—they don’t care who you actually are. Just what you look like.”

“Exactement.” Fleur’s smile was thin. “I am part Veela. It is in my blood. The magic—how people respond—it is beyond my control. Imagine walking into every room, and before you even speak, half of ze people decide you are someone to desire. How can they ever take your mind seriously?”

Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came at first. She hadn’t considered it in those terms. She had only seen the way Fleur made heads turn, and assumed it was… enviable.

“That must be… difficult,” she said at last.

“Difficult, yes. Lonely, too.” Fleur tapped the spine of one of her books absently. “So I study. I work. At Beauxbatons, at least, Madame Maxime reminds us: beauty fades. Magic, knowledge, skill—these remain. That is why I am here. Not for admiration.” Her gaze flickered across Hermione’s face. “For victory.”

The conviction in her voice made Hermione’s stomach twist. It was the kind of fierce determination Hermione herself often felt — but hearing it from Fleur unsettled her, made her want to argue and agree all at once.

“You’ll need more than victory,” Hermione said, a little sharper than intended. “The Tournament isn’t about appearances or tricks. It’s about preparation. Actual work. You can’t charm your way through spells you don’t understand.”

Fleur arched a brow. “You think I do not work?”

Hermione faltered. “I didn’t mean—”

But Fleur’s faint smile had returned. Not offended — amused. “You are honest. I like that. Most people, they flatter. They tell me I am perfect. You tell me I am… lazy, perhaps.”

“I didn’t—” Hermione began hotly.

Fleur leaned closer across the table, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Do not worry. I would rather be challenged than praised.”

For one heartbeat, Hermione forgot to breathe.

Then she sat back abruptly, reaching for her parchment as though it could shield her. “If you want my help, we should begin with idioms. Otherwise you’ll never get through half of these texts.”

Fleur settled gracefully back into her chair, her smirk softening into something gentler. “As you wish, Hermione.”

The sound of her name in Fleur’s accent tugged at Hermione in ways she couldn’t untangle.

-

The courtyard was alive with chatter between classes, autumn sunlight dappling through the arches. Students lounged on the low stone walls, parchment scattered in their laps, quills scratching as they half-heartedly tried to keep up with notes before the next bell.

Hermione had tucked herself against one pillar, her books balanced neatly as she jotted down Arithmancy calculations. She was determined — more determined than ever — to stay focused this year.

“Granger.”

The voice was unmistakable. She didn’t look up immediately, but she didn’t have to. Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, a smirk curling his mouth. Crabbe and Goyle loitered close by, already chuckling in anticipation.

“What is it now?” Hermione asked tightly, not raising her eyes from her parchment.

“Still scribbling away?” Draco drawled. “Merlin forbid you waste even one minute on something other than homework. What are you trying to do, impress the Goblet with your handwriting?”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “Better than spending all your time insulting people to make yourself feel clever.”

Draco gave a mock gasp. “Careful. You’ll wound me.”

“You’d need feelings for that,” Hermione muttered.

That earned a bark of laughter from one of the bystanders. Draco’s smirk wavered. His grey eyes sharpened. “Watch it, Granger.”

“Or what?” She finally looked up at him, heat in her gaze. “You’ll insult my blood again? Very original.”

Draco stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she and his hulking shadows could hear. “Say what you like. But when this Tournament starts, you’ll see who actually matters here. And it won’t be you.”

Something in Hermione snapped. The sting of his words, the memory of Fleur’s sharp clarity in the library, the constant pressure to prove herself—it all boiled over. Before she could stop herself, her wand was in her hand.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell cracked across the courtyard. Draco, caught off guard, staggered back as his wand flew from his grip. But the force wasn’t neat — it jolted him into the edge of the stone wall, scraping his cheek. A thin line of blood welled instantly across the pale skin.

The courtyard went silent.

Draco’s hand went to his face. He blinked at the blood on his fingers, then slowly lifted his eyes to Hermione. No words, no quip. Just a cold, unreadable stare.

“MISS GRANGER!”

The roar cut through the stunned quiet. Snape swept through the archway like a stormcloud, black robes billowing, eyes ablaze. His gaze locked on the scene: Draco with blood on his cheek, Hermione with her wand still trembling in her hand.

“Attacking another student?” His voice dripped venom. “In broad daylight? In front of witnesses?”

“I—he provoked me—” Hermione stammered, but the words crumbled under Snape’s glare.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Snape snarled, “and detention. You will report to me tonight. And if you ever display such reckless violence again, rest assured, Miss Granger, I will see you removed from this school.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, hot with humiliation. Her throat tightened, eyes prickling before she could force them down. She hated herself for it — for the way tears threatened.

“Yes, Professor,” she whispered, voice catching.

The students murmured, some smirking, others looking uneasily between the two.

Draco still hadn’t spoken. He stood there with blood on his cheek, wand reclaimed, grey eyes fixed on Hermione. Not triumphant. Not gloating. Just… watching.

Hermione dropped her gaze, hugging her books tight to her chest, and pushed past the crowd without another word.

Behind her, she could feel Draco’s eyes following until the archway swallowed her whole.

Notes:

Always appreciate the kudos.

Thanks to those who are giving this a chance thus far.

Next, we will have the goblet selection scenes..

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

All credit goes to JKR and her excellent universe.

More prewritten word. If I’m going too fast. Let me know.

CWM

The Great Hall looked different at dawn. Shafts of pale morning light spilled through the high windows, catching in the enchanted ceiling’s faint wisps of cloud. At the far end, just beneath the teachers’ table, the Goblet of Fire still burned, blue flames licking upward in a quiet, hungry rhythm.

But the real spectacle wasn’t the Goblet. It was the shimmering golden ring that glowed around it — the Age Line.

Fred and George Weasley stood just outside the circle, shoulders squared, expressions full of mischief. A crowd had gathered, students whispering excitedly in every direction.

“This is either going to be brilliant,” Fred said, adjusting his robes, “or it’s going to be the kind of disaster people tell stories about for decades.”

George grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

They raised identical goblets, each filled with a shimmering silver liquid.

Hermione, standing a few paces back with Harry and Ron, folded her arms so tightly across her chest it looked painful. “You two are mad. Dumbledore made it perfectly clear — anyone underage who tries will be rejected.”

Ron, of course, was practically bouncing. “But what if they aren’t rejected? What if it works? Imagine it, Hermione — one of them in the Tournament!”

“Imagine the lawsuits,” Hermione snapped. “Magical contracts aren’t things you can just wiggle around with potion tricks. If they manage to put their names in, the consequences could be catastrophic.”

Fred downed his potion, face twisting at the bitter taste. George followed suit, and together they stepped toward the glowing circle.

Gasps rose from the watching students. A Ravenclaw muttered, “They’re really going to do it…”

With exaggerated flourish, Fred leapt across the line. His boots struck the flagstones inside the golden circle without resistance.

George followed, grinning wildly. “See? Piece of ca—”

Both twins were flung backward in a burst of golden sparks. They landed in a tangled heap on the stone floor, yelping in unison. The crowd roared with laughter.

But laughter turned into shrieks as, before their eyes, Fred’s face began sprouting a long, flowing white beard. George clutched his chin and let out a howl as his own beard burst forth, curling down his chest in great tufts of silver.

“Well,” Fred sputtered through the hair, “that could’ve gone—better.”

“Speak for yourself!” George barked, tugging helplessly at his beard. “Do you know how much Sleekeazy’s it’s going to take to tame this?”

The crowd was howling now, students clutching their sides, stomping their feet.

Even Harry had to bite back laughter, though Hermione looked like she wanted to hex the entire gathering into silence.

“You see?” she said fiercely. “That’s why Dumbledore put the line there. To protect people from their own idiocy.”

Ron snorted, still grinning. “Idiocy with style, though.”

From across the hall, other students muttered with interest. A group of Slytherin seventh-years whispered about blood charms and potions stronger than the Ageing Draught. A Ravenclaw suggested enchanting someone else to drop the name in.

Hermione overheard them and whirled around. “That wouldn’t work either! The magic is bound to the name itself, to the intent of the person entering. You can’t trick the Goblet with proxies.”

The Ravenclaw rolled his eyes. “Says the bookworm.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed hot. “Says someone who actually studies magical law! Honestly, do none of you understand what ‘binding magical contract’ means?”

Her voice carried through the chatter, but only earned more muttering and smirks. Ron leaned toward Harry, lowering his voice.

“She’s going to burst a vein before breakfast at this rate.”

Harry half-smiled, but his eyes lingered on the Goblet. The flames burned with a strange intensity, casting flickers of blue across the stone floor.

For a moment, he thought it looked almost… alive.

The laughter from Fred and George’s mishap had barely died down when the air in the Great Hall shifted.

The Beauxbatons students entered in a cluster, their blue silk uniforms catching the morning light. They carried themselves like dancers — heads high, movements fluid — and a ripple of whispers followed them.

At the center was Fleur Delacour.

She walked with her head tilted slightly, her silvery hair cascading like liquid light. In her hands, folded neatly, was a slip of parchment. The Beauxbatons boys watched her as though gravity itself had bent toward her stride. Even a few Hogwarts students gawked, mouths half open.

Hermione folded her arms tighter.

Fleur approached the circle, her expression calm, almost detached. She stepped across the Age Line as if it weren’t even there, her heels clicking softly on the stone. When she dropped her parchment into the Goblet, the flames flared higher, licking briefly crimson before settling back to blue.

“She didn’t even blink,” Ron muttered.

“That’s because she’s not an idiot,” Hermione shot back. But her eyes followed Fleur all the same.

The Durmstrang contingent came next. Viktor Krum walked slightly apart from his fellows, his heavy-lidded gaze scanning the room with a predator’s patience. He looked older than most of the students — which, Hermione supposed, he was. When he crossed the Age Line, the Hogwarts boys leaned forward in unison.

Ron clutched Harry’s arm. “There he is! Blimey — I’ve never been this close before—do you reckon I should ask him for an autograph after he puts his name in, or is that rude?”

“Maybe wait until he’s not standing in front of an enchanted fire,” Harry muttered.

Krum pulled a crumpled bit of parchment from his pocket, shoved it into the Goblet without flourish, and turned away, ignoring the awed murmurs.

The Durmstrang boys clapped him on the back, proud, possessive.

“Now there’s a champion,” came a drawl from behind Hermione.

She stiffened. Draco Malfoy was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, pale eyes flicking between Krum and the Goblet. Crabbe and Goyle hovered nearby, their smirks dumb echoes of his own.

“He’s practically made for it,” Draco continued, not looking at her yet. “Real talent. Real pedigree. Not like—well—”

His gaze shifted, deliberate, settling on Harry.

Harry felt the weight of it and scowled.

Hermione rounded on Draco before Harry could answer. “Pedigree doesn’t win tournaments, Malfoy. And neither does strutting around like you own the place.”

“Oh?” Draco tilted his head, smirk curling. “Funny, I thought you liked books. You must’ve read about bloodlines — how some families are simply… better suited for greatness.”

Hermione’s hands clenched. “You mean like the Weasleys?”

Draco’s smirk faltered for half a second, then returned sharper. “Touché, Granger. But let’s be honest — you’re clever enough to know Krum and Delacour are in a different league than anyone Hogwarts will cough up.”

“Intelligence counts more than vanity or brute force,” Hermione snapped. “Not that you’d understand.”

For the briefest heartbeat, his expression shifted — not anger, but something unreadable, caught between annoyance and a flicker of… intrigue. Then he barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“Keep telling yourself that, Granger.”

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled dully behind him, and Draco turned on his heel, sauntering away.

Hermione stood rooted, cheeks flushed, pulse hammering.

Ron, oblivious to the undercurrent, muttered, “I’d still put my Galleons on Krum. Look at those shoulders…”

Hermione shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

—-

By midmorning the hall was buzzing. Word of Fred and George’s bearded debacle had spread to every corner of the castle, and groups of students streamed in, some to gawk, others to size up the Goblet for themselves.

When Dumbledore finally rose from the high table, the chatter dropped to a low murmur. He looked older than usual in the clear light, his silver hair catching the flames from the Goblet as though he were crowned by fire.

“Students,” he said, his voice calm but carrying, “a moment of your ears, if you please.”

The quiet deepened. Even the Durmstrang boys stopped their low growls of conversation.

“You have all seen the Goblet of Fire,” Dumbledore went on, gesturing to the tall cup on its plinth. “It is a powerful magical artifact, older than Hogwarts itself. Within its flames is an enchantment of judgment — it does not simply receive names, it weighs them.”

Somebody in the crowd whispered, “Weighs them how?”

“As one might expect,” Dumbledore continued, as though he’d heard, “the Goblet does not judge handwriting, or clever tricks. It reads intent. It measures courage, resolve, and the will to bind oneself to a task. These qualities cannot be faked by proxy, nor tricked by potions or enchantments.”

Hermione tilted her chin smugly at the Ravenclaws from earlier.

“The Age Line I cast,” Dumbledore said, sweeping a hand across the glowing golden circle, “is but a secondary measure. Should an underage witch or wizard succeed in crossing the line, the Goblet itself would reject their entry. And rejection is… not a comfortable experience.”

Fred, still stroking the magnificent length of his beard, coughed loudly.

Laughter rippled through the hall. Even Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“More important than that,” he said, tone sharpening, “is the matter of the contract. Once the Goblet chooses a champion, the choice is binding. The magic compels the selected student to compete. Withdrawal is not permitted. To attempt it would be to pit oneself against the enchantments of the Goblet itself, which I do not advise.”

Gasps scattered through the crowd. A Hufflepuff boy muttered, “So it’s like signing in blood.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore said gravely. “The contract is absolute. Those who enter must understand the risk they undertake. This Tournament is not a game — it is a test of skill, intellect, and yes, survival.”

The last word lingered.

Fleur, standing with her classmates, tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with what looked like calm acceptance. Krum barely reacted, his expression unreadable.

But across the hall, a group of Slytherins were whispering furiously. One of the older boys leaned toward Draco, murmuring, “There must be a loophole. No contract is flawless.”

Hermione overheard. “No loophole,” she said firmly. “Every attempt at cheating will be rejected — and punished. The Goblet isn’t an essay exam, Malfoy. You can’t just buy your way through it.”

Draco didn’t answer this time. He simply watched her, his pale eyes cool, calculating.

From the Gryffindor table, Ron whispered, “Binding contracts, age lines, rejection magic… Merlin’s beard, this is better than Quidditch.”

Hermione shot him a look. “Nothing is better than Quidditch to you, Ronald.”

“Not true,” Ron whispered back, grinning. “Meeting Krum might top it.”

Harry said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the Goblet. The flames licked upward with a steady rhythm, blue as a summer sky. For a moment, he thought they seemed to lean outward — as though searching.

—-

The wind clawed across the moors of Aberdeenshire, whistling through heather and stone walls that had seen centuries pass them by. To the Muggle eye, the Riddle estate was nothing but a patch of overgrown field, a collapsed barn sinking into the soil.

But with the right blood and the right words, the truth peeled back like wet parchment.

A manor rose out of the earth — sprawling, modern, its glass walls half-shattered, the sleek lines of its architecture suffused with a cold wrongness. It wasn’t the decay that unnerved; it was the feeling that the house itself remembered horrors.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy. Curtains hung stiff with dust. A chandelier, grotesquely grand, cast pale light down into the hall. Shadows seemed too thick, gathering in corners where no furniture stood.

At the center of it all, nestled in a carved wooden chair draped with serpentine carvings, was Lord Voldemort.

He was not yet whole, his form more husk than body, but his presence filled the hall like smoke. The very stones seemed to lean toward him, aching to listen.

Peter Pettigrew shuffled forward, clutching his robes with damp hands. His voice trembled.

“M–my Lord… the Goblet burns already. The foreign schools have arrived. The Beauxbatons girl, the one… the one you suspected might be chosen… she is there. She has crossed the line.”

Voldemort did not stir. For a long moment there was only the hiss of wind rattling broken panes.

“Describe her,” he whispered at last.

Pettigrew swallowed. “Tall, my Lord. Hair like silver. She… she is part Veela. The students stare at her — even the masters cannot ignore her presence. She carries herself as though the fire belongs to her.”

The air in the hall contracted, pulling inward. Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved faintly, almost a smile.

“A Veela…” he murmured. “One touched by fire, standing beside my chosen boy.” His red eyes glittered. “How curious. How useful.”

Pettigrew twitched. “Then — then you believe she may serve, my Lord? As part of the plan?”

“She will serve whether she wills it or not,” Voldemort said softly. “Power is not always seized by brute force, Wormtail. Sometimes it is drawn — like moths to a flame. Her allure will unravel the weak. It will distract. And perhaps… it will snare the boy himself.”

Pettigrew hesitated. “Harry Potter?”

“Who else?” Voldemort’s voice sharpened. “He will be chosen. I have shaped the path for him. The cup will bind him as surely as chains. And if this girl stands near him — the fire will consume them both. Together, they may open doors that one alone could not.”

The words seemed to coil around the room like serpents.

Pettigrew’s knees buckled. He fell forward, nearly sprawling on the cold stone. “It shall be done, my Lord. Your servant within the castle — they have already sent word. They will watch the girl. They will watch Potter.”

“Good.”

The candles guttered.

“Keep your silence, Wormtail. Even the Order only whispers. They suspect nothing of this house, nothing of the moors. Let them search Hangleton, let them chase shadows. By the time they find me, the fire will already burn too brightly to be smothered.”

Voldemort’s voice dropped to a silken hiss.

“And when the time comes… this house will not merely host my rebirth. It will host the unmaking of their hope.”

The wind outside howled against the windows as though in agreement.

-

Night fell heavy across Hogwarts, and with it came the fever of anticipation. The Great Hall blazed with candlelight, banners from all three schools shimmering against the enchanted ceiling. The Goblet of Fire stood at the center, flames dancing higher now, red searing the edges of blue.

Every student sat taut with expectation. Forks clinked nervously against plates. Conversations buzzed but cut off sharply whenever the flames flared.

Dumbledore rose slowly. His voice was calm, but even he could not mask the solemnity in it.

“The time has come.”

A hush. Then—

Fwoosh!

The Goblet’s flames burst scarlet. Sparks shot into the air like firecrackers. A charred scrap of parchment spit free, tumbling end over end into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.

He read the name aloud.

“Viktor Krum.”

Durmstrang roared. The floor trembled under the pounding of their boots. Krum stood without flourish, only a grim nod, shoulders squared like a man walking into battle. His eyes barely flickered toward the hall as he strode forward, expression carved from stone.

Hermione leaned forward, breath caught.

Another whoosh. A second name leapt from the Goblet.

“Fleur Delacour.”

The Beauxbatons girls erupted in crystalline cheers. Fleur glided to her feet, back straight, chin lifted, her silvery hair catching every lick of light. She moved as though the choice had always been certain, as though destiny had simply announced itself.

And yet — as she reached the front — her eyes swept the hall. For a moment, they lingered on Hermione. A flicker of recognition, curiosity. Something unsaid.

Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks. She looked down quickly, fingers tightening on her goblet.

The fire roared a third time.

“Cedric Diggory.”

Hufflepuffs screamed themselves hoarse. Cedric looked stunned but proud, shaking hands thrust at him from every direction. He accepted them graciously, though his face was flushed pink. A boy chosen, but also a young man suddenly aware of the weight on his shoulders.

The hall hummed with satisfaction — three champions, three schools, balance restored.

But the Goblet was not done.

The flames shrieked upward, higher than before, red turned near white. The entire hall seemed to lean back. Another scrap of parchment spat out, fluttering through the air.

Dumbledore caught it.

His eyes narrowed.

He read.

“Harry Potter.”

The silence was complete. Even the fire seemed to dim for a heartbeat.

Then the whispers began.

“No—”
“Impossible—”
“He’s too young—”
“He cheated—”

Harry sat frozen, blood roaring in his ears. It felt as though the walls had leaned in around him, pressing, suffocating. Ron gawked, mouth half-open. Hermione’s hand flew to her lips.

At the Slytherin table, Draco’s smirk was sharp — but his eyes gave him away, the barest flicker of unease.

Further down the table, Daphne Greengrass kept her face composed, eyes cool as ice — but under the surface her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Beside her, Pansy’s mouth twisted in what looked like disdain, yet her gaze kept flicking back to Harry, lips pressed so tightly they nearly bled.

Silent worry. Concealed behind masks of superiority.

Dumbledore’s voice broke through the storm. “Harry Potter. Come forward.”

The words cracked like a whip.

Harry’s legs felt like stone. He stood shakily, the stares of the hall cutting into him like blades. The Gryffindors half-cheered, half-muttered. The Hufflepuffs looked betrayed. The Durmstrangs scowled. Beauxbatons whispered among themselves in French, Fleur watching him with a piercing curiosity that bordered on suspicion.

He stumbled forward, past Hermione’s wide eyes, past Ron’s stunned silence.

And when he passed the Slytherin table, he felt Daphne’s gaze like ice on the back of his neck. Pansy’s too. Masks of indifference — but he had seen the truth, for a flicker.

Concern.

Even if they would never admit it.

He walked on. Toward the fire. Toward the storm.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

More pre written.

As usual, universe credit to JKR

Please, let me know what you think in comments!

CWM

The Great Hall was no longer silent. It boiled with disbelief, voices colliding like waves on rock.

“He’s not old enough!” someone shouted from the Hufflepuff table.
“He must have cheated!” hissed a Ravenclaw girl.
The Slytherins laughed, though the sound was sharp-edged, more mockery than mirth.

At the high table, the storm gathered quickly.

“This is preposterous,” Karkaroff spat, his heavy cloak snapping as he rose. “A child cannot enter the Tournament. There are rules.”

“The Goblet does not make mistakes,” Dumbledore said, his voice measured, but there was steel beneath the calm.

Madame Maxime leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “But you said yourself, Albus, only those of age could cross your line. Do you think I will allow my students to risk their lives against an unqualified boy?”

“Perhaps the boy is more cunning than he looks,” Snape murmured. His lips curled as he glanced at Harry, eyes glittering. “Rules are not so difficult to break, for those willing to break them.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He wanted to shout that he hadn’t done anything—but the words stuck in his throat, swallowed by the weight of the hall.

Dumbledore’s gaze shifted to him. “Harry. Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?”

“No,” Harry said at once, voice shaking but firm. “I didn’t.”

“Did you ask an older student to do it for you?”

“No!” Harry’s shout cracked across the silence that had fallen. “I don’t even know how it works!”

The whispers surged again, louder, crueler.

Hermione’s eyes were wide, but not with sympathy. They were sharp, calculating. “Harry…” she whispered, leaning closer. “If you did—just admit it. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.”

He gaped at her. “You think I’d—”

Ron cut him off, face flushed. “I’ve been your mate for years, but come on—of course you wanted the glory. Didn’t you? You couldn’t stand Diggory being Hogwarts’ champion, so you had to nick the spotlight.”

Harry felt as though the ground had opened beneath him. “I didn’t,” he repeated, but his voice was low now, strangled, because their faces told him they didn’t believe him. Not really.

Dumbledore raised a hand, commanding silence. “The Goblet has chosen. The choice is binding. Mr. Potter will compete.”

The words landed like hammer blows.

The feast ended in chaos. Hufflepuffs glaring, Gryffindors whispering, Ravenclaws speculating, Slytherins jeering. When Harry rose to leave, Ron didn’t follow. Hermione didn’t either. Their eyes avoided his.

For the first time, Harry walked out of the Great Hall not with his friends at his side, but with the weight of the entire school pressing against his back.

-

Harry had never hated the sound of the Gryffindor common room fire before, but now the crackling made him restless. It was still smoldering faintly in the grate when he dragged himself out of bed. His head pounded from too little sleep and too many voices echoing in his mind—the Hufflepuff jeers, Snape’s sneer, Ron’s accusation.

He glanced at the other four-posters. Ron was turned away, a hunched shape under the covers, not snoring the way he usually did but breathing shallowly, as if pretending to sleep. Dean and Seamus whispered in low tones that cut off whenever Harry shifted. Neville offered a fleeting, nervous smile when their eyes met, then quickly ducked his head.

The common room wasn’t better. Conversations stopped when he came down the stairs. He caught fragments anyway.

“…always thought he got special treatment…”
“…maybe Dumbledore’s favorite after all…”
“…doesn’t deserve to stand with Diggory, Fleur, Krum…”

Harry shoved past, jaw tight, and headed to breakfast.

The Great Hall was buzzing, and the buzz sharpened the moment he stepped in. Faces turned, the muttering swelled, and he wanted to vanish under his Invisibility Cloak. Instead, he forced his legs to carry him to the Gryffindor table.

Ron was already there, arms crossed, stabbing at a piece of toast as though it had personally offended him. He didn’t look up when Harry slid onto the bench.

Hermione sat further down, a book open in front of her though she wasn’t reading. She had a spoon in her hand but hadn’t touched her porridge. When Harry looked at her, she looked back—and then quickly away, lips pressed thin.

He clenched his fists in his lap.

“Morning, Harry,” Neville said, his voice uncertain but polite. It was almost worse than outright accusation.

Harry didn’t answer. He shoved a slice of bread onto his plate, though he wasn’t hungry, and tried not to hear the whispers that buzzed like bees behind his back.

“Do you think he did it?” a Hufflepuff said just loud enough to carry.
“Course he did,” came the reply. “Always chasing attention.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Ron finally spoke, low enough not to carry, but sharp enough to cut. “Could’ve told me, you know. Best mate, yeah? You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry snapped, louder than he meant to. A few heads turned.

Ron shoved his plate away and stood abruptly. “Right. Whatever you say.” He stalked off, shoulders stiff, leaving Harry gaping.

Hermione shut her book with a decisive snap. She didn’t rise, but her words were cool. “It isn’t rational, Harry. The Goblet doesn’t just—make mistakes. If you didn’t do it, someone did. And I can’t think of a reason anyone would risk it except you.”

The words burned more than Ron’s anger. Hermione—the one who always believed him, who always had his back—looked at him as though he were a problem she couldn’t solve.

Harry pushed back from the table so hard the bench screeched. Heads swiveled again. He didn’t care. He stormed from the hall, every stare digging into him like claws.

The corridor outside was cooler, emptier. His footsteps echoed as he strode toward the greenhouses, fists jammed in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t know what he was going to say when he got there, didn’t know how he’d make it through the day with the entire school convinced he was a cheat.

And then he heard them. Two voices, low and sharp, drifting behind him like smoke.

“—he’s walking like he owns the corridor,” one said, amused.
“More like he’s sulking because everyone’s seen through him,” the other replied.

Harry stiffened, blood rushing hot. He didn’t need to look back to know it was them. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass—Slytherins, of course.

He kept walking, but their footsteps followed.

Harry lengthened his stride, but the sound of their shoes on the flagstones matched his pace perfectly. He finally risked a glance over his shoulder.

Pansy was smirking, her dark hair glossy and pinned just so, eyes alight with the pleasure of cornering prey. Daphne, taller, quieter, walked with her arms folded and her gaze fixed on Harry’s back, cool and assessing, as if she were studying him like one of Snape’s specimens.

“Going somewhere important, Potter?” Pansy called. “Or are you off to sign more autographs for your adoring fans?”

Harry whipped around. “Shut it, Parkinson.”

“Touchy,” she drawled. “I suppose it’s hard work pretending to be surprised when the Goblet spits your name out in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t put it in,” Harry said flatly.

“Of course not,” Pansy said sweetly, eyes narrowing with glee. “The Goblet just happened to fall in love with you.”

Daphne’s voice slid in, softer but more pointed. “If you didn’t do it, Potter, then who did?”

Harry’s chest tightened. He didn’t want to admit he didn’t know. Not to them. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, turning away.

But Daphne wasn’t finished. She stepped a little closer, her tone smooth, almost detached. “It does matter. You’re bound now. Whoever put your name in—if it wasn’t you—did it for a reason. Don’t you think that should worry you?”

Her eyes flickered, just for an instant, not quite meeting his. A sliver of something unguarded—concern? curiosity?—before the mask slipped back into place.

Pansy snorted. “He’s too thick to worry about anything but his next broom ride.”

Harry spun, temper flaring. “I never asked for this. Any of it. So maybe stop acting like you know everything.”

The words came out harsher than he intended, echoing in the empty corridor.

Pansy tilted her head, smirk deepening. “Oh, look. He snaps. I thought Gryffindors were supposed to keep their tempers.”

Daphne’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking. “Perhaps he has more temper than sense. Which, in this tournament, is a death sentence.”

For a moment, the three of them stood in the corridor, tension drawn taut between them. Harry’s fists curled. He wanted to walk away—but their words clung to him, sharper than the whispers of Hufflepuffs or the cold suspicion in Hermione’s eyes. Because beneath the Slytherin sneers was something else: they were watching him. Not laughing from the sidelines, not ignoring him, but paying close attention.

Pansy broke the silence with a laugh, tugging Daphne’s sleeve. “Come on. We’ll be late. Sprout won’t forgive tardiness just because you’re Hogwarts’ latest golden boy.”

Harry watched them sweep past, the faint scent of lilac trailing behind. They didn’t look back. But Daphne’s voice, cool and careful, lingered in his ears: Whoever put your name in… did it for a reason.

He set his jaw and followed them toward the greenhouses.

The air inside Greenhouse Three was thick with the damp scent of soil and something acrid that clung to the back of the throat. Sunlight spilled through the glass panes, catching motes of dust and pollen. Rows of long tables were already set with earthen pots, thick leather gloves, and a collection of squat plants that oozed faintly at the stems.

Professor Sprout bustled to the front, her patched hat askew and her cheeks already ruddy from the morning. “Gather round, gather round! Today we’ll be working with Bubotubers. Nasty things if you’re careless, but in the right hands, their pus is a fine remedy for acne. In the wrong hands—well, it burns. So don’t be in the wrong hands.”

A nervous chuckle ran through the class.

Harry, still simmering from breakfast, took a seat at the nearest table, only to find two shadows slipping into place beside him. Daphne Greengrass laid her gloves neatly in front of her, every motion precise. Pansy Parkinson slouched into the spot on his other side, smirk already tugging at her lips.

Sprout clapped her hands. “Pairs of three today. Those of you in the back, shift forward. Yes, you, Longbottom—don’t hide. Now then, gloves on, everyone. We’ll be squeezing the pus from these bubotubers into the flasks. Steady pressure. Too much, and you’ll burst the skin and make a mess. Too little, and you’ll be here all day.”

Harry tugged on his gloves and focused on the squat, swollen plant in front of him. Its surface glistened, bulbous with fluid that made his stomach turn.

“Lovely partner we’ve got,” Pansy murmured, leaning close enough that he caught the faint scent of some cloying perfume. “The Boy-Who-Lived reduced to pimple cream.”

“Shut it, Parkinson,” Harry muttered, pressing the tip of the plant carefully over the rim of a flask.

Daphne, by contrast, was silent. She steadied the stalk with practiced fingers, guiding the pus in a thin, viscous stream. Her expression didn’t change, but she said quietly, “Don’t squeeze so hard. You’ll split it.”

Harry adjusted his grip. The flow steadied. He glanced sideways at her. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Daphne said, eyes fixed on the plant. “I’d rather not have it explode all over me.”

Pansy snickered. “And here I thought Gryffindors liked glory.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Harry snapped, frustration bubbling over.

Her smirk sharpened. “Not when it’s this fun.”

Daphne’s voice slid between them, calm but edged. “Focus. Sprout will dock all of us if you botch it.”

Harry bit back a retort and turned his attention to the plant. The pus dripped into the flask, its odor sharp and sulfurous. Around the room, muffled groans and the occasional yelp broke the rhythm of squelches. Neville, of course, was handling his bubotuber like a seasoned gardener, his flask nearly full already.

Sprout weaved between tables, offering encouragement here and warnings there. When she reached Harry’s group, she peered into their flask. “Good work, all three of you. Keep that pressure steady—yes, just like that.” She moved on, leaving Harry with the faintest, smallest satisfaction that he wasn’t making a fool of himself.

Daphne capped the flask when it was full, sliding it toward the crate at the front. Her sleeves were immaculate, not a drop on her. Harry couldn’t help noticing.

“You’re good at this,” he said, almost grudgingly.

She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just control. Most people don’t have it.”

Pansy flicked her glove against his arm, leaving a faint smear. “Careful, Potter. You’ll start thinking she actually likes you.”

Harry stiffened, heat rising in his face. “As if.”

But Daphne didn’t answer. She simply pulled the next plant toward her, eyes flicking briefly to Harry’s before lowering again. Something unreadable passed there—curiosity? calculation?—and then it was gone.

For the rest of class, their movements were a kind of choreography: Harry and Daphne steadying, squeezing, passing flasks, while Pansy kept up her stream of barbed commentary. He hated how much attention he gave to every glance, every word, as though parsing some hidden meaning.

When Sprout finally dismissed them, Harry peeled off his gloves, hands aching. He turned to leave without a word, but Pansy’s voice followed, light and sharp:

“Try not to trip on your way out, Champion.”

Daphne said nothing. But as Harry stalked off, he felt her eyes linger on his back longer than necessary.

The corridors were crowded after Herbology, the tide of robes sweeping students toward the castle. Harry let himself drift along the edge of the flow, shoulders tense, Daphne and Pansy’s mocking voices still buzzing in his ears. He was grateful to lose sight of them in the press of students.

As he stepped into the Entrance Hall, he noticed the knot of Gryffindors gathered around the noticeboard. Voices overlapped in a rising chorus of excitement.

“Quidditch’s on!” Seamus shouted, practically bouncing on his toes. “They’re holding the season even with the Tournament!”

Ron elbowed his way through the throng, face flushed with eagerness. “Out of the way! Let me see!” He craned over Dean’s shoulder and let out a triumphant laugh. “YES! Tryouts this Saturday!”

Harry lingered on the edge of the group, listening. A fresh parchment gleamed on the board, ink still dark:

“Gryffindor Quidditch Tryouts – Saturday, 10 a.m.
(Reserves may be called upon at any time in the season. Foreign guests eligible for reserve play only.)”

Ron jabbed a finger at the bottom line, turning to Harry as though expecting him to share the triumph. But the smile faltered when he remembered where they stood. His ears reddened, and he muttered something under his breath before turning back to the notice.

Angelina Johnson, quill tucked behind her ear, had posted the parchment herself and now raised her voice above the chatter. “Listen up! We’ve got three spots open. I don’t care if you’ve played before—if you think you can handle a broom under pressure, show up. And remember, this year we’ll be watched by more than Hogwarts. Don’t embarrass us.”

That earned a laugh and a few cheers.

“Three spots,” Ron muttered to himself, eyes bright. “Three. If I can just—” He mimed a block, his hands moving like a Keeper swatting away phantom Quaffles. “Krum’s here, you know. Maybe I can—maybe I can even get tips from him!”

Dean gave him a nudge. “You think Krum’s going to waste time with a fourth-year?”

Ron flushed but held his ground. “Why not? He’s a professional. Professionals talk to fans. And I’m not after an autograph, am I? I want to learn. Properly.”

His voice was stubborn, almost pleading, as though he were already rehearsing the argument for when the moment came.

Harry leaned against the wall, listening, the excitement around him prickling like static. Normally, Quidditch was the one thing guaranteed to lift his mood. But now, surrounded by faces that only half-met his eyes, the thought of tryouts felt oddly distant. Like Quidditch belonged to a version of himself that had existed before the Goblet spat his name.

Angelina clapped her hands sharply. “All right, that’s enough. Tell the rest of the Tower if they haven’t seen. Saturday morning. And if you’re late, don’t bother turning up.” She rolled the parchment back into her bag, leaving the notice behind.

The crowd began to disperse in buzzing clusters, Ron babbling about training schedules and who might go for Beater, his enthusiasm spilling out like a tide Harry couldn’t quite swim against.

Harry slipped away down the corridor, unseen, the sound of Ron’s voice echoing after him.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

All credit of character universe goes to JKR

Another potions class!

CWM

The rain still drummed softly against the tall library windows, threading the quiet with a steady rhythm. Hermione had spread her books wide across a corner table, parchment already heavy with neat, tightly written lines on Moonstone reactions.

She was so immersed that she almost didn’t notice when the air shifted, when the faintest trace of lilac perfume curled through the quiet. Fleur Delacour appeared across from her, cloak sliding off her shoulders, eyes cool and alert in the lamplight.

“You do not mind if I sit?” Fleur asked, gesturing to the empty chair.

Hermione looked up, startled, then shook her head. “Of course not.”

Fleur settled gracefully into place, but instead of opening the book she carried, she studied Hermione’s scattered essays, tilting her head as though weighing them.

“You work so hard,” she said at last. “Always with books, always writing. Do you not grow… tired?”

Hermione blinked at the unexpected question. “Not really. I—I enjoy it. I’d rather know things than not.”

“Ah,” Fleur said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. To know things. At Beauxbatons, we are ze same. Our headmistress, Madame Maxime—she says discipline and knowledge are ze true elegance, more zan dresses or posture.”

Hermione felt her ears warm. She’d half-expected Fleur to sneer at her studying, as Malfoy so often did. But there was no mockery in her tone, only a wry amusement.

“You sound proud of your school,” Hermione said carefully.

“Proud, yes,” Fleur admitted. “But it is not easy. Zere is glamour, always, but also rivalry. Beauxbatons girls can be… sharp, when zey want to be. If you are clever, zey see you as competition. If you are not clever, zey see you as useless. You must fight for your place. And I did.”

Hermione leaned forward despite herself. “You mean… academically?”

Fleur’s eyes brightened, almost pleased by the question. “Of course. I was top in Arithmancy, and in Charms too. My father says it is from him—he was not a wizard born, you know. Muggle. But he is clever with numbers. Always figures, always puzzles. I think I take after him.”

Hermione blinked. Fleur rarely spoke of her family; she felt a spark of curiosity ignite. “And your mother?”

Fleur’s expression softened. “My mother is of ze veela line. Beautiful, strong… intimidating, sometimes. She expects much of me. To shine. To carry ze Delacour name with pride. And Gabrielle—my little sister—she follows everything I do. I cannot fail. She would see it.”

For the first time, Fleur’s voice held the weight of pressure rather than pride. She folded her hands on the table, gaze drifting. “Zat is why I must win zis Tournament. Not only for Beauxbatons, but for her. For my family. For myself. To prove zat I am not only…” She hesitated, mouth tightening. “Not only a pretty face.”

Hermione found her throat tightening. Fleur wasn’t boasting now—she was confessing.

“I don’t think you’re just a pretty face,” Hermione said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Fleur’s head turned, silver-blue eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, the usual gloss of poise slipped away. “Non?”

Hermione shook her head, forcing her voice steady. “No. You’re… you’re clever. Ambitious. You think more deeply than most people I’ve met here. I wish others would notice that instead.”

A silence stretched between them, thick as the storm outside. Fleur studied her intently, as if trying to decide whether to believe her. Then, slowly, she smiled—not dazzling, but genuine.

“Merci, Hermione,” she said softly, pronouncing the name with care. “Zat means more zan you know.”

Hermione ducked her head, flustered, scratching a line on her parchment that made no sense at all.

Across the library, in the shadow of a tall shelf, Draco Malfoy sat with a neglected Potions text before him. His quill lay idle in his hand, but his pale eyes never left the two figures in the pool of lamplight. He watched Fleur lean closer, watched Hermione’s nervous fingers twist the edge of her parchment, and his jaw tightened as though he’d bitten into something bitter.

-

Draco Malfoy sat half-hidden in the deep shadow of a library alcove, the flickering lamplight from across the room glancing off his pale face. His open Potions text lay untouched before him, words blurring into nonsense as his gaze kept straying to the corner table.

There they were—Granger and Delacour. Whispering low, leaning in far too close, parchment scattered between them as though knowledge itself was some shared secret. Fleur’s silver hair slid over her shoulder like silk, catching the lamplight. Granger, for all her bushy-haired intensity, looked… different. Brighter.

“Honestly, Draco,” Pansy whispered beside him, snapping her gum softly, “you’re staring so hard they’re bound to feel it. Anyone would think you’ve got a crush.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to her, sharp as glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Pansy’s smirk curled. She leaned on her hand, following his line of sight without shame. “So what is it then? You don’t usually brood this long over anyone. Not even Potter.”

Draco shut his book with a soft thud, irritation flaring. “I don’t brood.”

“Yes, you do,” Pansy said lazily, eyes narrowing. “It’s your favourite pastime. Brooding and sneering. Usually at Potter, though. Now it’s Granger. Interesting choice.”

Draco glanced back at the two girls, words sour in his mouth. “It’s not Granger. It’s… odd, that’s all. Delacour of all people wasting her time with her.”

“Odd?” Pansy repeated, voice lilting. “No, it’s telling. Fleur doesn’t waste time. She picks who she thinks is worth it. Maybe she likes brains over bloodlines.”

Draco stiffened, throat tightening. “Don’t be stupid. Delacour doesn’t care about brains. She just enjoys having someone hang on her every word. Granger’s good for that.”

Pansy tilted her head, a cat watching a mouse. “If that’s true, then why do you look like you’d hex the ink right off her parchment?”

Draco didn’t answer. His eyes returned to Hermione, who was laughing quietly at something Fleur had said, her hand brushing her hair behind her ear in a rare gesture of self-consciousness.

Pansy caught the look—sharp, fleeting, unguarded—and smiled like she’d just solved a riddle. “Careful, Draco. You keep glaring like that, someone might mistake it for jealousy.”

Draco snapped his book shut properly this time, gathering his things with sharp, precise movements. “Jealous? Of Granger?” He gave a short, cold laugh. “Don’t insult me.”

He stood abruptly, cloak swirling as he stalked toward the exit, leaving Pansy alone in the alcove, smirking to herself.

Her eyes flicked back to the corner table. Fleur and Hermione were still bent close, oblivious to everything else. Pansy tapped her quill against her lips thoughtfully.

“Oh, this will be fun,” she murmured.

-

The dungeons smelled as they always did—damp stone, faint mildew, and the bitter tang of stale ingredients. Cauldrons hissed faintly around the room as students filed in, cloaks brushing the flagstones.

Hermione entered with her chin high, though her stomach was a knot. She’d been replaying her last clash with Malfoy all week, each time ending with Snape’s voice cutting her down like a lash. Now, stepping into his territory again, she felt her pulse tick up.

Snape glided to the front, robes billowing. “Today,” he began, voice low and disdainful, “we will attempt a potion beyond the grasp of most fourth years. A Blood-Replenishing Draught.”

A ripple of murmurs went through the students. Hermione’s brow furrowed; she’d read about it before—far more delicate than the usual boil cures and sleeping drafts.

Snape’s eyes cut through the chatter like knives. “It requires precision. It requires patience. If you value your pathetic lives, do not botch it. The wrong consistency could clot the blood in your veins rather than restore it.”

Neville audibly gulped.

Snape’s mouth curled. “Naturally, I expect most of you to fail. Pair up. Quickly.”

Hermione turned—only to freeze as Snape’s voice cut through.

“Granger. Malfoy. Together.”

Draco smirked faintly across the room, already moving toward her desk. Hermione’s heart dropped to her shoes.

“Why?” she demanded before she could stop herself.

Snape’s eyes gleamed. “Because you need discipline, Miss Granger. And Mr. Malfoy needs someone to keep up. Sit.”

Heat flared in Hermione’s cheeks, but she bit down on her retort and dropped into her seat. Draco slid onto the stool beside her with infuriating calm.

“This should be entertaining,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” she snapped, yanking her book open.

Snape flicked his wand, and the ingredients appeared on their desk: dried dandelion root, powdered hematite, chopped liverwort, and three small vials of deep red fluid—donor blood, glistening ominously in the light.

Hermione inhaled sharply. This was no practice brew; this was dangerous.

Snape’s voice dripped through the room. “The order is critical. Fail to simmer the base for exactly four minutes, and it curdles. Add the blood too quickly, and it will clot. If you cannot follow instructions, do us all a favor and leave now.”

No one moved.

“Begin.”

Hermione set to work immediately, measuring dandelion root with steady hands. Draco leaned back in his chair, watching her.

“You’re really going to do all the work, aren’t you?” he drawled.

“Because if I let you, you’ll get us both killed,” Hermione muttered, dropping the root into the cauldron. It hissed, releasing a bitter-sweet steam.

Draco smirked. “Such confidence.”

Hermione stirred, counting carefully under her breath. “Confidence backed by actual reading, Malfoy. Try it sometime.”

He leaned forward suddenly, plucking the liverwort from her side of the desk. “You’ll need this in… what? Two minutes? Don’t worry. I’ll chop it.”

She froze. “Don’t you dare ruin—”

But Draco’s knife was already moving. His hands, maddeningly, were steady, slicing the stalks into thin, even pieces. He set them neatly in a row, glancing at her with a raised brow.

“Not completely hopeless, Granger.”

Hermione swallowed a retort, focusing on her stirring. The brew darkened from pale yellow to a thick amber.

“Now,” she said tightly. “Add the hematite. Slowly. Half-pinch at a time.”

Draco’s lips curved, but he obeyed. Each sprinkling sent a faint shimmer through the potion, like light glancing off iron.

For a moment, they worked in tense silence. Their shoulders brushed once as they leaned over the cauldron, and Hermione jerked back, cheeks warming. Draco didn’t move.

Snape’s voice cut across the room, sharp as a whip. “Granger! Why is your cauldron not a consistent shade of crimson?”

Hermione’s stomach lurched. She glanced down—the potion had gone rusty orange, just off from the textbook description.

“I—I was adding the hematite—”

“Excuses,” Snape sneered, sweeping toward their desk. His eyes flicked to Draco, expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Malfoy, why did you let her ruin it?”

Hermione’s chest burned. “He didn’t let me—”

“Silence!” Snape snapped. His voice dropped to a venomous purr. “Another failure, Miss Granger. I should hope you enjoy writing lines, because you’ll be doing plenty of it in your next detention.”

Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. The unfairness roared in her chest. She bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Draco glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he turned smoothly to Snape. “Actually, sir… she didn’t ruin it. Look.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. Draco dipped the spoon into the potion, lifting a drop to the light. It shifted from orange to crimson as it thinned.

“Color distortion,” Draco said smoothly. “Because of the liverwort oils. Not her mistake.”

The room went silent. Snape’s eyes darted between them, his expression twisting. For a moment, Hermione thought—impossibly—he might relent.

Then his mouth curled. “Hmph. Fortunate explanation. Don’t let it happen again.” His robes billowed as he swept away.

Hermione exhaled shakily, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

Draco smirked sidelong. “You’re welcome.”

Hermione glared at him, but her voice came out softer than she intended. “I didn’t need saving.”

“Of course not,” Draco said lightly. “But you got it anyway.”

The simmering brew bubbled steadily, now a deep, glistening crimson. Hermione leaned over the cauldron, carefully adding the final vial of blood drop by drop. Each one spread like ink through water, disappearing into the whole.

“Steady,” Draco murmured. His voice was quiet, almost coaxing, and the sound of it sent an involuntary shiver up Hermione’s spine.

“I know,” she muttered back, though her hand trembled faintly.

The last drop slid in, and for a heartbeat the potion shimmered silver. Then it stilled, perfectly crimson.

Hermione exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough for her shoulders to drop. “Done.”

Draco leaned close, inspecting their work with that irritating smirk tugging at his lips. “Almost impressive, Granger. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you practiced this in your spare time.”

Hermione bristled. “I don’t need to practice—reading and preparing is enough.”

Draco’s eyes flicked over her face, sharp and assessing. “And yet Snape still cut you down. Again.”

The words landed like a sting, and Hermione’s throat tightened. She turned sharply back to the cauldron, unwilling to let him see the heat in her eyes.

Across the room, Snape glided by, his gaze skimming their cauldron. For once, he didn’t sneer—he merely gave the faintest nod and moved on.

Hermione caught the motion in her peripheral vision, her chest tight. It wasn’t approval—not really—but it wasn’t another insult, either.

Draco leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “Well. Looks like we made it through without killing anyone. A miracle.”

She shot him a glare, but the edge of his smirk softened, almost imperceptibly.

“Pack up,” Snape called, his voice cutting through the dungeon like a whip. “Leave your cauldrons to cool. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped, books slammed shut, and students shuffled out. Hermione gathered her things quickly, jaw clenched, refusing to let Draco see her blinking back angry tears.

As she stood, Draco’s voice followed, quiet, low enough that only she heard. “Careful, Granger. That temper of yours is going to get you into real trouble one day.”

Hermione froze, pulse racing, then marched out without answering.

The corridors outside the dungeons were brighter, but Hermione barely noticed. Her hands were tight around her bag strap, her throat aching with unshed frustration. The sting of Snape’s cutting words still echoed in her ears.

She rounded the corner toward the library, hoping to lose herself in silence, when a soft voice called, “Mademoiselle Granger?”

Hermione turned. Fleur Delacour was leaning lightly against the wall, her silver hair catching the lamplight like threads of moonlight.

Hermione blinked. “Fleur? What are you—”

“I was waiting.” Fleur’s eyes softened, studying her face. “You look… how do you say… storm-tossed.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She opened her mouth to deny it, but the words crumbled. “It’s nothing. Just… Snape.”

Fleur’s expression sharpened instantly. “Ah. He cuts, yes? Always with the words, sharper than blades.” She tilted her head. “He delights in it. But you… you bleed too easily from such cuts.”

Hermione flushed, embarrassed at being so transparent. “I just—he’s so unfair. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

Fleur stepped closer, her presence warm and steady. “That is because it is not about you. It is about him. He chooses his favorites and his targets. You could brew a potion to perfection, and he would still find fault.”

Hermione blinked, surprised at Fleur’s insight. “You’ve… noticed?”

“Of course.” Fleur’s lips quirked faintly. “I watch everything here. Beauxbatons teaches us to read the room as carefully as we read books. One learns who admires, who envies, who schemes.” Her gaze lingered, sharp and intent. “And who suffers.”

The words settled over Hermione like a blanket, startling in their quiet compassion.

“You are too bright, Hermione,” Fleur continued softly. “Too fierce. Men like him, they see this, and they wish to dim it. But…” Her eyes glinted. “They cannot.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. No one—certainly not Ron or Harry—ever spoke to her like this. With recognition. With respect.

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

Fleur’s hand brushed briefly against hers, feather-light, before falling back. “Do not thank me. Simply… remember.”

Hermione’s heart thudded uncomfortably, warmth crawling up her neck. She looked away quickly, fumbling with her bag. “I should… go study.”

“Oui.” Fleur’s smile was soft, knowing. “I will see you again soon.”

As Hermione slipped away into the library, she didn’t see the figure lingering at the end of the corridor, shadowed in the torchlight. Draco Malfoy, arms folded, watching with unreadable eyes.

—

Draco stayed in the shadows long after Hermione disappeared into the library and Fleur drifted off toward the staircases. The corridor was quiet now, only the faint hiss of the torches filling the silence.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, jaw tight, mind restless.

Granger’s face swam in his thoughts—not the usual smug, hand-waving know-it-all he’d always sneered at, but the way she’d looked just now. Struggling not to cry. Burning with anger. Fragile, but refusing to break.

And then there was Delacour—her hand brushing against Granger’s, her words like balm. Fleur could have had anyone trailing after her, half the school already did, but she’d chosen her.

Draco felt something twist in his chest, sharp and sour. It wasn’t admiration—he told himself that quickly. He admired strength, poise, pedigree. Not Granger’s stubbornness. Not her fire.

But he couldn’t look away, either.

Pansy’s mocking voice echoed in his mind: Jealous? Of Granger?

He scoffed under his breath, forcing the thought down. Jealousy was weakness. He wasn’t jealous. He was merely… watching. Carefully.

Because things were shifting. He could feel it. The alliances, the rivalries, the very air in Hogwarts—it was all tilting. Potter’s name in the Goblet had cracked something open, and now everything seemed unstable.

And in the middle of it, absurdly, impossibly, stood Hermione Granger.

Draco pushed off the wall sharply, cloak swirling around him. Whatever this was, he’d master it. He always did.

But as he strode away down the corridor, he couldn’t shake the lingering image: Fleur’s gentle hand against Granger’s, and the faint, unguarded smile it had left behind.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Summary:

Quidditch tryouts/practice

More Slytherins and Fleur 👀

The mist was so thick it clung to Harry’s robes and hair, dampening his glasses until the world blurred. He wiped them absently with the hem of his sleeve as he trudged across the grass, broom slung over his shoulder. His steps sank slightly in the dew-softened pitch.

He didn’t want to be here—not really. He wanted to be in bed, or at least anywhere that wasn’t wide open for whispers and staring eyes. But Angelina had made it clear yesterday: with Wood gone, the team couldn’t afford to stumble. “Be early,” she’d ordered, and Harry hadn’t dared argue.

She was already there, standing on the centerline with her arms folded, hair tied back, posture crisp as a general. The whistle around her neck gleamed faintly even in the fog.

“Good,” she said when Harry approached, though her tone was cool. “At least you can follow instructions.”

Harry nodded mutely, throat tight. He didn’t want to invite questions, or worse—pity.

By the time the rest of the team and hopefuls straggled in, the mist had begun to lift, revealing the towering stands. For a moment Harry imagined them full—every seat packed, eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to slip. He swallowed hard and mounted his broom just to keep his hands from trembling.

Angelina’s whistle shrieked. “All right, listen up! We’re filling two Chaser positions today. Katie’s solid, Alicia’s steady, but we need speed and precision to make up for Wood’s absence. Keeper tryouts will be later—we’re fine for now. That means every one of you who thinks you can handle Quaffle work—prove it.”

Her gaze snapped to Harry, piercing. “And Potter—don’t think being Seeker makes you untouchable. If your head isn’t on the pitch, you’ll drag the rest of us down.”

A few of the younger hopefuls chuckled nervously. Harry’s cheeks flushed hot, but he only gripped the Firebolt tighter.

“Two laps,” Angelina barked. “Fast as you can. Go!”

The air filled with the rush of brooms launching skyward. Mist shredded apart as they streaked around the field, figures weaving in and out of the gray veil. Harry leaned low over the Firebolt, letting it surge beneath him like a living thing. Wind whipped past his ears, the cold cutting sharp and clean, and for a heartbeat he felt almost weightless. Almost free.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. By the second lap, when he touched down lightly on the grass, the others were still lengths behind, panting as they struggled to keep pace.

“Not bad,” Angelina said, just loud enough for him to hear. Then, without missing a beat: “But don’t think speed’s everything. I want accuracy. I want teamwork. Potter—pair up with Alicia. You’re running Chaser drills today.”

Harry blinked, startled. “But—I’m Seeker.”

Angelina’s whistle snapped once. “And today you’re practicing ball work. If you can’t keep possession, you’re useless when it counts.”

Grumbling rippled among the hopefuls as they paired off. Harry caught Alicia’s eye; she shrugged, offering him the Quaffle with a faint smile.

From the far side of the pitch, two figures leaned against the railing of the stands. Harry spotted them instantly—Daphne’s pale hair catching the light, Pansy’s dark silhouette beside her. Neither clapped nor called out. They simply watched.

Harry tried to ignore the twist in his stomach, but it lingered. He turned back to Alicia, set his jaw, and gripped the Quaffle.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

The next hour blurred into drill after drill: weaving through hoops, feinting passes, cutting sharp turns in midair. Alicia’s accuracy was near-perfect, her passes like darts; Harry struggled at first, too tense, missing catches he knew he shouldn’t. Every time he dropped the Quaffle, it felt like a fresh whisper in the stands.

“Concentrate!” Angelina shouted. “Eyes on the ball, not on the gossip!”

Harry ground his teeth and forced himself to focus. By the last drill, sweat ran down his back, mist clung to his lashes, but his grip on the Quaffle was steady. He and Alicia threaded their way through the last hoop clean, and Angelina’s sharp nod finally came.

“Better,” she said, blowing her whistle to signal the end of drills. “But don’t get comfortable. Practice again tomorrow. I’ll have the new lineup posted tonight.”

Brooms began to lower as students dismounted, some muttering about sore arms, others grinning in relief. Harry, however, found his eyes pulled once more to the stands.

Daphne had her arms folded, expression cool as stone. Pansy, however, tilted her head just slightly, lips curved in something almost like amusement. The two exchanged a glance—short, unreadable—and then turned away, cloaks sweeping as they left together.

Harry’s stomach tightened again, though he couldn’t have said why.
-

Their footsteps echoed faintly on the wooden stairs as they descended from the stands, the noise of the pitch receding behind them. The morning had grown brighter; the mist was nearly gone, sunlight cutting sharp lines across the grass.

Pansy tugged her cloak tighter, nose wrinkled. “Honestly. If I’d known Angelina Johnson fancied herself a drill sergeant, I’d have brought a quill to tally the number of times she barked ‘faster’ or ‘again.’”

Daphne gave a small, dry hum of amusement. “At least it was effective. Half of them look ready to collapse. Even Potter.”

“Potter,” Pansy echoed, the name rolling off her tongue with faint derision. “Flies about like he’s untouchable, then drops the Quaffle like a first-year. If he weren’t the Boy-Who-Lived, I doubt they’d even bother with him.”

Daphne’s gaze lingered on the field as they reached the bottom. Harry was still up there, hovering beside Alicia Spinnet, both of them talking quietly. His broom hovered steady, posture taut with focus even as sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

“Maybe,” Daphne said after a beat. “But he learns quickly. By the end, he wasn’t dropping anything.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re impressed.”

“I’m observant,” Daphne replied smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

They began walking along the edge of the pitch, their boots flattening damp grass. Around them, hopefuls were dispersing in small clumps, voices carrying on the cool air—grumbling, joking, boasting.

Pansy lowered her voice, though there was no one near enough to overhear. “It doesn’t matter if he’s quick. He’s still in the Tournament. That means distraction, danger, probably death.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “And wouldn’t that be tragic? Hogwarts loses its golden Seeker because he was too busy playing hero again.”

Daphne’s expression didn’t change, though something flickered in her eyes. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the danger will sharpen him. Some people break under pressure. Others… crystallize.”

Pansy gave her a sidelong look. “You sound almost hopeful.”

“Not hopeful,” Daphne said evenly. “Curious.”

They reached the shadow of the castle wall, the murmur of departing students drifting away. Pansy paused to adjust the clasp of her cloak, her brow furrowed just slightly.

“You’re too curious for your own good sometimes,” she said, though her voice lacked bite. “If he notices you watching—”

“He already noticed,” Daphne interrupted, her tone cool but certain. “He’ll wonder why. That’s enough for now.”

For a moment they stood there in silence, the pitch behind them, the castle rising tall before them. Then Pansy gave a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

“Merlin help him if you’ve decided he’s interesting,” she said. “You don’t let go once you’ve chosen your puzzles.”

Daphne allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “We’ll see.”

They slipped inside the castle doors, the heavy wood closing behind them with a soft thud.

-

The air outside the greenhouses was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth, tinged faintly with crushed leaves and the sharp bite of mimbulus sap. Students had already filed back toward the castle, their chatter fading across the lawn, leaving the rows of glass-domed buildings quiet in the late afternoon sun.

Hermione lingered, her satchel heavy with books, quill still ink-stained from notes she’d taken in class. She wasn’t ready to go back inside—not yet. The walls of Gryffindor Tower felt stifling these days, the silence with Ron pressing on her more than she wanted to admit.

“Always the last to leave,” came Fleur’s voice, smooth as water.

Hermione turned to see her stepping lightly down the path, silver hair catching glimmers of sunlight through the glass panes. She didn’t look out of place among the greenhouses; if anything, she seemed part of the scene, as though the flowers turned subtly toward her as she passed.

“I like to review what we learned while it’s fresh,” Hermione said, defensive at once, though Fleur hadn’t sounded mocking.

“I know,” Fleur replied, stopping beside her. She breathed in deeply, eyes half-closed. “The smell here—so different from Beauxbatons. Our gardens are ordered, sculpted. Every plant is trimmed, trained, displayed. Here, it feels more… alive. Untamed.”

Hermione frowned slightly, but with curiosity, not judgment. “You make it sound almost like an insult.”

“Non,” Fleur said, shaking her head. “It is admiration. There is a strength in wild things that order cannot touch.” She bent down, brushing her fingers near a sprig of dittany without plucking it. “Even the most delicate leaf holds more power than it shows. You cannot command it—you must learn its rhythm.”

Hermione studied her, momentarily forgetting to respond. Fleur’s tone was steady, thoughtful—not the affected elegance others expected from her, but something richer, more grounded.

“You sound,” Hermione said slowly, “like Professor Sprout.”

Fleur’s lips quirked, almost a smile. “My grandmother kept gardens, back in Marseille. Not magical, not in the usual sense. But she said the earth listens if you are quiet enough. I was very small, but I remember her showing me how to press seeds into the soil with my thumb. ‘Gentle, ma petite,’ she told me. ‘Even the smallest seed hears you.’”

Hermione felt something stir in her chest, the image vivid and unexpected. “That’s… beautiful.”

Fleur tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You like beautiful things, even if you do not say it.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed instantly. She looked away, busying herself with adjusting the strap of her satchel. “I like useful things.”

“Beauty can be useful,” Fleur said softly, “if you know how to read it.”

Hermione’s heart beat faster. She hated that her voice caught when she replied, “Perhaps.”

The sunlight shifted then, sliding across the glass roof, and for a long moment neither of them moved. Fleur finally straightened, brushing earth from her fingertips. “Come,” she said lightly. “Walk with me. If we are the last two here, better not to let the castle wonder why.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded, falling into step beside her as they started back up the path, the faint scent of earth and herbs trailing after them.

The grass squelched faintly beneath their shoes as they walked, the afternoon sun softening into gold. Students dotted the lawn here and there, hurrying toward the castle or lounging in the last warmth of the day, but no one paid them close attention. For once, Hermione felt as if they were invisible together, carved out of the bustle.

Fleur broke the silence first. “Tell me, Hermione—what is it you want? After all this… after school, after exams. You study like someone preparing for a war, not just a life.”

Hermione blinked, startled. “I…” She hesitated, clutching the strap of her satchel. “I want to do something that matters. Not just books and marks and—well, yes, those too, but more than that. Something lasting. Change things.”

“Change what?” Fleur asked softly.

“Everything,” Hermione said before she could stop herself. She flushed, realizing how it sounded, but Fleur didn’t laugh.

Instead, Fleur tilted her head thoughtfully. “At Beauxbatons, they tell us ambition is good, but that ambition without patience is like fire without wood. You burn hot, then vanish.”

Hermione frowned. “That sounds… discouraging.”

“Perhaps,” Fleur allowed. “Or perhaps it is a warning. I saw many girls at school who wanted to dazzle, to rush ahead, but by the end, they had no strength left to keep shining. I do not think you will be like that.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “Why not?”

Fleur’s eyes were luminous in the lowering sun. “Because you do not chase the shine. You chase the substance beneath.”

Hermione looked down quickly, her hair falling forward to hide her face. “Sometimes I think people hate me for it.”

“Then they are fools,” Fleur said, simply and firmly.

The words hung between them, plain but heavy. Hermione’s throat felt too tight to answer, so she only nodded.

After a moment, she asked quietly, “What about you? What do you want, Fleur?”

Fleur’s lips curved faintly. “More than they think I do.”

“That’s not an answer,” Hermione pressed, a spark of her usual stubbornness breaking through.

“No,” Fleur admitted, smiling now. “But it is the truth. At Beauxbatons, they see grace, they see Veela blood, they see… ornament. Here, they see the same. I want to prove I am more than that. That I can master magic that does not bend simply because I smile.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, curiosity pulling her forward. “So you mean… something like Transfiguration? Charms?”

“All of it,” Fleur said, her voice low but fierce now. “My mother taught me early—power without discipline is nothing. Even beauty fades if you do not sharpen the mind behind it. I will not fade.”

The intensity in her tone startled Hermione. She had never seen Fleur like this—fire blazing beneath the elegance. It made her breath catch.

“I believe you won’t,” Hermione said softly.

Fleur glanced at her then, and for a moment Hermione felt pinned by the weight of that gaze, like being seen all the way through. Her pulse jumped.

They reached the shadow of the castle steps, where voices rose louder, footsteps echoed. Fleur slowed, and so did Hermione, reluctant for the walk to end.

“Do you know,” Fleur said suddenly, voice quieter now, “I think Hogwarts is less strange to me because of you.”

Hermione blinked. “Me?”

“Yes,” Fleur said simply. “You remind me that it is not only a contest of schools, or a tournament of fire. You remind me that learning can be… joy.”

Hermione’s heart clenched in her chest. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to find words.

Fleur gave her a knowing smile, as if she could read every unspoken thing, and then swept lightly up the steps, her hair glinting like liquid silver in the sun.

Hermione lingered behind, clutching her satchel tightly, pulse still hammering, before finally following inside.

The entrance hall buzzed with noise—students weaving past in twos and threes, the clatter of shoes on stone, voices rising and breaking like the tide. Hermione hurried after Fleur, her mind still tangled in the conversation they’d shared. The words replayed again and again, until they no longer sounded like words but like something warm and weighty pressing in her chest.

She almost missed the way a figure leaned against the far column, half-shadowed by the torchlight.

Draco’s eyes flicked up lazily from the group of Slytherins he stood with, but they lingered too long to be casual. He wasn’t watching the crowd—he was watching them.

Fleur, radiant as always, swept through the hall without a glance to either side, drawing stares as she went. Hermione followed, chin lifted, determined not to feel like a shadow.

But she felt Draco’s gaze like a hook at her back.

When she glanced toward him at last, his expression was unreadable—cool, disdain carefully arranged, but beneath it something sharper. Not derision, not entirely. Something closer to calculation.

One of his friends muttered something under his breath—Hermione caught only a snicker and the word library—but Draco didn’t respond. His eyes tracked Fleur and Hermione until the staircase curved them out of sight.

Only then did he push off the column, slow and deliberate, his mouth curling into the faintest smirk.

Not the smirk of victory. Not yet.

Something closer to a promise.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Notes:

We get ever closer to the first task here.

I’m trying very hard to structure this so nothing is repetitive and it flows effortlessly.

So if you see mistakes, leave a comment.

The pairings themselves remain in a slow burn trajectory. But Harry needs all the support he can get.

All credit for the Universe to JKR.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a miserable affair. Harry had barely slept, the heavy hush of whispers haunting him even in dreams. By the time he sat down with Ron and Hermione, his nerves were so raw that even the scrape of cutlery set his teeth on edge.

Ron had his head bent over a thick slice of bread, smearing it with enough jam to drown a Hippogriff. Hermione was already halfway through a stack of notes, quill scratching furiously. Neither of them looked at him.

Harry scowled, stabbing at his porridge. “So that’s how it is, then? Not even going to speak to me?”

Ron didn’t glance up. “Maybe if you stopped snapping at everyone, I’d feel like it.”

“I’m not—” Harry began hotly, then bit his tongue. He was snapping.

Hermione set down her quill with a sharp tap. “You haven’t opened a book all week. You skipped dinner last night. You didn’t even show up for Charms practice yesterday. If you think that’s how you’ll survive this Tournament—”

“I’m not asking you to believe in me,” Harry muttered. “Just stop acting like I’m some—some nuisance you have to put up with.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “If you’d stop sulking and start preparing, maybe you wouldn’t feel like one.”

The words stung more than he wanted to admit. Harry shoved his bowl away, appetite gone.

Across the hall, he caught a flash of dark hair, then another, and realized both Daphne and Pansy were watching him from the Slytherin table. Pansy smirked when his eyes met hers, raising her goblet in a mock-toast. Daphne, by contrast, looked unreadable—cool and calm, as though she were considering her next move on a chessboard.

Harry turned away quickly.

The last thing he expected was to be dragged into a broom closet after breakfast.

“Oi—what are you—”

“Shut it,” Pansy whispered, slamming the door behind them.

The cramped space smelled of dust and polish. Buckets lined one wall, brooms leaned haphazardly against the other. Daphne lit her wand with a soft Lumos, her pale light catching Harry’s startled face.

“Relax,” she said, calm as ever. “We’re not here to hex you.”

Harry leaned back against the shelves, still bristling. “Then what?”

“To cheer you up,” Pansy announced, smirking. “Because frankly, Potter, you’re a disaster. You skulk about like someone’s nicked your Firebolt. It’s pathetic.”

Harry flushed. “What’s it to you?”

“Everything,” Pansy said cheerfully. “If you mope through the Tournament, you’ll be dead in the first round. And where’s the fun in that?”

Daphne rolled her eyes, but her gaze stayed steady on Harry. “She’s not wrong. You can’t afford to look like prey. Not here. Not now.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Pansy barrelled on. “Besides, I wanted to know how badly Gryffindor butchered themselves at tryouts. Heard Weasley nearly knocked himself unconscious.”

Harry blinked. “He didn’t—”

“Oh, he did,” Pansy said, delighted. “Caught the Quaffle backwards, flew straight into the goal hoop. Nearly got stuck.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed, sharp and unexpected.

“That’s better,” Pansy said, satisfied. “You’re bearable when you laugh.”

Harry shook his head, still grinning despite himself. “At least we’ve got a full team this year. Can’t say the same for Slytherin.”

Daphne’s lips curved, the barest ghost of a smile. “Careful, Potter. Confidence looks good on you, but arrogance will get you flattened.”

The words should’ve stung, but they didn’t—not when she said them like that. Calm. Level. Almost approving.

Then, without warning, her fingers brushed his hand. Not a graze this time, but a firmer touch—her palm briefly pressing against his, steady, grounding.

Harry’s heart stumbled in his chest.

“You’ll need that confidence,” she said softly. “For what’s coming.”

The touch lingered only a moment before she withdrew, sliding her wand back into her sleeve. Pansy arched a brow at the gesture but said nothing, only smirking as she opened the door.

“See?” she said brightly. “Much less sulky already.”

And then they were gone, leaving Harry alone in the broom closet with his pulse thundering in his ears.

—

The Slytherin common room flickered with emerald light, the lake pressing against its windows like a vast, living wall. Shadows of darting fish swam across the stone floor as torches hissed in their brackets. A fire roared in the hearth, but the air still felt damp, cool, and watchful.

Daphne sat with one leg tucked beneath her in a high-backed chair, parchment spread across her lap, quill resting idle. Pansy sprawled sideways on the rug, chin propped on her hand, the other waving dramatically as she recounted the broom closet incident to Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode.

“…dragged him right in,” Pansy was saying, her grin wicked. “Potter looked like he thought we were going to hex him into a pumpkin. And then—” she clutched her heart in mock swoon—“our very own Daphne touches his hand. Subtle, delicate, tragic romance blooming in the dark—”

Tracey giggled, covering her mouth. Millicent snorted so loudly she almost choked on her pumpkin pasty.

Daphne didn’t look up from her parchment. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes, but accurate,” Pansy shot back. “Admit it, you like him.”

That made Daphne glance up at last, her face smooth as glass. “I don’t ‘like’ anyone.”

“Not what I saw,” Pansy sang, rolling onto her back. “You don’t just go touching hands with Gryffindor’s tragic hero for fun.”

Tracey chimed in. “I thought it was clever. If Potter cracks, it’s Slytherin who benefits. We either have information or… leverage.”

Daphne’s mouth tightened. “It wasn’t about leverage.”

Pansy pounced on the words. “Aha. So what was it about?”

For a moment, Daphne didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the lake’s murky green light washed over her pale features. “Because,” she said finally, voice even, “he looked like he was about to shatter. And if he does, Hogwarts shatters with him. I’d prefer not to drown in Gryffindor stupidity.”

Pansy laughed outright. “That’s the coldest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘I care.’”

Daphne ignored her and dipped her quill into the ink, but her hand stilled before it reached the parchment.

Tracey lowered her voice. “Do you think he’s telling the truth? About not putting his name in?”

Daphne’s reply was instant. “Yes.”

Millicent raised a brow. “That sure of him?”

Her eyes sharpened. “I watch people. He’s not lying. Someone else did this.”

Pansy rolled onto her side again, grinning. “Listen to her. Our ice queen thawed by a Gryffindor. How scandalous.”

“Say it again and I’ll freeze you solid,” Daphne said dryly, though the edge in her voice made Tracey smirk.

From across the room, Theodore Nott, perched in his usual corner with a thick book, finally spoke. His voice was low and quiet, but it carried. “If Potter was forced in, whoever did it has more power than anyone in this castle should.”

That silenced them for a beat. Even Pansy’s smirk faltered.

Tracey whispered, “You think it’s Dark?”

Nott turned a page, eyes never leaving it. “It’s always Dark.”

The fire crackled. The water outside pressed against the glass. For once, Pansy didn’t quip.

Daphne set her quill aside, her gaze distant, unreadable. She remembered the weight of Harry’s hand in hers, the way his eyes had widened in the dim broom closet light. Not gratitude. Not affection. Something rawer. Desperation.

She’d felt it burn against her skin long after she pulled away.

—

Harry couldn’t shake it. The whisper of voices. The smirk on Pansy’s lips. The look in Daphne’s eyes when she’d touched his hand in that cramped closet. And, worst of all, the quiet, deliberate voice of Theodore Nott drifting through his memory like smoke: It’s always Dark.

By the time evening pressed in, the castle felt suffocating. Every corridor turned into a gauntlet of whispers, every classroom a cage. He needed air, space, anything that wasn’t eyes boring into him.

So he went where he always did. Down the sloping lawns, toward the crooked hut with smoke curling from its chimney and Fang’s bark echoing through the dusk.

Hagrid’s door creaked open before Harry even knocked. “Knew yeh’d come sooner or later. C’mon in, Harry!”

The warmth hit him like a blanket—fire crackling, stew bubbling, Fang drooling against his knee. Harry collapsed into the oversized chair, shoulders sagging.

Hagrid plunked a bowl of stew in front of him. “Eat. Yeh look like yeh’ve been starved half a year.”

Harry stared at it, stomach too knotted. “Not hungry.”

“Then eat anyway.” Hagrid folded his massive arms, beetle-black eyes softening. “They’ve been givin’ yeh grief, haven’t they?”

Harry’s throat tightened. “They think I wanted this. That I asked for it.”

“Course they do,” Hagrid said gently. “Folk get scared, they look fer someone to blame. Easier than facin’ the real danger.”

Harry forced a laugh. It came out sharp. “Funny. That’s what a Slytherin said this morning.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong,” Hagrid replied.

Harry pushed the stew away. “Ron won’t look at me. Hermione—she talks to me like I’m… broken. And they might be right. Maybe I am.”

“Yeh’re not,” Hagrid said firmly. “They’ll come round. They’re scared too, is all. Yeh don’t know it, but you’re stronger than they’ll ever give yeh credit for.”

Harry wanted to believe it. He wanted to hold on to Daphne’s touch from earlier, to the brief, strange comfort of someone believing him. But Nott’s words crawled back in. It’s always Dark.

Hagrid leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Listen. I believe yeh. Always will. But yeh need ter keep yer head steady. This Tournament’s not games and tricks. It’s life an’ death. And what’s comin’…”

He trailed off, glancing toward the shuttered window. Then he stood abruptly, snatching a lantern from its hook. “Come on. There’s summat yeh need ter see.”

Harry frowned. “Now?”

“Now.”

They trudged across the damp grass, past the paddock, toward the fringe of the Forbidden Forest. Harry’s heart pounded louder with every step. Lanterns glimmered ahead, torches bobbing against the night.

“Keep quiet,” Hagrid whispered, crouching behind a ridge.

Harry crouched beside him, peering down into the hollow.

And froze.

Dragons.

Four of them, chained in massive iron enclosures. Their scales shimmered in the firelight—scarlet, green, bronze, black—tails lashing, wings beating thunder into the earth. Flames belched from one’s jaws, searing the night in gold. The ground trembled with every roar.

Harry’s breath stopped in his chest. His mouth went dry.

Hagrid’s voice was low, almost reverent. “First task. Yeh’ll have ter face one o’ them.”

The world seemed to tilt. Harry gripped the grass so hard it tore in his fists.

The Slytherins’ voices echoed through his head. Pansy’s sing-song taunt: what the first task is. Daphne’s steady murmur: you’ll need that confidence—for what’s coming.

And above all, Nott’s voice, cold and certain. It’s always Dark.

Harry stared at the dragons until his vision blurred.

Now he knew.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Notes:

Universal credit as always goes to JKR.

Let me know what you think.

CWM

Sunlight streamed through the tall library windows, pooling golden squares across the tables. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by the occasional flap of Madam Pince’s robes as she stalked the aisles like a hawk.

Hermione sat hunched over an open Arithmancy text, quill poised. Fleur leaned beside her, elegant even with her brow furrowed, parchment scattered around her like petals. Between them lay a page covered in equations, runic matrices scribbled in sharp, impatient ink.

“It is a series of nested conversions,” Fleur explained, tapping one corner of the parchment. “If you carry ze prime across without recalculating ze base, ze entire sequence collapses.”

Hermione frowned, eyes darting over the symbols. “But that would mean the stabilising constant doesn’t hold, which makes no sense—it’s supposed to be universal.”

“Supposed,” Fleur echoed dryly. “But arithmancy does not care for what is supposed. Only what is.”

Hermione bit her lip, jotting a line of numbers before stopping. “I think—no, if you rearrange the modifiers—here—” She pushed the parchment toward Fleur, ink smudging faintly beneath her fingertips.

Fleur scanned the work, a flicker of surprise breaking her composure. “Hm. Clever. That balances ze constant without breaking ze sequence.”

Hermione tried not to glow under the praise. “So it works?”

Fleur’s lips curved. “It works. You are quick.”

A quiet satisfaction warmed Hermione, but beneath it lurked something sharper. Admiration, yes—but also a nagging sense of being measured. Fleur carried herself like someone used to standing at the center, her approval a rare currency. Hermione wasn’t sure if she craved it or resented it.

She dipped her quill again. “Harry would never manage this. Ron either.”

“Non,” Fleur said smoothly, “zey would not. But zat is not their gift.”

Hermione sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if Harry’s even trying. Getting into the Tournament—” She stopped herself, biting the words too late.

Fleur’s gaze narrowed. “You think he cheated.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “I—I don’t know. Part of me doesn’t want to believe it. But… who else could have put his name in?”

Before Fleur could answer, the library doors slammed open. Harry all but stumbled in, his hair a mess, eyes wild.

“Hermione—” He stopped short when he saw Fleur, but desperation shoved him forward anyway. He slammed into the chair across from them, chest heaving.

Hermione’s quill slipped from her hand. “Harry, what—”

“Dragons.” His voice was rough, broken. “The first task. Dragons. They want us to fight bloody dragons.”

Hermione froze, parchment crumpling under her grip. “That’s—that’s impossible.”

“Non,” Fleur said quietly, her expression unreadable. “It is true.”

Harry stared at her. “You knew?”

“Madame Maxime told us,” Fleur admitted. “We were sworn not to share.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. A dozen arguments swirled in her head, colliding into silence.

Harry’s hands curled against the table. “So it’s real. I wasn’t making it up. You believe me now, don’t you?”

Hermione swallowed hard, torn between the fear rising in her chest and the seed of doubt still lodged in her mind. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to protect him. But the Goblet still whispered at her, taunting her with its unanswered question.

Fleur’s gaze softened. “You must prepare, Harry. Immediately. Zis is not about belief. It is about survival.”

Hermione reached for his wrist, her voice trembling. “We’ll figure something out. Together.”

Harry looked between them—Hermione’s wavering loyalty, Fleur’s unflinching composure—and felt the ground tilt beneath him again.

-

Transfiguration was a mid-morning haze of chalk dust and flickering wandlight. Professor McGonagall’s crisp voice carried through the room as she tapped the blackboard, where a neat formula for switching charms glowed in spidery script.

Harry slid into his seat near the back, shoulders hunched, quill lying useless across his parchment. His mind wasn’t on switching charms. Dragons burned behind his eyes, wings hammering, fire licking.

Across the aisle, Daphne sat poised, every line of her posture disciplined. Her quill scratched steadily, ink forming tidy notes in a hand so precise it could have been carved. Beside her, Pansy lounged, scribbling half-heartedly, her eyes darting around the classroom like a hawk looking for gossip.

Harry kept glancing over, jaw tight, until finally—when McGonagall turned her back—he leaned across the narrow gap between desks.

“Daphne,” he whispered. His voice was raw, strained.

She didn’t look up. “You’re supposed to be taking notes.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Not now,” she murmured, her hand moving steadily.

“I have to,” Harry pressed, his fingers curling against the edge of her desk. “It’s—it’s dragons. The first task. Dragons.”

This time she did look up, eyes locking with his. For a moment, the room seemed to fall away—the scratch of quills, McGonagall’s voice, Pansy’s shifting beside her.

Her gaze flicked over his face, searching, weighing. Then, calmly, she set her quill down.

“I already suspected,” she whispered.

His mouth fell open. “What?”

Her hand moved, not to silence him, but to press lightly over his on the edge of her desk. It was fleeting, a whisper of touch—but deliberate. “You wouldn’t look like that over anything smaller.”

Pansy leaned in, eyes sharp with curiosity. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing you’ll remember after the test,” Daphne replied smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Harry. Her fingers lingered another heartbeat before she drew them back to her parchment.

Harry swallowed hard. “You believe me.”

“I believe what I see,” she murmured, turning back to her notes. “And I see someone who looks as though the world is collapsing on top of him.”

McGonagall’s shadow passed near, and Harry straightened quickly, scratching nonsense onto his parchment. But the burn of Daphne’s touch still tingled against his hand.

Pansy’s voice drifted low, teasing but not unkind. “Careful, Potter. Our ice queen doesn’t waste her sympathy on just anyone.”

Daphne’s quill paused, but she didn’t rise to the bait. She only glanced sideways at Harry, her expression unreadable, before bending back to her work.

And for the first time all morning, Harry felt the faintest thread of air in his lungs.

-

By the time Potions rolled around, whispers about dragons seemed to be seeping through the castle walls themselves. Harry caught fragments as he passed other students: “—too big to be true—” “—my cousin saw them—” “—fireproof charms won’t hold—”

Every step down into the dungeon made his stomach twist tighter. The air was cool and damp, torches sputtering as though even they were afraid of the shadows.

Snape’s voice cut across the room the moment they filed in. “Take your seats. Today you will demonstrate whether you are capable of using your minds as well as your wands.”

Chalk scraped across the board as he wrote in his precise hand:

Draft an essay, no less than ten inches, on the properties and dangers of the Scorchveil Draught. Practical brewing to follow. You have ninety minutes.

A collective groan rippled through the class. Harry blinked at the words, feeling sweat prickle the back of his neck. The Scorchveil Draught was obscure, used for magical fire-resistance—complicated, dangerous if brewed poorly. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him.

Daphne slid into the seat beside him, parchment already smoothed, quill in hand. Pansy settled to her left, smirking at Harry’s scowl. Across the aisle, Hermione sat ramrod straight, Draco beside her looking infuriatingly at ease.

“Begin,” Snape intoned.

For a time, only the scratching of quills filled the dungeon. Hermione’s handwriting flew across the page, neat and relentless, while Draco leaned back, murmuring under his breath just loud enough for her to hear: “Try not to cry on the parchment, Granger. Ink stains are so unsightly.”

Hermione’s quill snapped mid-stroke. She sucked in a sharp breath and forced herself to keep writing, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

At Harry’s table, his quill hovered uselessly. The words blurred. All he could see were wings, fire, claws.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Daphne murmured without looking up.

Harry glanced at her. “What?”

“Your quill,” she said softly. “You’ll tear through the parchment if you keep gripping it like that.”

He realized his hand was trembling, ink blotting at the edge of the page. “I can’t—focus.”

Her hand slid over his, steadying. Just for a moment. “Then breathe. Start with the primary ingredient. Salamander blood. Work from there.”

Her touch lingered before retreating back to her parchment. Harry let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to scrawl a sentence. Then another. Her calmness seemed to bleed into his own hand.

From her side, Pansy muttered without glancing up, “If you two get any more dramatic, I’ll vomit into my cauldron.”

Daphne’s quill never paused. “Then aim away from me.”

Pansy snorted, smirk tugging at her lips.

Ninety minutes later, Snape’s sharp call brought parchments forward. He prowled between tables, robes whispering like smoke, eyes cutting into every face. When he reached Harry’s desk, his lip curled faintly, though he said nothing. The silence felt worse than any insult.

“Clear your desks. Practical work begins now.”

The room filled with the clatter of cauldrons and the metallic hiss of knives slicing through ingredients. The Scorchveil Draught glowed faintly orange as it brewed, thickening to a molten texture. Any mistake could result in fire bursting straight out of the cauldron.

Harry’s hands shook as he crushed salamander blood crystals, the pestle slipping dangerously close to his knuckles.

“Slow down,” Daphne murmured. She reached across, steadying the mortar with her hand against his. Her fingers brushed his, firm but controlled. “You’ll ruin the consistency.”

Harry swallowed. “I’m not—”

“Just do as I say.” Her tone was clipped, but her eyes softened when they met his. “For once.”

Across the room, Draco drawled just loud enough for them to hear, “Potter’s going to set the dungeon on fire. Hope you’re fireproof, Greengrass.”

Harry’s grip tightened on the pestle. “Ignore him,” Daphne said smoothly, not even glancing up. “He thrives on reactions.”

But Hermione did glance up—just for a second, just enough to see Harry and Daphne bent over the cauldron together, their hands nearly touching. A flare of something twisted in her chest—anger, confusion, she couldn’t tell. Her quill snapped again as she stirred her own potion too sharply, sending sparks across the rim.

Snape swooped in instantly. “Careless,” he hissed at her, voice sharp enough to sting. “If you cannot master control, you will master failure.”

Hermione’s face burned as Draco smirked, enjoying every second.

At Harry’s table, the potion thickened, glowing molten gold. Daphne’s hand brushed his once more as she adjusted the stir clockwise. Their eyes met, just for an instant.

The cauldron burped softly, releasing a shimmer of harmless heat. Success.

The dungeon was thick with heat and the acrid scent of singed herbs. Cauldrons hissed as fumes curled into the air, giving the room a shimmering quality that made the torchlight dance. Snape prowled between the rows, robes trailing like shadows, his sharp eyes darting from cauldron to cauldron, ready to pounce.

Harry crushed the salamander blood crystals slowly this time, each grind of the pestle deliberate. Daphne kept her gaze fixed on the cauldron, measuring out the powdered scarab shells with a precision that felt almost surgical.

“Now,” she murmured, nudging the bowl toward him.

He tipped them in, the powder sparking faintly as it hit the orange liquid. The draught bubbled, heat rippling outward, but the glow steadied.

“Better,” Daphne said quietly, and her hand brushed his again as she adjusted the stir. Not a fleeting mistake this time, but deliberate contact.

Harry’s heart thudded hard in his chest.

Pansy leaned against the desk, lazily twirling her quill, though her sharp eyes missed nothing. “If the two of you are going to brood over that cauldron much longer, I’ll just assume you’ve brewed yourselves into an engagement potion.”

Harry flushed. Daphne’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t rise to it. Instead she kept stirring, slow and steady, as though the cauldron demanded her entire soul.

Across the room, Hermione’s voice snapped: “You’re stirring counterclockwise, Malfoy, that’s wrong—”

Draco’s smirk was audible. “And yet it hasn’t exploded. Perhaps my method works better.”

Hermione nearly slammed her spoon into the mixture, cheeks burning. Sparks spat against the rim, drawing Snape’s swift, cutting glare.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said silkily, “do restrain yourself from turning a valuable potion into a bonfire. Your temper is already unsuitable company in this dungeon.”

Hermione stiffened, biting down a furious retort. Draco smirked openly, enjoying every word.

Snape moved on, pausing behind Harry. His shadow fell over the trio, eyes narrowing at their cauldron. “Passable,” he muttered. His lip curled faintly. “Greengrass. I see you’ve managed to drag Potter into competence. Consider it your good deed for the year.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but Daphne spoke before he could. “Potter followed instructions exactly.”

Snape’s eyebrow rose, cold amusement glinting in his eyes. “How noble. How Gryffindor of you, Miss Greengrass.” He drifted on, leaving a faint sting in his wake.

Harry exhaled shakily. Daphne kept her eyes on the potion, but her hand brushed his again as she moved to extinguish the flame. “Don’t give him what he wants,” she murmured.

The bell released them at last. Students poured into the stone corridor, chattering, parchment rustling. The dungeon’s heavy door clanged shut behind them, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint hum of torches.

Harry trudged beside Daphne and Pansy, exhaustion dragging at him.

“You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a dragon’s stomach,” Pansy remarked, lips curving in a sly half-smile. “Appropriate, considering.”

Harry shot her a look, but before he could answer, a voice called sharply down the corridor.

“Potter.”

Draco stepped out from a shadowed alcove, arms folded, pale eyes glinting. Crabbe and Goyle lurked a few paces behind, silent walls of muscle.

Harry stiffened. Daphne’s hand brushed his sleeve — so brief it could have been accidental, but not quite.

Draco’s gaze flicked to it, then back to Harry. “Careful. You’re straying dangerously close to waters you don’t belong in.”

Harry frowned. “What are you on about now?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Draco drawled, stepping closer. His eyes slid to Daphne, then to Pansy. “My housemates may indulge you for the novelty of it, Potter, but don’t mistake courtesy for loyalty. Slytherins don’t hand out their devotion to strays.”

Pansy tilted her head, lips twitching as though torn between agreement and amusement. “He does have a point, Harry. We have reputations to maintain.”

Daphne’s chin lifted, her tone cool. “Reputations. Yes. Like yours, Malfoy, forever basking in the reflected glory of a family crest.”

His eyes narrowed. “Better a crest than begging scraps from Gryffindors.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Daphne spoke first, voice sharp as ice. “If you think I’m wasting my time out of pity, you’re even blinder than I thought.”

The corridor stilled. Draco’s jaw worked, but for once no ready insult came.

Pansy finally broke the silence, sighing. “Children, please. If we’re done measuring egos, I’d like to get back before the stew disappears.”

With that, she looped her arm through Daphne’s, tugging her toward the dungeon stairs. Daphne cast one last glance at Harry, eyes unreadable, before letting Pansy lead her away.

Draco lingered, sneering faintly. “You’ll regret letting them close, Potter. They’re not yours to trust.” Then he swept off after them, robes billowing.

Harry stood alone in the corridor, heart hammering.

—

The lake light washed the common room in shifting green, ripples gliding across the walls. A notice board near the hearth gleamed with fresh parchment:

“The Yule Ball shall be held at Hogwarts on Christmas night. Attendance is mandatory for fourth-years and above. Proper dress robes required.”

Clusters of Slytherins crowded around, voices buzzing.

Pansy read it aloud in mock grandeur. “A ball. At Hogwarts. How quaint.” She turned, smirking. “Well, Daphne, shall we start a betting pool on which Gryffindors trip over their own feet first?”

Tracey giggled. “Half the house will want to go with Potter now. If he doesn’t burn alive before then.”

Daphne remained silent, eyes fixed on the parchment. Her lips pressed into a thin line, though she betrayed no outward reaction. Only her hand curled faintly against her skirts, as though holding something tightly hidden.

Pansy nudged her. “Don’t tell me you’re actually dreading it.”

“I don’t dread,” Daphne said coolly. Then, after a pause, “I plan.”

That earned her a round of laughter from their group. But when she slipped into one of the high-backed chairs, her gaze drifted toward the window, where the lake’s shadows pressed close. And she thought of Harry’s trembling hand in Potions, the way his voice had cracked on the word dragons.

-

Hermione’s corner of the common room was buried under stacks of books: Magical Fire Control, Dragons of the Wild, Advanced Defensive Spells. Her quill darted furiously across parchment, hair falling into her face as she muttered under her breath.

Across the room, Ron sat slouched in a chair, tossing a chocolate frog card into the air. “You’re wasting your time, Hermione. He brought this on himself. He’ll just have to deal with it.”

Her quill snapped. “Ronald, he did not bring this on himself. No one could possibly want to fight a dragon.”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe he thought it’d get him noticed. He does love the attention.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she bent furiously back over her parchment. “He’s going to die if he doesn’t get help. And I’m not going to stand by and watch it happen.”

But even as she scribbled equations and possible spells, her thoughts stumbled over the same roadblock: there was no space in Hogwarts where they could practice, not without someone finding out.

Her eyes flicked up to the firelight flickering across the walls. There has to be somewhere, she thought, chest tightening. Somewhere safe.

Chapter 10

Notes:

First quidditch match of the year. I can’t do HP stories without that game we all enjoy in fandom. So they are going to make it happen.

Credit to the JKR universe for making the characters click.,

The morning sun barely filtered through the enchanted windows of Dumbledore’s office, throwing pale shafts of gold across the cluttered tables of whirring instruments and half-melted candles. Fawkes stirred on his perch, rustling his feathers as if uneasy.

Snape stood rigid near the desk, arms folded, black robes pooling around him like a shadow. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his voice was sharp.

“You’re letting this… entanglement fester. Potter has already drawn enough attention without adding two of my House’s more… impressionable witches to his orbit.”

McGonagall’s thin lips pressed together. She sat ramrod straight in the high-backed chair opposite Dumbledore, tartan robes crisp in the morning light. “Impressionable is hardly the word I’d use for those two, Severus. Greengrass and Parkinson are clever, calculating young women. They don’t give their trust lightly.”

“Exactly,” Snape said, his eyes flashing up to hers. “Which is why it is dangerous. Potter, of all people, cannot be their anchor. He is reckless, untrained, and magnetically drawn to trouble. If they’re seen at his side—”

McGonagall’s voice sharpened. “If they’re seen at his side, perhaps it means there’s more to him than the reckless boy you claim. Or perhaps it means that, for once, Slytherin isn’t wholly devoted to undermining him.”

“Naïve,” Snape spat, though his tone faltered, betraying something closer to unease than disdain.

Behind them, Dumbledore set aside a silver instrument whose needle spun lazily of its own accord. His expression was calm, but his blue eyes were piercing. “It is curious, isn’t it? How unlikely threads weave themselves into the tapestry when we least expect it.”

Neither Snape nor McGonagall spoke, though Snape’s jaw tightened.

Dumbledore folded his hands atop his desk. “I should like us to watch carefully. Not with suspicion, but with patience. The Tournament has a way of revealing strengths — and weaknesses — in all who are touched by it. Even friendships.”

The silence hung heavy. Finally, McGonagall inclined her head, and Snape swept from the office with a swirl of black robes, the door slamming faintly behind him.

McGonagall lingered a moment longer, her gaze resting on Dumbledore. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Albus.”

His eyes twinkled, though the weight in them betrayed no amusement. “I fear the game began long before any of us chose our pieces.”

—-

The castle breathed differently on match days. Corridors thrummed with restless energy, students whispering predictions and tossing scarves over their shoulders. The pitch would be roaring in hours, but for now, Harry and Hermione slipped through the quieter back halls, away from the tide of red and blue.

Harry’s fists were jammed in his pockets, his shoulders tight. “We can’t keep reading about spells, Hermione. If I don’t practice actually casting something, I’ll freeze out there. Dragons don’t care how many notes we’ve scribbled.”

“I know that,” Hermione snapped, hair frizzing around her face. “But there isn’t anywhere—every classroom is being used, and if anyone sees us—”

“Then we find somewhere they won’t.” Harry’s voice was low, urgent. “I can’t go into that arena blind, Hermione. You don’t believe I put my name in the Goblet, fine. But you know I didn’t ask for this.”

Her steps faltered. For a moment, guilt flickered across her face, but she pressed on. “We’ll find a place. Somewhere empty, somewhere quiet..”

The two of them wound their way down a side passage near the greenhouses, where sunlight spilled in through narrow windows, pooling in thin golden lines on the flagstones. Hermione had three sheets of parchment spread in her arms, scrawled with castle maps.

“If we avoid the east wing, there’s an unused antechamber near the Ancient Runes corridor,” she muttered, biting her lip. “Or maybe one of the disused storage rooms near the kitchens, though Filch might—”

Harry groaned. “Hermione, we don’t need a map, we need a place that works. I can’t just point my wand at a dragon and hope it doesn’t roast me. I need to practice.”

“I am trying to help you!” Hermione snapped, the papers fluttering dangerously close to the floor. “But unless you’d like to invite half the school to watch you test hexes on empty air, you’ll just have to be patient.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but another voice cut across the corridor.

“Patience is not your strength, is it?”

Fleur emerged from the far end of the hall, her presence like a ripple of colder air. She wasn’t smiling, nor was she mocking. Her eyes flicked over Harry briefly, but settled instead on Hermione, who was gathering her parchments with trembling fingers.

“You exhaust yourself with plans,” Fleur said, her voice quieter now, almost gentle. “You forget that rest sharpens the mind as much as study.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t need rest. I need to make sure he doesn’t die.”

Fleur stepped closer, stopping just short of them. Her gaze softened, unexpectedly earnest. “Then you will not help him by breaking yourself first.”

Harry blinked, glancing between them. Hermione looked ready to snap again, but Fleur inclined her head slightly, as though she had already said enough. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and moved off down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the hum of the castle.

Hermione stood frozen, her parchments pressed tight to her chest, jaw clenched. Harry hesitated, then muttered, “She’s right, you know.”

“Don’t,” Hermione said sharply, eyes bright with frustration — but she didn’t argue further.

-

“This one,” she said at last, halting before a door banded with rusted iron. “Storage, according to the records. Barely touched in years.”

Harry shoved the door open with his shoulder. A gust of stale air greeted them, thick with dust and the smell of parchment gone to mildew. Cobwebs drooped from the ceiling beams, and broken desks leaned against the walls.

“Well,” Harry muttered, “at least the dragon won’t fit.”

Hermione huffed, setting her notes down on a cracked tabletop. “Stop joking. We’ll start with something simple—fire suppression spells, maybe a shielding charm—”

Harry’s laugh was sharp, a little wild. “Right. Because a neat charm will hold off something with teeth the size of my arm.”

“Harry—”

“No, Hermione, listen.” His voice cracked, and he raked a hand through his hair. “I’m walking into a ring with a dragon. A dragon. I don’t need diagrams. I need to do something.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint creak of the castle settling. Hermione’s lips parted, then closed again. She bent over her parchment, but her hand trembled as she tried to write.

Harry turned from her, raised his wand, and muttered the incantation for a Shield Charm. A shimmer flickered in the air, thin as glass, then collapsed almost immediately.

He swore under his breath. “See? Useless.”

Hermione crossed the space, picking up her own wand. “No—it means you’re rushing. Watch.” She cast the same spell, her voice steady, and the shield bloomed broader, holding for several seconds before fading.

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “So I’m dead, then.”

“You’re not dead,” Hermione snapped. Then, softer, “Not if you trust me. Not if you stop panicking long enough to actually learn.”

Her voice echoed against the high beams. For a long moment, neither moved.

From the far end of the corridor, beyond the cracked door, Harry caught a flicker of silver. Fleur, perhaps — lingering just out of sight. Watching. Not interfering, but there all the same.

Hermione followed his gaze, lips pressing tight. But when she looked back at him, her expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between worry and anger.

Harry dropped into one of the broken desks, burying his face in his hands. “We’re wasting time.”

Hermione sank onto the desk beside him, parchment still clutched tight, her hair falling forward like a curtain. “Then we’ll waste as much of it as it takes to keep you alive.”

Dust swirled around them in the shaft of sunlight, the old room holding its silence.

-

The pitch thundered with sound long before the first whistle. Red and gold banners whipped in the wind, countered by Ravenclaw’s sea of blue and bronze. Students stamped their feet against the wooden stands, the rhythm rolling like thunder, chants clashing in the air.

Harry stood with his team in the tunnel beneath the pitch, broom in hand, the air sharp with polish and damp earth. His heart beat too fast — not just from the anticipation of the match, but from the memory of Hermione’s maps still ink-stained in his head, and the thought of dragons crouching somewhere beyond the Tournament’s veil.

“Keep your head in the game,” Angelina said firmly, adjusting her gloves. “We’ve got the best team in the school. Ravenclaw’s not going to—” She broke off as Lee Jordan’s voice boomed above, announcing the lineups.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first Quidditch match of the season — Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw! With your referee, Madam Hooch!”

The roar of the crowd shook the tunnel.

Lee’s voice rattled through the names — Angelina, Alicia, Fred, George, Katie, Ron as Keeper, and then—

“Seeker, of course, the one and only, Harry Potter!”

The Gryffindor section exploded, scarves whirling in the air. Harry forced a smile, but his stomach twisted.

“And for Ravenclaw,” Lee continued, “led by Captain Roger Davies! With Cho Chang at Seeker!”

There was an especially loud cheer from a cluster of boys, Cho tossing her hair as she mounted her broom.

“And, ladies and gents, you’ll notice something unusual — seated at the reserve benches today, by special arrangement, are two of our foreign guests! In the event of an emergency substitution, Hogwarts has graciously permitted them to fill in. Credit to both schools, though here’s hoping we won’t need them!”

A murmur ran through the stands, heads turning toward the sharp-uniformed Beauxbatons and Durmstrang figures sitting stiffly on the benches. Their names weren’t called — only their presence noted, their posture sharp, like soldiers rather than students.

Harry swung a leg over his broom, the wood cool beneath his palms. The sunlight glared off the pitch as they stepped out into the open.

The crowd roared.

Up in the stands, Hermione sat stiffly by Neville. Hermione had a book half-hidden in her lap, parchment tucked inside, though her eyes flicked up every time Harry darted into view.

From across the stadium, Daphne and Pansy sat among the Slytherins, their green-trimmed scarves crisp, their expressions cool. They didn’t cheer, didn’t wave — but Harry caught the flick of Daphne’s gaze tracking him as he climbed higher into the sunlight.

Madam Hooch’s whistle pierced the air. The balls soared skyward.

And the match began.

The Quaffle arced high into the air, and immediately Ravenclaw’s Chasers shot forward, their blue robes slicing through the sunlight. Davies had the Quaffle tucked under his arm before Angelina could reach him, darting past Ron’s desperate guard and scoring within the first minute.

The Ravenclaw stands erupted.

Lee Jordan’s commentary boomed:
“Davies scores! Ten–nil to Ravenclaw, and what a start — quick hands, quicker broom—”

“Jordan,” McGonagall’s voice cut across, sharp as ever.

“—and of course, brilliant defensive formations from Gryffindor waiting in the wings,” Lee corrected hastily.

Harry climbed higher, the wind whistling in his ears. His eyes scanned the pitch, but no glint of gold. Below him, Fred cracked a Bludger with a swing that sent it hurtling toward a Ravenclaw Chaser; Katie swooped in and snatched the Quaffle, racing toward the goalposts.

“Come on,” Harry muttered under his breath, circling. The crowd was a blur of color below, but his mind kept wandering — flames, scales, the snap of dragon jaws—

Focus.

A flash of movement drew his eye — Cho, streaking across the pitch, her hair streaming behind her, eyes locked not on him but scanning the air with sharp precision. She had improved since last year, her movements tighter, her broom handling sharp.

Harry pushed higher, trying to outpace her line of sight.

Below, Angelina equalized with a clean goal, sending the Gryffindors into a frenzy. Ron managed a block, the Quaffle bouncing off his gloves, and for a brief stretch the game tilted red.

Fred and George worked in perfect tandem, their bats singing as they kept Ravenclaw dodging wildly.

But Ravenclaw rallied. Cho feinted low, drawing Harry after her — and by the time he realized the Snitch wasn’t there, Davies had scored again. The score shifted, twenty–ten.

The cheers of blue and bronze rang out, and Harry’s stomach twisted.

He shook his head hard, forcing himself to breathe. He had to focus. He had to win this.

For fifteen minutes the score climbed, goals traded back and forth in a dizzying blur. By the half-hour mark, it was eighty–seventy to Ravenclaw. Harry hovered high above, every muscle straining, eyes darting desperately for a flicker of gold.

Then — there. A shimmer near the Ravenclaw goalposts.

Harry dove, the wind screaming past his ears, heart hammering. The Snitch darted low, skimming close to the ground. Cho was already in pursuit, her broom slicing through the air as she cut across his path. For a moment their shoulders nearly collided, and Harry had to wrench his broom upward to avoid a crash.

The crowd roared at the near miss.

“Neck and neck! Potter and Chang, both after the Snitch!” Lee shouted, nearly deafening himself. “Who’s it going to be—”

The Snitch banked sharply, vanishing between two Chasers. Harry forced his broom down, dodging a Bludger that whistled past his head. Cho stayed right beside him, her jaw set, eyes gleaming with determination.

“Come on, come on—” Harry urged his broom, stretching his arm—

Cho lunged. Her fingers brushed the Snitch’s wing—

But Harry’s hand closed tight a heartbeat later, the tiny ball buzzing violently in his grip.

The whistle blew.

The Gryffindor stands erupted, red and gold streaming through the air. Lee’s voice thundered:

“Potter has it! Gryffindor wins — one hundred and seventy to one hundred and twenty! What a finish!”

Harry circled the pitch once, his teammates roaring around him, but his chest was still tight. The cheers, the chants, the banners — all of it felt distant against the memory of Cho’s hand just inches away, and the looming thought of fire and scales.

From the stands, Hermione clapped distractedly, parchment still in her lap.

Across the way, Daphne sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face unreadable. Pansy smirked faintly, though her eyes flicked toward Harry more often than toward her own team.

And in the distance, Fleur watched from among the Beauxbatons students, her expression still and thoughtful, as though the match had confirmed something only she understood.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Harry’s ears as he hit the ground, breathless and sweating, the Snitch thrumming violently in his palm. Angelina whooped, vaulting off her broom with her arms flung high, while Fred and George launched into a ridiculous jig, smacking their bats together as if they had just won a war rather than a game. Katie swooped in and hugged him so tightly he nearly lost his grip on the prize, and the rest of the team piled toward him, all flushed and jubilant.

Inside the locker room the noise only swelled. Steam curled off enchanted showers, cloaks were discarded across benches, and Lee Jordan had slipped in despite Angelina’s protests to deliver his “final encore” — acting out Harry’s dive with exaggerated swoops and sound effects. Ron laughed until his face turned scarlet.

“Harry — Cho Chang!” Ron gasped, clutching his stomach. “I thought she had you — you nearly slammed into her, you know! She’s brilliant, but mate, you — you were better!”

Fred dropped onto the bench beside Harry, clapping him so hard on the shoulder it stung. “Nearly gave us a heart attack, though. Next time, warn us before you nearly kill yourself.”

“Style points,” George added sagely, “for nearly flattening Ravenclaw’s star Seeker. That’s called asserting dominance.”

Angelina rolled her eyes, though her grin gave her away. “Oh, shut it, you two. Potter saved us. That’s what matters.”

Harry forced a smile, peeling off his gloves. His fingers still trembled from catching the Snitch, and though the room hummed with victory, he felt the shadow of fire and scaled wings crawling back into his mind. The dragons loomed larger than the cheers around him.

When he finally slipped away, the castle corridors were already packed with students streaming toward dinner. The air was filled with roasted nutmeg and damp autumn stone, voices buzzing about the match.

Hermione stood at the base of the marble staircase, books tucked tightly against her chest. She clapped once when she saw him, but it was perfunctory, her mouth already forming a line of questions.

“You flew well,” she said softly, though her eyes were elsewhere.

“That’s it?” Harry asked, surprised.

She hugged her books closer. “I’ve got other things on my mind.” The spine of the top one caught his eye: A Comprehensive Study of Fire-Breathing Beasts.

His chest tightened. “You still think I—”

“I don’t know what I think,” she cut him off, her voice shaking with exhaustion. “But I know you’re not ready for what’s coming.”

Before Harry could answer, Fleur appeared, slipping gracefully through the dispersing crowd. Her robes seemed untouched by the blustering wind, her expression sharp. She paused beside Hermione, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“He is right not to celebrate too much,” she said, her accent softening her words. “A game is only a game. What waits… is not.”

Hermione looked up at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected comfort in that voice. Harry muttered something about being tired and pushed past them both, unsettled by how easily they stood together.

The corridors twisted into darker alcoves as he made his way back toward the tower, his footsteps echoing off the stone. That was when two familiar shapes emerged from a shadowed recess, their robes sharp, their eyes glittering.

“Rough match,” Pansy said coolly, stepping close enough that her perfume cut through the scent of broom polish still clinging to his clothes. “Looked like Chang nearly had you.”

Harry stiffened, but Daphne tilted her head, studying him in that way she did — calm, unhurried, calculating. “But you didn’t let her,” she said quietly. “You never do.”

The words startled him more than Pansy’s smirk.

Before he could answer, Daphne brushed past him, her hand grazing his for the briefest instant. It was light, deliberate, like silk against his skin, gone before he could react. His pulse lurched, heat crawling up his arm.

Pansy’s smile widened, as if she’d noticed. “Careful, Potter. People might start to think you’re… adaptable.”

They disappeared down the next staircase, their laughter low and echoing, leaving Harry rooted to the spot with the Snitch still clenched in his fist.

By evening, the Gryffindor common room had become a riot. Banners of red and gold hung from the rafters, butterbeer flowed from conjured casks, and Fred had climbed onto a table to reenact Harry’s final dive with ridiculous embellishments. Every cheer was deafening, every song raucous, every face flushed with victory.

Harry sat by the fire, the warmth pressing against his skin. His teammates were scattered about, glowing with triumph, but his gaze kept drifting.

Across the room Hermione had vanished into a fortress of books, her quill scratching furiously against parchment as if she could build a shield of words between herself and everything else. Fleur lingered near her chair, leaning down occasionally to murmur something in French, making Hermione pause, listen, then frown in concentration.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight. Hermione’s loyalty was fractured, Fleur’s presence a constant unknown, and the shadow of dragons loomed heavier with every passing hour.

The common room roared, songs spilling into the night, but Harry barely heard them. The fire popped, sparks scattering up the chimney. And even amid the joy of Gryffindor’s triumph, he felt more alone than ever.

—-

The kitchens were warm and glowing at midnight, their fires kept low but steady, the scent of cinnamon and roasting nuts hanging in the air. House-elves hurried quietly about their work, but they had happily piled the table where Hermione and Fleur sat with sugared rolls, cocoa, and a silver plate of sliced apples that gleamed under the torchlight.

Hermione curled her fingers around her mug, the warmth seeping into her skin. Her eyes were tired from reading all day, her head still buzzing with worry about Harry and the Tournament. Fleur, by contrast, seemed untouched by fatigue, her posture as poised in this hidden corner as if she were dining in the Beauxbatons palace itself.

For a while they sat in companionable silence, Hermione sipping slowly, Fleur methodically slicing an apple piece with the tip of her wand. Then Fleur spoke, her voice quieter than usual, almost reflective.

“Do you know what it is like,” she began, “to be looked at, and never seen? People think they know me before I speak. They make me into something I am not. Always a Veela first, never simply Fleur.”

Hermione looked up, startled by the sudden openness in her tone. “I… I suppose I never thought of it that way. You seem so confident.”

A soft laugh escaped Fleur, though it carried little humor. “Confidence is only armor. If I let myself be small, they would tear me apart. But armor is heavy. And after some time, you forget what it is like to take it off.”

Her eyes lifted, catching Hermione’s with unexpected intensity. “That is why I speak with you. You are not afraid to disagree, or to look past the surface. You make me feel as if… I am more than what people whisper about.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, a rush of color rising in her cheeks. She opened her mouth to answer, then faltered, unsure of what to say.

Fleur leaned forward before she could speak. She kissed Hermione softly on the cheek — deliberate, not fleeting — then wrapped her arms around her in a hug that was warm and strong, almost startling in its sincerity.

For a long moment Hermione sat stiffly, then something inside her seemed to give way. She let herself lean into the embrace, the tension in her shoulders loosening. When Fleur finally drew back, Hermione was flushed, but her lips curved in a small, embarrassed smile.

“You didn’t have to—” she began.

“I wanted to,” Fleur interrupted gently. “Sometimes we do not need answers. Sometimes we need to know someone is standing beside us.”

The words lingered in the quiet, until a slow, mocking clap broke through.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, smirk curling in the torchlight, his pale eyes glittering. “Touching,” he drawled. “Really touching. Midnight cocoa, tender confessions, a little kiss on the cheek. Granger, you do get around, don’t you? First Potter, now the French import.”

Hermione shot to her feet, heat rushing to her face. “What are you even doing down here?”

“Same as you,” Draco said, strolling lazily into the room as if he owned it. “Though I admit I didn’t expect the entertainment. Shall I fetch a camera? Capture this for posterity?”

Fleur rose too, slow and deliberate, her expression cool as glass. She moved between Hermione and Draco, her chin lifting. “You see only what feeds your spite. That is your curse.”

Draco’s smirk tightened, though he gave a shallow bow. “Maybe. But curses have their uses. Enjoy your midnight date.” His voice dripped with sarcasm as he turned and sauntered out, the door swinging shut behind him.

Hermione sank back into her chair, her heart racing, the warmth of Fleur’s hug still clinging to her skin. Fleur’s hand rested lightly on hers, steady, unshaken.

“Let him talk,” Fleur said softly. “He only has words. We… have more.”

The fire in the kitchen popped, sending sparks dancing, and for the first time in days Hermione felt a flicker of something that wasn’t worry.

Notes:

I appreciate your kudos and comments!

If I screwed up anything. Advise me.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

More task prep.

Keep in mind, that I intend to pretty much go full alternate plot canon at the end of year 4, though the general structure of the universe will never change. I have a lot of good things planned.

If you don’t like the pairings. Well I don’t know what to tell you. There is nothing in here that should be mind boggling as to why I posted it.

The Great Hall smelled of porridge and toast, though Harry found little appetite for either. He sat hunched at the Gryffindor table, the din of morning chatter ringing sharp in his ears. Since his name had come out of the Goblet, meals had become trial by fire. Whispers hissed down the length of the benches, scraps of speculation and mockery drifting his way.

Ron kept his back stiff, shoulders rigid as he buttered his bread without once glancing at Harry. Hermione sat further down the table, books piled beside her plate, her eyes darting to Harry now and again but sliding quickly away when he tried to catch them.

The silence between the three of them felt heavier than the ceiling above, enchanted as it was with its slate-grey clouds. Harry pushed at his eggs with his fork, thinking for perhaps the hundredth time that week how utterly alone he felt despite being surrounded by a hundred voices.

Across the Hall, the Slytherin table hummed with laughter. Malfoy, naturally, was holding court, smirking and gesturing in Harry’s direction. His cronies guffawed on cue, and more than a few other students leaned closer, eager to lap up whatever joke he was spinning. Harry clenched his jaw and ducked his head lower over his plate.

Then a ripple stirred among the Ravenclaws at the far end of the room. Heads turned, eyes followed, and the reason became clear: Fleur Delacour, hair catching the torchlight like molten silver, crossed the Hall with measured steps. She ignored the gawking boys and the flushed stares, moving as if none of it touched her. She slid gracefully onto the bench beside Hermione, as if she had done it every morning for years.

A murmur spread instantly through the Gryffindors, shock colliding with fascination. Harry caught sight of a younger second-year choking on her pumpkin juice at the sight of the Beauxbatons champion casually serving herself tea next to their bookish bookworm.

“Good morning,” Fleur said smoothly, her accent rolling like warm honey. She poured Hermione’s cup before her own, ignoring the ripple of whispers.

Hermione, to Harry’s surprise, did not bristle. She looked tired, circles faint beneath her eyes, but she managed a small smile. “Morning,” she answered softly, and Harry thought he heard a rare hint of gratitude in her tone.

Fleur’s gaze flicked briefly across the Hall — and landed on Harry. For a moment her eyes held his, calm, appraising, like she was studying the weather on the horizon. Then she turned back to her plate.

Harry flushed and stabbed his fork into his eggs.

“Potter looks ill,” Malfoy’s voice rang out suddenly from across the way, pitched just loud enough to carry. “Best hope the dragons fancy sickly meat. Won’t fill them much, but it’ll save us the embarrassment of watching him trip over his shoelaces.”

A chorus of laughter followed. Harry’s fists clenched tight against the bench. He expected Ron to leap to his defense, as he always had before — but Ron said nothing. Just reached for the marmalade, eyes fixed on his toast.

Hermione stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Fleur’s head tilted ever so slightly, her gaze sliding once more toward Harry, then toward Malfoy. She didn’t speak, but her eyes narrowed in a way that made Harry’s heart jolt.

From the Slytherin table, a subtler exchange was happening. Daphne Greengrass, elegant even in her school robes, leaned slightly to Pansy Parkinson, who followed her glance toward Harry. Daphne’s expression was unreadable, but when Harry dared to glance back, she gave him the faintest of nods. A gesture so small it could have been mistaken for nothing — but Harry saw it. And for the first time that morning, he felt his chest ease.

Pansy smirked faintly, whispering something that made Daphne roll her eyes. But neither girl laughed at Malfoy’s jibe.

Harry pushed his plate away, appetite gone entirely. He muttered an excuse under his breath and rose, ignoring Ron’s silence and Hermione’s downturned face. As he left the Hall, he felt the burn of a dozen stares on his back. But he also carried with him the memory of that small, steady nod from the Slytherin table.

-

The night was cool and damp, the grass slick under Harry’s shoes as he followed Hagrid’s lantern glow toward the edge of the Forest. He already knew what waited beyond the trees — the memory of leathery wings, jagged teeth, and firelight had haunted his sleep for days.

But what he hadn’t expected was Cedric Diggory standing there, hands shoved in his cloak pockets, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Hagrid?” Cedric asked, his voice low. “You wanted me too?”

“Tha’s right,” Hagrid said cheerfully, as if smuggling two champions out after curfew were perfectly ordinary. “Come along, lads. Quick now.”

Cedric shot Harry a look — polite, curious, but tinged with wariness. Harry only shrugged. Best not to speak until Hagrid revealed his hand.

The Forest swallowed them quickly, branches clawing at the night sky, the path uneven and damp. Harry walked in silence, keeping his face carefully neutral. Cedric, however, glanced around sharply, nerves showing through the usual prefect’s composure.

When the trees broke into a clearing, the familiar wave of heat hit Harry like a wall. His stomach still clenched, even though he knew what to expect.

Cedric, however, froze dead in his tracks.

“Merlin’s…” His voice trailed off into stunned silence.

Four massive dragons shifted restlessly in the firelight. Chains groaned, handlers shouted spells, wings beat the air like thunder. The Hungarian Horntail arched its neck and loosed a growl that reverberated through the clearing.

Harry’s pulse hammered, but his eyes flicked to Cedric instead. Cedric’s jaw had gone slack, his knuckles white where they clenched his wand.

“Beautiful, ain’t they?” Hagrid said proudly.

“Beautiful?” Cedric choked. “They’ll burn us alive!” He rounded on Harry, his voice sharp with panic. “Did you know?”

Harry hesitated — then nodded once. “A few nights ago. Hagrid showed me.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed, his voice tight. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I couldn’t,” Harry said quickly. “If I’d told anyone, they might’ve taken my source away. At least this way, we both know.”

Cedric stared at him for a long moment, chest heaving. Then his gaze shifted back to the dragons, fear wrestling with determination. Finally, he nodded grimly. “All right. But if the others don’t know…” His voice trailed off, heavy with implication.

Hagrid, oblivious, clapped them both on the shoulders with enough force to make Harry stagger. “Now yeh’ve seen, keep it quiet, eh? Big surprise fer the Task.”

Neither boy answered.

When they turned back toward the castle, Cedric walked beside Harry in taut silence. Just before the trees swallowed them again, Cedric muttered under his breath, almost too low to catch.

“Thanks for not leaving me in the dark.”

Harry said nothing, but the words lodged in his chest, strange and heavy.

-

The narrow broom closet smelled faintly of polish and dust when Harry pushed the door shut behind him. He had summoned Daphne and Pansy here before, but tonight the air felt heavier, tighter — as though the walls themselves understood the stakes.

Daphne stood near the back, her arms crossed, gaze sharp as glass. Pansy lounged on a crate, tapping her wand idly against her knee, though her eyes flicked immediately to Harry when he entered.

“Well?” Pansy asked, arching a brow. “You’ve got that hunted look again. Out with it.”

Harry leaned against the door, lowering his voice. “I went with Hagrid again. This time… Cedric was there. He knows.”

Daphne’s head tilted. “So it’s not just you carrying this secret anymore.”

Harry shook his head. “He was stunned. I could tell. But he’ll be ready now. Which means I have to be too.”

Pansy scoffed. “Ready? You mean ready not to be roasted alive?”

Harry shot her a look, but there was no malice in it. “Exactly that.”

The three of them stood in a tense silence until Daphne stepped forward. “Then we talk strategy. You’ve seen them twice now. You know their size, their movements, their weaknesses.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Weaknesses. They’re dragons, Greengrass. They don’t exactly come with instruction manuals.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Everything has a pattern. Even monsters. What did you notice?”

Harry thought back, dredging up every detail. “They’re restless. Always moving. The Horntail’s tail lashes constantly, but its head only turns sharply when someone moves close. The others… they snort flame if startled. The handlers keep wide gaps between them — I think they’re afraid of setting each other off.”

“Good,” Daphne said softly. She moved closer, her presence steady. “That means they’re territorial. Focused. If you can keep its attention locked somewhere else, you might buy yourself seconds. And seconds could be enough.”

Harry nodded, though his palms were damp. “I’ll need a spell strong enough to distract it without… you know, killing me first.”

Pansy leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. “Illusions. Smoke charms. Noise amplifications. Dragons aren’t clever — frighten it, confuse it, make it chase shadows instead of you.”

Harry let out a dry laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It isn’t,” Daphne said flatly. “But you don’t have the luxury of pretending otherwise.” She reached out suddenly and laid her hand on his, firm, deliberate. “You’ll focus. You’ll practice. And when the time comes, you’ll move faster than the beast expects.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He glanced at their joined hands, then up into her steady eyes. For a moment, the fear in him loosened.

Pansy rolled her eyes but smirked. “Merlin help me, but I almost believe her. Just don’t expect me to sit front row and cheer when you get singed.”

Despite himself, Harry grinned. The broom closet felt less suffocating now, the weight on his chest a little lighter.

Daphne released his hand at last, stepping back with her usual poise. “Tomorrow night,” she said. “Second-floor classroom. We’ll drill you until you stop flinching at shadows.”

Pansy hopped off the crate, stretching lazily. “And if you die, at least you’ll die slightly better prepared.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Thanks. I think.”

The girls slipped out into the corridor, Daphne’s robes brushing his arm as she passed. For a moment, the silence of the broom closet pressed in again. But Harry no longer felt like the walls were closing on him.

—

The library was hushed, the hour late enough that Madam Pince patrolled with a suspicious glare but not late enough to force students out. Hermione sat at one of the back tables, scrolls spread across the wood in a fan of ink and parchment. Her hair frizzed in every direction, quills scattered like abandoned weapons.

Across from her, Fleur leaned on one elbow, her silver-blonde hair catching the lamplight. Unlike most students, she didn’t fidget or slouch when she read — her posture was statuesque, her eyes cutting back and forth over dense columns of Arithmancy notation with unflinching focus.

Hermione chewed the end of her quill. “So the question is: how do we translate theoretical Arithmancy into practical spellcasting when the environment is so… unstable? Dragons aren’t just magical beasts — they radiate ambient energy. Their very presence warps surrounding magic.”

Fleur’s head tilted, and a small crease formed between her brows. “Which means charms might destabilize near them. Simple spells could misfire. I have read reports — a Protego cast within three yards of a dragon can implode if the caster isn’t strong enough.”

Hermione scribbled a note, her eyes sparking. “That’s it. That explains why half of the defensive charms in the textbooks are considered ‘ineffective’ against dragons. It’s not that the dragons overpower them — it’s that the ambient magical field collapses the spell matrix.”

Fleur gave her a long, considering look. “You think in terms of systems. Not just spells. That is… rare.”

Hermione flushed, ducking her head slightly, then pushed forward. “So if conventional barriers fail, we need layered magic. Something that can withstand disruption. Maybe… runic reinforcement?”

Fleur’s eyes lit faintly, and she sat up straighter. “You are thinking of Arithmantic chains. Yes. A series of interlocked runes cast in sequence, each one shoring up the others. It is slower to prepare, but far more stable. Even a dragon’s field should not collapse it.”

Hermione leaned across the table, suddenly energized. “Exactly! Like a linked lattice — if one spell buckles, the others redistribute the strain. Almost like… like a suspension bridge.”

Fleur’s mouth curved, the faintest trace of amusement softening her sharp features. “A Muggle comparison, but a good one.”

For a few beats, they both bent over the parchment, quills flying, sketching half-finished diagrams. Their voices overlapped in bursts, finishing one another’s calculations: rune placements, power thresholds, potential flaws.

Hermione muttered, “But you’d need at least three casters to establish a chain under pressure—”

Fleur cut in smoothly, “Unless you collapse the lattice into a single spiral. One caster, but the sequence must be perfect. One mistake, and the spiral implodes.”

Hermione stilled, eyes wide. “That… could work.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the scratch of quills. At last, Fleur tapped the parchment, her nails clicking softly. “You do not frighten easily, do you?”

Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You stare at dragons not with fear, but with calculation.” Fleur’s voice was quiet, but certain. “Most would tremble. You measure.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, though not entirely from nerves. “If Harry’s facing this, I don’t have the luxury of trembling.”

Something unreadable flickered across Fleur’s face — not pity, not admiration, but something weightier. She reached across the table and nudged Hermione’s scattered quills into a neat line, her touch deliberate, grounding.

“We will not let him go unprepared,” Fleur said firmly. “Not you, not I.”

Hermione managed a small, weary smile. “Together, then.”

“Together.”

The word hung between them, soft but binding, like a promise neither of them had dared to make aloud until now.

—-

The dungeon air was cool and damp, though it did little to soothe Hermione’s rising panic. The heavy stone walls pressed inward, candle flames guttering in their brackets as the smell of asphodel, salamander blood, and powdered bicorn horn filled the room. Cauldrons hissed and bubbled across every desk, the sound a chorus of uneasy heartbeats.

Snape drifted between the rows like a shadow, his robes trailing and his voice cutting sharp as knives. “The Fire Draught,” he intoned, “is not for the sloppy or the inattentive. One mistake, and the potion ignites. That, needless to say, would be… inconvenient.” His black eyes swept the room, pausing on Harry with relish before sliding past. “Proceed.”

Hermione’s hands shook as she measured powdered fireseed into her mortar. Her mind was still racing with runic lattices and dragon wards from last night’s session with Fleur. She had barely slept. Now, confronted with a potion that required absolute precision, the fog of exhaustion clawed at her.

Across from her, Draco sliced salamander tails with the cool precision of someone born to control. He didn’t look at her, but his posture was composed, almost too composed, as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth acknowledging.

Harry sat several tables away, partnered with Seamus. He stirred his cauldron clockwise, counting under his breath, but his eyes kept flicking toward Daphne and Pansy at the adjacent station. Daphne’s motions were fluid, deliberate, her knife strokes smooth. Pansy muttered observations like a commentator, correcting measurements before Daphne could misstep.

Hermione ground the fireseed too fine. She realized it the second the powder clouded, acrid and hot, rising from the mortar. Her breath caught.

Draco’s head turned slowly, his grey eyes cutting sideways. “Careless,” he said under his breath. Not loud enough for Snape to hear, but sharp enough to slice.

Hermione’s chest constricted. She tried again, scooping the powder, but her fingers fumbled the silver spoon. It clattered against the desk, ringing loud in the tense quiet. Several students snickered.

Snape’s shadow fell across their table. His lip curled. “Miss Granger,” he drawled, “I was under the impression that Gryffindor’s know-it-all prided herself on flawless preparation. Perhaps I was… mistaken.”

Hermione’s throat closed. She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to break — but the tears surged anyway. Hot, unrelenting, they blurred the page of instructions until the letters swam.

“Pathetic,” Snape murmured, though his tone held a quiet satisfaction. “Malfoy, take over before she reduces us all to cinders.”

Hermione bowed her head, shoulders shaking silently. She tried to wipe at her eyes without drawing attention, but it was useless. A sob caught in her throat, raw and humiliating.

Draco didn’t smirk. He didn’t gloat. He moved efficiently, his hands steady as he measured the fireseed correctly and tipped it into the cauldron with a controlled grace. For a moment, his jaw clenched, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression — annoyance, maybe, or restraint. He didn’t speak again.

Harry’s grip on his stirring rod tightened until his knuckles went white. His eyes burned into Snape’s back, fury rising in his chest, but he forced himself not to move. Not here. Not now.

At the Slytherin table, Daphne paused mid-stir, her gaze flicking once to Hermione’s hunched form, then to Harry’s clenched jaw. She said nothing, only pressed her palm briefly against the desk, grounding herself. Pansy, sharper, whispered under her breath, “Snape’s crueler than usual today.”

Daphne murmured, “He’s testing her.”

Hermione’s sobs quieted after a minute, though her shoulders stayed rigid. She didn’t lift her head, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. She simply let Draco’s hands finish what hers had failed to do, the scent of the potion — sharp, fiery, metallic — curling in the air between them.

By the end of the class, her cauldron simmered with a molten glow, thanks entirely to Draco’s work. She didn’t touch it when Snape passed, didn’t claim it. When he sneered and deducted points anyway, she only sat frozen, cheeks wet and blotchy.

As the bell rang and benches scraped, Draco spoke at last — quiet, low, not quite meant for her ears. “Pull yourself together.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. Just a warning.

Hermione flinched, gathered her books with shaking hands, and fled the dungeon before anyone else could see her face.

—-

The corridor outside the dungeons smelled faintly of damp stone and burnt herbs. Students spilled out in twos and threes, the low rumble of conversation filling the chill air.

Hermione had already vanished, her footsteps lost in the crowd, her sobs swallowed by the echo of boots on flagstones. Harry lingered by the door, his books clutched tight against his chest, jaw clenched. He could still hear Snape’s voice in his ears, each barb replaying sharper than the last.

Daphne emerged beside Pansy, her robes brushing the stone wall as she slowed her stride. Her eyes flicked once to Harry, taking in his stormy expression. Without hesitation, she drifted a step closer, lowering her voice.

“You’ll give yourself a headache if you grind your teeth like that.”

Harry blinked, startled by the gentleness under the words. He glanced at her, ready to fire back, but the look she gave him stopped him short. Calm. Measured. Protective, in a way he hadn’t expected.

“I’m fine,” he muttered anyway.

“Clearly,” Pansy drawled from the other side, though her tone was less cutting than usual. “Going to storm down the hall and hex Snape? Or Malfoy? Or both?”

Harry glared at her. “If they keep talking about her like that, maybe.”

Daphne’s lips pressed into the faintest line, not of disapproval, but of agreement carefully hidden. “It won’t help her,” she said quietly. “But I noticed too. He went too far.”

Before Harry could answer, a familiar drawl sliced through the air.

“Touched, are you, Potter?” Draco leaned casually against the arch of the dungeon door, arms crossed. His grey eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “I suppose it’s very Gryffindor of you to rage on behalf of your weeping friend.”

Harry’s blood surged hot. He strode a step closer. “She’s twice the student you’ll ever be, Malfoy. You think sneering makes you better than her?”

Draco’s mouth curled, not into a smirk, but something sharper, colder. “She’s brilliant with theory, I’ll give her that. But brilliance means nothing if your hands shake too much to measure fireseed. In real magic, mistakes get you killed.”

Harry’s fists clenched. “Say what you want about me, but don’t talk about her like that.”

Pansy exhaled, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Boys and their tempers. Honestly.”

Daphne, however, stepped subtly in front of Harry, just enough to angle herself between him and Draco. Her shoulder brushed Harry’s arm — deliberate, steadying. “That’s enough,” she said firmly, her voice low but cutting through the tension. “We all saw what happened. She doesn’t need your commentary, Draco.”

For a heartbeat, silence crackled. Draco’s eyes flicked to Daphne, then to the spot where her hand almost grazed Harry’s sleeve. Something unreadable crossed his face — irritation, calculation, something more guarded beneath.

At last, he pushed off the wall. “Suit yourself. If Granger drowns in her own tears during the task, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shouldered past, robes flaring, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His chest still burned with fury, but the pressure of Daphne’s presence — calm, unwavering — kept him from chasing after Draco.

Daphne looked up at him, her gaze cool but not unkind. “Don’t waste your strength on him. Save it for the dragons.”

Harry blinked, the edge of his anger softening under her words. “You don’t think he’s right, do you? About her?”

Her expression didn’t waver. “She’s stronger than she knows. She just needs people who see it.”

Harry stared at her, throat tight, the corridor suddenly too small, too charged. He forced himself to look away, muttering, “Thanks.”

Daphne gave a faint nod, then walked on with Pansy, her hand brushing lightly — deliberately — against Harry’s as they passed. Not a stumble. Not an accident. A touch that lingered just long enough to be felt.

Harry’s pulse hammered in his ears.

-

The Slytherin common room glowed with its usual green-tinted lamplight, the walls lined with shelves of ancient books and the dark lake pressing against the enchanted windows. The fire in the hearth crackled low, its light throwing long shadows across the stone floor.

Daphne curled into one of the high-backed chairs, her posture straight as always, but her eyes had a thoughtful cast as she toyed with the clasp of her robe. Pansy sprawled more casually across the rug, parchment spread around her like a nest, though her quill lay idle in her hand.

“That was…” Pansy began, tapping her quill against the floorboards, “quite the show outside the dungeon.”

Daphne lifted her gaze, calm but pointed. “You mean Draco baiting Potter until he nearly snapped?”

Pansy smirked faintly. “Potter snapping is hardly unusual. But you—” she gestured lazily with her quill “—stepping in the way? That was new.”

Daphne tilted her head, unbothered. “Someone had to keep it from turning into a duel in the corridor.”

“Mm,” Pansy hummed, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve never cared before whether Potter got hexed. Why now?”

Daphne’s eyes flicked to the fire, watching the embers crackle. She chose her words carefully. “Because Draco goes too far sometimes. Because Snape went too far today. And because…” Her fingers stilled on her robe clasp. “He looked like he needed someone to steady him.”

Pansy blinked, then barked a short laugh. “You’re protective of him.”

Daphne met her friend’s gaze evenly. “Observant of him.”

“Protective,” Pansy insisted, a grin tugging at her lips. “Don’t dress it up. You put yourself between him and Draco like a shield. And Merlin, the look on Malfoy’s face—” she snorted, delighted. “He nearly choked on his own superiority.”

Daphne’s lips twitched, though she didn’t smile outright. “Draco thinks caring is weakness. He doesn’t see that it can be strategy.”

Pansy leaned back on her hands, eyes glinting. “Strategy, hm? Care to explain?”

Daphne considered the fire again. “Potter isn’t what they say he is. He doesn’t strut like Malfoy, doesn’t claw like the rest. He carries things. Heavy things. You can see it in his eyes if you pay attention.”

For once, Pansy didn’t scoff. She was quiet a moment, then said, “You sound like you’ve been watching him closely.”

Daphne’s voice softened, almost a murmur. “Someone should.”

Pansy arched a brow, amused but not unkind. “Careful, Daphne. The ice queen of Slytherin can’t just melt at the sight of a Gryffindor with messy hair.”

“Ice doesn’t melt so easily,” Daphne said coolly, though her fingers tightened subtly on the arm of her chair. “But it can shift. Form new edges.”

Pansy chuckled, shaking her head. “Well. If nothing else, watching Draco stew about it will be the best entertainment this term.”

The fire popped, sending a burst of sparks into the hearth. Daphne didn’t reply. Her eyes stayed fixed on the flames, her thoughts elsewhere — on the boy with storm in his eyes and too much weight on his shoulders.

“Stew?” Blaise Zabini’s voice slipped out of the shadows, smooth as silk. He rose from a nearby armchair, one eyebrow arched in lazy amusement. “Draco doesn’t stew. He simmers. Entirely different process.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, though her grin lingered. “And you’d know the difference because…?”

“Because,” Blaise said, settling onto the armrest of Daphne’s chair, “I’ve made an art of watching Malfoy simmer. His pride frays at the edges, he taps his quill when no one’s looking, and when Potter’s involved, he clenches his jaw until it clicks.” He smirked faintly. “Classic simmering.”

Theo Nott, sprawled near the hearth with a book half-open in his lap, muttered without looking up, “Potter’s existence is enough to make Draco boil over. Doesn’t take much.”

Daphne didn’t turn her head, but her tone sharpened. “You all miss the point.”

“Oh?” Blaise asked, tilting his head, curious.

“The point,” Daphne said evenly, “is that while Draco wastes his breath trying to humiliate Potter, Potter is preparing for the task. Quietly. Determinedly. If anyone should be simmering, it’s us — because we’ll look the fools if a Gryffindor outpaces us under our noses.”

Theo finally looked up from his book, brows raised. “Careful, Greengrass. That almost sounded like respect.”

Daphne met his gaze without flinching. “Respect where it’s earned. Strategy where it matters.”

Pansy nudged Blaise with her quill. “She’s smitten. Doesn’t want to admit it.”

Daphne’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more a sharpened edge. “Smitten is for schoolgirls scribbling hearts in the margins of their parchment. I deal in reality.”

“And reality,” Blaise said, leaning back with an infuriatingly knowing look, “is that you care what happens to him.”

Daphne didn’t answer. She stood smoothly, gathering her books with an elegance that cut off further commentary. “Believe what you like. But I’ll say this — if Potter survives dragons, it won’t be because of Gryffindor bravado. It will be because he has the right allies, whether he realizes it yet or not.”

She swept away toward the girls’ staircase, her footsteps measured, leaving Pansy smirking, Blaise bemused, and Theo shaking his head.

—-

Up in the Gryffindor common room, the hour was late, and Hermione sat hunched over a table stacked with tomes. Her quill scratched furiously, parchment curling beneath the weight of equations and half-formed spell matrices. The firelight flickered over her strained features, her hair falling wild across her cheeks.

Fleur slid into the opposite chair without ceremony, setting down a slim volume of French Arithmancy theory. She studied Hermione a long moment before speaking. “You drive yourself into knots,” she said softly, not as criticism, but as fact.

Hermione didn’t look up. “There isn’t time to untangle slowly. Every calculation matters. Every—” She broke off when Fleur’s hand came to rest gently on the parchment, halting the frantic scribbling.

“Non,” Fleur said firmly. “Look at me.”

Hermione hesitated, then lifted her gaze. Fleur’s eyes were steady, like steel tempered by flame.

“You are brilliant,” Fleur said, each word deliberate, “but brilliance burns itself out if you do not temper it. Dragons do not fall to exhaustion. They fall to precision.”

Hermione swallowed hard, throat tight. “I can’t let him go into this blind.”

“You will not,” Fleur said, her accent rolling but her tone sharp as glass. “But you must also trust him. And trust yourself. If you crumble, who will stand beside him?”

Hermione’s lip trembled, but she nodded, pressing her sleeve quickly to her eyes. “You make it sound simple.”

“Non. It is not simple. It is war in miniature.” Fleur leaned back, sliding her book across the table. “Here. A spell lattice my professor taught me. Not in your Hogwarts texts. We will test its logic together.”

For the next hour, the room filled with the scratch of quills and low, intense voices. They debated variables, swapped theories, argued over power thresholds until their words blurred into a rhythm — a push and pull, two minds sharpening each other like flint and steel.

And when Hermione faltered again, staring down at her smudged ink, Fleur reached out — not to scold, not to hush, but simply to place her hand over Hermione’s, steady and unyielding.

“You are not alone in this,” Fleur said quietly.

Hermione’s chest ached, but for the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe.

Hermione exhaled shakily, closing her eyes for a brief second as Fleur’s hand lingered on hers. It wasn’t just the comfort of contact, but the sense of being anchored, pulled back from the spiral she’d been tumbling into since Harry’s name had burst from the Goblet.

The fire had burned low in the grate, shadows stretching longer across the common room. Fleur finally withdrew her hand, rising gracefully. “We must rest,” she said, gathering her books into a neat stack. “Tomorrow your mind will be sharper, and so will mine.”

Hermione pushed her parchment aside reluctantly, fatigue etched into every movement. “You’re right,” she admitted softly, the words tasting strange on her tongue. She hugged her Arithmancy notes to her chest as if they were armor.

Together, they slipped out of the common room, the portrait hole groaning softly as it swung shut behind them. The corridor beyond was hushed, bathed in the faint blue glow of torches charmed to burn through the night.

They hadn’t gone ten steps before a slow, mocking drawl cut through the silence.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Hogwarts’ model student and Beauxbatons’ golden prize, creeping about after curfew.”

Draco leaned against the wall ahead, arms folded, pale hair catching the torchlight like a crown of frost. His smirk was razor-sharp, honed for cruelty, but his eyes flicked between them with something harder to read — irritation, calculation, a faint ember of curiosity.

Hermione stiffened, clutching her books tighter. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Want?” He gave a low chuckle. “Merely enjoying the spectacle. Granger, dragging herself to ruin with ink stains and swollen eyes. Delacour, lowering herself to play nursemaid. It’s almost poetic.”

Fleur’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “Careful, little boy. Poetry is not your strength.”

His smirk faltered for a heartbeat, then sharpened again. “Perhaps not. But precision is. And I’d wager that all your pretty theories won’t matter when Potter collapses under dragon fire. Unless you two intend to shield him yourselves?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned hot, equal parts fury and shame. Words rose to her tongue, barbed and ready, but Fleur’s hand brushed her arm — a quiet warning, a silent steadying.

Draco’s eyes lingered there, on the quiet contact, and his sneer wavered into something else. Disdain, yes, but edged with a flicker of unease.

“Pathetic,” he muttered at last, though softer than before. “Don’t expect me to waste my pity when he fails.”

He swept past them, robes whispering like a threat in the stillness.

Hermione let out a ragged breath, every muscle taut. Fleur leaned close, her voice low but resolute. “Ignore him. He seeks cracks, nothing more. We will not give them to him.”

For once, Hermione didn’t argue. She only nodded, clinging to Fleur’s words as though they might shield her too.

And together, they walked on, their footsteps steady despite the weight of the storm gathering around them.

—-

Harry had stayed in the common room until the fire dwindled to embers, his thoughts too restless to let him climb the dormitory stairs. Ron’s cold shoulder, Hermione’s uncertainty, the whispers in the corridors — they all pressed in on him, louder than the crackle of the dying flames.

The portrait hole creaked open. Hagrid’s hulking frame filled the entrance, lantern clutched in one hand.

“Harry,” he whispered — though with Hagrid, even a whisper carried like a growl. “On yer feet. Quick now.”

Harry rose, wary but curious, and followed him into the shadowed corridors. They moved in silence, the light from the lantern swinging wildly across stone and tapestry until they slipped through a postern door and into the cool night air.

The path sloped toward the edge of the grounds, every step bringing with it a low, thrumming hum in the air — as though the earth itself vibrated. Harry knew what it was before they turned the corner.

The enclosure stretched across the field, vast and brutal. Iron bars reinforced with glowing runes stood taller than Hagrid himself, encircling a wide arena of churned dirt. Inside, hulking shapes shifted and snorted, sparks bursting into the air with each restless lash of tail or beat of wings. Dragons. Not chained in transit this time, but settled in the very place where the First Task would unfold.

Harry froze, stomach tightening. He wasn’t surprised. Not anymore. But knowing and seeing weren’t the same.

“This is it,” Hagrid said softly, pride and awe lacing his words. “Where yeh’ll be standin’ come the day. Dragons’ll be ready, and so will yeh.”

Harry’s throat was dry. He forced out, “So this is where—”

“Aye.” Hagrid gave a solemn nod. “Where the world’ll be watchin’. Yeh keep yer nerve, Harry. Don’t forget that.”

They stood in silence, the dragons pacing within their prison, firelight flickering against the night sky. Harry’s heart hammered, not just with fear but with the stark reality — in less than a week, he’d be inside that ring. Alone.

At last, Hagrid clapped his massive hand on Harry’s shoulder, steadying him with the weight of a boulder. “Back we go. Yeh need rest.”

Harry tore his gaze from the enclosure, the sight of a dragon’s golden eye gleaming through the bars seared into his mind. He followed Hagrid up the path, every step heavier than the last.

—

The next morning dawned grey and sharp, clouds dragging their bellies low across the towers. The Great Hall buzzed louder than usual, the clatter of cutlery nearly drowned beneath bursts of speculation.

Harry kept his head down as he slid onto the Gryffindor bench. It made no difference — conversations dropped to murmurs the instant he sat. He caught flashes: the word dragons, the tilt of a smirk, the shake of a doubtful head.

“Whole school’s waiting to see you get roasted,” Seamus muttered under his breath, though loud enough for nearby ears. Dean elbowed him, but the damage was done — a ripple of laughter spread down the table.

Harry’s jaw locked. He forced himself to butter a roll with deliberate care, though the knife shook slightly in his hand.

Across the hall, he felt eyes on him. Two sets, sharp and steady. Daphne and Pansy whispered low to each other, their expressions schooled into indifference for anyone else who might glance their way. But every so often Daphne’s gaze cut back toward Harry, cool as winter glass yet holding something beneath it — a calculation, a flicker of concern.

Ron sat stiff beside him, eating in silence, not even glancing Harry’s way. Hermione opposite, pale and tight-lipped, her fork pushing eggs around her plate without appetite. She still wasn’t ready to believe him — not fully. And that gnawed worse than the taunts.

Further down the table, Fleur leaned close to a pair of Beauxbatons girls, their conversation in low French murmurs. Yet her eyes, too, kept straying toward Harry, her expression unreadable.

The gossip swelled. Someone near the Ravenclaw table whispered about fireproof charms. A Hufflepuff swore they’d overheard a prefect say the judges were betting against Harry lasting five minutes. The noise pressed in like a tide.

At last, Harry shoved his plate away and stood abruptly. Benches scraped as heads turned. He ignored them all, his strides sharp, almost reckless, as he left the hall.

The corridor outside was mercifully quieter, though footsteps soon echoed behind him. He didn’t turn — he didn’t need to.

“You’re walking like you want a fight,” Pansy’s voice drawled, amused.

“Maybe he does,” Daphne added, tone softer but edged with something else.

Harry slowed. The two Slytherins fell into step with him, their pace unhurried, their composure so at odds with the storm in his chest that it only stoked it further.

“You’ll burn yourself out before you even see a dragon,” Daphne said finally, glancing sideways at him. “That would be… a waste.”

Harry barked a humorless laugh. “Everyone thinks I’m already finished. Maybe I should save them the trouble.”

Pansy gave a smirk, though it lacked her usual venom. “You’d disappoint half the castle. They’ve spent all week inventing odds on how you’ll die. Personally, I’d prefer you lasted long enough to make them choke on their bets.”

Something like a smile tugged Harry’s mouth, but it faded quickly. He shoved his hands into his robes, eyes fixed on the flagstones. “You think I’ll lose too?”

Daphne’s reply came measured, her voice cool but not unkind. “I think you’re stubborn enough not to. That counts for more than most spells.”

Her hand brushed against his — deliberate, fleeting — before pulling away as if nothing had happened.

Harry’s chest tightened, the noise of the Great Hall receding in his memory. For the first time in days, he felt less alone.

—-

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet that had weight. Rows of shelves stretched into shadow, lit only by lanterns floating overhead. Hermione sat at her usual corner table, a fortress of books barricading her from the rest of the world. Quills scratched furiously across parchment, lines of spellwork and counter-charms spilling in cramped handwriting.

Across from her, Fleur turned another page with deliberate care. She didn’t rush, didn’t drown herself in frantic note-taking the way Hermione did — she read, considered, then wrote a single elegant line. Her calm was both maddening and magnetic.

“Fireproofing charms will hold for seconds, not minutes,” Hermione muttered, flipping through her own Arithmancy notes. “And transfigured shields burn too quickly. It has to be something flexible, something—”

“—alive,” Fleur finished, her voice soft but sure. She traced a finger along a diagram of dragon flame, the notes penned in fluid French. “Living wards, linked to the caster’s intent, not to the material. A flame can consume wood or stone, but will hesitate against willpower channeled properly.”

Hermione blinked, her quill pausing. “That’s advanced.”

“Not beyond reach,” Fleur replied, eyes glinting. “But it requires control, not just power.”

Hermione bent over her parchment again, scribbling, chasing the thought. “Harry doesn’t have that kind of training. He needs something quicker, something reliable—”

Footsteps interrupted her train of thought. Harry slid into the chair beside them, ignoring Madame Pince’s sharp glare from across the room. He looked worn, his hair more untidy than usual, but his eyes were sharp with determination.

“You’re still at it,” he said quietly, nodding at the spread of books.

“Of course,” Hermione replied, her voice clipped. But the tightness in her face softened a little. She wanted to help him, even if she still doubted how he’d gotten into this mess.

Harry leaned forward, eyes scanning their notes. “Tell me what you’ve found. I need to know what’ll actually work, not just in theory.”

Fleur pushed a parchment toward him — her handwriting precise, clean. “These are defensive measures that will not collapse in under a minute. Not many. But perhaps enough.”

Harry read quickly, frowning. “This one — the tethered flame ward — that takes two casters, doesn’t it?”

Fleur inclined her head. “Yes. Unless he finds a way to split his focus. Which, at your age…” Her shoulders lifted slightly. “Unwise.”

Hermione frowned, tugging the parchment back toward her. “Then we focus on the single-caster methods. Shielding charms reinforced with cooling transfigurations — if we combine them—”

Harry groaned, dropping his forehead into his hands. “It’s too much. I’ll have seconds to think, not minutes. I need something simple. Fast.”

“You’ll have it,” Hermione said firmly, though her quill trembled in her grip. “We’ll figure it out.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the rustle of parchment. Fleur leaned back at last, eyes flicking between them. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, almost casual.

“There is another matter,” she said. “The Yule Ball.”

Hermione’s head shot up. “What?”

“It will be held here, at Hogwarts. Our headmistress received word this morning.” Fleur’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “It is tradition with the Tournament. Partners must be chosen.”

Hermione flushed crimson, caught off guard. “That’s— that’s hardly important right now.”

“Perhaps not to you,” Fleur murmured. Her gaze lingered on Harry for a fraction longer than polite before she gathered her quills. “But it will matter. Sooner than you think.”

Hermione busied herself with her notes, muttering under her breath, but her cheeks stayed pink. Harry blinked, thrown off balance, the looming specter of dragons suddenly tangled with something far less deadly — but no less unnerving.

Fleur rose smoothly, stacking her books. “Do not stay too late,” she said, eyes on Hermione. Then, softer, “And do not forget to breathe.”

She left them in the flickering lantern light, parchment and nerves scattered in her wake. Hermione watched her go, biting her lip, then dropped her eyes back to the scrawled notes.

Harry sat in silence, the weight of dragons and dances pressing down in equal measure.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Notes:

Apologies if some small portions of dialogue and phrases seem repetitive.

I will be going through after posting 3-5 chapters at a time and doing proofreads.

You’ll see I have the end amount of chapters listed. That is because it’s now all pre written.

Enjoy this chapter :)

The Great Hall smelled of fried bacon and pumpkin juice, but none of it stirred Harry’s appetite. He pushed his fork through a mound of scrambled eggs without lifting it to his mouth. The long tables buzzed with voices, students leaning close, whispering as though secrets traded over toast could change tomorrow.

“…fire-breathing…”
“…giant trolls, my cousin swore…”
“…Potter won’t last ten seconds…”

The last comment, from the Ravenclaw table, drew laughter. Harry kept his eyes on his plate, jaw tight.

Hermione sat opposite him, pale-faced and bleary-eyed, her quill scratching across a roll of parchment even here. Her notes looked like a maze of spell diagrams, shield matrices layered with countercharms. Her lips moved as she calculated, ignoring the food cooling beside her.

At her side, Fleur read from a slim blue volume she’d brought down from the library. The French words looked like water across the page, but her eyes were sharp, following every line. Every now and then she underlined something with the tip of her wand, the text glowing briefly before fading back into black ink. She looked as tired as Hermione, though she carried it differently — poised, deliberate, as if exhaustion was something she could choose to reveal or not.

A flicker of movement at the Slytherin table caught Harry’s eye. Daphne sat with practiced elegance, cutting her toast neatly, speaking low to Pansy. From across the hall, it looked like casual chatter, but Harry felt the weight of her glance when it slid, for just a moment, in his direction. Pansy’s followed — sharper, more appraising. Then both turned back to their plates as if nothing had happened.

The whispers thickened, building like storm clouds. Someone behind Harry muttered about betting pools, odds written on scraps of parchment and traded under the table. At the far end, Fred and George were already laughing over a handful of coins, though even their grins looked strained.

Ron sat beside Dean, hunched over his plate, speaking low but not to Harry. He laughed once — short and bitter — then stabbed at a sausage. He hadn’t looked Harry’s way once this morning.

Harry set his fork down at last, appetite gone. His stomach already twisted with nerves; food would only make it worse.

Fleur’s voice, calm but pointed, broke the heavy quiet at their corner of the table. “Eat something, Harry. Even nerves burn fuel.”

He shook his head. “Can’t.”

Hermione didn’t lift her eyes from her parchment. “You’ll need the energy tomorrow.” But her voice was flat, the words like lines from a book instead of comfort from a friend.

Harry shoved back from the bench, ignoring the ripple of attention it drew as he walked toward the doors.

Behind him, Fleur and Hermione exchanged a look — one tight with worry, the other stubborn with calculation. At the Slytherin table, Daphne’s eyes followed him until the doors swung shut, her expression unreadable.

—-

The courtyard stones still glistened with dew when Hermione flicked her wand in a practiced arc, a sheet of translucent blue shimmer springing to life in front of her. The shield quivered, barely holding as Fleur sent a focused burst of flame against it.

Hermione bit her lip, bracing until the fire guttered out. Her shield collapsed an instant later, leaving smoke curling in the air.

“Better,” Fleur said, lowering her wand. Her silver-blonde hair had slipped free of its tie, strands catching the morning light. “But it breaks too quickly. You are meeting my flame for its strength. That is a mistake. You must meet it for its shape.”

Hermione frowned. “Shape?”

Fleur knelt, tapping the flagstone with her wand. “A dragon’s fire is not one single force. It is breath, heat, ash — it curls, it spreads. You cannot block the whole thing. You… shave away the edges, yes? Control what part of it reaches you.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded, scribbling a note in the margin of her parchment. “Like cutting an equation down to its simplest form.”

Fleur’s mouth curved. “Oui. You see it.”

The two worked in silence after that, Fleur patient in her corrections, Hermione grimly determined to master the angles of her shield. Passersby stared — a fourth-year Gryffindor and a visiting champion locked in spellwork at dawn — but neither cared. The only sound was the hiss of fire and the ringing snap of magical shields buckling.

⸻

Meanwhile, across the castle, Harry stood in an empty classroom, wand raised as Daphne circled him like a dueling instructor.

“Again,” she said, her tone clipped.

Harry gritted his teeth and cast. “Protego!”

The shield flared too low, leaving his upper chest exposed. Daphne didn’t hesitate — her stinging hex zipped through the gap, catching his shoulder. Harry flinched.

“Too slow,” she said, her voice still cool, but her eyes softer than her tone. “You hesitate. Don’t hesitate. Dragons don’t wait politely.”

Pansy leaned against a desk nearby, arms crossed. “And don’t think of it like some hero’s duel. You’re not fighting the dragon. You’re surviving it. There’s a difference.”

Harry rubbed his shoulder, shooting her a look. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one it’s breathing on.”

Daphne stepped closer, close enough that he felt the brush of her hand as she adjusted his wrist. “Focus, Potter. Precision first. Strength second. The shield will hold if you cast it with intent.”

Her fingers lingered a heartbeat too long before she pulled back. Harry blinked at her, throat suddenly dry. Pansy’s smirk suggested she’d noticed but chose to keep quiet.

“Again,” Daphne ordered, stepping back. “You’ll keep casting until you don’t leave me a gap.”

Harry raised his wand, this time without hesitation.

—

Hermione’s shield shattered again, the flames grazing the edge of her sleeve. She slapped at the smoke curling from her robes, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

“It’s useless!” she burst out, tossing her wand onto the flagstones. “No matter how I try, it’s never enough. I’ll never be ready for—” She cut herself off, chest heaving.

Fleur stepped forward, expression calm but firm. “You are tired, not useless. Tired minds break faster than shields.” She crouched, retrieving Hermione’s wand and pressing it back into her hand. “Rest. Then again.”

Hermione wiped at her cheeks, ashamed of the tears. Fleur didn’t comment, only set a steadying hand on her shoulder before conjuring a faint cooling charm to ease the sting of her sleeve.

“Not useless,” Fleur repeated softly. “Only learning.”

—-

Harry, in the dusty classroom, had improved little by little under Daphne’s relentless correction. The sting in his shoulder still throbbed, but his last shield had held against both girls firing at once.

“Better,” Daphne admitted, lowering her wand. “Almost presentable.”

Pansy gave a dry laugh. “That’s as close to a compliment as you’ll get, Potter.”

But Harry saw something else — the way Daphne’s gaze lingered, just for a second, before she looked away. A silent promise that she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended.

—-

By evening, the Gryffindor common room was buzzing. Ron sat hunched near the fire, arms folded, his voice sharp as he snapped at Harry.

“You should’ve told us straight off, mate. Instead you’re sneaking about with them.” He jabbed a finger toward the portrait hole, meaning Daphne and Pansy. “Not even trying to deny it anymore.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Harry shot back, temper sparking. “I was training. Trying to not get roasted alive, if that matters at all.”

Hermione didn’t look up from the stack of notes spread before her. “If you’d trusted us in the first place, we could have helped too.” Her tone was tight, brittle.

Harry’s fists clenched. “You think I don’t trust you? You think I want this? Forget it.”

He shoved back from the chair, storming out through the portrait hole. The air in the corridor was cooler, calmer, but his chest still burned. He nearly walked straight into Daphne and Pansy waiting outside, both leaning against the stone wall as though they’d expected him.

Pansy arched a brow. “Well. That didn’t sound like a happy family gathering.”

Harry exhaled hard, forcing his anger down. Daphne’s eyes searched his face, steady, quiet.

“You’re with us now,” she said simply. “And you’ll keep walking, because sulking in corridors won’t help you against a dragon.”

Harry almost laughed — almost — but the weight in her voice held him steady instead. He nodded once, falling into step beside them as they moved down the corridor together.

The castle had long since quieted for the night. Torches guttered low in their brackets, throwing restless shadows across the flagstones as Harry followed Daphne and Pansy down the darkened corridor. Neither girl said much at first, their steps brisk, measured. It was Pansy who finally broke the silence.

“Your Gryffindor loyalty crowd doesn’t seem particularly loyal.”

Harry gave her a sharp look. “They don’t understand.”

“Or they don’t want to,” Daphne said, her voice soft but edged. She glanced sideways at him, her pale features half-lit by torchlight. “Fear makes people cruel. They’d rather believe you’re reckless than admit you’re frightened.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the floor, at the lines in the stone he’d memorized over years of late-night wanderings.

They slipped out through a side door into the courtyard. The November air was crisp, their breath visible in pale clouds. Above them, the stars burned sharp and cold.

Pansy perched herself on the lip of the fountain, crossing her legs with studied elegance. “Well then, Potter. You’ve chosen. Gryffindor doesn’t want to hear it, and Slytherin doesn’t usually care. That leaves… us.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “Chosen? Like I had any choice in this tournament?”

Daphne stopped beside him. “Not the tournament.” Her eyes locked on his. “Who you trust.”

The words landed heavier than he expected. For a heartbeat, Harry didn’t breathe. She was close now, close enough that her gloved hand brushed against his as she shifted her wand to her other side. The touch was brief, barely there, but it jolted through him all the same.

Pansy noticed, of course. Her smirk curved like a cat who’d spotted a mouse. “Careful, Greengrass. If you keep that up, he’ll start to think you actually like him.”

Daphne shot her a cool look, then returned her gaze to Harry. “Think about tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Forget your friends, forget us, forget everything else. Only the dragon. It won’t care who’s cheering for you.”

Harry swallowed hard, the knot of fear and frustration twisting in his chest loosening just slightly. “Yeah,” he said at last, voice low. “The dragon.”

They lingered in the courtyard a few minutes more, the silence filled with the rustle of leaves and the faint splash of water from the fountain. For the first time that week, Harry felt less alone.

The courtyard air was biting, and Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as silence stretched between the three of them. Daphne’s eyes flicked toward the Astronomy Tower rising above them, its spire glinting silver against the starfield.

“Cold,” she said at last, her tone measured. “We should walk back before Filch decides to patrol here.”

Pansy hopped lightly down from the fountain’s edge. “He’s probably too busy sniffing after Mrs. Norris. Still, I’d rather not get detention for babysitting Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes but followed as they crossed the courtyard toward the archway leading back inside. The stone passages felt narrower at night, the hush between them heavier now that their footsteps echoed.

When they reached the point where the staircases forked — one spiraling upward toward Gryffindor Tower, the other dipping down into the shadows of the dungeons — they stopped.

“This is where we part ways,” Pansy said, her smirk in place but softer at the edges. “Try not to get eaten before the weekend, Potter. It would be terribly boring without you.”

Harry almost smiled despite himself. “I’ll do my best.”

Daphne lingered a moment longer. Her gaze held his, unreadable yet intent, before she finally spoke. “When you face it… remember. You don’t have to overpower the dragon. Just outthink it.”

Her voice dropped low enough that Pansy tilted her head, as though even she hadn’t caught every word.

Then, without warning, Daphne’s fingers brushed Harry’s again — not by accident this time. A fleeting press of warmth, deliberate, before she turned away and started down the steps with Pansy at her side.

Harry stood frozen for a breath, watching until their silhouettes vanished into the dungeon shadows. Then, with his chest tight and his mind spinning, he took the stairs up toward Gryffindor Tower alone.

The common room was dim when he slipped back inside. Ron had already gone to bed, and Hermione was slumped asleep over a pile of dragon texts, her quill still clutched in her hand. Harry paused, looking at her, then shook his head and climbed the boys’ staircase.

Sleep didn’t come quickly, but when it did, it was filled with fire, wings, and a pair of cool, steady eyes that lingered longer than they should have.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Stormbound In Anglesey